Albert Sanchez Pinol - Victus - The Fall of Barcelona

The fact that they greeted me indifferently, casually, as if this were the first time we’d laid eyes on one another, is not so strange as it seems. Word to the wise, my dear orangutan: People tend to be poor at looking and worse at seeing. The first time Porky and Stretch saw me, it had been fleeting, and now they didn’t recognize me. Wearing this wonderful morning suit, I looked completely different. When Stretch spoke, his competitiveness was plain to see.

“Another cadet? Good luck to you, but just so you know, I’ve been studying the principles of engineering for, oh, years . Only one student is going to be admitted, and it’s going to be me.” He emphasized the word me .

“My dear friend,” said Porky, interceding. “You forget that I have been awaiting this chance just as long as you.”

Stretch sighed. “I cannot believe Vauban himself is about to walk through this door,” he said. “A man responsible for the building or remodeling of three hundred strongholds. Three hundred!”

“That’s right,” said Porky. “To say nothing of the one hundred and fifty acts of war he’s been involved in, great and small.”

“The fairest and greatest of which,” insisted Stretch, “was taking fifty-three different cities. Harder to penetrate than Troy, each and every one!”

Porky murmured in agreement. “ Greatest, greatest, greatest. ”

“Wonderful,” I said to myself. The prior had said nothing to me about any selection process. Or there being only one place. How could anyone be expected to choose me over these two bookworms?

After the Marquis de Vauban’s description, I was expecting someone battle-hardened, Herculean, covered in scars. The man who came in, though, was a short, distinguished, and irritable-looking nobleman. He wore a sumptuous wig, the hair wavy and with a central parting. In spite of his advanced age, as shown in his jowly, angular cheeks, his whole being emanated an impatient energy. On his left cheek, there was a violet patch, the result of a bullet that had grazed him at the siege of Ath.

We each stood to attention in a line. The marquis cast his eye over us, saying nothing. He stopped in front of each of us and regarded us for scarcely one or two seconds. And with what eyes! Ah, yes, that Bazoches glance, unlike any other. When Vauban looked at you, it was as though to say: I know you, imperfections and all, better than you know yourself. And that was true, in a certain sense. But this was only the man’s harder side.

Vauban also had a paternal streak. Though severity might have seemed the most visible facet of his character, no one could fail to see that its aim was both benign and constructive. He was the sort of man whose rectitude is beyond question.

Finally, he deigned to speak. He began with the good part: The royal engineers were the crème de la crème, a select few. So few, in fact, that the kings of Spain and of Asia were prepared to pay any price for their services. This was sounding better. . French francs, English pounds, Portuguese cruzados. I’d earn, plus get to see the world!

Then the exposition took a turn. Vauban turned serious and said to us: “Be aware, gentlemen, that an engineer risks his life more often in a single siege than an infantry officer will in an entire campaign. Still interested?”

The pair of nitwits at my side assented in unison with an emphatic “Oui, monsieur!” I barely knew which way to look. The military? Rifles? Cannons? I mean, what on earth were they talking about? When I thought of an engineer, I thought bridges, canals. Though Porky and Stretch had mentioned sieges and battles, presumably the men at the helm were always well placed — particularly if their role was to draw up blueprints — in the rearguard, with a wench on either knee.

Look, I had bargained on coming away from Bazoches with some kind of qualification, even in ditch planning. Anything, just something I could use to justify myself to my father. And here was this old loon talking nonsense, endless nonsense, on and on.

For it went from bad to worse. Much worse. Before I realized it, he was already on to “The Mystery.”

I’ve been trying to understand the twinkling lights of le Mystère (write it down like that, Waltraud) for the better part of a hundred years, and still I consider myself a novice. So why don’t you, my readers, tell me what a lad of fourteen was supposed to think hearing about it for the first time, in that small side room in the castle at Bazoches?

Almost every other word was Mystère , and Vauban’s tone was so reverential that in the end I thought it must be some cryptic moniker for God Himself. But then again, why bring God into it? By the way Vauban was speaking, God could be no more than a featherbrained stepson to this Mystère .

I quickly gave up any hope of being accepted at Bazoches. As I say, I hadn’t the faintest notion where it was all headed. Porky and Stretch seemed enthused. They had a good idea what was in store, were as prepared as possible — given their standing and their schooling — and their lives’ only objective seemed to be devoting themselves to the rare cause being invoked by the marquis.

Very abruptly, Vauban fell quiet and left the room. Porky and Stretch looked at each other in bafflement. A minute later, someone else came out in Vauban’s place. It was her. The redheaded beauty from the courtyard. She proceeded to introduce herself. . as the marquis’s daughter.

The possibility, or anything like it, had not occurred to me. What a fool I was — no serving girl could possibly move with such aplomb. This time she was far more elegantly attired, with a long skirt that covered her feet. She made no sign of recognizing me. She was serious as death and nearly as frightening. She came and stood before us.

“My father wishes to form an idea of your aptitudes. Knowing that his presence can be intimidating to young cadets, he has asked me to carry out the test.” Opening a folder, she took out a print. “The test consists of a single question. I will show you designs, one by one, and you must describe them to me. Please be concise in your answer.”

She turned to me first, showing me a picture. I still have a replica of the original. (You, you brutish blondie, insert it here, after this page, nowhere else! Get it? Here!)

If she’d shown me a poem in Aramaic, I would have had a better idea what it meant. I shrugged and said the first thing that came into my head. “A star. A star that looks like a flower, with spines instead of petals.”

Porky and Stretch, who had already managed a sidelong glance at the drawing, broke down laughing. Not her. She remained impassive, moved two paces along, and showed the illustration to Porky, who answered: “A fortress with eight bastions and eight ravelins.”

When it came to Stretch, he merely said: “Neuf-Brisach.”

“Of course!” exclaimed Porky. “How could I fail to see it? Vauban’s crowning work!”

Stretch, confident he’d won, couldn’t help but assume the victorious expression of someone the gods have smiled upon. He even commiserated with Porky, laying the crass amiability on thick. The image in the print was that of the fortress at Neuf-Brisach, wherever that was.