But stay safe and sound in their court.
He rode from the prison upon a gray mule,
Town crier stepping before
And carrying a cross and municipal rod
While he listed the prisoner’s crimes.
Handsome Ganzua rode on without falter—
No trace of last night’s carousing—
And greeted with courtly politeness and grace
All those he had known, great and small.
He looked quite serene, like a priest in procession,
So that one almost envied his fate.
No stumble he made as he climbed up the steps,
Though one step was broken and gaping.
And when he was standing at last on the boards
He turned to the crowd and spoke thus:
“Death is of little importance, my friends,
But since by the king it arrives,
Let no one deny the evident truth
That mine is an honorable one.”
All nodded and gravely accepted his words,
His whore and executors too.
And they thought it was equally proper and right
That his dear Maripizca had hired
A chorus of blind men to sing for his soul.
A sermon then followed their prayers,
And he recited the Creed with no hint of a tremor,
For it’s always a dreadful and shameful dishonor
When infamous ruffians break down and blubber.
The fell executioner stepped up behind
And placing the noose ’round the prisoner’s neck,
Said these words: “O, my brother, I ask your forgiveness,”
Then quickly he tightened the noose until death.
Our brave Ganzua did not flinch or grimace,
For death, to him, was as naught,
But with quiet indifference he bore himself
As though he were sunk in thought.
FROM THE SAME
Advice Addressed to Captain Diego Alatriste
SONNET
If what I have I do not fear to lose,
Nor yet desire to have what I do not,
I’m safe from Fortune’s wheel whate’er I choose,
Let plaintiff or defendant be my lot.
For if I joy not in another’s pain
And worldly wealth brings me no hint of pleasure,
Grim death may come and take me without strain;
I’ll not resist or ask for lesser measure.
And you, who even now know not the chains
With which this age imprisons a heart,
Diego—free from pleasures and from pains—
Keep, thus, far hence the prick of passion’s dart;
So to the last, dear Alatriste, keep
Alone, alone, until the final sleep.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Arturo Perez-Reverte lives near Madrid. Originally a war journalist, he now writes fiction full-time. His novels
