Albert Sanchez Pinol - Victus - The Fall of Barcelona

While they amused themselves, I investigated the rest of the cargo. There were two blankets covering something in one of the corners. Lifting them off, I discovered a hefty trunk. It had three locks, which took my breath away: I knew what those three locks signified.

I’d shared a tent during the siege with, among others, one of the army paymasters. One of those asses who reckon themselves important because they rub shoulders with the top brass. He wasn’t high up enough to sleep in the officers’ tent, but he turned up his nose at sharing with the rank and file. So we were saddled with him. He talked constantly. I’d get back to my camp bed, exhausted from the trenches, and he’d be at it straightaway — blah blah blah . It didn’t matter if I had been on a day or a night shift, he’d be there waiting — Prattler Paymaster, as we began calling him. His problem was that he worked only one day a week, so he’d spend the rest of his time gossiping and going on at anyone unfortunate enough to be in earshot.

Well, one day this nuisance paymaster was showing off a key he had, which was for the chest that held the army’s wages. The money chests, he told me, had three locks, and the keys were held by different people — one by the paymaster, one by the field marshal, and one by the supervisor general. Prattler Paymaster crowed about having met the supervisor general. But you tell me, what other kind of chest on an army vehicle would have three locks?

I didn’t have the three keys, but, having studied at Bazoches, I did not need them. I found a mallet and chisel there in the carriage and, employing my acute sense of precision, hammered off the locks. When I opened the top, there inside were dozens of small cylindrical sacks, packed tightly together in two rows. Each with a wax seal bearing the Bourbon fleur-de-lis. I broke one open, and coins came tumbling out. There must have been wages for an entire regiment there, at least. Mother of God.

Have you ever had an abandoned treasure trove fall into your hands? The sensation is very much akin to that of love at first sight: Your heart beats harder, your hands tremble, and a happy nervousness takes hold of you. And you are overtaken by a terrible desire to flee with it.

I slammed the top shut, startled by the discovery. Nan and Anfán were still playing marbles.

“Here, boys!” I said, a Judas smile on my face. “Go back to the driver’s body and check his pockets, will you?”

A brazen lie to give me a chance to get clear of them. By the time they’d realized what was happening, I’d already set off, cracking the reins on the horse’s backs. Nan and Anfán ran uselessly after the carriage.

“ Monsieur, monsieur! ” shouted Anfán. “Don’t leave us here, please. Take us to Barcelona!”

Turning in the seat, I saw his little head, his matted locks blown by the wind, his pained expression. .

But now, much to my regret, I have to halt my tale, because Waltraud the dunce interrupts, sniveling, whinging, calling me a heartless so-and-so. Why the sudden sentimentality? Can’t you see what these two were like? Anfán was a born thief — how could I possibly have him and this chest along on the same journey?

All right, all right. I’ll confess something to you, if it’ll make you feel any better.

I pulled on the reins and stopped the carriage. The truth is, I felt a pang of compunction. After all, I’d secured myself transport, plus booty, thanks to this pair. Seeing me stop, and with their hopes renewed, they ran harder to catch up. When they got within twenty or so feet, I threw a few coins in their direction.

“All yours! Bread and wine’s on me!”

And I cracked the reins again.

Deep down, you see, I’ve always been a good person.

Departing Tortosa as swiftly as the wounded horses allowed, I was struck by the perilousness of my situation. There were patrols everywhere, from both armies, and constant skirmishes. But in reality, the two armies were the least of my problems. The south of Catalonia had been ravished by war, and there were bands of looters, bandits, and deserters of six or seven nationalities, to add to my beloved Miquelets, who were the worst of all. I was on my own with just a pistol, and for company an altogether appealing chest full of coins. I have rarely been so pleased to see the sun go down. To my right was a narrow path leading through the middle of a field of overgrown wheat. Possibly a place to hide for the night. The lack of recent harvests had left the wheat to grow implausibly high. At the end of the field was an irrigation canal. I couldn’t have hoped for anything better: The tall ears of wheat would screen me, and here was water for the horses and me. I took their torturous harnesses off.

I had yet to finish setting up camp when he appeared.

He came into the clearing from the same path I’d taken. He wore an ample black cape. With this garment and his tricorn hat pulled down over his eyebrows, he appeared to float out of the wheat. In alarm, I reached for my pistol, which I had left in the carriage. What was this figure doing here, so far from anywhere, civilization as well as the war? I pointed the pistol at him. “Do you come armed? Identify yourself.”

He continued moving toward me and simply said: “Pau.”

I didn’t know if this was his name or a declaration. ( Pau means “peace” in Catalan but is also our word for “Paul.”) Keeping my guard up, I came back at him, matching him for ambiguity, raising him on the sarcasm: “Fallen off your horse?”

The man flashed a quick smile. He held his cape open, showing himself unarmed. His shirt had wide sleeves that fell back when he held up his arms. What I then saw, my dear vile Waltraud, I have never seen again: ten Points, one after the other, tattooed on his right forearm. The tenth, just beneath his elbow, stood out.

The indelible ink marked skin far older than the man’s expression; he had a venerability but also seemed in excellent physical and mental shape. Ten Points! The ideal engineer, a perfect Maganon. My suspicion gave way to astonishment and admiration. Still smiling that inexpressive smile, he came and stood before me.

“And you?” he said, his voice neutral.

“At your service,” I said, lifting my right sleeve and showing my five Points.

He drew a little closer. “Where have you come from?”

“Tortosa.”

“And where are you bound?”

“Barcelona.”

“Why?”

“That’s where my father lives?”

“Are you certain about that?”

“Yes.”

“Nothing’s certain.”

It seemed more like an interrogation than a dialogue, but a Point Bearer never questions his superiors, who, in turn, must know all a subordinate has to tell. Nothing must be kept from them. I couldn’t take my eyes off his forearm and the tenth Point. He stepped to one side and surveyed my little camp: the carriage, the irrigation canal, the high wheat surrounding us like living walls.

He was every inch the Ten Points. He seemed to listen, rather than look: the objects around, the insects, the general environment, even the transparent air, spoke to him, only too happy to confess all. Then he made a gesture: He raised a hand as though telling an orchestra to stop playing. He looked at my carriage for a few moments. “What’s inside your vehicle?”

“Nothing,” I lied.

“Exactly.”

Though I was a product of Bazoches, even so, I shuddered.

It was a warm night. He took off his cape and rolled up his sleeves. My eye settled on his forearm again.

The world of engineering, its practical spirit in direct opposition to the symbolic, here gave one small concession. For the glorious tenth Point was smaller than the preceding ones. That is, when an engineer reached perfection, his prize was a point that strongly resembled the first: a simple circle.