The King's Gold

“After all,” went on Jaqueta philosophically, “it takes no more effort to say a ‘no’ than a ‘yes,’ does it?”

“Very true.”

Alatriste looked at the man called Sangonera, who was sitting with the rest of the group by the wall. He was thinking.

“Sangonera it is, then,” he said at last, “if you can vouch for him and if I still like him when we’ve spoken. I’ll take a look at that mulatto too, but I still need more people.”

Jaqueta wore an expression of deep concentration.

“There are some other good comrades in Seville at the moment, like Ginesillo el Lindo or Guzman Ramirez, who are both men with blood in their veins. I’m sure you remember Ginesillo, because he once killed a catchpole who called him a shirt lifter, oh, it must be ten or fifteen years ago now, around the time you were still living here in Seville.”

“Yes, I remember Ginesillo,” said Alatriste.

“Well, you’ll remember, too, that they tortured him by holding his head under water. Three times they did it, and he didn’t so much as blink, far less peach on anyone.”

“I’m surprised they didn’t burn him at the stake, as they usually do to such as him.”

Jaqueta burst out laughing. “He’s not only turned mute, he’s gotten very dangerous indeed, and there’s not a catchpole with any mettle who’ll lay a hand on him. I don’t know where he lives, but he’s sure to be at the royal prison tonight for Nicasio Ganzua’s wake.”

“Who’s Ganzua? I don’t know him.”

Jaqueta quickly told Alatriste all about Ganzua, one of the most celebrated ruffians in Seville, the terror of catchpoles and the pride of Seville’s taverns, gaming dens, and bawdy houses. He had been walking along a narrow street one day when the Conde de Niebla’s carriage spattered him with mud. The count was with his servants and a few young friends of his; there was an exchange of words, swords were drawn, Ganzua dispatched one of the servants and one of the friends, and, by a miracle, the count himself escaped with only a stab wound to the thigh. A regiment of constables and catchpoles came after him, and at the hearing, even though Ganzua didn’t say a word, someone mentioned a few other little matters pending, including a couple of murders and a notorious jewel robbery carried out in Calle Plateria. In short, Ganzua was now to be garroted the next day in Plaza de San Francisco.

“A shame, really, because he would have been perfect for what we have in mind,” said Jaqueta regretfully, “but there’s no getting him out of tomorrow’s execution. Tonight, though, his comrades—as they always do on these occasions—will join him for a final meal and help him on his way. Ginesillo and Ramirez are good friends of his, so you’ll probably find them there.”

“I’ll go to the prison, then,” said Alatriste.

“Well, greet Ganzua from me. This is one of those occasions when your friends really should be by your side, and I’d be there like a shot if I wasn’t in such difficulties myself.” Jaqueta examined me closely. “Who’s the boy?”

“A friend.”

“A bit green, isn’t he?” Jaqueta continued to study me inquisitively and noticed the dagger in my belt. “Is he involved in this?”

“On and off.”

“That’s a nice weapon he’s carrying.”

“You might not think it, but he knows how to use it too.”

“Well, we ruffians have to start young, don’t we?”

The conversation moved on, and everything was agreed for the next day, with Alatriste promising to alert the law officers so that Jaqueta could safely leave the Corral. We said our goodbyes and spent the rest of the day on our recruiting campaign, which took us first to La Heria and Triana, and then to San Salvador, where the mulatto Campuzano—a giant Negro with a sword like a scimitar—also proved to be to the captain’s liking. By evening, my master had signed up half a dozen men to his company: Jaqueta, Sangonera, the mulatto, an extremely hirsute Murcian called Pencho Bullas—highly thought of by the other rogues—and two former soldiers from the galleys known as Enriquez el Zurdo (Enrique the Lefthander) and Andresito el de los Cincuenta, the latter having earned his nickname from the time when he had received fifty lashes and taken them like a man; a week later, the sergeant who had ordered the flogging was found lying near the Puerta de la Carne with his throat neatly cut, and no one could ever prove—although they could easily imagine—who had done the job.

We still needed more pairs of hands, and in order to complete our singular and well-armed company, Diego Alatriste decided to go to the royal prison that night and attend the ruffian Ganzua’s final meal. But I will tell you all about that in more detail, for Seville’s prison, I can assure you, deserves a chapter to itself.

6. THE ROYAL PRISON

That night, we attended Nicasio Ganzua’s last meal, but first I spent some time on a personal matter that was greatly troubling me. And although I learned nothing new from the exercise, it served at least to distract me from the unease I was feeling about Angelica de Alquezar’s role in what had happened in the Alameda. My steps thus led me once more to the palace, where I patrolled the entire length of its walls, as well as to the Arco de la Juderia and the palace gate, where I stood watching for a while amongst other onlookers. This time, the soldiers guarding the palace were not the ones in red-and-yellow uniforms but Burgundy archers dressed in their striking red-checkered garb and carrying short pikes, and I was relieved not to see the fat sergeant, which meant that there would be no repeat of our earlier confrontation. The square opposite the palace was teeming with people, for the king and queen were going to the Cathedral to pray a solemn rosary, after which they would receive a delegation from the city of Jerez.

There was more to this latter engagement than met the eye, and it might be worth explaining that, at the time, Jerez, like Galicia before it, was hoping to buy representation at the Cortes de la Corona, the Cortes of the King, in order to escape their current subjection to the influence of Seville. In that Hapsburg-Spain-cum- marketplace, there was nothing unusual about buying a seat at the Cortes—the city of Palencia was trying to do the same thing—and the amount offered by the men from Jerez came to the respectable sum of 85,000 ducados, all of which would, of course, end up in the king’s coffers. The deal, however, foundered when Seville counterattacked by bribing the Council of the Treasury, and the final judgment made was that the request would only be granted on condition that the money came not from contributions made by the citizens but from the private wealth of the twenty-four municipal magistrates who wanted the seat. The prospect of having to dip into their own pockets put a completely different complexion on the matter, and the Jerez corporation withdrew the request. This all helps to explain the role that the Cortes played at the time, as well as the submissive attitude of the Cortes of Castile and of others, for—rights and privileges apart—these other Cortes were listened to only when their votes were needed for new taxes or for subsidies to replenish the royal treasury, or to pay for wars or for the general expenses of a monarchy that the Conde-Duque de Olivares deemed to be a powerful and unifying force. Unlike in France and England, where the kings had destroyed the power of the feudal lords and agreed on terms with the merchants and traders—for neither that red-haired bitch Elizabeth nor that vile Frenchie Richelieu were ever ones for half-measures—in Spain, the noble and the powerful formed two groups: those who obeyed royal authority meekly and almost abjectly (these were, by and large, ruined Castilians who had no other protection than that of the king) and those on the periphery, cushioned by local charters and ancient privileges, who protested loudly whenever called upon to defray costs or to equip armies. The Church, of course, did exactly as it chose. Most political activity, therefore, consisted in a constant to-and-fro of haggling, usually over money; and all the subsequent crises that we endured under Philip IV—the Medina Sidonia plot in Andalusia, the Duque de Hijar’s conspiracy in Aragon, the secession of Portugal, and the Catalonia War—were created by two things: the royal treasury’s greed and a reluctance on the part of the nobility, the clerics, and the great local merchants to pay anything at all. The sole object of the king’s visit to Seville in sixteen twenty-four and of this present visit was to crush local opposition to a vote in favor of new taxes. The sole obsession of that unhappy Spain was money, which is why the route to the Indies was so crucial. To demonstrate how little this had to do with justice or decency, suffice it to say that two or three years earlier, the Cortes had rejected outright a luxury tax that was to be levied on sinecures, gratuities, pensions, and rents—that is to say, on the rich. The Venetian ambassador, Contarini, was, alas, quite right when he wrote at the time, “The most effective war one can wage on the Spanish is to leave them to be devoured and destroyed by their own bad governance.”