The King's Gold

by Arturo Pérez-Reverte

  “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 brow
s 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.

  Triana slumbered in the darkness, and anyone still up and about prudently stepped out of our path. The waning crescent of the moon was bright enough to provide us with a little light, enough for us to see a boat, sail furled, silhouetted against the shore. There was one lantern lit at the prow and another on land, and two motionless shapes, master and sailor, were waiting on board. Alatriste stopped at that point, with Olmedilla and me by his side, while the shadows following us gathered around. The captain sent me to fetch one of the lanterns, which I did, placing it at his feet. The tenuous light of the candle lent a gloomier aspect to the gathering. Faces were barely visible, only the tips of mustaches and beards, the dark shapes of cloaks and hats, and the dull metallic gleam of the weapons they all carried at their waists. There was a general murmuring and whispering amongst the comrades as they recognized one another, but the captain abruptly silenced them all.

  “We will be going downriver to perform a task which I will explain to you once we reach our destination. You have all been paid something in advance, so there is no going back. And I need hardly say that we are all of us dumb.”

  “You need hardly tell us that,” said someone. “More than one of our number has been on the rack and never uttered a word.”

  “Yes, but it’s always good to make these things clear. Any questions?”

  “When do we get the rest of the money?” asked one anonymous voice.

  “When we’ve completed our mission, but, in principle, the day after tomorrow.”

  “Will we be paid in gold again?”

  “You certainly will, in double-headed doubloons, just like those you’ve each received as an advance.”

  “Will there be much killing involved?”

  I glanced at the accountant Olmedilla, a dark figure in his black cloak, and I noticed that he was scraping at the ground with the tip of his shoe, as if embarrassed, or else far away, thinking of something else. He was, after all, a man of paper and ink and unaccustomed to certain harsh facts of life.

  “I would hardly bother recruiting men of your caliber,” replied Alatriste, “merely to dance the chaconne.”

  There was some laughter and a few appreciative oaths. When this had died away, the captain pointed to the boat.

  “Get on board and make yourselves as comfortable as you can. And from now on, consider yourselves part of a militia.”

  “What does that mean?”

  In the dim lantern light, everyone could see how the captain rested his left hand, as if casually, on the hilt of his sword. His eyes pierced the darkness.

  “It means,” he said slowly, “that if anyone disobeys an order or even so much as pulls a face, I’ll kill him.”

  Olmedilla looked hard at the captain. We could hear the whine of a mosquito. Each man was thinking about what the captain had said and resolving not to arouse his leader’s displeasure. Then, in the silence, not far off, near the boats moored by the bank of the river, came the sound of oars. Everyone turned to look: a small boat had emerged from the shadows. Against the gleam of lights on the farther shore, we could make out half a dozen oarsmen and three black shapes standing in the prow. In less time than it takes to describe, Sebastián Copons, ever ready, had leapt into action; as if by magic, two enormous pistols appeared in his hand, and he had them trained on the people in the boat; Captain Alatriste, meanwhile, had whipped out his sword and was already brandishing its bare steel blade.

  “All’s fish that comes to the net,” said a familiar voice in the darkness.

  As if this were a password, both the captain and I relaxed, for I, too, had been about to reach for my dagger.

  “They’re friends,” said Alatriste.

  This calmed the men, and my master sheathed his sword and Copons put away his pistols. The boat had come to shore just beyond the prow of our vessel, and in the faint light of the lantern we could now make out the three men standing up. Alatriste walked past Copons and went over to them. I followed.

  “We’ve come to say goodbye to a friend,” said the same voice.

  I, too, had recognized the Conde de Guadalmedina’s voice. Like his companions, he kept his face almost concealed with cloak and hat. Behind them, amongst the oarsmen, I caught the glow of the slow-burning matches on two harquebuses. The count’s companions were clearly men of a cautious nature.

  “We don’t have much time,” said the captain bluntly.

  “We wouldn’t want to get in your way,” replied Guadalmedina, who was still with his companions in the boat. “You carry on.”

  Alatriste looked at the other two men. One was heavily built, a cloak wrapped about his powerful chest and shoulders. The other man was slimmer, wearing a featherless hat and a brownish-gray cloak that covered him from eyes to feet. The captain lingered for a moment longer, studying them. He himself was lit by the lantern on the prow of the boat, with his hawklike profile and mustache red in the light, his eyes vigilant beneath the dark brim of his hat, and his hand touching the bright hilt of his sword. In the gloom, he cut a somber, menacing figure, and I imagine that he must have made the same impression on the men in the boat. Finally, he turned to Copons, who had hung back a little, and to the other members of the group, who were waiting farther off, concealed by the darkness.

  “Get on board,” he said.

  One by one, with Copons at their head, the ruffians filed past Alatriste, and the lantern on the prow lit each one as they boarded the boat with a great scrape and clang of ironware. Most of them covered their faces as they passed the light, but others, indifferent or defiant, left them unc
overed. Some even stopped to cast a curious glance at the three cloaked figures, who watched this strange procession without uttering a word. The accountant Olmedilla paused for a moment at the captain’s side, anxiously observing the men in the boat, as if uncertain whether or not he should speak to them. He finally decided against doing so, put one leg over the gunwale of our boat, and, encumbered by his cape, would have fallen into the water had not a pair of strong hands hauled him on board. The last to get on was Bartolo Cagafuego, who was carrying the other lantern, which he handed to me before clambering on board, making so much clatter that one would have thought he had half of all the steel produced in Vizcaya either buckled to his belt or in his pockets. My master had still not moved, watching the men in the other boat.

  “There you have it,” he said in the same brusque tone.

  “Not a bad troop of men,” commented the taller and stronger of the three.

  Alatriste looked at him, trying to penetrate the gloom. He had heard that voice before. The third man, slimmer and slighter, who was standing between the other man and Guadalmedina, and who had watched the embarkation in silence, was now scrutinizing the captain’s face.

  “Well,” he said at last, “they certainly frighten me.”

  He spoke in a neutral, well-educated voice, a voice accustomed to being obeyed. When he heard it, Alatriste stood as still as a statue. For a few seconds, I could hear his breathing, calm and very slow. Then he put his hand on my shoulder. “Get on board,” he ordered.

  I obeyed, carrying with me our luggage and the lantern. I jumped over the gunwale and took a seat in the prow, among the other men, who were wrapped in their cloaks and who smelled of sweat, iron, and leather. Copons made room for me, and I used the bundle as a seat. From there I could see that Alatriste, on the shore, was still looking at the men in the smaller boat. He raised one hand as if to doff his hat, although without completing the gesture—merely touching the brim—then threw his cloak over his shoulder and climbed into the boat.