The King's Gold (13 page)

Ganzúa could count on it, his friends assured him. They swore on God and all his angels that Mojarrilla could be safely considered to have received the last rites already.

“It might be a good idea,” added Ganzúa after a moment’s thought, “to send the silversmith my greetings as well.”

The silversmith was added to the list. And while they were on the subject, they agreed that if, on the following morning, the executioner proved not to have been sufficiently rewarded by La Aliviosa and failed to do a decent job, by not tightening the garrote as cleanly and efficiently as required, he, too, would get his just deserts. It was one thing to execute someone—after all, everyone had his job to do—but quite another, worthy of traitors and pretty-boys, not to show due respect for a man of honor, et cetera, et cetera. There were many other remarks in the same vein, and Ganzúa was left feeling both satisfied and comforted. He looked at Alatriste, grateful that he should have come to keep him company in this way.

“I don’t believe I have the pleasure of your acquaintance,” he said.

“Some of the other gentlemen here know me already,” replied the captain in the same tone. “And I am pleased to be able to accompany you on behalf of those friends who cannot be here.”

“Say no more.” Ganzúa was looking at me amiably from behind his vast mustaches. “Is the boy with you?”

The captain said that I was, and I in turn nodded in a courteous way that provoked murmurs of approval from the other men present, for no one appreciates modesty and good manners in the young more than the criminal classes.

“He’s a fine-looking lad,” said Ganzúa. “I hope it will be a very long time before he finds himself in my situation.”

“Amen to that,” agreed Alatriste.

Saramago el Portugués also praised my presence there. It was, he remarked—with a Lusitanian slur to his
s
’s—an edifying spectacle for a young lad to see how men of courage and honor take their leave of this world, especially in these troubled times when shamelessness and ill manners are so rife. Aside from having the good fortune to have been born in Portugal—which was not, alas, a possibility open to everyone—nothing was more instructive than to witness a good death, to speak with wise men, to know other lands, and to read widely and well. He concluded poetically, “Thus the boy will be able to say with Virgil ‘
Arma virumque cano
’ and with Lucan ‘
Plus quam civilia campos.
’”

This was followed by much talk and more wine. Ganzúa then proposed a last game of cards with his friends, and Guzmán Ramírez, a silent, grave-faced ruffian, took a grimy pack from his doublet and placed it on the table. The cards were dealt out to the eight players, while the others watched and all of us drank. Wagers were made and, whether by luck or because his comrades were letting him win, Ganzúa had some good hands.

“I’ll wager six
ducados
, my life on it.”

“It’s your turn to cut the cards.”

“I’ll deal.”

“What a hand!”

“I’ll buy it from you, if you like.”

And they were happily occupied in this fashion when steps were heard in the corridor and in came the court scribe, the prison governor with his constables, and the prison chaplain, all black as crows, to read the final sentence. And apart from Ginesillo el Lindo, who stopped playing the guitar, no one took the slightest notice; not even the condemned man himself showed a flicker of interest; instead, they all continued downing their wine, each player holding his three cards and keeping one eye on the card that had just been turned up, which happened to be the two of hearts. The scribe cleared his throat and declared that, according to the king’s justice, and the prisoner’s appeal having been refused on such and such a date and for such and such a reason, the aforementioned Nicasio Ganzúa would be executed in the morning. Ganzúa listened impassively, concentrating on his cards, and only when the sentence had been read did he open his mouth to look at his partner and raise his eyebrows.

“I’ll see you,” he said.

The game continued as before. Saramago el Portugués put down a jack of clubs, another comrade played a king, and another an ace of diamonds.

“The jack of hearts,” announced a comrade known as El Rojo Carmona, placing that card on the table.

“The two of hearts,” said another, putting his card down as well.

Luck was with Ganzúa that night, because he had a card that beat a two of any suit, and with one hand placed defiantly on his hip, he flung down the four of hearts. And only then, while he was picking up the coins and adding them to his pile, did he look up at the scribe.

“Could you just repeat what you said? I wasn’t listening.”

The scribe grew angry, saying that such statements could be read only once, and that it was Ganzúa’s own fault if, as he put it, he blew out the candle without first making sure he’d understood the deal.

“To a man like me,” replied Ganzúa with great aplomb, “who has never bowed his head except to take communion, and then only when I was a boy, and who has since fought five hundred duels and been in five hundred scraps and fearlessly fought in a thousand more, the details are about as important to me as a fleabite. All I want to know is do I face execution tomorrow or not?”

“You do. At eight o’clock prompt.”

“And who signed the death sentence?”

“Judge Fonseca.”

Ganzúa gave his companions a meaningful look, and they responded with winks and silent nods. It would seem that the informer, the catchpole, and the silversmith would not be making their journey alone.

“The judge,” said Ganzúa philosophically to the scribe, “is perfectly at liberty to hand down a sentence and take away my life, but if he ever had the decency to face me, sword in hand, then we’d see who would take whose life.”

There were more solemn nods from the circle of ruffians. What he had said was as true as the Gospel. The scribe shrugged. The friar, an Augustine with a gentle air and filthy fingernails, came over to Ganzúa.

“Do you wish to confess?”

Ganzúa looked at him while he shuffled the cards.

“You wouldn’t want me to blurt out now what I refused to reveal under torture.”

“I was referring to your soul.”

Ganzúa touched the rosary and the medallions that he wore around his neck. “I’ll take care of my soul,” he said after a long pause. “And tomorrow, in the next world, I’ll have a few words with the appropriate person.”

His fellow players nodded approvingly. Some had known Gonzalo Barba, a famous rogue who began his confession to a young and inexperienced priest by admitting straight out to eight murders. Seeing the look of alarm on the young priest’s face, he said, “Honestly, I start with the small stuff, and already you’re shocked. If you react like that to the first eight, then I’m not the right man for you, Father, and you’re not the right man for me.” And when the priest insisted, he added, “Look at it this way, Father, you were ordained the day before yesterday and here you are trying to confess a man with hundreds of murders under his belt.”

They returned to their cards while the friar and the others headed for the door. Just as they were about to leave, however, Ganzúa remembered something and called them back.

“Just one thing, Señor Scribe. Last month, when they tied the rope around my friend Lucas Ortega’s neck, one of the steps on the scaffold was loose, and Lucas nearly fell when he was climbing them. It doesn’t bother me particularly, but be so kind as to repair it for whoever comes after, because not all men have my courage.”

“I’ll make a note of it,” the scribe assured him.

“I’ll say no more, then.”

The men of law and the friar left, and those who remained carried on playing cards and drinking while Ginesillo el Lindo resumed his strumming.

Though he killed his father and his mother
And did his elder brother in,
And put two sisters on the game,
They hung him high on the gallows tree
Of old Seville because he stole
The lives of strangers, one, two, three.

The game continued in the grubby light of the tallow candles. The ruffians drank and played, solemnly keeping watch over their comrade with many “Ye gods” and “I’faiths” and “By my troths.”

“It hasn’t been a bad life,” Ganzúa suddenly said very thoughtfully. “Hard, but not bad.”

Through the window came the sound of the bells of the church of San Salvador. Out of respect, Ginesillo el Lindo stopped his singing and his strumming. Everyone, including Ganzúa, doffed his hat and interrupted the game to make the sign of the cross. It was the Hour of All Souls—midnight.

The next day dawned with a sky worthy to be painted by Diego Velázquez, and in the Plaza de San Francisco, Nicasio Ganzúa climbed the steps of the scaffold with great aplomb. I went to watch with Alatriste and a few companions from the previous night. We were just in time to get a place, because the square was crammed from end to end with people who crowded around the platform and filled the surrounding balconies, and it was said that from a shuttered window of the Audiencia, even the king and queen were watching. Country folk and important figures alike had come to see, and the best places, which had been hired out for the occasion, gleamed and glittered with the finest stuffs: ladies’ mantillas and skirts, gentlemen’s velvets and feathered felt hats and gold chains. The crowd below was full of the usual selection of idlers, thieves, and ne’er-do-wells, and those skilled in the art of picking pockets were making their fortunes by slipping two sly fingers into other men’s purses and drawing out a fistful of coins. Don Francisco de Quevedo pushed his way through the crowd to join us and was observing the spectacle with keen interest, because, he said, the execution would prove really useful for one particular passage in
The Swindler
, the book on which he was currently working.

“One doesn’t always draw one’s inspiration from Seneca or Tacitus,” he explained, adjusting his eyeglasses the better to see with.

Someone must have told Ganzúa that the king and queen were there, because when they brought him from the prison dressed in his smock, mounted on a mule, his hands bound in front of him, he raised both hands to his face to smooth his mustaches and even gestured up at the balconies. His hair was combed, he looked clean and elegant and utterly calm, and the only sign of last night’s carousing was a slight redness of the eyes. Along the way, whenever he spotted a familiar face amongst the crowd, he would again wave graciously, as if he were part of a religious procession heading for the Prado de Santa Justa. In short, he bore himself with such grace that it almost made one feel like being executed oneself.

The executioner was waiting beside the garrote. When Ganzúa climbed slowly up the scaffold steps—the rickety step was still rickety, and this earned the scribe, who was standing nearby, a stern look—everyone commented on his excellent manners and his courage. With his raised hands he greeted his comrades and La Aliviosa, who was standing right at the front, comforted by some dozen ruffians, and who, despite her copious tears, nonetheless felt proud of how handsome her man looked as he made his way to death. Then he allowed the Augustine friar of the previous night to preach to him a little, and nodded solemnly whenever the friar said something pithy or pleasing. The executioner was becoming visibly grumpy and impatient, and Ganzúa 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”—Ganzúa 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 Ganzúa 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 Sanlúcar or in the Bay of Cádiz. 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 Sanlúcar.”

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
Niklaasbergen
to his other experiences.

“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 Sanlúcar. Needless to say, once there, you must burn the document. From that moment on, if anyone asks why you’re going to Sanlúcar, 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:
All’s fish that comes to the net
.”

“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.
Ignoramus atque ignorabimus
.”

The poet and the aristocrat sat looking at Alatriste, but the captain, who was still staring across at the Triana shore, merely gave a brief nod and said nothing.

“If things do go wrong,” Guadalmedina went on, “be very careful, because there will be hell to pay. And you will have to cover the cost of any broken pots.”

“If, that is, they catch you,” said Quevedo.

“In short,” concluded the count, “under no circumstances must anyone be captured”—he shot me a quick glance—“no one.”

“Which means,” explained Quevedo with his usual pithiness, “that there are only two options: you either succeed, or you die with your mouth closed.”

And he said this so clearly and frankly that his words barely weighed on me.

After saying goodbye to our friends, the captain and I walked through El Arenal to the pontoon, where the accountant Olmedilla was waiting for us, as punctual and proper as ever. He walked beside us, a thin, austere, silent figure, all in black. Beneath the slanting rays of the setting sun we crossed the river, heading for the sinister walls of the castle of the Inquisition, a sight that stirred my worst memories. We were all equipped for the journey: Olmedilla was wearing a long black cape, and the captain his cloak, hat, sword, and dagger, and I was carrying an enormous bundle containing, more discreetly, a few provisions, two cotton blankets, a full wineskin, a pair of pistols, my dagger—its hilt having been repaired in Calle de Vizcaínos—gunpowder, bullets, Constable Sánchez’s sword, my master’s buff coat, and a newer, much lighter one for myself, made of good, stout buffalo skin, which we had bought for twenty escudos in a shop in Calle Francos. The meeting point was the Corral del Negro, near the Cruz del Altozano. Leaving behind us the bridge and the collection of long-boats, galleys, and skiffs moored along the shore as far up as the harbor used by the local shrimpers, we reached the Corral just as night was falling. Triana was full of cheap inns, taverns, gaming rooms, and places where soldiers congregated, and so there was nothing unusual about the sight of men bearing swords. The Corral del Negro was, it transpired, a vile inn with an open-air courtyard that served as a drinking den, which on rainy days was covered over with an old awning. People sat out there with their hats down over their eyes and their cloaks wrapped about them, and given that it was a cool night and given the nature of the customers who frequented the inn, it seemed perfectly normal for everyone to have his face covered so that only his eyes were visible, and to wear a dagger in his belt and a sword beneath his cloak. The captain, Olmedilla, and I took a seat in one corner, ordered some wine and some food, and cast a cool eye around us. Some of our men were already there. At one table, I recognized Ginesillo el Lindo—without his guitar this time but with an enormous sword at his belt—and Guzmán Ramírez, both of them with hats pulled down low and cloaks muffling their faces, and a moment later I saw Saramago el Portugués enter alone and take a seat, where, by the light of a candle, he immediately took a book out of his pouch and started reading. Then in came Sebastián Copons, as small, compact, and silent as ever. He sat himself down with a pitcher of wine without so much as a glance at anyone, not even his own shadow. Not one of them betrayed by the merest flicker that they knew one another, and gradually, alone and in pairs, the others arrived too, swaggering and shifty-eyed, swords clanking, finding a place to sit wherever they could, but never saying a word. The largest group to arrive was a threesome: Juan Jaqueta of the long side-whiskers, his friend Sangonera, and the mulatto Campuzano, who had all been allowed to leave their ecclesiastical seclusion thanks to the opportune intervention of the captain, courtesy of Guadalmedina.

Although accustomed to a fairly rough clientele, the innkeeper observed such an influx of ruffians with a suspicion that the captain soon dissipated by placing a few silver coins in his hand, the perfect way to render even the most curious of innkeepers blind, deaf, and dumb, as well as acting as a warning that if he talked too much, he might easily end up with his throat neatly slit. Within half an hour, the whole crew was there. To my surprise, for Alatriste had made no mention of him, the last to arrive was Bartolo Cagafuego. With his cap worn low over his bushy brows and wearing a broad smile that revealed his dark, toothless mouth, he paced up and down beneath the arcade near our table, winking at the captain and generally behaving about as discreetly as a bear at a requiem mass. My master never passed any comment on the matter, but I suspect that, although Cagafuego was more braggart than blade, and although the captain could doubtless have recruited another man made of sterner stuff, he had arranged for Cagafuego to be set free more for reasons of sentiment—if such reasons are attributable to the captain. Anyway, there he was, and he could barely conceal his gratitude. And well might he be grateful, for the captain had saved him from six long years chained to an oar in the galleys with a galleymaster yelling at him to row ever harder and faster.

This completed the group, and no one failed to make the rendezvous. I watched Olmedilla’s face to see his reaction to the fruits of the captain’s recruitment campaign, and although the accountant maintained his usual cold, inexpressive, mute façade, I thought I saw a glimmer of approval. Apart from those already mentioned—and as I learned shortly afterward when told their real or assumed names—there was Pencho Bullas, the man from Murcia, the old soldiers Enríquez el Zurdo and Andresito el de los Cincuenta, the grimy and much-scarred Bravo de los Galeones, a sailor from Triana called Suárez, another called Mascarúa, a very pale, hollow-eyed man looking every inch the down-at-heel hidalgo known as El Caballero de Illescas, and a rubicund, bearded smiling fellow from Jaén, with a shaved head and strong arms, Juan Eslava by name, who was notorious in Seville as a pimp (he lived off the earnings of four or five women and cared for them, almost, as if they were his daughters), a fact that justified his sobriquet, earned fair and square, namely the Lothario of the Alameda.

Imagine, then, the scene, dear reader, with all these brave fellows in the Corral del Negro, their faces muffled by cloaks and who, with every movement, gave off a menacing clank of daggers, pistols, and swords. If you hadn’t known they were on your side—at least temporarily—you would have been hard put to find your own pulse, because your heart would have stopped beating out of sheer dread. Once this fearsome retinue was all assembled, Diego Alatriste put a few coins on the table, and, to the great relief of the innkeeper, we set off with Olmedilla to the river, through the pitch-black narrow streets. There was no need to look around. From the sound of footsteps echoing at our backs, we knew that the recruits were slipping one by one out of the inn door and following behind us.