Albert Sanchez Pinol - Victus - The Fall of Barcelona

I have already described the battlefield as a rectangular valley, mountains to the left and a river to the right. To reach the river, it was necessary to climb down a rift in the land, which appeared all of a sudden and went down a considerable way. In their flight, hundreds were pushed into it by their own companions. They bounced down the rocks of the slopes, while the survivors tried to swim across the river. The others scattered eastward.

In the rush, the Bourbons abandoned their artillery and their whole baggage convoy. I called out to Zúñiga, pointing toward the farthest horizon: “Look! Way over there, in that raised copse, don’t you see it? It’s Little Philip himself, running away with his escort of palatine mercenaries!”

Stanhope’s piss-beers were busy riding down the Bourbons. And these had abandoned all their baggage, including the opulent wagons with all the riches that Little Philip had brought with him. I have told you this before: The early bird catches the worm, and in the midst of so much confusion, it wouldn’t be hard to get hold of a generous slice. A wagon transporting the royal crockery, fifty pairs of fine shoes, whatever we could lay our hands on. Besides, it was getting dark, which would help to hide us. The groans of the dying began to rise into the air like the croaking of frogs by a pond at dusk. Dozens of looters were there already, hopping between the fallen bodies. I could see that the men were rummaging through the corpses for jewels or coins, while the women tended to take possession of boots and clothing.

“We’re better splitting up,” I said to Zúñiga. “If one of us finds something, we’ll let the other know by whistling three times.”

We each went our own way, but before long, I gave up. It was almost completely dark. I stopped at the steep bank that went down toward the river. Perhaps, I thought, some important carriage might have toppled over the edge. If I were a Bourbon bearing the royal crucifixes, or the king’s gold chamber pot, I would choose to hurl it all in the water sooner than let the enemy take it.

The slope was very steep, and I climbed down gingerly. I found nothing of any interest, just a few dead bodies scattered across the riverbank. On both banks, there were vegetable patches, destroyed by the passage of the armies. The moon was there to light the way back to our wagon now, and when I happened to see Zúñiga, he was coming out of a little stone hut, a small workers’ store.

“Oh, Diego, there you are,” I greeted him.

He looked very startled to see me. He’d gone into the house to snoop around a little, he told me; no joy. If it hadn’t been for my sense of smell, I would have turned back, and that would have been it. But in Bazoches, they had trained my eyes, my ears, and also my nose: every one of my senses. The moment Zúñiga pulled that rickety old door closed, something happened. That same door, when it moved, pushed a blanket of air from the inside toward my nose. A smell. A very distinctive smell — mixed with other more common smells, like dry grain or old esparto grass. But in the middle of it all, that smell. My nose recalled it, but my memory could not.

“I’ll just have a quick look,” I said.

“I’m telling you, there’s nothing there,” said Zúñiga, barring my way. “Let’s go.”

I brushed him off and went ahead, entering the house. That smell, that smell, unpleasant and yet, at the same time, irresistible. What was it to me, what did it remind me of? It was very dark; the only light was that of the moon, spooling down like threads of silver. The tools were covered in rust, forgotten; rotting ears of corn were piled up. At the back, a shapeless mass covered by a bit of old sackcloth. There. Each of us has a particular smell. And our fear intensifies that smell. I felt a sudden spark: At last I knew to whom it belonged, that smell of greasy pores, of some thick, oleaginous matter.

I pulled back the cloth. And there he was, hidden like a scorpion under a rock: Joris Prosperus van Verboom. And just as one ought to do with a scorpion, before it reacted, I gave its head a good stamp. “Caught you,” I said. I turned his heavy body over and began laying in to him with short punches.

“Martí! Leave him, you’re going to kill him!”

“Oh, he and I are old acquaintances,” I said, catching my breath.

And I gave him a little more. Verboom was shouting out things in French, in Spanish, and in one of those Dutch languages, too.

Zúñiga grabbed me in his arms. “You’ve told me a thousand times that normal people don’t have anything to do with this dynastic war. And now there’s this poor wretch, and you’re about to kill him!”

“Poor wretch?” I interrupted my beating and looked at Zúñiga, panting. “Did you say poor wretch? This is Prosperus van Verboom!”

Zúñiga saved Verboom’s life. When he learned that this was a big fish we’d caught, he begged me not to kill him, saying we ought to take him prisoner and claim a reward. And I was stupid enough to agree.

Verboom had been unseated from his horse by a cannon shot. Slightly wounded, during the defeat, he had dragged himself over to that happenstance refuge. The truth was, they did congratulate us and reward us handsomely for his capture. So much that even In-a-Trice Stanhope wanted to meet us.

My heart gave such a leap that I felt it halfway up my throat. Could this be a sign of le Mystère ? Before becoming cavalry, maybe Stanhope had served as an engineer. Was he perhaps to be my new teacher? Let me give you the most synthetic answer I can: no. I found him the least likely creature one might ask for moral shelter. All great horsemen look small when they are not in the saddle. Stanhope looked it and he was, short in stature as he was short of brains, as well as conceited and silver-tongued. We had been dragged over to his campaign tent for one reason and one reason only: extolling his own person by appearing to praise us. By the time we left, it had been made quite clear to everybody present that if the Allies had been victorious in battle, if they had captured such distinguished characters as Verboom, it was not down to the combined forces, nor to that little king, Charles, but entirely and exclusively to the presence in Spain of a genius by the name of James Stanhope.

Following our audience, Zúñiga asked me about Verboom: “What has he done to make you hate him so much?”

I was not sure how to answer. Such a long time had passed since our argument in Bazoches. I thought about Jeanne and felt a stab in my breast. But I wanted to believe that my ill will toward the Dutch sausage-maker was led by something more than personal revenge.

Verboom was a bad man. Read those words again, and you will agree they are the worst that can be proclaimed about a human being. It is as if to say: “The world would be much better off without you.” In a just world, there would have been no place for Verboom, and finding him in an imperfect world, one should drive him out of it for fear he might make it worse. I did not do that, and soon repented bitterly, as always happens when we choose profit over justice.

And what do you think? Is this a note too moralistic on which to end the chapter? Right — you like it. Well, in that case, there’s no doubt about it at all: Strike it out. I’m sure it’s better without.

Almenar was a decisive victory. Nobody doubted that the Two Crowns would seek to join further battles. But the number of casualties, which was not too great, did not reflect the turmoil in their ranks.

Without the French contingent, Little Philip could count on only the Spanish recruits, who, as you have seen, had proved themselves greener than grass. The next encounter took place in Zaragoza, a city on the banks of the River Ebro. And this one went even worse for Little Philip than Almenar. By the time the day ended, eighty flags had been captured, six hundred Bourbons taken prisoner, and the infantry suffered twelve thousand casualties.