The King's Gold

Limbo?”

Alatriste poured himself more wine and said nothing. His eyes rested on Quevedo, who gave a faint smile and shrugged. That’s the way it is, said the gesture. And always has been.

“At any rate,” Guadalmedina was saying, “it doesn’t much matter what they claim the official cargo to be. We know that the galleon is carrying contraband silver too, at an estimated value of one million reales. The silver, however, is the least of it. The Virgen de Regla is carrying in its hold another two thousand gold bars—undeclared.” The count pointed with the stem of his pipe at the captain. “Do you know how much that secret cargo is worth, at the very lowest estimate?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea.”

“Well, it’s worth two hundred thousand gold escudos.”

The captain was studying his hands, which lay motionless on the table. He was silently calculating.

“That’s one hundred million maravedis,” he murmured.

“Exactly.” Guadalmedina was laughing. “Everyone knows how much an escudo is worth.”

Alatriste looked up and stared hard at the count. “You’re mistaken there,” he said. “Not everyone knows it as well as I do.”

Guadalmedina opened his mouth, doubtless intending to make some new joke, but the icy expression on my master’s face immediately dissuaded him. We knew that Captain Alatriste had killed men for a tiny fraction of that amount. He was doubtless imagining, as was I, how many armies could be bought for such a sum. How many harquebuses, how many lives and how many deaths. How many minds and how many consciences.

Quevedo cleared his throat and then recited in a low voice:“Life and stealing are the same,

Thieving is no deadly vice,

All that’s worldly has a price,

So take it, filch it, that’s the game.

None is ever stripped and whipped

For stealing silver, gold, or cash;

The poor, alone, deserve the lash.”

This was followed by an awkward silence. The count was studying his pipe. Finally, he put it down on the table.

“In order to carry those forty quintals of extra gold, as well as the undeclared silver,” he went on, “the captain of the Virgen de Regla has removed eight of the galleon’s cannon. They say that even so, she’s still very heavily laden.”

“Who does the gold belong to?”

“That’s a delicate matter. On the one hand, there’s the Duque de Medina Sidonia, who is organizing the whole operation, providing the ship, and creaming off the largest profits. There’s also a banker in Lisbon and another in Antwerp, and a few people at court. One of them, it seems, is the royal secretary Luis de Alquezar.”

The captain shot me a glance. I had, of course, told him of my encounter with Gualterio Malatesta outside the royal palace, although I had made no mention of the carriage and the blue eyes I thought I had glimpsed in the queen’s retinue. Guadalmedina and Quevedo, who were, in turn, studying the captain, exchanged a look.

“The plan,” said the count, “is this: Before unloading officially in Cadiz or Seville, the Virgen de Regla will anchor at Barra de Sanlucar. The captain and the admiral of the fleet have both been bribed to anchor the ships there for at least one night on the pretext of bad weather or the English or whatever. Then the contraband gold will be transferred to another galleon waiting there—the Niklaasbergen , a Flemish urca from Ostend, with an irreproachably Catholic captain, crew, and owner, which is free to come and go between Spain and Flanders under the protection of our king’s flag.”

“Where will the gold be taken?”

“Medina Sidonia’s share and that of the others will go to Lisbon, where the Portuguese banker will keep it in a safe place. The rest will be sent straight to the rebel provinces.”

“That’s treason,” said Alatriste. His voice was quite calm, and the hand that raised his mug to his lips, wetting his mustache with wine, remained perfectly steady, but I saw his pale eyes grow strangely dark.

“Treason,” he said again.

The tone in which he said the word revived recent memories. The ranks of the Spanish infantry standing undaunted on the plain surrounding the Ruyter mill, with the drums beating at our backs, awakening a nostalgia for Spain in those about to die. The good Gallego Rivas and the ensign Chacon, who had died trying to save the blue- and-white-checkered flag beside the Terheyden redoubt. The cry from a hundred men as they emerged at dawn from the canals for the assault on Oudkerk. The men whose eyes were gritty with dirt after fighting hand-to-hand in the narrow mining and antimining tunnels. Suddenly, I, too, felt a desire to drink, and I emptied my mug of wine in one gulp.

Quevedo and Guadalmedina exchanged another look.

“That’s how Spain is, Captain Alatriste,” said don Francisco. “You seem to have forgotten during your time in Flanders.”

“It’s a purely commercial matter,” explained Guadalmedina. “And this certainly isn’t the first time it’s happened. The only difference now is that the king and, even more so, Olivares both distrust Medina Sidonia. The welcome they received two years ago on his estate in Dona Ana, and the lavish hospitality bestowed on them during this present visit, make it clear that don Manuel de Guzman, the eighth duke, has become a little king of Andalusia. From Huelva to Malaga to Seville, his word is law, and that, with the Moor just across the water, and with Catalonia and Portugal held together with pins, makes for a highly dangerous situation. Olivares fears that Medina Sidonia and his son Gaspar, the Conde de Niebla, are preparing a move that will give the Crown a real fright. Normally, these things would be resolved by holding a trial in keeping with their social status and then slitting their throats. The Medina Sidonia family, however, is very high up the scale indeed, and Olivares—who, despite being a relative of theirs, loathes them—would never dare involve their name in a public scandal without solid proof.”

“And what about Alquezar?”

“Not even the royal secretary is easy prey now. He has prospered at court, he has the support of the Inquisitor Bocanegra and of the Council of Aragon. Besides, Olivares, with his dangerous taste for double-dealing, considers him to be useful.” Guadalmedina gave a scornful shrug. “And so he has opted for a discreet and effective solution that will please everyone.”

“He is to be taught a lesson,” said Quevedo.

“Exactly. This includes snatching the contraband gold from underneath Medina Sidonia’s nose and placing it instead in the royal coffers. Olivares himself has planned it all with the approval of the king, and that is the reason behind this royal visit to Seville. Our fourth Philip wishes to see the show himself, and then, with his usual impassivity, to bid farewell to the old duke by folding him in an embrace, tight enough for him to be able to hear the duke’s teeth grinding. The problem is that the plan Olivares has come up with has two parts, one semiofficial and somewhat delicate, and the other official and more . . . difficult.”

“The precise word is ‘dangerous,’” said Quevedo, always exact when it came to language.

Guadalmedina leaned across the table toward the captain.

“As you will have gathered, the accountant Olmedilla is involved in the first part.”

My master nodded slowly. Now all the pieces were slotting into place.

“And I,” he said, “am involved in the second.”

Guadalmedina calmly stroked his mustache. He was smiling. “That’s what I like about you, Alatriste, there’s never any need to explain things twice.”

It was already dark when we set off along the narrow, ill-lit streets. The waning moon filled the hallways of