Purity of Blood

The captain looked at the broken demijohn, at the wine spreading like blood across the floor tiles. Then he bowed his head, carefully released the hammer of the pistol, and placed it in his belt. He did everything very slowly, as if he feared he might forget something, or as if he were thinking of something else. And then, without a word or a backward glance, he moved the woman gently aside and left the room stinking of loneliness and defeat. A room too like his own, like all the places he had known throughout a lifetime.

As soon as he was out on the gallery, he began to laugh, and he kept laughing as he went down the stairs to the street, fastening his cape. He laughed as Malatesta had laughed once near the royal castle, in the rain, when he came to tell me good-bye after the adventure of the two Englishmen.

His laugh, like the Italian’s, echoed long after he had gone.

EPILOGUE

It seems that war is flaring up again in Flanders, and that most of the officers and soldiers in Madrid have decided to leave and join their tercios, seeing what little action there is here and what opportunity there is there for booty and benefits. It has been four days since the Tercio Viejo de Cartagena left with its drums and banners. It was, as you, my reader, undoubtedly know, reformed after the loss of lives suffered two years ago that terrible day in Fleurus. Nearly the entire company are veteran soldiers, and great news is expected from the rebellious provinces.On a different subject, yesterday, Monday, the chaplain of Las Adoratrices Benitas, Padre Juan Coroado, was killed in a mysterious manner. This priest came from a well-known Portuguese family. He was young, handsome in his person and eloquent in the pulpit. It seems he was standing at the gate of his parish church when a young masked man approached and without speaking a word ran him through with one thrust. There are whispers of women, or vengeance. The killer has not been found.

—from José Pellicer’s weekly bulletin to friends

FROM LICENCIADO SALVADOR CORTES Y CAMPOAMOR

To Captain Alatriste

The bards, throughout the ages, have conveyedYour story, from Homer on, your praises they declare,And still today antagonists despairWhen they recall the fury of your blade.

Breda, Ostend, Maastricht, Antwerp as well,Were theaters for your exploits, each heroic deed,Where, sword flashing, you were always in the leadTo serve the King, and his enemy repel.

Lutherans, contentious French, insurgent Flemish,Dread Turks, Dutchmen, the ever-present English,All served to help you win your well-earned fame,Then let the heavens and the earth proclaimThe much-sung feats of a true warrior:Alatriste! The thunderbolt of war!

FROM THE CONDE DE GUADALMEDINA

To a Certain Priest Petitioner Much Admired at Court

Lascivious Padre, salacious, and promiscuous,Would it not serve you better to be religious?Should there not be one honest womanTo whom you have not promised heavenThrough the attention of your pillicock?Must you skewer every ewe among your flock?That sacred staff of yours, your treasure,You must find raw, abraded beyond measureFrom its constant state of excitationAnd unrelenting quest of penetration.Yea, for every virgin you confessThere is another cunny to be blessed.

FROM THE BENEFICIADO VILLASECA

In Faint Praise of the Head Constable, Martín Saldaña

Señor Saldaña, by my faith,You amble at an ox’s paceWhen you are summoned to untangleSome imminently mortal wrangle.Why then should I be amazed—Given you’re forever dazed—That meeting with your deputiesMay take a few eternities?Poor ox, his wife doth dally ’roundAnd Saldaña’s head with antlers crown.But in the end, if I’m not daft,And precedent reliable,An ox become a constableWill wear the horns and get the shaft.

ATTRIBUTED TO DON FRANCISCO DE QUEVEDO

He Ponders That in Youth’s Exuberance There Is Need for Providence

Happy, he scales the towering obelisk,This lad who puts his trust in youthful fire,Weighing challenge against his heart’s desire,And pitting courage against the gravest risk.

All too rashly, he lifts his wings in flight.And, a new Icarus, soars nearBut does not reach the blazing sphereThat radiates life’s daring from the height.

Patrician brio cannot be denied.Spurred by the ardent blood of youthThe noble spirit ever seeks the prize.

But in this fall to earth may lie a truth.The prudent voice will serve as surest guide:The hero is not the valiant, but the wise.

BY DON FRANCISCO DE QUEVEDO

Abiding Love, Beyond Death