meaning of that singular dogma, which I had failed to understand at the time: the loyalty professed by Captain Alatriste was not to the fair-haired young man standing before him, not to His Catholic Majesty, not to the one true religion, or to the idea that either one of them represented on Earth, but to that one personal rule, chosen for want of anything better, and which was all that remained from the shipwreck of more generalized, more enthusiastic ideas that had dissolved with the loss of innocence and youth. Regardless of what the rule was—right or wrong, logical or illogical, just or unjust, justifiable or not—it was the rule that mattered to men like Diego Alatriste as a way of imposing some kind of order, or structure, on the apparent chaos of life. And thus, paradoxically, my master respectfully doffed his hat before his king not out of resignation or discipline but out of despair. After all, since there were no old gods in whom one could trust, no great words that could be bandied about during combat, it was a salve to everyone’s honor—or, at least, better than nothing at all—to have a king for whom one could fight and before whom one could doff one’s hat, even if one did not believe in him. And so Captain Alatriste held firmly to that principle, just as, had he given his loyalty to someone else, he might have pushed his way through that very same throng and knifed the king to death, without a thought for the consequences.
At that point, something unusual happened to interrupt my thoughts. The Conde-Duque de Olivares concluded his short report, and the monarch’s usually impassive eyes now took on an expression of curiosity and remained fixed on the captain. Then our fourth Philip gave the very slightest of approving nods and, slowly raising his hand to his august breast, removed the gold chain he was wearing and handed it to the count-duke. The latter, smiling thoughtfully, weighed it in his hand for a moment and then, to the general amazement of all those present, came toward us.
“His Majesty would like you to accept this chain,” he said.
He said this in the stern, arrogant tone so typical of him, piercing the captain with the two hard, black points of his eyes, a smile still visible beneath his fierce mustache.
“Gold from the Indies,” he added with evident irony.
Alatriste turned pale. He stood stock-still and stared at the count-duke uncomprehendingly. Olivares was still proffering him the chain in his outstretched palm.
“Well, don’t keep me waiting all day,” Olivares snapped.
The captain seemed finally to come to. And once he had recovered his composure, he at last took the chain, and, stammering out a few words of gratitude, looked again at the king. The latter continued to observe the captain with some curiosity, and meanwhile Olivares returned to his monarch’s side; Guadalmedina stood, beaming, amongst the other astonished courtiers; and the cortege prepared to move on. Then Captain Alatriste bowed his head respectfully; the king again, almost imperceptibly, nodded, and the procession set off.
Proud of my master, I looked defiantly around me at all those inquisitive faces, staring in astonishment at the captain, wondering who the devil this fortunate man was, to whom the count-duke himself had presented a gift from the king. Don Francisco de Quevedo was chuckling delightedly to himself and clicking his fingers, muttering about a need to wet both his whistle and his words at Becerra’s inn, where he had to set down some lines that had just occurred to him:
He recited these lines to us for our pleasure, as gleefully as he always did when he found a good rhyme, a good fight, or a good mug of wine.
As for the captain, he remained standing amongst the other guests, not budging, his hat still grasped in his hand, watching the royal cortege process through the Alcazar gardens. And to my surprise, I saw a cloud pass over his face, as if what had just happened had, suddenly and symbolically, bound him far more tightly than he wished to be bound. The less a man owes, the freer he is, and according to the worldview of my master—capable of killing for a doubloon or a word—there were things never written or spoken that he considered to be as binding as a friendship, a discipline, or an oath. And while, beside me, don Francisco de Quevedo continued improvising lines from his new sonnet, I knew, or sensed, that the king’s gift of a gold chain weighed on Captain Alatriste as heavily as if it were made of iron.
EXTRACTS FROM
SOME FINE POETRY
WRITTEN BY VARIOUS WITS OF
THIS CITY OF SEVILLE
Printed in the seventeenth century, without a printer’s mark,
and preserved in the “Conde de Guadalmedina”
section of the Archive and Library of
the Duques de Nuevo Extremo (Seville).
ATTRIBUTED TO DON FRANCISCO DE QUEVEDO
The last evening and end of the ruffian Nicasio Ganzua,
who died in Seville from a very bad sore throat
brought on by the rope.
FIRST BALLAD
In old Seville town, in its dark, lofty prison
The cream of the thieves are now gathered together.
They have come to this place for a grand celebration,
A banquet in aid of Nicasio Ganzua,
For, at dawn, he’ll be issued his very last passport.
And it’s thus only right, in His Majesty’s prison
For a solemn event to be given due weight;
But because it’s the king who is giving the orders
No time must be lost—
Here they come, brothers all of the criminal class,
Yes, those who are paid by the sum of their sword thrusts
And all of them dressed in the deepest of mourning,
Though armed to the teeth with glistening steel
(the jailer meanwhile has his itchy palm greased
with the silvery glitter of pieces of eight).
How they praise to the skies the condemned man,
Though their praises are not of a sacred kind,
See them sit round a table—the flower of ruffians—
For no honest rogue would ever dare miss
This wake for a man, for a hero illustrious.
How peacock-proud are these would-be nobles
(To be sure, in this gathering, no women are found)
With their hats pulled down low o’er their faces, like grandees,
As they drink down whole mugs of the reddest of wines
