"That is what everyone says."

Then I heard the scream. It was the terrible scream of a desperate woman, m.u.f.fled by distance but so piercing that it found its way along pa.s.sages and corridors and through a closed door. As if they heard nothing, my inquisitors kept looking at me, unperturbed. And I shivered with fear when the lean priest shifted his eyes toward the rack and then back to me.

"How old are you?" he asked.

The scream came again, a whiplash of horror, and yet again there was no reaction from the others, as if I had been the only one who had heard. Deep in their malevolent sockets, the Dominican's fanatic eyes were two sentences of death at the stake. I trembled as if I had ague.

"Th-thirteen," I stammered.

There was an anguishing silence, broken only by the scratching of the scribe's pen. I hope he put it down right, I hope he put it down right, I thought. I thought. Thirteen, not one year more. Thirteen, not one year more.

That was when the thin priest bore in on me. His eyes gleamed even more brilliantly, with a new and unexpected glitter of scorn and loathing.

"And now," he said, "we are going to talk about Captain Alatriste."

VI. SAN GINeS ALLEY

The gaming house was swarming with people betting their a.s.ses, even their souls. Amid the buzz of conversations and the coming and going of cardsharps and bootlickers hoping for tips, Juan Vicuna, a former sergeant of the horse guard wounded at Nieuwpoort, was crossing the room, trying to avoid spilling the Toro wine he was carrying in a jug, and looking around with satisfaction. On the half-dozen tables, cards and dice and money were changing hands, inspiring sighs, Holy Mothers! Holy Mothers! and flashes of naked greed. Gold and silver coins shone beneath the tallow lamps suspended from the domed brick ceiling, and business was all he could ask. and flashes of naked greed. Gold and silver coins shone beneath the tallow lamps suspended from the domed brick ceiling, and business was all he could ask.

Vicuna's watering hole was in a cellar on Cava de San Miguel, very close to the Plaza Mayor; and in it, deals of every sort allowed by the mandates of our lord and king were struck, and also, as Your Mercies may have adjudged, others, scarcely concealed, that were not. The variety was as diverse as the players' imaginations, which in that day was considerable. They were playing ombre, polla, polla, and one hundred-games that bled you slowly-as well as seven-up, and one hundred-games that bled you slowly-as well as seven-up, reparolo, reparolo, and others referred to as "quick and slick" because of the speed with which they left a man without money, speech, or breath. About them, the great Lope had written: and others referred to as "quick and slick" because of the speed with which they left a man without money, speech, or breath. About them, the great Lope had written: Like drawing out his swordfor one who has occasion,so the game is the persuasionfor one who seeks reward.

True that only a few months before, a royal decree had been issued prohibiting gaming houses, for our fourth Philip was young, well-intentioned, and-amply aided by his pious confessor-he believed in things such as the dogma of the Virgin Mary, the Catholic cause in Europe, and the moral regeneration of his subjects in the Old and New Worlds. Forbidding gambling, like the attempt to close the bawdyhouses, however-not to mention hopes for the Catholic cause in Europe-was wishing for the sky. Because if anything besides theater, running the bulls in the plazas, and something else I will mention in good time, impa.s.sioned Spaniards living beneath the rule of the Austrian monarchy, it was gambling.

Towns of three thousand inhabitants wore out eighteen thousand packs of cards each year, and card games were as often played in the streets-where sharps, cheats, and shills improvised games in which to fleece the naive-as they were in legal or clandestine houses, jails, brothels, taverns, and guardposts. Important cities like Madrid and Seville were anthills of meddlers and idlers with coins in their purses, ready to join in around the desencuadernada desencuadernada-the book without a binding, which was what a packet of cards was called-or a Juan Tarafe, a name the lowlife gave to dice games. Everyone gambled, common people and n.o.bility, gentlemen and rogues; even ladies, who though they were not admitted into dens like Juan Vicuna's, were a.s.siduous patrons of the better gaming houses, as well versed in clubs, trumps, and points as the next one. And as may be expected of a violent, proud, and quick-to-draw-steel people like we were, and are, quarrels born of a game often ended with a "G.o.d's bones!" and a fine collection of stab wounds.

Vicuna made it across the room, though not before carefully eyeing some scholars of the art, which is what he called the charlatans expert in palming and marking cards, men who always had a winner up their sleeves, heedful of where it fell. He also stopped to give a warm greeting to don Raul de la Poza, an hidalgo from a very wealthy Cuenca family, a black sheep with a taste for the spicier side of life, who was one of his best clients. A man of fixed habits, don Raul had just arrived, as he did every night, from a brothel on Calle Francos-where he was a regular-and now would not leave until dawn, in time to attend seven-o'clock ma.s.s at San Gines. Escudos Escudos were scudding across his table like sea foam on a stormy day, and always churning around him was a court of swindlers and sycophants who snuffed his candles for him, served his wine, and even brought a urinal if he was deep into the game and did not want to abandon a good hand. All in exchange for the were scudding across his table like sea foam on a stormy day, and always churning around him was a court of swindlers and sycophants who snuffed his candles for him, served his wine, and even brought a urinal if he was deep into the game and did not want to abandon a good hand. All in exchange for the barato, barato, the the real real-or-two tip that came their way after every useful service.

That night, de la Poza was in the company of the Marques de Abades and other friends. That made Vicuna feel easier, for it was a rare day that three or four swaggering churls were not waiting to relieve de la Poza of his winnings as he left.

Diego Alatriste thanked his host for the Toro wine, quaffing it in one long draught. He was in his shirtsleeves, unshaven, sitting on a straw mattress in the discreet room Vicuna had outfitted in his gaming house so he would have a place to retire and rest. A shutter allowed him to see into the main room without being seen himself. Boots on, sword on the taboret, loaded pistol on the blanket, vizcaina vizcaina dagger on the pillow, and eyes sharp when from time to time he glanced through the latticed wood, it was obvious that Alatriste was on his guard. The room had a back, nearly secret, door to a pa.s.sageway that emerged under an arch in the Plaza Mayor. Vicuna noted that the captain had arranged his belongings so that they could be gathered up in a quick retreat toward that door, should it be necessary. In the forty-eight hours he'd spent hiding there, Diego Alatriste had not relaxed except to nod off for forty winks. Even so, late one afternoon when Vicuna came in quietly to see if his friend needed anything, he had been met by the menacing barrel of a pistol pointed right between his eyebrows. dagger on the pillow, and eyes sharp when from time to time he glanced through the latticed wood, it was obvious that Alatriste was on his guard. The room had a back, nearly secret, door to a pa.s.sageway that emerged under an arch in the Plaza Mayor. Vicuna noted that the captain had arranged his belongings so that they could be gathered up in a quick retreat toward that door, should it be necessary. In the forty-eight hours he'd spent hiding there, Diego Alatriste had not relaxed except to nod off for forty winks. Even so, late one afternoon when Vicuna came in quietly to see if his friend needed anything, he had been met by the menacing barrel of a pistol pointed right between his eyebrows.

Alatriste did not betray his impatience by asking questions. He handed the empty jar back to Vicuna and waited, looking at him with clear, unwavering eyes whose pupils were dilated in the dim light of the oil lamp on the table.

"He will be waiting for you in a half-hour," said the old sergeant, "in San Gines alley."

"How is he?"

"Fine. He has spent the last two days in the house of his friend the Duque de Medinaceli, and no one has bothered him. His name has not been made public, and the Law, the Inquisition, no one, is after him. The event, whatever it was, has not become public."

The captain nodded slowly, reflectively. That quiet was not strange, it was logical. The Inquisition never set bells pealing until it had the last of the loose ends well tied up. And things were still half finished. The absence of news might be part of the trap.

"What are they saying in San Felipe?"

"Rumors." Vicuna shrugged his shoulders. "That there was swordplay at La Encarnacion gate, that someone died...They put it down more to the nuns' swains than anything else."

"Have they been to my lodgings?"

"No. But Martin Saldana smells something. He was at the tavern. According to La Lebrijana, he said nothing specific but hinted a lot. The corregidor corregidor's catchpoles are not showing themselves, he said, but there are people around watching. He did not explain who, although he mentioned familiares familiares of the Holy Office. The message is simple. He is not dancing this chaconne, whatever it is, and you had better guard your hide. Apparently this is a delicate business, and it is being carried out with zeal. No one is claiming any knowledge of it." of the Holy Office. The message is simple. He is not dancing this chaconne, whatever it is, and you had better guard your hide. Apparently this is a delicate business, and it is being carried out with zeal. No one is claiming any knowledge of it."

"What do you hear of inigo?" The captain looked at Vicuna steadily, with no visible emotion. The veteran of Nieuwpoort hesitated, uncomfortable. With his one hand, he kept turning the empty jug around and around.

"Nothing," he answered finally. "It's as if the earth swallowed him up."

For a moment, Alatriste sat without speaking. He stared at the wood planks between his boots and then stood up.

"Have you spoken with Domine Perez?"

"He is doing what he can, but it is difficult." Vicuna watched as the captain put on his rough-skinned buffcoat. "You know that the Jesuit Order and the Holy Office do not exchange confidences, and if they have the boy it may be a while before the domine domine learns of it. As soon as he hears anything, he will tell you. He also offers you the Jesuit church, if you want safe haven. He says that the Dominicans cannot take you from there, not even if they swear you killed the papal nuncio." He glanced through the lattice toward the gaming room, and then looked back toward the captain. "And whatever it is you've done, Diego, I hope to G.o.d you have not actually killed the nuncio." learns of it. As soon as he hears anything, he will tell you. He also offers you the Jesuit church, if you want safe haven. He says that the Dominicans cannot take you from there, not even if they swear you killed the papal nuncio." He glanced through the lattice toward the gaming room, and then looked back toward the captain. "And whatever it is you've done, Diego, I hope to G.o.d you have not actually killed the nuncio."

Alatriste asked for his sword and slid it into its scabbard. He cinched it on, and then stuck his flintlock pistol into his belt, after pulling back the hammer to be sure it was well oiled.

"I will tell you about it another time," he said.

He prepared to leave as he had come, without explanation and without thanks. In the world that he and the veteran sergeant of the horse guard shared, these terms of the arrangement were understood.

Vicuna laughed a loud, soldier's laugh. "By all that's holy, Diego. I am your friend, but I am not curious. Besides, I would hate to die of noose poisoning. So it would be best if you never tell me."

It was deepest night when, with his cape tight around him and hat pulled low, the captain emerged beneath the dark arcades of the Plaza Mayor and walked the short distant toward Calle Nueva. No one among the few stragglers out and about paid any attention to him, except for a lady of the night who when she met him between two arches offered, without much enthusiasm, to reduce his weight by twelve cuarto cuarto coins. He crossed through the Guadalajara gate, where a pair of guards were dozing before the closed window shutters of the silver shops, and then, to avoid the constables who tended to station themselves in that area, went down Calle de las Hileras to El Arenal. Finally, he again turned up the hill toward San Gines alley, where at that hour refugees from the law were wont to gather in the cool night air. coins. He crossed through the Guadalajara gate, where a pair of guards were dozing before the closed window shutters of the silver shops, and then, to avoid the constables who tended to station themselves in that area, went down Calle de las Hileras to El Arenal. Finally, he again turned up the hill toward San Gines alley, where at that hour refugees from the law were wont to gather in the cool night air.

As Your Mercies know, the churches of the period were havens of asylum, where no ordinary law could reach. So anyone who stole, wounded, or killed-all the things they called being "about their work"-could take sanctuary in a church or convent, where the priests, highly jealous of their privileges, would defend him tooth and nail from the royal authorities. So popular was it to plead innocent and seek protection that some of the princ.i.p.al churches were chock-a-block with clients enjoying the sanct.i.ty of their refuge. In those crowded communities, one tended to find the cream of society; there was not enough rope to do honor to their genteel gullets. Because of his profession, Diego Alatriste himself had once had to recur to that practice. Even don Francisco de Quevedo, in his youth, had found himself in similar, if not worse, straits when in Venice, he and the Duque de Osuna staged a coup and he had had to escape disguised as a beggar.

The fact is that places such as Los Naranjos courtyard of the Seville cathedral, for example, or a good dozen places in Madrid, among them San Gines, had gained the dubious privilege of taking in the flower of the city's braggarts, cutthroats, thieves, and carousers. And all this ill.u.s.trious brotherhood, which after all had to eat, drink, satisfy its needs, and conduct its personal business, took advantage of the night hours to take a walk, commit new villainy, settle accounts, or whatever opportunity presented itself. These felons also received their friends there, even their wh.o.r.es and cronies, so that by night the area around these churches-even church buildings themselves-became the criminals' tavern, even their brothel. There, real or invented feats were aired, death sentences were carried out by hired steel, and there, too, throbbed the colorful and ferocious pulse of the dangerous underbelly of Spain: the world of scoundrels, thieves, and other caballeros of the low life, men whose portraits never hung on the walls of palaces but whose existence was recorded in immortal pages. Some of which-and not the worst, certainly-were written by don Francisco.

Mercilessly, they tortured Grullo,who, with the truth at the end of a rope,said, "It wasn't me"-the defenseof rack and wedding day: No hope.

Or this very celebrated one: In the house of roguesat the foot of the gallows,for being the cutpurse I wasthey sent me into shadows.

San Gines alley was one of the favorite sites of these refugees, and at night when they came out to get a breath of air, the alley came to life and temporary stalls were set up to satisfy the fly-by-nights' hunger. It was a dignified a.s.sembly that evaporated as if by incantation as soon as a constable showed his face.

When Diego Alatriste arrived, there were some thirty souls in the narrow alleyway: bullies, petty thieves, a few wh.o.r.es settling accounts with their customers, and idlers and rabble standing around talking or drinking cheap wine from wineskins and demijohns. There was very little light-only a small lantern hanging beneath an arch at the corner of the alley. That area was almost entirely in shadow, and more than half the people present were swathed in their cloaks, so that the atmosphere, although lively with conversation, was tenebrous; entirely appropriate for the kind of appointment that brought the captain there. It was also a place where someone overly curious and inquisitive, or perhaps a constable-if he was not with a patrol and well armed-might in the blink of a "Jesus G.o.d!" find it permanently difficult to swallow.

The captain recognized don Francisco de Quevedo despite the collar drawn across his face, and casually made his way toward him. The two of them drifted off to one side, away from the lantern where the poet had been standing, cape collars up and hat brims down to the eyebrows, a look very much in style among the men in the alley.

"My friends have made inquiries," the poet reported after their first exchange of impressions. "It seems certain that don Vicente and his sons were being watched by the Inquisition. And it smells to me as if someone seized the occasion to kill several birds with one stone. Including you, Captain."

Then in a low voice, turning away from anyone pa.s.sing by, don Francis...o...b..ought Alatriste up-to-date on everything he had been able to find out. The Holy Office, persistent and patient, very well informed by its spies regarding the de la Cruz family's intentions, had let them proceed, hoping to catch them in flagrante. in flagrante. The Inquisition's intent had not been to defend Padre Coroado, just the opposite. Now that he was under the protection of the Conde de Olivares, with whom the Inquisition was waging an undeclared war, they hoped that the scandal would discredit both the convent and its protector. In the process, they would also seize a family of The Inquisition's intent had not been to defend Padre Coroado, just the opposite. Now that he was under the protection of the Conde de Olivares, with whom the Inquisition was waging an undeclared war, they hoped that the scandal would discredit both the convent and its protector. In the process, they would also seize a family of conversos conversos; a burning at the stake never harmed the prestige of the Supreme Council. The problem was that they had been unable to s.n.a.t.c.h anyone alive. Don Vicente de la Cruz and his younger son, don Luis, had paid a high price, dying in the ambush. The older son, don Jeronimo, although badly wounded, had escaped and was in hiding.

"And what about us?" asked Alatriste.

Light glanced off the poet's gla.s.ses as he shook his head. "No names have been revealed. It was so dark that no one recognized us. And anyone who was near enough to recognize us is in no condition to tell."

"Nevertheless, they know that we were involved."

"They may." Don Francisco made a vague gesture. "But they have no legal proof. As for me, I am beginning once again to bask in the favor of the king and the king's favorite, Olivares, and as long as I am not caught with my hands in the dough, it will be difficult to do anything to me." He paused, preoccupied. "As for you, my friend, I do not know what to say. They hope to find something that will indicate your guilt. Or they may be quietly looking for you."

Two ruffians and a prost.i.tute walked by, arguing heatedly, and don Francisco and the captain moved out of their way, closer to the wall.

"And what has happened to Elvira de la Cruz?"

The poet sighed despondently. "Arrested. The poor girl will bear the worst of it. She is in the secret dungeons in Toledo, and I fear that there will be a burning."

"And inigo?"

The pause stretched into silence. Alatriste's voice had sounded cool, and void of emotion. He had left me for last. Don Francisco glanced around at the people chatting and strolling in the shadows of the alleyway. He turned to his friend.

"He, too, is in Toledo." He fell silent, and shook his head with a gesture of impotence. "They caught him near the convent."

Alatriste said nothing for a long while, watching the movement around him. From the nearby corner came the notes of a guitar.

"He is only a boy," he said finally. "We must get him out of there."

"Impossible. You should put your energies toward not joining him there. I imagine that they are counting on his testimony to incriminate us."

"They would not dare mistreat him."

Behind the heavy collar, don Francisco laughed his sour, mirthless laugh. "The Inquisition, Captain, dares all things."

"Then we have to do something."

He said it very coldly, obstinately, his eyes focused on the end of the pa.s.sageway, where the guitar continued to play. Don Francisco looked in the same direction.

"I agree," the poet put in. "But know not what."

"You have friends at court."

"I have marshaled them all. I have not forgotten that it was I who got you into this."

The captain raised a listless hand, brushing away don Francisco's guilt. It was reasonable that as a friend he expected the poet to do anything in his power to help; it was another matter to blame him for anything. Alatriste had collected his purse for the job, and I was, after all, his his responsibility. He was silent for so long that the poet looked at him uneasily. responsibility. He was silent for so long that the poet looked at him uneasily.

"Do not think of turning yourself in," he murmured. "That would help no one, least of all yourself."

Still Alatriste did not speak. Three or four of the refugees from justice had begun chatting nearby, with a lot of "ol' frens," "ol' c.u.mr'd," "fine cab'lleros we"-things none of them had ever been in danger of being. They were tossing names around, fast and furious. h.e.l.lion, Devilsp.a.w.n, Maniferro-a man with a hand of iron and famous in the world of Cervantes's master criminal Monipodio. Then the captain did speak.

"Earlier," he said in a low voice, "you said that the Inquisition wanted to get several birds with one stone. What more do you know of that?"

Don Francisco answered in the same low tone. "You. You were the fourth winged target, but they were only partly successful. The whole scheme was cooked up, it seems, by two close acquaintances of yours: Luis de Alquezar and Fray Emilio Bocanegra."

"'Sblood!"

The poet paused, believing that the captain was going to add something to his oath, but he had nothing more to offer. He was still facing the alley, motionless behind the shelter of his cape and the hat that hid his features.

"Apparently," don Francisco continued, "they have not forgiven you that business of the Prince of Wales and Buckingham. And now they find a golden opportunity: Padre Coroado, the convent of the king's favorite, the family of conversos, conversos, and you yourself. What a pretty package that would make for an and you yourself. What a pretty package that would make for an auto-da-fe. auto-da-fe."

Don Francisco was interrupted by one of the ruffians, who b.u.mped into him as he leaned back to drink from a wineskin. He turned with a great clatter of the iron at his belt, and with a very churlish att.i.tude.

"G.o.d's bodkins! I fear you have discommoded me, companero companero!"

The poet looked at him with contempt, and stepped back. With heavy irony he recited under his breath, You, Bernardo among the Frenchand amid Spaniards, Roland. Marry!Your sword is as lethal as Galen,and your face an apothecary.

The swaggerer heard him, however, and made a great show of demanding redress.

"G.o.d's bones!" he said. "None of this Galen, or Roland, or Bernardo. I have a perfectly good name, which is Anton Novillo de la Gamella! And I am a person of worth, with the necessary tools to slice off the ears of anyone who would crowd me!"

As he spoke, he fumbled conspicuously with his weapon, though he decided not to draw it until he was sure of his cards. About that time his companions stepped up beside him, also itching for a fight, planting their feet wide apart with great sword clankings and mustache twistings. They were the sort who so prided themselves on being c.o.c.ks that to hear themselves crow they would confess to things they had never done. Among them they could have knifed a onearmed man in a breath, but that man was not don Francisco. Alatriste watched the poet pull his dagger from the back of his belt and gather his heavy cape to protect his torso. Alatriste was preparing to do the same-castanets were setting the rhythm for a lively dance-when one of the swaggerer's comrades, a mountain of a man wearing a huntsman's cap and a baldric a hand-width's wide across his chest to support an enormous sword, said: "Two hundred slices off these senores, comrades. Here, men do not live to a ripe old age, but are picked green."

He had more pips and pocks on his face than a music score, and he had the accent and look of the ruffians that hang around del Potro plaza in Cordoba-Valencian wh.o.r.e, Cordovan rogue, was the old saying-and he, too, was making a move toward lightening his scabbard, though he did not carry it through. He was waiting for yet one more colleague to join them, for even though they were four against two, he still did not seem to feel it was an even match. was the old saying-and he, too, was making a move toward lightening his scabbard, though he did not carry it through. He was waiting for yet one more colleague to join them, for even though they were four against two, he still did not seem to feel it was an even match.

Then, to everyone's surprise, Diego Alatriste burst out laughing.

"Here, now, Cagafuego," he said, with festive sarcasm. "Grant us some slack. Do not kill this caballero and me outright, only a little at a time. For old times' sake."

Stupefied, the hulking brute stood staring at Alatriste, abashed, trying in the black of night to recognize the speaker in the dark cloak. Finally, he scratched his brow beneath the cap he wore pulled down to eyebrows so thick they seemed one straight line.

"By our Blessed Virgin," he murmured finally. "If it's not Captain Alatriste."

"The same," he replied. "The last time we met it was in the shadow of a cell."

The reference to that "last time" was accurate. The captain had been sent to the city prison for debts, where as his first bit of business he had held a slaughterer's knife to the throat of this Cagafuego named Bartolo, who pa.s.sed as the toughest among the prisoners. That had confirmed Diego Alatriste's reputation as a man with something substantial between his legs, along with the respect of Cagafuego and the other prisoners. A respect he turned to loyalty when he shared with them the stews and bottles of wine Caridad la Lebrijana and his friends sent to comfort his stay in his inhospitable lodgings. Even after he was free, Alatriste had continued to offer a helping hand from time to time.

"You were clubbing sardines for a while, were you not, Senor Cagafuego? At least, if I remember correctly, that is where you were heading."

The att.i.tude of Cagafuego's companions had changed-including Anton Novillo de la Gamella's-and now they were listening with professional curiosity and a certain consideration, as if the deference their friend in crime showed this cloaked man was a better recommendation than a papal brief. As for Cagafuego, he seemed pleased that Alatriste was so well informed about his recent honors.

"Why, yes, Captain, that is indeed so," he replied, and his tone had warmed considerably from that of the two hundred slices promised shortly before. "And I would still be there in the king's galleys as strokesman, hands to oars, rowing to the music of the shackles and whips, were it not for my saint, Blasa Pizorra. She services a scribe, and between the two of them, they softened up the judge."

"And why are you here now? Or are you visiting?"

"Seeking refuge, by my faith, refuge," he lamented, not without resignation. "For three days ago, we-I and my comrades here-in good Catalan fashion separated the soul from a catchpole and fled here to the church until everything blows over. Or until my fine bawd can sc.r.a.pe together a few ducats. For as you know, YerM'cy, the only justice is the justice you buy."

"I am happy to see you."

In the darkness, Bartolo Cagafuego's lips turned upward in something resembling a huge, friendly smile.