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I. The Tavern of the Turk
He was not the most honest or pious of men, but he was
courageous. His name was Diego Alatriste y Tenorio, and he had fought
in the ranks during the Flemish wars. When I met him he was barely
making ends meet in Madrid, hiring himself out for four maravedís
in employ of little glory, often as a swordsman for those who had
neither the skill nor the daring to settle their own quarrels. You know
the sort I mean: a cuckolded husband here, outstanding gambling debts
there, a petty lawsuit or questionable inheritance, and more troubles
of that kind. It is easy to criticize now, but in those days the
capital of all the Spains was a place where a man had to fight for his
life on a street corner lighted by the gleam of two blades.
In all this Diego Alatriste played his part with
panache. He showed great skill when swords were drawn, even more when
with left-handed cunning he wielded the long, narrow dagger some call
the vizcaína, a weapon from Biscay that professionals often used
to help their cause along. If a knife will not do it, the vizcaína
will, was the old saying. The adversary would be concentrating on
attacking and parrying, and suddenly, quick as lightning, with one
upward slash, his gut would be slit, so fast he would not have time to
ask for confession. Oh yes, Your Mercies, those were indeed harsh
times.
Captain Alatriste, as I was saying, lived by his sword.
Until I came into the picture, that "Captain" was more an honorary
title than a true rank. His nickname originated one night when, serving
as a soldier in the king's wars, he had to cross an icy river with
twenty-nine companions and a true captain. Imagine, Viva España
and all that, with his sword clenched between his teeth, and in his
shirtsleeves to blend into the snow, all to surprise a Hollandish
contingent. They were the enemy at the time because they were fighting
for independence. In fact, they did win it in the end, but meanwhile we
gave them a merry chase.
Getting back to the captain—the plan was to stay there
on the riverbank, or dike, or whatever the devil it was, until dawn,
when the troops of our lord and king would launch an attack and join
them. To make a long story short, the heretics were duly dispatched
without time for a last word. They were sleeping like marmots when our
men emerged from the icy water, nearly frozen, shaking off the cold by
speeding heretics to Hell, or wherever it is those accursed Lutherans
go. What went wrong is that the dawn came, and the morning passed, and
the expected Spanish attack did not materialize. A matter, they told
later, of old jealousies among the generals and officers in the field.
Fact is, thirty-one men were abandoned to their fate, amid curses and
vows, surrounded by Low Dutch disposed to avenge the slashed throats of
their comrades. With less chance than the Invincible Armada of the good
King Philip the Second.
It was a long and very hard day. And in order that Your
Mercies may picture what happened, only two of the Spanish made it back
to the other bank of the river by the time night fell. Diego Alatriste
was one of them, and as all day long he had commanded the troops—the
authentic captain having been rendered hors de combat in the first
skirmish with two handspans of steel protruding from his back—the title
fell to him, though he had no opportunity to enjoy the honor.
Captain-for-a-day of troops fated to die, and paying their way to Hell
at the cost of their hides, one after another, with the river to their
backs and blaspheming in good Castilian Spanish. But that is the way of
war and the maelstrom. That is the way it goes with Spain.
From Captain Alatriste by Arturo Perez-Reverte. Copyright 1996 by Arturo Perez-Reverte. All rights reserved. Excerpt reproduced with the permission of the Putnam Publishing.
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