Purity of Blood

As soon as don Francisco arrived there, he used his ingenuity, his famous name, and the money provided by the Conde de Guadalmedina to sniff through the local archives. And there, to his surprise, relief, and joy, he found confirmation of what the Conde de Olivares already knew through his private spies: Luis de Alquézar himself did not have pure blood.

In Alquézar’s genealogy—as in that of half of Spain—there was a Jewish branch, this one documented as having converted in 1534. Those ancestors of Hebrew origin disqualified the royal secretary’s claim of nobility. But in a time in which even purity of blood was bought at so much per grandfather, that history had been very conveniently forgotten when necessary proof and documents were created so that Luis de Alquézar could assume a high post at court. And as, in addition, he commanded the distinction of being a caballero of the order of Calatrava, which group did not admit any man who could not prove he was an old Christian and whose forebears had not defiled themselves in the practice of manual labors, the falsified documentation and the conspiracy to provide them were flagrantly illegal. Publication of that information—a simple sonnet by Quevedo would have sufficed—backed by the green book the poet had obtained in Alquézar’s parish in exchange for a weighty roll of silver escudos, would have destroyed the royal secretary’s reputation, resulting in the loss of his Calatrava habit, his post at court, and the greater part of his privileges as a caballero and man of substance.

Of course, the Inquisition and Fray Emilio Bocanegra, like Olivares himself, were already aware of all this, but in a venal world built upon hypocrisy and spurious manners, the powerful, the carrion-feeding buzzards, the envious, the cowards, and all swine in general, tended to look out for one another. God our Father created them, and in our unhappy Spain they had clung together forever, with great rewards.

“What a pity that you did not see his face, Captain, when I showed him the green book.” The poet’s quiet voice shouted his fatigue. He was still wearing the dust-covered clothing and bloodstained spurs of his journey. “Luis de Alquézar turned whiter than the papers I put in his hands, then he turned as red as fire, and I feared he was going to collapse of apoplexy. But I had to get Íñigo out of there, so I pressed even closer and said, ‘Señor Secretario, there is no time for discussion. If you do not intervene on the lad’s behalf, you are lost.’ And he did not even try to argue. That great scoundrel recognized that one day every man among us must settle accounts with the All-Powerful.”

It was true. Before the scribe could speak my name, Alquézar shot out of his loge like a musket ball, with a dispatch that said a great deal for his qualifications for the post of royal secretary—and any other matter that concerned him. He stopped before a stupefied Fray Emilio Bocanegra, with whom he exchanged a few words in a very low voice. The Dominican’s face had shown, in quick succession, surprise, anger, and dismay. His vengeful eyes would have struck don Francisco de Quevedo dead on the spot, had the poet—exhausted from the journey, on pinpoints because of the danger still threatening me, and determined to carry through to the end even if that meant there on the spot—given a fig for all the murderous looks in the world. Wiping sweat from his brow with his handkerchief, again as pale as if the barber had bled him too liberally, Alquézar slowly returned to the loge where the poet was waiting. And finally, over the royal secretary’s shoulder, Quevedo watched as on the dais of the inquisitors, Fray Emilio Bocanegra, shaking with spite and rage, motioned to the scribe. After listening respectfully for a few instants, that same scribe took the sentence he was about to read and set it aside, pigeonholing it forever.

Another pyre collapsed with a great crash, and a rain of sparks flooded the darkness, heightening the radiance that illuminated the two men. Diego Alatriste stood unmoving beside the poet, never taking his eyes from the flames. Beneath the brim of his hat, his strong mustache and aquiline nose seemed to make even leaner a face already emaciated by the fatigue of the day, as well as the new wound to his hip. Though not serious, it was quite painful.

“A pity,” murmured don Francisco, “I did not arrive in time to save her as well.”