The Sun Over Breda

squarely facing the Valencian, who, completely at ease, began to make passes at me with the sharp edges of his sword, the kind of moves that do not kill but that make you happy to leave the scene. I could not run away, however—there was my reputation to consider—and I could not stand fast because of the discrepancy between our blades. I was tempted to throw my dagger at him, but I kept a cool head, despite my foreboding; I was aware that the final curtain would come down if I missed. My opponent kept coming at me with all the tricks of a Turk, and I kept moving back, well aware that I was inferior in weapons, body, strength, and expertise: He had his Toledo blade, was strong as an ox when sober, and skilled, whereas I was a wet-behind-the-ears youth with a dagger and bravado that would not serve me as shield. I envisioned that at least a split head—mine—would be the booty from this campaign.

“Com’ere, then, young capon,” the fellow said.

As he spoke, the wine in his belly caused him to stumble, so without his having to ask twice, I did as he requested. And as with the agility of my young years I was able to dodge his steel, covering my face with my left arm in case he should cut me off midway, I slashed with my dagger: right to left, above and below. Had it been a little longer, that blade would have left the king without a soldier and Valencia without a favorite son. To my good fortune, I jumped clear without major injury, but having only scratched my adversary’s groin—which is where I had aimed my thrust—severing his trouser latchet and drawing a “God’s blood!” that brought laughter from the witnesses and also some applause that, though little consolation, indicated that the crowd was on my side.

My attack, I can safely say, was a mistake, for everyone had seen that I was not some poor defenseless little boy, and now no one would step in or even plan to step in. Even my comrade, Jaime Correas, was urging me on, delighted with my performance in the altercation. The worst part was that with my blow the wine fumes that had befogged my opponent suddenly dissipated; with renewed vigor, he was now ready to make mincemeat of me. Horrified at the thought of going to my reward without confessing but with little choice, I resolved to make a second and final move: I would slip between the Valencian’s sword and his belly, stay in there somehow, and stab and stab and stab until one of the two of us was sent off with a letter for the devil. Lacking absolution and last rites, I would manufacture the necessary explanations. Strangely, years later a French author would write, “A Spaniard, having determined the move he will make with his knife, will carry through though he be cut to pieces,” and when I read that, I thought that nothing could better express the decision I had made confronting the Valencian. I took a deep breath, gritted my teeth, and as my enemy took one of the two-handed swings he was directing at me, I awaited the moment when the tip of his sword reached the point of the arc farthest from me, and planned to lunge at him with my dagger. And I would have done it, pardiez, had powerful hands not grabbed me by an arm and the nape of the neck at the same time a body stepped between me and my enemy. I looked up, dumbfounded, to meet the cold gray-green eyes of Captain Alatriste.

“The boy was not much of a match for a brave man like you.”

The scene had shifted, and now the action was being played out beside the canal and with relative discretion. Diego Alatriste and the Valencian were some fifty strides from the original site, at the foot of the embankment of a dike that hid them from the camp. Up on the dike, considerably higher above them, my master’s friends were keeping away the curious. They were very casual about it but nevertheless formed a barrier that prevented anyone from passing. Llop, Rivas, and Mendieta were there, and a few others, including Sebastian Copons. It was the latter’s iron hands that had plucked me from my imbroglio, and now I was standing beside him, watching what was happening below on the shore of the canal. All around me Alatriste’s friends were acting nonchalant, gazing off in different directions, discouraging anyone attempting to come take a look with fierce glances, twisting of mustaches, and hands poised on the pommels of swords. So that everything would be conducted in the proper manner, they had brought along two of the Valencian’s acquaintances in case witnesses should be needed regarding the settling of affairs.

“You would never,” Alatriste added, “want to be called a baby butcher.”

He said it with ice and derision in his voice, and in return the Valencian growled a blasphemous curse. There was no trace of the vapors of wine left in him, and he was running his left hand over his beard and mustache, piqued, still holding his unsheathed weapon in his right hand. Despite his menacing appearance and the threat of the naked blade, one could read between the lines that he was not entirely inclined toward swordplay, otherwise he would already have launched his attack against the captain, resolved to get in the first thrust. Pride and concern for his reputation had brought him here, along with the questionable state of his honor after his encounter with me, but from time to time he glanced up toward the top of the embankment, as if he still trusted that someone would step in before the matter went any further. The primary focus of his attention, however, was on every act of Diego Alatriste, who very slowly, as if he had all the time in the world, had taken off his hat, then, with measured movements, had pulled the bandolier with the twelve apostles over his head and laid it and his harquebus on the ground near the canal. Now, cool and collected, he was unfastening his doublet.

“A brave man like you,” Alatriste repeated, his eyes locked with the Valencian’s.

The second time the captain had uttered that como vos, “like you,” with such cold sarcasm, the Valencian had snorted with fury, looked up at the men on the embankment, taken one step forward and another to the side, and whipped his sword back and forth. When not used among good acquaintances, friends, or persons of very different status, that vos, rather than uced or “Your Mercy,” was not very courteous and was often considered an insult by the invariably thin-skinned Spaniard. If we consider that in Naples the Conde de Lemos and don Juan de Zuniga took out their swords—they and all their retinue, even their servants—and that one hundred and fifty blades were drawn that day because one called the other senoria instead of “Excellency” and because the other returned with vuesamerced instead of senoria, it is easy to judge the extent of such sensitivities. It was painstakingly clear that the Valencian could not willingly endure that vos, and that despite his indecision—it was evident that he knew the man standing before him by sight and reputation—he was left with no option but to fight. To sheathe his sword before another soldier who had addressed him as vos, especially as he was brandishing his sword with such swagger, would have been a black mark on his reputation.

In Spanish, the word reputation was, in those days, a very weighty word. Not for nothing had we Spaniards fought for a century and a half in Europe, ruining ourselves to defend the true religion and our reputation, while the Lutherans, Calvinists, Anglicans, and other accursed heretics, despite spicing their stew with a lot of Bible and freedom of thought, had fought so that their merchants and their companies in the Indies could earn more money. Reputation was of little concern to them if it did not offer practical advantages. It has always been our way, however, to be guided less by practical sense than by the Ora pronobis and the “What will people say”? So that was how things were in Europe, and that is how things were with us.

“No one invited you to bring your candle to this funeral,” the Valencian said hoarsely.

“True,” Alatriste conceded, as if he had thought carefully about candles and funerals, “but I thought that a fine soldier like you”—again that vos—“deserved someone who was more your own size, so I hope to be of service.”

By now Alatriste was in his shirtsleeves, and the stitched tears, patched hose, and old boots tied below the knee with harquebus cord did not diminish his imposing appearance one whit. The water in the canal reflected the gleam of his sword as he drew it from the scabbard.