Albert Sanchez Pinol - Victus - The Fall of Barcelona

He asked me, “Who is your teacher?”

“It was Sébastien Le Prestre de Vauban. He’s dead now.”

“A good engineer, yes, a very good engineer,” he whispered respectfully. “He lives on in you. Remember him.”

“Unfortunately,” I said, “I didn’t earn this fifth Point. I failed to find a certain Word.”

“Well, you’ll have to carry on looking.”

“I’ve given up on it all,” I said. “Even if I were to persevere, who could ratify my fifth Point? Vauban is dead, I know no other teacher, and anyway, I wouldn’t want anyone else to take me under his wing. So, enough.”

He smiled faintly. “Everyone says the same thing. Until one day they graze the sky with their fingers. And from then on, they would rather die than give up on that glory.”

In spite of my respect for him, I couldn’t but smile incredulously. Noticing this, his tone changed, becoming imperious enough to subdue kings. He raised his voice. “If a teacher is what you need, you will find one, whether or not he has the Points. There’s no getting away from your search for this Word, and when you find it, you will know you are worthy of your fifth Point.”

I wanted to say something but failed to find the right way to express myself — with the proper respect. In any case, he was the one directing this conversation.

“Lay out your mat,” he said.

I obeyed.

“Lie down. Shut your eyes. Sleep.”

I was asleep before he finished speaking.

It would be very interesting to include here my dream that night. Unfortunately, when I awoke, I couldn’t remember it. I was left with nothing but a fleeting trace. The blurry image of a young woman, naked, with violet-colored skin and a very dark pubis, somewhere in a blazing landscape. I spent weeks trying to fully recall the dream. She had the most sorrowful eyes. Suddenly, legions of white beetles attacked her, swarming all around her and running up her ankles. She called out for my help. But everything melted away before the meaning of the dream became complete. Trying to decipher it, I turned the dream over in my mind hundreds of times.

Unfortunately, I was too much of an insomniac in those days. The dream slipped through my hands like a fish. Very frustrating.

The following day, I climbed back up in the carriage and set out again for Barcelona. I didn’t bother to check if the chest was where I’d left it. A Ten Points would never bother with such trifles.

Now, eight decades on, eighty times around the sun later, I believe I know who this twilight man was. A moment — I must breathe.

He was no man. He was le Mystère itself, traversing this earth with the indifference of a beekeeper seeing a few upset beehives. He came across a curious bee and lingered over it for a few moments.

He must have been at a loose end.

All morning long I drove along a route flanked by pine-covered mountains. And at midday came across the thing I’d been looking for, my want and deliverance.

An inn stood on the floodplain that opened out to my right. Its main building was a shoddy adobe construction, a long rectangle with a thatched roof. There was an old man in front of it, digging a grave for a dead mule lying there. Stopping the carriage, I got down and approached him.

I passed myself off as a modest businessman looking to join a civilian convoy. He was almost completely deaf.

“You’re looking for protection?” he yelled, holding a hand up to his head like an ear trumpet. “Okay, well, the boys are inside. They escort carriages. The more travelers who club together, the cheaper it ends up. And they’ve got a gift for negotiating at checkpoints with soldiers, whichever army they’re from!”

“Can I get myself something to drink?” I said, handing him a couple of coins. “I’m parched.”

“Go in and help yourself — though with this heat, the wine will be warm,” he replied, pointing to the main building. “Wait, though: If you help me bury this mule, I’ll give you all the wine you want, free. People come along,” he complained, referring to his customers, “and as soon as their mounts have a rest, they’re so worn out, they drop dead! What am I supposed to do with them? Why don’t you tell me that, eh, eh?”

Yes, that was exactly what I needed to do at that moment, bury dead mules. I didn’t bother to excuse myself but headed straight into the adobe building.

The table inside looked like the Last Supper. Drinking and talking at the tops of their voices, twelve gruff, very drunk men, half sitting with their backs to me, and those on the other side obscured by the way the light fell. At first I didn’t pay them any mind, nor they me.

I went over to a bar made of some rough planks set over a line of casks. There was a pitcher hanging from a post on one side. I took a couple of swigs — it was a rancid-tasting herb wine — and then heard a voice behind me.

“Come and join us, friend! You’ll find our liquor far preferable to that vinegar.”

It was worth getting off on the right foot with them, so I went and sat at the center of one of the benches. Only then did I get a proper look at their faces.

Scars. Earrings. Beards rough enough to sand rocks with. Heavy bags under their eyes, and eyes that scanned you for where best to stick a knife — in your windpipe or just under your chin? And this was an escort organized by decent citizens? The most harmless out of them all must have been saved from the scaffold five times, at least. And sitting straight across from me, my old friend: Ballester.

I went whiter than blanched asparagus. The look Ballester gave me was thick with hate. He said just four words.

“ El botifler de Beceit .”

Waltraud has forgotten who Ballester is. He was in the last chapter! That fanatic young Miquelet briefly captured by the Bourbons, an utter animal who’d be only too happy cutting off my two ears and using them as a handkerchief.

Ballester’s words brought the revels to a halt. The twelve primitive apostles turned to look at me in unison. I was speechless. Under normal conditions, my Bazoches senses would have picked up on Ballester’s presence before I entered the inn. But I’d given up on engineering, and I’d been so eager to find an escort, it had made a common mole of me. I was as ashamed as I was frightened.

Ballester pulled out an enormous and very sharp dagger — likely the one he’d slit the captain’s throat with in Beceite. I wanted to flee but didn’t make it halfway to the door. I was pushed to the floor by four sets of hands, and Ballester came round and stood behind me. As he brought the point of the dagger to my jugular, I cried out: “Wait! I’ve got something you want!”

If ever you find yourself in such a situation, do as I say and skip trying to be clever. Go straight for the words that will be most appealing.

“A chest full of money!” I cried, half suffocated by the terror and the blade at my throat. “Right outside!”

All thirteen of us exited the inn, me with my chin up high due to the knife prodding it in that direction. The old man was still digging the mule’s grave. Tears began to run down my face.

“Make it easy on yourself,” said Ballester. “Spit it out, and I’ll let you choose the way I kill you.”

“My carriage!” I said, pointing to it. “You’ll find something of interest in there. I swear to Christ!”

Three of Ballester’s men climbed up into the carriage. The old man dug, murmuring mindlessly to himself, oblivious to everything but the mule. He was too deranged to have a clue what was going on.

Ballester’s men found the chest beneath the blankets.

“Fifty rifles!” shouted one of them, joyful, throwing a handful of coins in Ballester’s direction. “We can buy fifty rifles with this lot!”