Alatriste opened the black wood box with the ivory-inlaid lid. The ring was gold, and was engraved with the three plumes of the English heir. The letter was a small sheet folded four times, bearing the same seal as the ring, and written in English. When Alatriste looked up he saw that the favorite was watching him, and that between his ferocious beard and mustache gleamed a melancholy smile.
"What I would not give," said Olivares, "to have a letter like that."
EPILOGUE
The sky above the Alcazar threatened rain, and the heavy clouds blowing from the west seemed to rip apart on the pointed spire of the Torre Dorada. Sitting on a stone pillar on the royal esplanade, I covered my shoulders with the captain's old herreruelo, the short cape that served me for warmth, and continued to wait, never taking my eyes off the gates of the palace from which the sentinels had already chased me three times.
I had been there a very long while: ever since early morning, when I was roused from my uncomfortable dozing in front of the prison where we had spent the night— the captain inside and I out—and I had followed the carriage in which Constable Saldana had driven the captain to the Alcazar and taken him in through a side gate. I had not eaten a bite since the night before, when Don Francisco de Quevedo, before turning in—he had been recovering from a scratch suffered during the skirmish—came by the prison to inquire about the captain. When he found me huddled at the exit, he went to a nearby tavern and bought me a little bread and dried beef. The truth is, this seemed to be my destiny: a good part of my life with Captain Alatriste was spent waiting for him, expecting the worst. And always with my stomach empty and dread in my heart.
A cold drizzle began to moisten the large paving stones of the royal esplanade, little by little turning into a fine rain that drew a gray veil across the facades of nearby buildings and traced their reflections on the wet stones beneath my feet. I entertained myself by watching them take shape. That was what I was doing when I heard a little tune that sounded familiar to me, a kind of ti-ri-tu, ta-ta. Among the gray and ocher reflections stretched a dark, motionless stain. When I looked up, there before me, in cape and hat, was the unmistakable, somber figure of Gualterio Malatesta.
My first inclination when I saw my old acquaintance from the Gate of Lost Souls was to take to my feet, but I did not. Surprise left me so paralyzed and speechless that all I could do was sit there quietly, and not move, as the dark, gleaming eyes of the Italian nailed me to the spot. Afterward, when I could react, I had two specific and nearly opposite thoughts. One: Run. Two: Pull out the dagger I had hidden in the back of my waistband, covered by the cape, and try to bury it in our enemy's tripe. But something about him dissuaded me from doing either. Although he was as sinister and menacing as ever—lean, sunken-cheeked face marred by scars and pox marks—his attitude did not signal imminent danger. And in that instant, as if someone had swiped a line of white paint across his face, a smile appeared.
"Waiting for someone?"
I sat there on my stone pillar, staring at him. Drops of rain ran down my face, and rain collected on the broad brim of the Italian's felt hat and in the folds of his cape.
"I believe he will be coming out soon," he said in that muffled, hoarse voice, observing me all the while. I did not answer this time, either, and after a moment of silence, he looked over my shoulder and then all around, until his eyes settled on the facade of the palace.
"I was waiting for him, too," he added pensively, eyes now fixed on the palace gate. "For reasons different from yours, of course."
He seemed in a spell, almost amused by some aspect of the situation. "Different," he repeated.
A carriage passed. Its coachman was wrapped in a waxed cloth cape. I took a quick look to see whether I could make out the passenger. It was not the captain. At my side, the Italian was observing me again, that funereal smile still on his face.
"Have no fear. I have been told that he will come out on his own two feet. A free man."
"And how would you know that?"
My question coincided with a cautious movement of my hand toward the back of my waistband, a move that did not pass unnoticed by the Italian. His smile grew broader.
"Well," he said slowly. "I was waiting for him too. To give him a gift. But I have just been told that my gift is no longer necessary ... at least for the moment... . They are releasing him sine die?
The distrust on my face was so clear that the Italian burst out laughing, a laugh that sounded like wood splintering: crackling, coarse.
"I am going now, boy. I have things to do. But I want you to do me a favor. A message for Captain Alatriste. You will give it to him?"
I continued to watch him distrustfully, but did not say a word. Once more he looked over my shoulder, and then to either side, and I thought I heard him sigh very slowly, as if deep within. There, motionless, dressed all in black, beneath the rain that was steadily growing heavier, he too seemed tired. The thought flashed through my mind that perhaps evil men tire, just as loyal, feeling men do. After all, no one chooses his destiny.
"Tell your captain," said the Italian, "that Gualterio Malatesta has not forgotten that there is unfinished business between us. And that life is long—until it ends. Tell him, too, that we will meet again, and that on that occasion I hope to be more skillful than I have been till now, and kill him. With no heat or rancor, just calm, and with as much time as it takes. In addition to being a professional matter, this is personal. And as professional to professional, I am sure that he will understand perfectly. Will you give him the message?" Again that bright slash crossed his face, dangerous as a lightning bolt. "By my oath, you are a good lad."
He stood there, absorbed, staring at an indeterminate point in the shimmering gray reflections of the plaza. He made a move as if to leave, but stopped short.
"That other night," he added, still gazing toward the plaza, "at the Gate of Lost Souls, you did very well. Those point-blank pistol shots. Dio mio. I suppose that Alatriste must know that he owes you his life."
He shook the droplets of water from the folds of his cape and wrapped it tightly about him. His jet-black eyes finally stopped on me.
"I imagine that we will see each other again," he said, and began to walk away.
But after only a few steps, he turned back toward me. "Although, you know what I should do? I should finish you off now, while you are still a youngster. Before you become a man and kill me!"
Then he spun on his heel and walked away, once again the black shadow he had always been. And through the rain, I heard his laughter growing faint in the distance.
A SELECTION FROM
A POETRY BOUQUET
BY VARIOUS LIVELY
MINDS OF THIS CITY
Printed in the XVII century, lacking the printer's mark, and conserved in the Nuevo Extreme? Ducal Archive and Library, Seville
ATTRIBUTED TO DON FRANCISCO DE QUEVEDO
In Praise of Military Virtue in the Person of Don Diego Alatriste
Sonnet
You, Diego, whose sword so nobly defends
The name and honor of your family,
As long as you are blessed with life to live,
You will battle every enemy.
You wear the tunic of an old brigade,
And with God's help, you wear it without stain.
Your scruples are so uncompromising
That you will never let it be profaned.
Courageous on the bloody battlefield,
In days of peace, still more honor you acquire.
And in your heart and mind there breathes such fire
That to empty boasting you will never yield.