The King's Gold

by Arturo Perez-Riverte

  Anyone who knew him would have taken great care how he answered. El Bravo de los Galeones, however, did not.

  “Just having a bit of a walkabout,” he replied brazenly.

  The captain smoothed his mustache, his eyes as hard and fixed as glass beads. “I said no one was to come down here.”

  “Yeah, well,” said El Bravo dismissively. He was smiling greedily, a fierce look on his scarred, marked face. “And now we know why.”

  He was gazing wildly at the glittering treasure. Then he exchanged a glance with Suárez, who had put his sack down on the steps and was scratching his head incredulously, stunned by what lay before him.

  “It seems to me, comrade,” said El Bravo de los Galeones, “that we should tell the others about this. That would be a fine trick—”

  The word became a mere gurgle in his throat as Alatriste, without warning, stuck his sword through El Bravo’s breast, so quickly that by the time the ruffian had a chance to stare down in stupefaction at the wound inflicted, the blade had already been removed. Mouth agape and uttering an agonized sigh, El Bravo fell forward onto the captain, who pushed him away, leaving him to roll down the steps and land at the very foot of a barrel of silver. When he saw this, Suárez let out a horrified “Dear God!” and instinctively raised the scimitar he was carrying; then he seemed to think better of it, for he turned on his heel and started climbing back up the steps as fast as he could, stifling a scream of terror. And he continued to scream that muffled scream until Sebastián Copons, who had unsheathed his dagger, caught up with him, grabbed his foot, and knocked him down; then, straddling his body, he yanked Suárez’s head up by the hair and deftly cut his throat. I watched this scene, frozen in horror. Not daring to move a muscle, I saw Alatriste wiping the gore from his sword on the prone body of El Bravo, whose blood was now soiling the gold ingots piled up on the floor. Then he did something strange: he spat, as if he had something dirty in his mouth. He spat into the air as if he were making some comment to himself, or like someone uttering a silent oath, and when his eyes met mine, I shuddered, because he was looking at me as if he didn’t know me, and for an instant I was afraid he might kill me as well.

  “Watch the stairs,” he said to Copons.

  From where he was kneeling beside the inert corpse on which he was cleaning his dagger, Copons nodded. Then Alatriste walked past him, without so much as a glance at the sailor’s dead body, and went back up on deck. I followed him, glad to leave behind me the awful scene in the hold, and once up aloft, I noticed that Alatriste had paused to take a deep breath, as if desperate for the air that had been lacking down below. Then Juan Eslava shouted to us from the gunwale and, almost simultaneously, we felt the keel of the ship grind into the sand. All movement ceased, and the deck listed slightly to one side. The men were pointing at the lights moving on the shore, coming to meet us. The Niklaasbergen had run aground in the shallows of San Jacinto.

  We went over to the gunwale. There were boats rowing toward us in the dark, and a line of lights was approaching slowly from the end of the spit of sand, where the water beneath the galleon looked bright and clear in the lantern light.

  Alatriste glanced at the deck.

  “Right, let’s go,” he said to Juan Jaqueta.

  The latter hesitated for a moment.

  “Where are Suárez and El Bravo?” he asked uneasily. “I’m sorry, Captain, but I couldn’t help it.” He suddenly paused, studying my master’s face in the light near the quarterdeck. “I’m sorry, but to stop them, I’d have had to kill them.”

  He fell silent.

  “Kill them,” he repeated in soft, bewildered tones.

  This sounded more like a question than a statement. But there was no reply. Alatriste was still looking around him.

  “It’s time we left the ship,” he said, addressing the men on deck. “Help the wounded off.”

  Jaqueta was still watching him. He seemed to be waiting for an answer.

  “What happened?” he asked grimly.

  “They’re not coming.”

  He had turned at last to face Jaqueta, very coldly and calmly. Jaqueta opened his mouth, but said nothing. He stood like that for a moment, then turned to the other men, urging them to obey the captain’s orders. The boats and the lights were coming nearer, and our men began to climb down the rope ladder to the tongue of sand, uncovered by the low tide, on which the galleon had run aground. Bartolo Cagafuego and the mulatto Campuzano, whose head was swathed in a huge bandage like a turban, were carefully helping Enríquez el Zurdo off the ship; El Zurdo was bleeding profusely from a broken nose and had a couple of nasty cuts to his arms. Ginesillo el Lindo, in turn, went to the aid of Saramago, who was limping painfully from a long gash in his thigh.

  “Any closer, and they’d have had my balls,” Saramago said mournfully.

  The last to leave were Jaqueta—once he had closed the eyes of his comrade Sangonera—and Juan Eslava. No one had to bother with Andresito el de los Cincuenta, because by then he had been dead for some time. Copons appeared at the top of the steps to the hold and went straight over to the side of the ship. At that moment, a man climbed on board, and I recognized the fellow with the ginger mustache who had spoken to Olmedilla earlier. He was still dressed as a hunter and was armed to the teeth; behind him came several more men. Despite their disguise, they were all clearly soldiers. They eyed with professional curiosity the bodies of our dead comrades and the blood-stained deck, and the man with the ginger mustache stood for a while studying Olmedilla’s corpse. Then he came over to the captain.

  “How did it happen?” he asked, pointing to the accountant.

  “As these things do,” said Alatriste laconically.

  The other man looked at him intently, then said very equably, “Good work.”

  Alatriste did not respond. Heavily armed men continued to clamber on board. Some were carrying harquebuses with the fuses lit.

  “In the name of the king,” said the man with the ginger mustache, “I take charge of this ship.”

  I saw my master nod, and then I followed him over to the gunwale, where Sebastián Copons was already climbing down the rope ladder. Alatriste turned to me with that same distracted air, and put a helping arm around me. I leaned against him, and breathed in from his clothes the smell of leather and steel mixed with the smell of blood from the men he had killed that night. He went down the ladder, all the while supporting me, until we reached the sand. The water came up to our ankles. We got wetter as we waded toward the beach, plunging in up to our waists, and my wound stung fiercely. Shortly afterward, with me still leaning on the captain for support, we reached land, where our men were gathered in the darkness. Around them were the shadows of more armed men, as well as the blurred shapes of many mules and carts ready to carry off what lay in the ship’s holds.

  “Ye gods,” said one man, “we certainly earned our keep tonight.”

  These words, spoken in a cheery tone of voice, broke the silence and the tension. As always after combat—and I had seen this over and over in Flanders—the men gradually began to talk and open up, with just a comment here and there at first, brief remarks, complaints, and sighs. Then they launched into oaths and boasts and laughter: I did this, someone else did that. Some described in detail how they had boarded the ship or else asked how such and such a comrade had died. I heard no one regret the passing of the accountant Olmedilla: they had never taken to that scrawny individual dressed all in black, and it was as clear as day that he was ill-equipped for such work. As far as everyone there was concerned, his life wasn’t worth a candle.

  “What happened to El Bravo de los Galeones?” asked someone. “I didn’t see him peg it.”

  “No, he was alive at the end,” said another.

  “Suárez didn’t get off the ship either,” added a third.

  No one had an explanation, and those who did kept quiet. There were a few muttered comments, but Suárez had no friends amongst that crew, most of whom also loathed El Bravo.
No one really felt their absence.

  “All the more for us, I suppose,” remarked one man.

  Someone gave a coarse guffaw, and the subject was dropped. And I wondered—and had few illusions about the answer—if I were lying on deck, stiff and cold as a piece of salt tuna, would I merit the same epitaph? I saw the silent shadow of Juan Jaqueta, and although I couldn’t see his face, I knew he was looking at Captain Alatriste.

  We walked to a nearby inn, which was all prepared to receive us for the night. The innkeeper—a scurvy knave if ever there was one—had only to see our faces, our bandages, and our ironware to treat us as diligently and obsequiously as if we were grandees of Spain. And so there was wine from Jerez and Sanlúcar for everyone, a fire to dry our clothes by, and abundant food, of which we ate every crumb, for the recent violent fracas had left us all with empty bellies. Mugs of wine and plates of roast kid were quickly dispatched, and we drank to our dead comrades and to the gleaming gold coins piled up on the table before us; they had been delivered before dawn by the man with the ginger mustache, who came accompanied by a surgeon to attend to our injuries; he cleaned the wound in my side, sewed it up, and applied some ointment and a fresh, clean bandage. Gradually, amid the vinous vapors, the men all fell asleep. Occasionally, El Zurdo or Saramago would moan out loud or there would be raucous snores from Copons, who was sleeping stretched out on a rug, as oblivious to his surroundings as he had been in the mud of the Flanders trenches.

  Discomfort prevented me from sleeping. It was my first wound, and I would be lying if I denied that the pain from it filled me with a new and inexpressible pride. Now, with the passing of time, I bear other marks on both flesh and memory: that first wound is now only a near-imperceptible line on my skin, tiny compared with the wound I suffered at Rocroi or the one inflicted on me by Angélica de Alquézar’s dagger. But sometimes I run my fingers over it and remember, as if it were yesterday, that night at Barra de Sanlúcar, the fighting on board the Niklaasbergen, and El Bravo’s blood staining the king’s gold red.

  Nor can I forget Captain Alatriste as I saw him in the early hours of that morning when pain kept me from sleep. He was sitting on a stool, apart from everyone else, his back against the wall, watching the gray dawn creep in through the window, while he drank his wine slowly and methodically, as I had so often seen him do before, until his eyes became like opaque glass and his head sank slowly onto his chest, and sleep—a lethargy not unlike death—overwhelmed both body and mind. And I had shared his life for long enough to know that, even in his dreams, Diego Alatriste would continue to move through the personal wilderness that was his life, silent, solitary, and selfish, oblivious of everything except the clear-sighted indifference of one who knows the narrow line that separates being alive from being dead, of one who kills in order to preserve his life’s breath and to keep himself, too, in hot meals. One who is reluctant to obey the rules of that strange game: the old ritual in which men like him have been immersed since the world began. Such things as hatred, passionate beliefs, and flags had nothing to do with it. It would doubtless have been more bearable if, instead of the bitter clarity that filled his every act and thought, Captain Alatriste had enjoyed the magnificent gifts of stupidity, fanaticism, or malice, because only the stupid, the fanatical, and the malicious live lives free from ghosts or from remorse.

  EPILOGUE

  The sergeant of the Spanish guard cut an imposing figure in his red-and-yellow uniform, and he eyed me with some irritation as I walked through the palace gates with don Francisco de Quevedo and Captain Alatriste. He was the same burly, mustachioed fellow with whom I had had words days before outside those very walls, and he was doubtless surprised to see me there in my new doublet, with my hair combed, and looking handsomer than Narcissus himself, while don Francisco showed him the document authorizing us to attend the royal reception being held in honor of the municipal council and commercial tribunal of Seville to celebrate the arrival of the treasure fleet.

  Other guests were arriving too: wealthy merchants accompanied by spouses decked out in jewels, mantillas, and fans; minor aristocrats who had probably pawned their few remaining valuables in order to buy new clothes especially for the occasion; clerics in cassock and cloak; and representatives of the local guilds. Almost everyone was staring openmouthed this way and that, overwhelmed and impressed by the splendid appearance of the Spanish, Burgundian, and German guards, and as if half afraid that, at any moment, someone would demand to know what they were doing there and throw them out in the street. All the guests knew that they would see the king and queen only for an instant and from a distance, that their contribution would consist of little more than doffing their hats and bowing low to Their August Majesties as they passed; however, the mere fact of being present at such an event and being able to stroll like grandees in all their finery in the gardens of that former Moorish palace and talk about it afterward, this was the very acme of the ambitions cultivated by even the most plebeian of Spaniards. And when, the following day, this fourth Philip proposed, perhaps, that the municipal council should approve the imposition of a new charge or an extraordinary tax on the newly arrived treasure, he did so in the knowledge that Seville would still have enough of a taste of syrup in its mouth to sweeten that bitter pill—for the deadliest thrusts are always those that pierce the purse—and would, therefore, loosen their purse strings without too much complaint.

  “There’s Guadalmedina,” said don Francisco.

  The count, who was chatting to some ladies, saw us from afar, excused himself with a gracious bow, and came to meet us, oozing politeness and wearing his very best smile.

  “By God, Alatriste, you’ve no idea how pleased I am to see you.”

  He greeted Quevedo with his usual bonhomie, complimented me on my new doublet, and gave the captain a gentle, friendly pat on the arm.

  “There’s someone else who’s very pleased to see you too,” he added.

  He was dressed as elegantly as ever, in pale blue with silver braiding and with a magnificent pheasant feather in his hat. His courtly appearance was in marked contrast to that of Quevedo, who was dressed all in black, with the cross of St. James on his breast, and of my master, dressed entirely in browns and blacks, in an old but clean and scrupulously brushed doublet, canvas breeches, and boots, and with a gleaming sword hanging from his newly polished belt. His only new items of clothing were his hat—a broad-brimmed felt affair with a red feather in it—the starched white Walloon collar, which he wore open, as befitted a soldier, and the dagger bought for ten escudos to replace the one he had broken during his encounter with Gualterio Malatesta: a magnificent blade nearly two spans long and bearing the marks of the swordsmith Juan de Orta.

  “He didn’t want to come,” said don Francisco, indicating the captain.

  “I imagined he wouldn’t,” replied Guadalmedina. “However, there are some orders that must be obeyed.” He winked familiarly. “Certainly by a veteran like you, Alatriste. And that is an order.”

  The captain said nothing. He was looking awkwardly about him, occasionally tugging at his clothes as if he didn’t know quite what to do with his hands. Beside him, Guadalmedina stood smiling to this person or that, waving to an acquaintance, sometimes nodding to the wife of a merchant or pettifogging lawyer, who then furiously fanned away her blushes.

  “I should tell you, captain, that the parcel reached its addressee, and that everyone took great pleasure in it,” he said, with a smile. Then he lowered his voice. “Well, to be honest, some took rather less pleasure in it than others. The Duque de Medina Sidonia very nearly died of grief. And when Olivares returns to Madrid, your friend the royal secretary Luis de Alquézar will certainly have some explaining to do.”

  Guadalmedina continued chuckling to himself, vastly amused, all the while waving and nodding and generally flaunting his impeccably courtly appearance.

  “The count-duke is in the seventh heaven of delight,” he went on, “happier than if Christ himself had st
ruck Richelieu down with a thunderbolt. That is why he wanted you to be here today, to greet you, albeit from a distance, when he passes by with the king and queen. You can’t deny that it’s quite an honor to receive a personal invitation from the king’s favorite.”

  “Our captain,” said Quevedo, “feels that the greatest honor the count-duke could have bestowed on him would have been simply to forget the whole affair.”

  “He may be right,” commented the count. “The favor of the great is often both more dangerous and more paltry than their disfavor. I can only say that it’s very fortunate that you’re a soldier, Alatriste, because you would make a disastrous courtier. I wonder sometimes if my profession isn’t harder than yours.”

  “To each his own,” replied the captain.

  “Quite. But returning to the matter at hand, I’ll have you know that yesterday the king himself asked Olivares to tell him the story. I was there, and the count-duke painted a very vivid picture. As you know, Our Catholic Majesty is not one to show his feelings, but I’ll be hanged if I didn’t see him blink several times while he listened to the account, and for him, that’s the very height of emotion.”

  “Will this translate into anything tangible?” asked Quevedo, ever practical.

  “If you’re referring to something that jingles and has a head and a tail, I doubt it. When it comes to cheese paring, if Olivares pares it fine, then His Majesty pares it finer still. They consider that the work was paid for at the time, and very generously too.”

  “True enough,” said Alatriste.

  “Well, you would know,” said the count with a shrug. “Today is, shall we say, by way of an honorific coda. The king’s curiosity was aroused when he was reminded of your involvement in that incident two years ago with the Prince of Wales at the Corral del Príncipe. And so he has a fancy to see you in the flesh.” The count paused significantly. “The other night, at Triana, it was far too dark.”