The Sun Over Breda

by Arturo Pérez-Reverte

  I was telling you that we had reached the square of the city hall, and we stayed there awhile, fascinated by the fire and the dead Englishmen, many of whom were blond or red-haired and freckled, piled up naked by the doors. From time to time we came across Spaniards laden with booty or groups of terrified Hollanders watching from the columns of the square, huddled together like sheep under the watchful eyes of our comrades, who were armed to the teeth. We went over to take a look. There were women, old men, and children but few adult males. I recall a youth about our age who looked at us with an expression somewhere between sullen and curious, and blond, pale-skinned women who stood wide-eyed beneath their white headdresses, their blue, fearful eyes observing our dark-haired soldiers. Our men were not as tall as the Flemish men, but they had full mustaches, heavy beards, and strong legs. Each had a musket over his shoulder and a sword in his hand, and each was clad in leather and metal stained with grime, blood, gunpowder, and mud from the dike. I will never forget the way those people looked at us Spaniards, there in Oudkerk as in so many other places: the blend of hatred and fear when they saw us enter their cities and march past their houses, covered with the dust of the road, bristling with iron, and ragged as urchins, boisterous at times but more dangerous when not. Proud, even in misery, as Bartolomé Torres Naharro wrote in his Soldadesca.

  In war, come what may,

  there is this much I can say,

  if a man has two hands

  gold will surely roll his way.

  We were the loyal infantry of the Catholic king: volunteers, all of us, in search of fortune or glory; men of honor but often also the dregs of the Spanish empire; rabble given to mutiny, who demonstrated flawless iron discipline but only when facing enemy fire. Dauntless and terrible even in defeat, the Spanish tercios, a training school for the best soldiers Europe had produced in two centuries, comprised the most efficient military machine anyone had ever commanded on a field of battle. Although at that time, with the age of the great assaults over and with artillery taking the fore, the war in Flanders had become one long succession of sieges, of mines and trenches, and our infantry was no longer the splendid military force our great Philip II had put his faith in when he wrote his famous letter to his ambassador to the pope:

  I do not plan, nor do I wish, to be the lord of heretics. Yet if the situation cannot be remedied as I would have it, without resorting to weapons, then I am determined to take them up, and neither the danger in which I place myself nor the ruin of those lands, nor of the rest of those still mine, can prevent me from doing what a Christian, God-fearing prince must do in His service.

  And that, pardiez, is how it was. After long decades of crossing swords with half the world without achieving much more than icy feet and hot heads, very soon there would be nothing left for Spain than to watch her tercios die on fields of battle like the one at Rocroi, faithful to their reputation—lacking anything else—taciturn and impassive when their lines formed into those “human towers and walls” the Frenchman Bossuet wrote of with such admiration. But yes, there is this: We fucked them good and hard. Even though our men and their generals were no equal to those in the days of the Duque de Alba and Alejandro Farnesio, Spanish soldiers continued to be Europe’s nightmare for some time: they who had captured a French king in Pavia, triumphed in San Quintín, sacked Rome and Antwerp, taken Amiens and Ostend, killed ten thousand enemies in the attack on Jemmigen, eight thousand in Maastricht, and nine thousand in Sluys, wielding steel in water up to their waists. We were the very wrath of God, and it took only one glance at us to understand why: We were a rough and rowdy horde from the dry lands of the south, fighting in hostile foreign lands where there was no possible retreat and defeat meant annihilation. Driven men, some by the poverty and hunger they meant to leave behind and others by ambition for land, fortune, and glory, to whom the song of the gentle youth in Don Quijote might apply:

  It is necessity that

  carries me to war;

  for had I money,

  I would ne’er have come this far.

  And those other old and eloquent lines:

  I do battle out of need,

  and once seated in the saddle,

  Castile grows ever vaster

  beneath the hoofbeats of my steed.

  So. The fact is that we were still there and would continue thus for several years more, enlarging Castile with the blades of our swords or as God and the devil had taught us in Oudkerk. The banner of our company was flying from the balcony of a house in the square, and my comrade, Jaime Correas, who was a mochilero in the squad of Second Lieutenant Coto, went there to look for his people. I went on a bit farther, past the front of the city hall to escape the terrible heat of the fire, and as I rounded the building I saw two individuals piling up the books and documents they were carrying out of the door as fast as they could. What they were doing did not appear to be pillaging—it would be rare in the midst of widespread sacking for anyone to bother about books—but instead they seemed to be rescuing what they could from the fire. I went to take a closer look. Your Mercies may recall that I had some experience of the written word from my days in la Villa y Corte de las Españas, that is, Madrid, owing to my friendship with don Francisco de Quevedo, who had given me Plutarch to read; Dómine Pérez’s lessons in Latin and grammar; my taste for Lope’s theater; and my master Captain Alatriste’s habit of reading wherever there was a book to be read.

  One of the men carrying books out and piling them in the street was an elderly Dutchman with long white hair. He was wearing black, as pastors there did, with a dirty collar and gray hose. He did not, however, appear to be a religious man, if one may call those who preach the doctrines of that heretic Calvin religious—may lightning strike the whoreson in hell or wherever he may be stewing. In the end, I took him to be a secretary or city official trying to rescue books from the conflagration. I would have passed right by had I not noticed that the other individual, staggering through the smoke with his arms filled with books, wore the red band of the Spanish soldiers. He was a young man, bareheaded, and his face was covered with sweat and soot, as if he had already made many trips into the depths of the blazing inferno the building had become. A sword swung from his baldric, and he was wearing high boots blackened from charred wood and debris. He seemed to give little importance to the smoking sleeve of his doublet, not even when, finally noticing it as he set his load of books on the ground, he put it out with a couple of distracted swipes. At that moment he looked up and saw me. He had a thin, angular face and a trim chestnut-brown mustache that flowed into a short pear-shaped beard beneath his lower lip. I judged him to be between twenty and twenty-five years old.

  “You could give me a hand,” he grunted, when he noticed the faded aspa, the red Saint Andrew’s cross, I wore sewn to my doublet, “instead of standing there gawking.”

  He glanced toward the columns of the square, where a few women and children were taking in the scene, and wiped the sweat from his face with the singed sleeve.

  “God help me,” he said, “but I am burning with thirst.”

  He turned and, accompanied by the fellow in black, ran back to search for more books. After considering the situation for an instant, I raced to the nearest house, where a frightened Dutch family was watching with curiosity in front of a door that had been battered off its hinges.

  “Drinken,” I said, holding out my two pewter jugs. I pantomimed drinking and then clapped one hand to the hilt of my dagger. The Dutch understood both word and gesture, for they filled the jugs with water, and I returned to where the two men were stacking books from another foray. When they saw the jugs, they dispatched the contents without taking a breath. Before plunging once more into the smoke, the Spaniard turned to me.

  “Thank you,” he said very simply.

  I followed him. I set my knapsacks on the ground and took off my velvet doublet, not because as he thanked me he had smiled nor because I was touched by his singed sleeve and his smoke-reddened eyes, but
because suddenly that anonymous soldier had made me realize that at times there are more important things than collecting booty, even if the latter can sometimes be worth a hundred times one’s yearly pay. So I took as deep a breath as I could, and, covering my mouth and nose with a handkerchief I extracted from my pouch, I ducked my head to avoid the sputtering beams that were threatening to collapse and ran blindly into the smoke. I pulled books from the flaming shelves until the heat became asphyxiating and the embers floating in the air burned my throat with every breath. Most of the books were ashes by now, dust that was not “enamored,” as it was in that beautiful and distant sonnet by don Francisco de Quevedo, but only a sad residue, all the hours of study, all the love, all the intelligence, all the lives that could have illuminated other lives now vanished.

  We made our last trip before the ceiling of the library collapsed in an explosion of flames that roared at our backs. Outside, we stood gasping for air, stupefied, clammy with sweat, our eyes tearing from the smoke. At our feet were around two hundred books and old documents. A tenth, I calculated, of what had burned inside the library. On his knees beside the pile, drained by his efforts, the Dutchman in black coughed and wept. When he had caught his breath, the soldier smiled at me as he had when I brought the water.

  “What is your name, lad?”

  I stood a little straighter, swallowing my last cough.

  “Íñigo Balboa,” I said. “From the bandera of Captain don Carmelo Bragado.”

  That was not strictly accurate. It was true that the bandera was indeed the one Diego Alatriste fought with and therefore mine, but in the tercios a mochilero was considered little more than a servant or bearer, not a soldier. But that did not seem to matter to the stranger.

  “Thank you, Íñigo Balboa,” he said.

  His smile widened, lighting up a face gleaming with sweat and black with smoke.

  “Someday,” he added, “you will remember what you did today.”

  A curious thing, by my faith. He had no way to divine it, but, as Your Mercies witness, it was true what that soldier said. I do remember very well. He put one hand on my shoulder and grasped one of my hands with the other. His was a strong, warm clasp. And then, without exchanging a word with the Dutchman stacking books in piles as if they were a precious treasure (and now I know that they were), he turned and walked away.

  Several years would go by before I again encountered the anonymous soldier I had helped one foggy autumn day during the sacking of Oudkerk. In all that time I had never learned his name. It was only later, when I was a grown man, that I had the good fortune to meet him again, in Madrid and in circumstances that have nothing to do with the thread of the present tale. By then he was no longer an obscure soldier, and, despite the years that had passed since that morning long ago, he still remembered my name. And I at last would know his: He was Pedro Calderón, the famous playwright Pedro Calderón de la Barca, known throughout Spain.

  But let us return to Oudkerk. After the soldier and I left the square, I went in search of Captain Alatriste, whom I found in good health, along with the rest of his squad. They were gathered around a small bonfire in the rear garden of a house that backed onto the dock of the canal, near the city wall. The captain and his comrades had been ordered to attack that section of the town, burn the ships at the docks, and secure the rear gate, thereby cutting off the retreat of enemy troops. When I caught up with the captain, the charred remains of burned ships were smoldering along the shore, and traces of the recent battle were visible on the dock, in the gardens, and in the houses.

  “Íñigo,” said the captain.

  His smile was weary and a little distant, and he had that look that remains imprinted on soldiers following a difficult battle, a look that the veterans of the tercios called “the last stand,” a look that during the time I had spent in Flanders I had learned to distinguish from other looks, such as that of weariness, resignation, fear, and absolute resolve. This was the look that stays in the eyes after other emotions have passed through them, the precise expression Captain Alatriste’s face wore at that moment. He was sitting on a bench, his elbow on the table by his side, his left leg extended as if it pained him. His knee-high boots were covered with mud, and he was wearing a dirty brown-sleeved doublet; it was unbuttoned, allowing me a glimpse of his usual buffcoat beneath it. His hat lay on the table beside a pistol—I could see it had been fired—and his belt with his sword and dagger.

  “Come over to the fire.”

  Gratefully, I obeyed as I took in the corpses of three Dutchmen lying close by: one on the planking of the nearby dock, another beneath the table. The third Dutchman was sprawled face down at the threshold of the back door of the house and held a halberd that had not served to save his life—or anything else for that matter. I observed that his pockets had been turned inside out, his corselet and shoes had been removed, and two fingers of one hand were missing, doubtless because whoever had taken his rings had been in a hurry. A brownish-red trail of blood led across the garden to the spot where the captain was sitting.

  “That one won’t feel the cold any longer,” said one of the soldiers.

  From the strong accent I did not need to turn to turn around to know that the person who had spoken was Mendieta, a Basque like myself, a thick-browed, burly man from Biscay whose mustache was almost as impressive as my master’s. The little troupe was completed by Curro Garrote, a Malagüeño from Los Percheles, so tanned he looked like a Moor; the Mallorcan José Llop; and Sebastián Copons, an old comrade of Captain Alatriste from earlier campaigns. Copons was a dried-up little man from Aragon, as tough as the mother who gave him birth, and his face might had been carved from the stone of Mallos de Riglos. Sitting nearby were three others from the squad: the Olivares brothers and the Galician, Rivas.

  All of them knew of my difficult assignment at the drawbridge and were happy to see me alive and well, though they did not make any great show of it. For one thing, it was not the first time I had smelled powder in Flanders, and, besides, they had their own affairs to think about. Beyond that, they were not the kind of soldier who makes a fuss over something that was, in truth, considered the duty of anyone in the pay of our king. Although in our case—or, rather in theirs, for we mochileros did not have the right to claim benefits or wages—the tercio had gone a long time without seeing the color of a piece of eight.

  Nor did Diego Alatriste outdo himself in his welcome. I have already said that he limited his greeting to a slight smile, twisting his mustache as if he were thinking about something else. But when he saw that I was hanging around like a good dog hoping to be petted by its master, he complimented my red velvet doublet and in the end offered me a hunk of bread and some sausages his companions were roasting over the fire. Their clothing was still wet after the night spent in the waters of the canal, and their faces, dirty and greasy from their vigil and the subsequent battle, reflected their exhaustion. They were nonetheless in good humor. They were alive, everything had gone well, the town was again Catholic and subject to our lord and king, and the booty—several sacks and knotted cloths piled in a corner—was reasonable.

  “After a three months’ fast from pay,” commented Curro Garrote, cleaning the bloody rings of the dead Dutchman, “this is a reprieve.”

  From the other side of the town came the sound of bugles and drums. The fog was beginning to lift, and that allowed us to see a thin line of soldiers moving along the Ooster dike. The long pikes advancing through the last remnants of gray fog resembled a field of swaying reeds, and a short-lived ray of sun, sent ahead as if it were a scout, glinted off the metal of their lances, morions, and corselets and reproduced them in the quiet waters of the canal. At their head came horses and banners bearing the good and ancient cross of Saint Andrew, or of Burgundy: the red aspa insignia of the Spanish tercios.

  “Here comes Jiñalasoga,” said Garrote. Jiñalasoga was the nickname the veterans had given don Pedro de la Daga, colonel of the Viejo Tercio de Cartagena. In the sol
dier’s tongue of the time, jiñar meant—begging your pardon, Your Mercies—“to empty your bowels,” that is, “to shit.” This may sound a little common, here in this tale, but, pardiez, we were soldiers, not San Plácido nuns. As for the soga part, no one who knew our colonel’s taste for hanging his men for disciplinary offenses could harbor any doubt regarding the appropriateness of “rope” in his sobriquet. The fact is that Jiñalasoga, more formally, Colonel don Pedro de la Daga—either will do—was commanding the relief forces of Captain don Hernán Torralba and was coming along the dike to take official possession of Oudkerk.

  “He gets here midmorning,” grumbled Mendieta, “after all the slashing’s been done.”

  Diego Alatriste slowly got to his feet; I saw that he did so with difficulty and that the leg he had stretched before him was giving him constant pain. I knew that this was not a new wound but, rather, a year-old injury to his hip he’d received in the alleyways near the Plaza Mayor in Madrid at the time of his next-to-last encounter with his old enemy, Gualterio Malatesta. Dampness precipitated a rheumatic pain, and the night spent in the waters of the Ooster was no prescription for a cure.