“I’ll buy it from you, if you like.”
And they were happily occupied in this fashion when steps were heard in the corridor and in came the court scribe, the prison governor with his constables, and the prison chaplain, all black as crows, to read the final sentence. And apart from Ginesillo el Lindo, who stopped playing the guitar, no one took the slightest notice; not even the condemned man himself showed a flicker of interest; instead, they all continued downing their wine, each player holding his three cards and keeping one eye on the card that had just been turned up, which happened to be the two of hearts. The scribe cleared his throat and declared that, according to the king’s justice, and the prisoner’s appeal having been refused on such and such a date and for such and such a reason, the aforementioned Nicasio Ganzua would be executed in the morning. Ganzua listened impassively, concentrating on his cards, and only when the sentence had been read did he open his mouth to look at his partner and raise his eyebrows.
“I’ll see you,” he said.
The game continued as before. Saramago el Portugues put down a jack of clubs, another comrade played a king, and another an ace of diamonds.
“The jack of hearts,” announced a comrade known as El Rojo Carmona, placing that card on the table.
“The two of hearts,” said another, putting his card down as well.
Luck was with Ganzua that night, because he had a card that beat a two of any suit, and with one hand placed defiantly on his hip, he flung down the four of hearts. And only then, while he was picking up the coins and adding them to his pile, did he look up at the scribe.
“Could you just repeat what you said? I wasn’t listening.”
The scribe grew angry, saying that such statements could be read only once, and that it was Ganzua’s own fault if, as he put it, he blew out the candle without first making sure he’d understood the deal.
“To a man like me,” replied Ganzua with great aplomb, “who has never bowed his head except to take communion, and then only when I was a boy, and who has since fought five hundred duels and been in five hundred scraps and fearlessly fought in a thousand more, the details are about as important to me as a fleabite. All I want to know is do I face execution tomorrow or not?”
“You do. At eight o’clock prompt.”
“And who signed the death sentence?”
“Judge Fonseca.”
Ganzua gave his companions a meaningful look, and they responded with winks and silent nods. It would seem that the informer, the catchpole, and the silversmith would not be making their journey alone.
“The judge,” said Ganzua philosophically to the scribe, “is perfectly at liberty to hand down a sentence and take away my life, but if he ever had the decency to face me, sword in hand, then we’d see who would take whose life.”
There were more solemn nods from the circle of ruffians. What he had said was as true as the Gospel. The scribe shrugged. The friar, an Augustine with a gentle air and filthy fingernails, came over to Ganzua.
“Do you wish to confess?”
Ganzua looked at him while he shuffled the cards.
“You wouldn’t want me to blurt out now what I refused to reveal under torture.”
“I was referring to your soul.”
Ganzua touched the rosary and the medallions that he wore around his neck. “I’ll take care of my soul,” he said after a long pause. “And tomorrow, in the next world, I’ll have a few words with the appropriate person.”
His fellow players nodded approvingly. Some had known Gonzalo Barba, a famous rogue who began his confession to a young and inexperienced priest by admitting straight out to eight murders. Seeing the look of alarm on the young priest’s face, he said, “Honestly, I start with the small stuff, and already you’re shocked. If you react like that to the first eight, then I’m not the right man for you, Father, and you’re not the right man for me.” And when the priest insisted, he added, “Look at it this way, Father, you were ordained the day before yesterday and here you are trying to confess a man with hundreds of murders under his belt.”
They returned to their cards while the friar and the others headed for the door. Just as they were about to leave, however, Ganzua remembered something and called them back.
“Just one thing, Senor Scribe. Last month, when they tied the rope around my friend Lucas Ortega’s neck, one of the steps on the scaffold was loose, and Lucas nearly fell when he was climbing them. It doesn’t bother me particularly, but be so kind as to repair it for whoever comes after, because not all men have my courage.”
“I’ll make a note of it,” the scribe assured him.
“I’ll say no more, then.”
The men of law and the friar left, and those who remained carried on playing cards and drinking while Ginesillo el Lindo resumed his strumming.
The game continued in the grubby light of the tallow candles. The ruffians drank and played, solemnly keeping watch over their comrade with many “Ye gods” and “I’faiths” and “By my troths.”
“It hasn’t been a bad life,” Ganzua suddenly said very thoughtfully. “Hard, but not bad.”
Through the window came the sound of the bells of the church of San Salvador. Out of respect, Ginesillo el Lindo stopped his singing and his strumming. Everyone, including Ganzua, doffed his hat and interrupted the game to make the sign of the cross. It was the Hour of All Souls—midnight.
The next day dawned with a sky worthy to be painted by Diego Velazquez, and in the Plaza de San Francisco, Nicasio Ganzua climbed the steps of the scaffold with great aplomb. I went to watch with Alatriste and a few companions from the previous night. We were just in time to get a place, because the square was crammed from end to end with people who crowded around the platform and filled the surrounding balconies, and it was said that from a shuttered window of the Audiencia, even the king and queen were watching. Country folk and important figures alike had come to see, and the best places, which had been hired out for the occasion, gleamed and glittered with the finest stuffs: ladies’ mantillas and skirts, gentlemen’s velvets and feathered felt hats and gold chains. The crowd below was full of the usual selection of idlers, thieves, and ne’er-do-wells, and those skilled in the art of picking pockets were making their fortunes by slipping two sly fingers into other men’s purses and drawing out a fistful of coins. Don Francisco de Quevedo pushed his way through the crowd to join us and was observing the spectacle with keen interest, because, he said, the execution would prove really useful for one particular passage in
“One doesn’t always draw one’s inspiration from Seneca or Tacitus,” he explained, adjusting his eyeglasses the better to see with.
Someone must have told Ganzua that the king and queen were there, because when they brought him from the prison dressed in his smock, mounted on a mule, his hands bound in front of him, he raised both hands to his face to smooth his mustaches and even gestured up at the balconies. His hair was combed, he looked clean and elegant and utterly calm, and the only sign of last night’s carousing was a slight redness of the eyes. Along the way, whenever he spotted a familiar face amongst the crowd, he would again wave graciously, as if he were part of a religious procession heading for the Prado de Santa Justa. In short, he bore himself with such grace that it almost made one feel like being executed oneself.
The executioner was waiting beside the garrote. When Ganzua climbed slowly up the scaffold steps—the rickety step was still rickety, and this earned the scribe, who was standing nearby, a stern look—everyone commented on his excellent manners and his courage. With his raised hands he greeted his comrades and La Aliviosa, who was standing right at the front, comforted by some dozen ruffians, and who, despite her copious tears, nonetheless felt proud of how handsome her man looked as he made his way to death. Then he allowed the Augustine friar of the previous night to preach to him a little, and nodded solemnly whenever the friar said
