memory: Malatesta wheeling about to face us, then furiously barking out orders, meanwhile whipping out his sword with lightning speed, while, in the pouring rain, his men stood, with raised swords, ready to fight us. And, behind them, motionless, his gun still smoking, stood the king, watching us.
“God save the king!” Cozar kept shouting, fierce as a tiger now.
There were two of us against four, for I assumed the actor would be of little, or negligible, help. We had to be quick and careful. As soon as I found myself face-to-face with one of the beaters, I delivered such a hard thrust that I made him drop his sword. Then, slipping past, nimble as a squirrel, I confronted the man behind him. He attacked, blade foremost. I steadied myself as best I could and took my dagger in my left hand, praying to God that I did not slip in the mud. I parried well with my dagger, changed position, and then, crouching down, drove my sword upward, sticking at least three spans of steel into the soft part of his belly. When I drew back my elbow to remove the blade, he fell forward, a look of astonishment on his face, as if to say, “How could such a thing happen to this mother’s son?” However, I was no longer concerned with him, but with the first man, who now had no sword, only a dagger. I whirled around, expecting to find him already on top of me, but then I saw that he was embroiled with Cozar, defending himself as best he could, with one arm injured and his dagger in his left hand, from the fearsome, double-handed blows the actor was dealing out.
Things were not turning out so badly after all. As for me, the wound Angelica had inflicted on me hurt abominably, and I just prayed that with all this activity it did not open up again, leaving me to bleed to death like a stuck pig. I turned to help the captain, and at that instant, as my master was withdrawing his sword from the entrails of a ruffian—who was bent double, blood gushing from his mouth like a bull in a bullring—I noticed that Gualterio Malatesta, a large black figure in the rain, had shifted his sword to his left hand, taken his pistol from his belt, and, after looking first at my master and then at the king, was now pointing it at the latter from a distance of only a few paces. I was too far away to do anything and had to watch, helpless, as the captain, having recovered his sword, rushed to interpose himself between the bullet and its target. Malatesta straightened his arm and took careful aim. I saw how the king, looking his killer in the face, threw down his own gun, stood very erect, and folded his arms, determined that the pistol shot would find him suitably composed.
“Turn your fire on me!” cried the captain.
The Italian took no notice. He held his aim on the king. He squeezed the trigger and flint struck steel.
Nothing happened.
The powder was wet.
Sword in hand, Diego Alatriste placed himself between Malatesta and the king. I had never seen such an expression on Malatesta’s face. He was almost beside himself. He kept shaking his head incredulously and staring at the pistol that lay useless in his hand.
“So close,” he said.
Then he seemed to recover himself. He looked at the captain as if seeing him for the first time, or as if he had forgotten he was there, and then, from beneath the dripping brim of his hat, he gave a faint, sinister smile.
“I was so close,” he repeated bitterly.
Then he shrugged and threw down the weapon, taking his sword in his right hand.
“You’ve ruined everything.”
He took off his cloak, which was hampering his movements. He indicated the king with a lift of his chin, but continued staring at Alatriste.
“Do you really think such a master is worth it?”
“Come on,” said the captain coldly, meaning, “We have business of our own to settle.” He used his sword to point to the one Malatesta was holding. The Italian looked first at the two blades and then at the king, wondering if there was some way he might still finish the job. Then he shrugged again while carefully folding up his rain-sodden cloak as if to wrap it around his left arm.
From Rafael de Cozar, still embattled with his opponent, there came repeated cries of: “God save the king!”
Malatesta glanced over at him with a look that was part amused and part resigned. Then came that smile. The captain noticed the dangerous white slit in that pockmarked face, the cruel glint in those dark eyes. And he said to himself: “The snake isn’t beaten yet.” This certainty came to him suddenly, forcing him to react and put himself on guard just moments before the Italian threw his cloak over the captain’s sword, rendering it useless. Alatriste lost valuable seconds disentangling his blade from the wet cloth, and while he was doing so, Malatesta’s blade glittered before him as if seeking somewhere to bury itself, then shifted from him to the king.
This time, the Monarch of Two Worlds stepped back. Alatriste caught the startled look in his blue eyes, and this time, the august, prominent Hapsburg lower lip quivered in expectation of what would follow. That deadly thrust came far too close for him to remain entirely unmoved, thought the captain, given that he was obliged to gaze into Malatesta’s dark eyes, which was like gazing into the eyes of Death itself. However, the brief moment gained in divining his enemy’s intention proved long enough for the captain to act. His sword clashed with Malatesta’s, averting what, it had seemed, would be an inevitable blow. Malatesta’s blade slid along his, missing the royal throat by inches.
And that was that. He turned tail and ran like a deer into the woods.
I had watched the scene from a distance, unable to help in any way, for it all happened in less time than it would take to say “Ave Maria.” When I saw Malatesta fleeing, and while the captain was making sure that the king had not been wounded, I, without thinking, raced after Malatesta, through the puddles, sword in hand. I ran with my arm held high to protect me from the branches showering me with raindrops. Malatesta had little advantage over me; I was young and had strong legs, and so I soon caught up with him. He suddenly turned, saw that I was alone, and stopped to recover his breath. It was raining so hard now that the mud beneath my feet seemed to be seething.
“Stay where you are,” he said, pointing his sword at me.
I stopped where I was, uncertain what to do. The captain was perhaps not far behind, but for the moment Malatesta and I were alone.
“That’s enough for today,” he added.
He started walking again, backward this time, without taking his eyes off me. Then I noticed that he was limping. Each time he put his weight on his right foot, he grimaced with pain. He had probably been wounded in the skirmish or hurt himself running. In the rain, drenched and dirty, he looked very tired. His hat had fallen off as he ran, and his long, wet hair clung to his face. Injury and fatigue, I thought, might make us more equal and give me a chance.
“It’s not worth it,” he said, guessing what was in my mind.
I kept walking. The wound in my back was intensely painful, but I was still full of energy. I advanced farther. Malatesta shook his head as if in disbelief at my folly. Then he gave a faint smile, retreated another step, repressing a grimace of pain, and readied himself. Very cautiously I tested him out, the ends of our blades touching, while I sought some way of getting under his guard. He, the more experienced, merely waited. He may have been injured, but, as we both knew, he was by far the more skillful swordsman. I, however, felt almost intoxicated, enclosed in a kind of gray bubble that fogged my judgment. Here he was, and I had my sword in my hand.
He dropped his guard for a moment, as if carelessly, but I could see it was a trick, and so remained where I was, not attacking, elbow bent and the hilt of my sword on a level with my eyes, watching for a genuine opening. The rain continued to fall, and I was taking care not to slip in the mud, for I would not survive long if I did.
“You’ve grown prudent, boy.”
He was smiling, and I knew his intent was to draw me in. I resisted. Now and then, I wiped the rain from my
