I accompanied the captain on his recruiting campaign, and we visited the Patio during the day, when the light was still good and it was easy to recognize faces. On the steps up to the main entrance beat the pulse of that multifarious and sometimes cruel city of Seville. At that hour, the steps were seething with idlers, sellers of cheap trinkets, strollers, rogues, streetwalkers with their faces half veiled, girl pickpockets disguised as innocent maids accompanied by ancient chaperones and little pages, with light-fingered thieves, beggars, and blades for hire. In the midst of them all, a blind man was selling ballad sheets and singing about the death of Escamilla:Brave, bold Escamilla,
Glory and pride of all Sevilla . . .
Half a dozen ruffians were gathered beneath the arch of the main doorway and nodded approvingly as they listened to the turbulent story of that legendary swordsman and hired assassin, the very cream of the local villainry. We passed them as we went into the courtyard, and I couldn’t help noticing that the whole group turned to watch Captain Alatriste. Inside, thirty or so fellows, identical in appearance to those at the entrance, were lounging in the shade of the orange trees next to the pleasant fountain. In this market of death, contracts to kill were regularly drawn up and agreed upon. This was the refuge of those who had sliced open someone’s face or relieved many a soul of its corruptible matter. They had more steel about their persons than a Toledo swordsmith, and they all sported Córdoba leather jerkins, turned-down boots, broad-brimmed hats, large mustaches, and a swaggering, bowlegged gait. Otherwise, the Patio resembled a Gypsy encampment, with pots being heated over fires, blankets spread on the ground, bundles of clothing, a few mats on which men were dozing, and a couple of gaming tables, one for cards and the other for dice, where a jug of wine was doing the rounds amongst gamblers intent on wagering their very souls, even though the latter had been in hock to the Devil ever since their owners were weaned. A few ruffians were in close conversation with their women, some of whom were young and others less so, but who all conformed to the same whorish pattern, hard-faced and hardworking, accounting to their pimps for the money they had earned on the street corners of Seville.
Alatriste stopped by the fountain and looked quickly around. I was right behind him, fascinated by everything I saw. One bold doxy, her cloak folded and draped across her chest as if she were ready for a knife fight, casually and brazenly accosted him, and when they heard her do this, two cutthroats playing dice at one of the tables got up very slowly, giving us a mean, appraising look. They were dressed in typical ruffian style: open-necked shirts with wide Walloon collars, colored hose, and baldrics about a span wide, and equipped with all kinds of swords and daggers. The younger of the two men was carrying on his belt a pistol instead of a dagger and a light cork shield.
“What can we do for you, sir?” asked one.
The captain turned to them calmly, his thumbs in his belt, his hat down over his eyes.
“Nothing, gentlemen,” he said. “I’m looking for a friend.”
“Perhaps we know him,” said the other man.
“Perhaps,” replied the captain, again looking around him.
The two fellows exchanged a glance. A third man who had been watching came over, curious to know what was going on. I shot a sideways look at the captain and saw that he was entirely unruffled. After all, this was his world too, and he knew it like the back of his hand.
“You probably want—” began one.
Alatriste ignored him and walked on. I went behind, keeping my eye on the two cutthroats, who were discussing in low voices whether the captain’s behavior constituted an affront and, if so, whether or not they should knife him in the back. They were clearly unable to reach an agreement, for nothing happened. The captain was now studying a group sitting in the shade by the wall, three men and two women apparently engaged in animated conversation as they swigged from a capacious leather wineskin. Then I saw that he was smiling.
He went over to the group, and I followed. When they saw us approaching, the conversation gradually petered out, and the various members of the group eyed us warily. One of the men had very dark skin and hair and huge side-whiskers that reached right down to his jaw. He had a couple of marks on his face, which had clearly not been there since birth, and large, blunt-nailed hands. He was dressed almost entirely in leather and had a short, broad Toledo sword—the blade of which bore its maker’s unusual mark: the engraving of a puppy—and his coarse canvas breeches were adorned with strange green and yellow bows. He sat staring at my master as the latter came toward him, and his words died on his lips.
“Well, I’ll be hanged,” he said at last, openmouthed, “if it isn’t Captain Alatriste.”
“The only thing that surprises me, Señor don Juan Jaqueta, is that they haven’t hanged you already.”
The man uttered a couple of oaths and a loud guffaw and then stood up, brushing off his breeches.
“So where have you sprung from?” he asked, shaking the captain’s proffered hand.
“Here and there.”
“Are you in hiding too?”
“No, just visiting.”
“By my faith, I’m pleased to see you!”
Jaqueta cheerily demanded the wineskin from his companions, and this was duly passed around, and even I drank my share. After exchanging memories of mutual friends and of the odd shared experience—which is how I learned that Jaqueta had also been in Naples as a soldier, and one of the best too, and that, years before, Alatriste had himself taken refuge in that very place—Jaqueta, my master, and I moved away from the group. The captain came straight to the point and told Jaqueta that he had some work for him, his kind of work, and with a promise of gold paid in advance.
“Here?”
“In Sanlúcar.”
Jaqueta made a despairing gesture.
“If it was something easy and at night,” he explained, “that would be fine. But I can’t stray very far at the moment. A week ago, I knifed a merchant, the brother-in-law of a Cathedral canon, and the law are after me.”
“That can be sorted out.”
Jaqueta gave my master a keen look.
“Blind me, have you got a letter from the archbishop or something?”
“Better than that,” said the captain, patting his doublet. “I have a document authorizing me to recruit whatever friends I can and to place them beyond the reach of the law.”
“Are you serious?”
“I certainly am.”
“Things are obviously going well for you.” Jaqueta spoke more respectfully now. “I imagine the job will involve some, shall we say, hand work.”
“You imagine correctly.”
“Just you and me?”
“Plus a few others.”
Jaqueta was scratching his side-whiskers. He glanced over at his companions and lowered his voice.
“And there’s pelf aplenty to be had, is there?”
“There is.”
“And part payment in advance?”
“Three double-headed doubloons.”