He hesitated. Discreetly, I upturned my wrist and bared my forearm for him to see my Points.
Grabbing hold of his lapel, I said: “Maréchal, quelle est la Parole? Dites-moi! S’il vous plaît, la Parole.”
It wasn’t the marquis, of course, but, rather, his cousin, Dupuy, whom, if you remember, I met on one of his visits to Bazoches. The one who that day made reference to a “clause” preventing me from ever facing him in battle. Yes, isn’t life just like that. And my confusion wasn’t at all strange — the family resemblance was strong, even down to the way they carried themselves.
He took me to his tent and gave me some hot wine. He then had his private surgeon come and see to the bullet wound in my leg.
“The wound is clean,” said Dupuy. “The bullet has only punctured the thigh flesh. If it had hit the artery, you’d be dead by now.”
I rolled up my sleeve. I wanted to tell him about my Points once more, as the first time he’d been able to see only the ones nearest to my wrist.
“Four,” I said, preempting him. “The fifth hasn’t been validated.”
Dupuy was a very eminent man. “Yes, I thought as much,” he said. “Don’t forget, though: Whether or not it’s been validated, the tattoo is still there. And you must show that you deserve it.”
I changed the subject. What news?
“Marshal Berwick is yet to arrive,” he explained. “I was traveling with him, but what with the artillery train, and Miquelets constantly ambushing us, progress was so slow that he asked me to come ahead. He wants me to weigh up the situation. And from what I can tell, this siege has been managed badly, very badly. All the men are on edge. As your treatment shows very well.”
I was about to speak, but he put a finger to his lips. “Listen: I’m not in a position to help you as I’d like, unfortunately. You’re outside of what I can control; the siege is still being run by the Spanish. You know how thin-skinned they are. You’re a lieutenant colonel, and you’re their prisoner; I can’t just take you off them.”
Again I was going to say something, but Dupuy made me be quiet. “Shut up and listen! This is how it’s going to go: They’ll interrogate you, but they won’t be too rough. Yes, yes, I know we’re at war, all courtesy’s gone out the window, and torture’s become de rigueur. Don’t worry, though, I’ve found someone. He serves King Philip, but he’s one of ours. You’ll be interrogated, but not roughly. A few days with our man, then you’ll be under me.”
“Who is this individual?” I asked. “French or Spanish?”
He smiled, pointing at the entrance to the tent. “The first person to come through there and use sign language with you. Whoever that is.” Before leaving, he asked me, “Martí, do you mind telling me what you were doing inside a city besieged by the king’s forces?”
His look was as withering as that of a Ten Points. Neither did I want to lie, nor could I have lied. I was both honest and concise. “I was working as an engineer,” I said.
His reaction was that of someone with more Points than I. “I see,” he said simply, and left the tent.
I had reason to fear what was coming to me next. So much had changed in such a short space of time that I couldn’t get my thoughts in order. The only people who came into the recently erected tent were Dupuy’s legion of servants, bringing in furniture, and one French officer who came hoping to pay his respects to the cousin of the great Vauban. And me in the field bed in one corner, bandaged up and unable to move. I carefully watched everyone who came in, waiting for someone to address me with the sign language of engineers. Nothing.
Midway through the afternoon, four Spanish soldiers came in, sent by a captain. They made me go with them in spite of my protests. Their bearing didn’t seem particularly soldierly, which is to say they seemed very slovenly, and everything they did seemed strained, as happens with men unwillingly obeying orders. As they dragged me through camp, they kept glancing from side to side, as though afraid someone else would step in and stop them.
The unfortunate houses on the site of the Bourbon camp had been turned into stores or residences for the high command. They took me into one of the latter. We climbed some steps up to the first floor, and I was locked in a room containing an old table and two shabby-looking chairs. A fine layer of dust covered the floor and furniture. The panes in the single window were smashed. The Bourbon camp was the sack, and this tiny room a sack within the sack. Jonah in the belly of the whale? He had nothing on me then!
“Our man”—in the words of the innocent Dupuy — appeared half an hour later. I saw what had happened. Dupuy, just arrived at the Bourbon encampment, was met by a Points Bearer who showed himself to be compliant and polite. In the belief that the sacred fidelities of Bazoches were still in effect in the world, Dupuy had placed full confidence in the man.
“Our man” came in and immediately reprimanded the soldiers he had with him. Why hadn’t his guest, the honorable enemy, been given drink and plenty of food? But with his hands, in our sign language, he said to me: “I’ve got you, you swine.”
“Our man” was none other than Joris Prosperus van Verboom, the Antwerp butcher.
6
When everything was over, after Barcelona had fallen and the war was drawing to its close, Verboom was given some very cushy sinecures indeed by Philip V. He stayed on in Catalonia. Barcelona — defeated, flattened, bloodied — remained a source of unease to the Bourbons. There is a form of submission more absolute than death: endless slavery. Little Philip gave the task to Verboom.
I’m going to include two very rough sketches of the city — if my hairy hippopotamus manages not to lose them, that is. The first one you’ve already seen; it’s of old Barcelona as it was immediately before the siege.
And in this next one, you can see what Verboom did to it.
The star that’s been added on, the Citadel, was the work of Verboom. Yes, the Citadel. He leveled a fifth of the city for building materials. A perfect bastioned enclosure, there not for the people’s protection but from which to control, subdue, and, if necessary, fire cannons on them. An urban tumor that converted Barcelonans into prisoners in their own city.
But what am I doing talking about what happened after the siege? Held captive behind enemy lines, in the hands of my enemy, I had quite enough on my plate.
My usual quick thinking had deserted me. My only way out was to get in touch with Dupuy. Impossible: Verboom stood in my way; a man capable of plotting my kidnap must have been sufficiently foresighted to hide that fact. Most likely, he was going to kill me there and then. And later, he’d allege that I’d tried to get away, and say to Dupuy that some imbecile soldier had shot me by mistake — anything. Shit.
Verboom had arrived in the night, like a sea mist, or like deathly fevers. I’d managed to make myself a weapon, a knife fashioned out of some wood I’d pulled off the window frame and, for the blade, a shard of glass thrust into it. If worse came to worst, before they tried to kill me, I’d try to take his eye out.
However, I quickly saw that the situation was not as I had imagined. The Antwerp butcher brought one servant soldier with him, and his only weapons were a tray, a bottle, and two glasses. The servant put these down on the table and went out. When Verboom and I were alone, I erupted in indignation. “How dare you lock me up! I defect, I offer my services to King Philip, and this is my reward. You can’t imagine what I’ve been through, coerced by those rebels to take part in their deluded attempts to defend their city!”