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transgressor with the shackles. But the horse knows more than its rider, and so the soldiers and sailors had invented a new game. We chalked various circles on a piece of board and placed in the very centre one of the many lice that were eating us alive — 'having visitors' we called it — and then we bet on which direction the creature would go.
'When we go back to Naples,' I said in conclusion, 'then we'll see.'
I kept glancing at him out of the corner of my eye, expecting some riposte, but he remained silent, a dark shape by my side being rocked, as I was, by the motion of the boat. The truth was that, however much he tried to protect me, Captain Alatriste could not keep me from the less savoury aspects of military life, not counting the usual risks of the profession, just as, in the years since my poor mother had entrusted me to him, I had found myself embroiled in certain of his own murky enterprises, with grave risk to life and liberty. Now I was a grown man, or about to become one, and the Captain's sage advice, when he proffered it — he was, as you know, a man who preferred sword thrusts to words — did not always find the response he expected, for I believed myself to be a man of the world. And so, because he was experienced, discreet and wise, and because he loved me, he avoided sermonising and tried instead to stay close by in case I needed him. He only imposed his authority — and dear God, he could certainly do that when he needed to — in extreme situations.
As for wine, women and gambling, I admit that he had good reason to be angry with me. My wage of four escudos a month, along with the money from previous booties — two Turkish karamuzals captured in the Mayna channel, a profitable raid on the coast of Tunis, a ship seized off Cape Passero and a galley off the island of Santa Maura — had been spent, every last penny, in the same soldierly fashion as my comrades had spent theirs, and exactly as the Captain had done in his youth, as he himself would sullenly admit.
In my case, though, my lack of experience and a taste for the new meant that I hurled myself into these pastimes with great gusto. For a spirited Spanish lad such as myself, Naples was paradise: good inns, excellent taverns, beautiful women; in short, everything that could help relieve a soldier of his pay. And, as chance would have it, my fellow page from Flanders, Jaime Correas, was there to assist and encourage me. Having served in Italy for some time, he was no stranger to such vices. I will have occasion to speak of him later, so I will say only that it was in his company, and beneath the frowning gaze of Captain Alatriste, that I had spent a good part of the winter months, when the galleys were out of action, embroiled in various escapades involving gaming houses, taverns and — rather less assiduously on my part — the occasional bawdyhouse.
Not that my former master was the kind of man who could die without confession and stand fearlessly face to face with Christ, far from it, but the truth is that gambling, which has bled many a soldier's purse dry, had never tempted him. On the other hand, if he did occasionally frequent certain ladies practised in the art of love — he didn't need to go to whores, for he always grazed in rich pastures — they were few in number and always reliable. As for Bacchus, the Captain certainly worshipped at his table and had the devil of a thirst. But although he often drank too much, especially when he was angry or melancholy — and that was when he was especially dangerous, because wine dulled neither his senses nor his reactions — he always did so alone and without witnesses. I think that, rather than as a pleasure or a vice, he downed whole tumblers in order to quell the inner torment and demons known only to him and God.
At first light, we cast anchor outside Melilla, the Spanish fortress town captured from the Moors one hundred and thirty years before. And in order to remain safely out of