something pithy or pleasing. The executioner was becoming visibly grumpy and impatient, and Ganzua said to him, “Don’t hurry me, I’ll be with you in a moment. After all, the world’s not about to end and there are no Moors to fight.” He then recited the Creed from beginning to end in a strong, steady voice, kissed the cross with great feeling, and asked the executioner to ensure that he placed the hood properly on his head and, afterward, wiped any drool from his mustache, so that he would not look undignified. And when the executioner said the customary words—“Forgive me, brother, I am only doing my duty”—Ganzua retorted that he was forgiven from there to Lima, but to make sure he did a good job, because they would see each other in the next life, where Ganzua would have nothing to lose if he took his revenge. Then he sat down and did not flinch or grimace when they placed the rope around his neck, looking, instead, almost bored. He smoothed his mustaches one last time, and at the second turn of the garrote, his face grew perfectly calm and serene, as if he was sunk in thought.
7. ALL’S FISH THAT COMES TO THE NET
The treasure fleet was about to arrive, and Seville, along with all the rest of Spain and Europe, was preparing to make the most of the torrent of gold and silver it was carrying in its holds. The vast squadron now filling the horizon with sails had arrived at the mouth of the Guadalquivir, escorted from the Azores by the Atlantic Armada, and the first galleons, laden almost to the gunwales with merchandise and other riches, were beginning to drop anchor opposite Sanlucar or in the Bay of Cadiz. In gratitude to God for having kept the fleet safe from storms, pirates, and the English, the churches were organizing masses and Te Deums. Shipowners and those employed in unloading the ships were already counting their profits; merchants were clearing their shops to make room for the new merchandise or arranging for it to be transported elsewhere; bankers were writing to their correspondents to draw up letters of exchange; the king’s creditors were drafting invoices that they hoped would soon be paid; and customs clerks were rubbing their hands at the thought of lining their own pockets. All Seville was smartening itself up for the great event; business picked up; crucibles and dies were made ready for minting coins; the two towers, the Torre de Oro and the Torre de la Plata, were prepared as storehouses; and El Arenal was a hive of activity, crowded with carts, piles of provisions, curious onlookers, and black and Moorish slaves laboring by the quayside. The doorways of houses and shops were scrubbed and swept; inns, taverns, and bawdy houses were spruced up; and everyone, from the proudest aristocrat to the humblest beggar and the oldest jade, rejoiced at the prospect of the fortune in which they all hoped to have a share.
“You’re lucky,” said the Conde de Guadalmedina, looking up at the sky. “You’ll have good weather in Sanlucar.”
That same afternoon, before we set off on our mission—we were to meet the accountant Olmedilla on the pontoon bridge at six o’clock prompt—Guadalmedina and don Francisco de Quevedo came to say goodbye to Captain Alatriste. We had met in El Arenal at a small inn, by the wall of the old arsenal, constructed out of planks and canvas rifled from the nearby careening-wharf. Tables and stools stood outside beneath a makeshift porch. At that hour, the inn, frequented only by a few sailors, was quiet and private, and a good place for a drink and a chat. It enjoyed a pleasant view, too, over the lively port, where long-shoremen, carpenters, and shipwrights were working on the boats moored on either shore. Triana—all whites and reds and ochers—gleamed resplendent on the far side of the Guadalquivir, with the caravels of the sardine fleet and the little ferryboats coming and going between the two shores, their lateen sails unfurled to catch the late-afternoon breeze.
“Here’s to plenty of booty,” said Guadalmedina.
We all raised our mugs and drank.The wine might not have been special, but the occasion was. Don Francisco de Quevedo, who would, in a way, have liked to join us on that expedition downriver, was irritated by the fact that, for obvious reasons, he could not. He was still very much a man of action, and it would not have bothered him in the least to add the boarding of the
“I wish I could have just a glimpse of your recruits,” he said, polishing his spectacles with a handkerchief that he produced from the sleeve of his doublet.
“Oh, so do I,” agreed Guadalmedina. “I’m sure they form a highly picturesque band, but we cannot involve ourselves further. From now on, the responsibility is entirely yours, Alatriste.”
The poet put on his spectacles and twirled his mustache, and a sly look appeared on his face. “This is so typical of Olivares. If things go well, there will be no need to bestow any public honors, but if things go badly, heads will roll.” He took two long swigs of wine and sat staring thoughtfully into his mug.
“Sometimes, Captain,” he said gravely, “I regret ever having gotten you into this.”
“No one’s forcing me to do it,” said Alatriste, expressionless. He was staring across at the Triana shore.
The captain’s stoical tone made the count smile.
“They say,” he said in an insinuating murmur, “that our King Philip knows all about the plan. He’s delighted to have this chance to play a trick on the old Duque de Medina Sidonia and to imagine the look on his face when he finds out. And, of course, gold is gold, and His Catholic Majesty needs it just as much as any other man.”
“Possibly more,” Quevedo said with a sigh.
Guadalmedina leaned across the table and lowered his voice: “Last night, in circumstances I need not go into here, His Majesty asked who was in charge of the attack.” He left these words hanging in the air for a moment to allow their meaning to penetrate. “He asked this of a particular friend of yours, Alatriste, and that friend told him all about you.”
“And praised him to the skies, I suppose,” said Quevedo.
The count shot him a look, offended by that “I suppose.”
“As I said, he was a friend of the captain’s.”
“And what did the great Philip say?”
“Being young and adventurous, he showed considerable interest. He even spoke of turning up tonight at the embarkation point—incognito, of course—just to satisfy his curiosity. Naturally, Olivares was horrified at the idea.”
An awkward silence fell.
“That’s all we need,” commented Quevedo, “to have the king on our backs.”
Guadalmedina was turning his mug around and around in his hands.
“But whatever happens,” he said after a pause, “a success would suit us all very well.”
He suddenly remembered something, put his hand inside his doublet and removed a piece of paper folded in four. It bore the seal of the Audiencia Real and another from the master of the king’s galleys.
“I was forgetting your safe-conduct pass,” he said, handing it to the captain. “It authorizes you to go downriver to Sanlucar. Needless to say, once there, you must burn the document. From that moment on, if anyone asks why you’re going to Sanlucar, you’ll have to find your own excuse.” The count was smiling and stroking his goatee. “You can always say you’re going fishing for tuna and palm them off with that old saying:
“I wonder how Olmedilla will acquit himself,” said Quevedo.
“There’s no need for him actually to board the ship. He’s only required to take charge of the gold once it’s been unloaded. His well-being depends on you, Alatriste.”
The captain was studying the document. “I’ll do what I can.”
“Please do. For all our sakes.”
The captain tucked the piece of paper into the leather band inside his hat. While he remained as cool and collected as ever, I kept fidgeting about on my stool. There were too many kings and count-dukes involved in this affair for a simple lad like me to be expected to sit still.
“There will, of course, be protests from the ship’s owners,” said the count. “Medina Sidonia will be furious, but no one involved in the plot itself will breathe a word. With the Flemish, though, it will be different. We’re sure to get protests from that quarter, exchanges of letters, and storms in the chanceries. That’s why we need to make it look like a private affair—an attack by bandits or pirates.” He raised his mug of wine to his lips, smiling mischievously. “Although no one can demand the return of gold that doesn’t officially exist.”
“Remember,” said Quevedo to the captain, “if anything goes wrong, everyone will deny all knowledge of the matter.”
“Even don Francisco and myself,” added Guadalmedina bluntly.
“Precisely.
The poet and the aristocrat sat looking at Alatriste, but the captain, who was still staring across at the
