Purity of Blood

They fought for an eternity. Both were exhausted, and the wound in the captain’s hip gave him pain, but he was in better shape than Malatesta. It was only a question of time, and the Italian, wild with hatred, resolved to take his enemy with him as he died. It never crossed his mind to ask for mercy, and no one was going to offer it. They were two professionals, aware of what they were doing, sparing with insults and useless words, fighting away for the best and worst they could give. Conscientiously.

Then the third man appeared—he too dressed like a swashbuckler, with a beard and baldric and an array of weapons—at the entrance to the alley. His eyes were like platters when he took in the panorama before him: one man stabbed to death, two still going at each other, and the strip of ground in the alley covered with blood tinting the puddles of urine red.

Stupefied for an instant, he muttered, “Blessed Christ and God Almighty,” and then reached for his dagger. He could not get past Malatesta, however, who was barely holding himself up with the help of the wall, or pass the obstacle of the other comrade to reach the captain. Alatriste, at the limit of his strength, seized the opportunity to rid himself of his prey, who was still slashing at empty space. His dagger cut across Malatesta’s cheek, and finally he had the satisfaction of hearing a curse in Italian. Then the captain threw his short cape over the third man’s vizcaína, and fled down the alley toward La Provincia plaza, his breath burning in his chest.

He was soon out the other end of the alley, straightening his clothing as he left. He had lost his hat in the struggle, and had another man’s blood on his clothing, while his own was dripping down inside his doublet and breeches. Just to be safe, he headed for the church of Santa Cruz, the nearest haven. He stood quietly at the gate, getting his breath back, ready to dash inside the church at the first hint of trouble. His hip was painful. He pulled his handkerchief from his purse and, after feeling for the wound with two fingers and deciding that it was not grave, stuffed the linen into it. But no one came out of the alley, and no one came looking for him. Everyone in Madrid was immersed in the spectacle of the auto-da-fé.

It was almost time for me, and for the poor souls behind me. The inquisitors were, at that moment, sentencing the barber accused of blasphemy to a hundred lashes and four years in the galleys. The poor man was wringing his hands, head bowed, weeping, pleading for mercy that no one was going to grant his wife and four children. In any case, he’d gotten better than the penitents wearing cone hats and riding mules who were on their way to the stakes at the Alcalá gate. Before nightfall they would be grilled to a crisp.

I was next, and I was so desperate and so shamed that I was afraid my legs would fail me. The plaza, the balconies filled with people, the tapestries, the constables and Holy Office familiares on either side of me made my head spin. I wanted to die there, right there, with no further formalities, and without hope. I knew already that I was not going to die, but that my punishment would be a long prison sentence, and perhaps rowing in the galleys after I had served the required years. All that seemed worse than death, to the degree that I had come to envy the arrogance with which the recalcitrant priest went to the stake without recanting or asking for clemency. At that moment it seemed easier to die than to go on living.

They were finished with the barber, and I saw one of the inquisitors in his starched white gorget consult his papers and then look at me. Signed and sealed. I took one last peek at the loge of honor, where our lord and king was leaning a little to one side to whisper something into the ear of the queen, who seemed to smile. They were undoubtedly talking about the hunt, or exchanging pleasantries, or who knows what the bloody hell they were saying, while down below them priests were heartily dispatching their subjects. Beneath the arches, the public was applauding the barber’s sentence and joking about his tears, licking their lips at the prospect of the next offender.

The inquisitor consulted his papers, looked my way once more, and then made a last review. The sun was beating down on the platform like lead, and my shoulders were burning beneath the heavy cloth of the sanbenito. Finally, the inquisitor gathered up his papers and began his slow march toward the lectern, fatuous and self-satisfied, enjoying the suspense he was creating.

I looked at Fray Emilio Bocanegra, motionless on the raised dais, sinister in his black-and-white habit, savoring his victory. I looked at Luis de Alquézar in his loge, cunning, cruel, the cross of Calatrava dishonored by its place on his chest. At least, I told myself—and it was, God knows, my only consolation—Captain Alatriste is not sitting here beside us.