Purity of Blood by Arturo Pérez-Reverte Read Free Book Online

dubious. On the contrary, he often used that theme when aiming darts at his adversaries—and especially don Luis de Góngora, to whom he attributed Jewish blood.
Why should Greek be a tongue you debase?
and not Hebrew? We know you master that,
it is as clear as the nose on your face.
    The great satirist liked to intersperse such compliments with allusions to Góngora’s sodomy, as he did in a certain famous sonnet that concludes,
Your legs are worse than my poor two.
I limp, it’s true, but they do not go
the places your third leg leads you to.
    Yet here he was, getting his own hands dirty: don Francisco Gómez de Quevedo y Villegas, he of the habit of Santiago and proven family purity, lord of la Torre de Juan Abad, scourge of Judaizers, heretics, sodomites, and assorted Latinate court poets, risking life and honor, plotting nothing less than to violate the sanctity of a cloister in order to aid a family of Valencian conversos. Even I, at my tender age, recognized the terrible implications.
    “A pox on him, by Christ,” the poet repeated.
    I suppose that any sane man would be swearing—in Greek, even Hebrew, both languages that don Francisco was familiar with—had he found himself in Quevedo’s starched white collar. And Captain Alatriste, who was not in Quevedo’s gorget, but faced ruin enough in his own, was well aware of that.
    The captain had not moved from his place against the wall throughout the conversation with our visitors, and his thumbs were still hooked over his belt. He had not shifted position even when Jerónimo de la Cruz returned to the room, dagger in hand, leading me by the ear. Alatriste merely ordered the man to release me, in a tone that inspired my captor, after only an instant’s hesitation, to obey. As for me, the awkward moment past, I was huddled in a corner, still red with embarrassment, trying to pass unnoticed. It had taken a certain effort to convince the father and sons that although disobedient, I was a prudent lad and could be trusted. Don Francisco himself had to speak for me. But the beans had been spilled—I had heard everything—and don Vicente de la Cruz and his sons would have to put their faith in me. Although when it came down to it—as the captain clarified very deliberately, casting cold, intimidating looks at each of the three in turn—this was no longer a situation in which they could offer an opinion or have a choice. That declaration was followed by a long and weighty silence, after which my involvement was not questioned again.
    “They are good people,” Quevedo said finally. “And blood or no blood, no one can accuse them of not being good Catholics.” He paused in search of further justification. “And when we were in Italy, don Vicente performed a number of services for me. It would have been wicked not to hold out a hand to him.”
    Captain Alatriste nodded his understanding, and beneath his military mustache I could see the same irrepressible smile.
    “All that you say is well and good,” the captain acknowledged. “But I press my point about Góngora. After all, Your Mercy is constantly dwelling on his Semitic nose and his aversion to the flesh of the pig. You remember when you wrote,
“No white shows in your hair,
so old Christian you cannot be:
sonofa something, no question there,
but son of pure blood? A mockery.”
    Don Francisco smoothed his mustache and goatee, half pleased that the captain remembered his verses, and half annoyed by the bantering way he recited them.
    “By the good Christ, Alatriste, what a good—and, I might add, badly timed—memory you have.”
    Alatriste burst out laughing, unable to contain himself any longer, which did not improve the poet’s humor.
    “I can just imagine what your enemy will write,” said the captain, beating a dead horse, holding his fingers as if he were writing on air.
“You say, don Francisco, I am a filthy Jewish pig,
while you dance to the tune of a lively Hebrew jig…
    “What do you