Victus Read online

  Epigraph

  PUGNA MAGNA VICTI SUMUS.

  TITUS LIVIUS

  (We have lost a great battle.)

  Map

  The Political Landscape in Europe 1705

  Contents

  Epigraph

  Map

  Veni

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Vidi

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Victus

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  A Historical Note

  The War of the Spanish Succession: A Chronology

  The Characters in VICTUS

  About the Author

  The Translators

  Also by Albert Sánchez Piñol

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Veni

  1

  If man is the only being with a geometrical, rational mind, why is it that the poor and defenseless take up arms against the powerful and well equipped? Why do the few oppose the many, and the small resist the great? I know the reason why. One word.

  We, the engineers of my age, had not one office but two. The first, which was sacred, consisted of building fortresses; the second, sacrilegious, their destruction. And now that I have become like Tiberius, allow me to reveal the word—that one Word. For, my friends, my enemies, insects all, in the trifling circumference of this universe of ours, I was the traitor. My actions led to the storming of my father’s house. I surrendered the city that had been given to me to defend, a city that stood in defiance of two imperial allies. My city. The traitor who delivered it over was me.

  What you have just read is a first draft. Writing it, I must have been in a melancholy mood or drunk. When I read it back, I wanted to tear up the paragraph in question, affected and simpering as it was. More the kind of thing one might expect from a cock-sucker like Voltaire.

  But as you can see, the Austrian elephant to whom I dictate these memoirs is uncompliant, will not tear it up. She likes it, for some reason, such epic words, so sublime a tone, and so on. Merda. Or, as they’d put it: Scheisse. But who’s going to argue with a Teutonic woman—and, to boot, one with a quill in her hand? Her cheeks are rosier and more swollen than the apple that deceived Adam, her rear end is fat as a regimental drum, and, evidently, she does not understand Catalan.

  The clot taking down my words is an Austrian called Waltraud something-or-other; these Viennese names all sound like chewed-up stones. At least she knows French and Spanish. Well, I have set myself to be sincere, and shall be. Poor Waltraud. As well as transcribing these lines, she has the task of sewing me back together from time to time, taking needle and thread to the nineteen wounds that furrow the terrain of my sorry, battered body; wounds from the bullets, grapeshot, and bayonets of fifteen different nations: the broadsword of a Turk, the cudgel of a Maori, arrows and javelins of the natives of New Spain, the New Beyond, and the New Even Further Beyond. Dear, vile Waltraud dabs the suppurating seventy-year-old wounds on my half face, which reopen like flowers with every season’s change. And to round it all off, she has to darn the holes in my behind. Oh—oh, the pain! Some days I cannot tell which of them I’m shitting from. And all this for a miserable pension of eight kreuzers a month, for the emperor’s purse can stretch no further. It pays for her, and for this drafty garret, but it’s all the same to me. Chin up, never mind!—as I always say.

  Always, the hardest part is always the beginning. What was in the beginning? Information I am not privy to . . . Nearly a hundred years have passed. Do you realize, gentle reader, the sheer enormity of these words? I have been about the sun so many times, I struggle to recall my mother’s name. There’s another enormity for you. You’ll surely think me a blatherer and a muckabout.

  I’ll skip the childhood sob stories. Forced to elect the moment when it all began, I would opt for the very day: March 5, 1705.

  First, an exile. Picture, if you will, a lad of fourteen. A chill day breaks over the road to Bazoches castle, in French Burgundy. All his worldly effects fit in a knapsack on a stick over his shoulder. He has long legs and is slender about the chest. A sharp nose. And hair straighter, blacker, and more brilliant than the wings of a Burgundian crow.

  Well, this lad was me. Martí Zuviría, “good old Zuvi” to some, or even “Longlegs Zuvi.” The castle’s three spiraling towers, with their black slate roofs, came into view. Fields of barley lined the path, and it was raining so hard you could almost see frogs taking to the air. It hadn’t been four days since my expulsion from the Carmelite college in Lyon. For bad behavior, of course. My last hope was that I might be admitted at Bazoches as a pupil of a certain Marquis de Vauban.

  The previous year, my father had sent me to France, concerned as he was about the political stability in Spain. (Well-founded concerns, as you’ll agree should you read on.) It was by no means an elite school, not by a long shot, but rather a Carmelite venture aimed at the children of families neither rich nor poor, commoners with pretensions but not the means to rub shoulders with aristocracy. My father was what is known in Barcelona as a Ciutadà Honrat—an Honored Citizen. Strange, these titles we give ourselves. To be an Honored Citizen, one must have attained a certain level of wealth—my father was at that level, but barely. He never stopped lamenting the fact. When he was drunk, it was not uncommon to see him tug his hair and exclaim: “Of all the Honored Citizens, I am the very least!” (And he was such a somber man, he never saw how funny the joke was.)

  The Carmelite college had a certain renown, at least. I shall not bore you with a full list of my excesses at that place, but proceed directly to the last and definitive.

  At fourteen, I was already quite the little man. One night I and the other older students went drinking and scandalizing through the taverns of Lyon. We didn’t even remember to return to our dormitories to sleep. It was the first time in my life I had been on such a spree, and the wine had made me barbarously euphoric. The sun was already coming up when it occurred to one of my companions that we ought to return to our lodgings; it was one thing to go back late, quite another not to go back at all. I spied a carriage and leaped up beside the driver.

  “Driver! To the Carmelite residence!”

  The man said something, I did not understand what, and, my wine-addled brain combining with my juvenile energies, I pushed him into the road.“Won’t drive us? Very well, we will drive ourselves!” I took the reins. “Forward, boys!”

  My ten or dozen roistering companions surged onto the carriage like pirates boarding a ship, and I cracked the whip. The horses reared up and set out along the road. I was having a whale of a time, oblivious to the cries at my back, which had suddenly turned to alarm.

  “Martí, hold up!”

  I turned to look: My friends, not having had sufficient time to seat themselves, were falling from
the vehicle left and right. The carriage hurtled along, and they toppled from it like ten pins. “So drunk they can’t even sit in a carriage?” I said to myself. But there was more: We were being chased, I saw, by a furious mob. “What have I done to them?”

  The two questions converged in a single answer. My friends weren’t able to get up on the carriage properly because it was not, indeed, a carriage, but a casket on wheels. Like all funeral carriages. I’d mistaken it for any ordinary conveyance. As for our pursuers, they were the dead person’s family, the cortege. And from the way they were howling, they didn’t seem overly pleased. All I could think to do was flee—in any case, there was little else I might do, for the horses had turned hellcats, and I had no idea how to rein them in. I pulled uselessly, succeeding only in making them gallop harder. I sobered up somewhat when I saw, as we took a corner, sparks flying from the wheel edges. We entered a square at breakneck speed. One of the most famous glass shops in Lyon, in all of France, was situated in this square. With the morning light, the frontage, which was all glass, must have appeared to the horses like the entrance to a passageway.

  Quite a pretty dustup. The horses, the carriage, the coffin, the dead person, and I were hurled, as one, across the interior of the shop. The shattering of the windowpane was a sound unlike any other. Twenty thousand glasses, lamps, bottles, mirrors, goblets, and vases exploding at once as well. What I still do not understand is how I came out of it alive and, more or less, in one piece.

  Getting up on all fours, I peered around at what was now a glass hecatomb. The mob appeared at the mouth of the square. The carriage had come undone at the back, and the coffin was on the floor, with the lid open. And it was empty. “Where might the dead person have gone to?” I asked myself. Anyway, it was hardly the moment to try and find out. I was still stunned by the impact and found myself crawling into the coffin and shutting the lid after me.

  My head throbbed horribly. All night drinking, one tavern after another—we’d come to blows at one point with a group of young Dominican monks, even more devout than we Carmelites—then this headlong rush and the bump on the head. “To hell with it all,” I said. If I stayed quiet, maybe things would sort themselves out. I laid my cheek against the velvet coffin lining and let oblivion settle over me.

  I do not know how long I was in there, but had I stayed a little longer, it would have been forever. A movement awoke me; my closed bed was lurching around. It took me a good few moments to remember . . .

  “Hoi! Open this!” I began shouting. “You whoresons, open up!”

  My coffin was swaying on account of its being lowered into the ground. They must have heard my cries, for it began to ascend once more (very slowly, or so it seemed to me). Several hands opened the top and out I shot like a scalded cat. What anguish!

  “You almost buried me alive!” I cried, justifiably indignant.

  It wasn’t difficult to surmise what had happened. The family, finding the coffin, had simply placed it back on the carriage and set out again on the road to the cemetery; it hadn’t occurred to them to check whether it was their kin or good old Zuvi inside. That was a little too close for comfort.

  But the next day I had to deal with the consequences. Eight of my fellow classmates were in the hospital with broken bones, and several ladies who had fainted at the funeral were yet to recover. The glass shop owner was threatening to take me to court. What was more, when rounding up the damage to his business, he had found the cadaver of one of his fellow burghers hanging from a chandelier, which was where it had ended up after the crash. I had gone too far this time. The prior gave me two options: return home with a note explaining my disgraceful conduct, or be sent to the castle at Bazoches. Home? If I went back to my father in Barcelona, having been expelled, I would not come away alive. I opted for Bazoches. From what I was able to find out, a certain Marquis de Vauban was offering to take on students.

  2

  But enough of the nonsense of children. I was saying: That March 5, I was approaching the castle at Bazoches, on foot and with a knapsack at my back.

  The edifice was stately rather than military, attractive rather than pompous. Three round towers soared up out of the ramparts, topped by pointed cowls of black tile. Bazoches castle was beautiful in its antiquated sobriety. In that plain landscape, the eye couldn’t help but be drawn to it, magnetized, even, to the point that I didn’t hear the coach approaching and nearly running me over.

  The road was so narrow, I barely had time to jump clear as the coach wheels splashed mud all over me. This to the great amusement of the two jokers who poked their heads out of the coach windows, a couple of boys my age. The coach carried on toward the castle, their laughter at my misfortune ringing out.

  And misfortune it truly was, given that I had planned to present myself in my very best attire. The tricorn hat and the morning suit I wore were the only ones I owned. How could I show myself to a venerable marquis when covered head to toe in mud?

  I barely need tell how low I felt arriving at Bazoches. The gates were still open from the arrival of the coach, and a footman came out and began rebuking me. “How many times do I have to tell you people, alms day, Monday? Get out of here!”

  I could hardly blame him. What else was he to think but that I was a beggar come at the wrong time?

  “I am here as an engineering candidate—I have a sealed accreditation to prove it!” I said, fumbling with the knapsack.

  The man did not even want to listen. This must have been a common occurrence for him, because straightaway he brought out a cudgel. “Away, knave!”

  Do you believe in angels, oh German buffalo of mine? I do not, but in Bazoches I met three. And the first appeared just then—just as that footman’s stick was about to crack my ribs.

  By the look of the girl, she was a servant, but by her air of authority, I imagined she must have boasted some office. And for all they say that angels have no gender, I can assure you this one was female. My goodness, that she was.

  I struggle for words to describe that creature’s charm. Given that I am not a poet, I’ll be brief and simply say that, as a woman, she was everything you are not, my dear vile Waltraud. Don’t be like that—I only mean you are broader in the beam than a honeybee, and she was no more than a handspan and a half across. You seem as weighed down as a mule with a heavy load; her movements were those of a certain kind of select woman, noble or not, who could flatten empires underfoot. Your hair always looks fresh-dipped in a barrel of grease; hers was fine, shoulder-length, and watermelon-red. I have never seen your breasts, nor do I ever want to, but I would wager they hang off you like eggplants; hers, you could fit perfectly inside a cup. I do not say she was perfection. Her lower jaw, which was firm and angular, bestowed perhaps a little too much personality for a woman. Well, and since I have begun in this direction, I might as well go all the way; you, you had your chin stolen from you at some point, consummately rounding off your cretinous mien.

  What else? Ah, yes, small ears, eyebrows thin as brushstrokes and the color of russet, and as with most redheads, freckles splashed across her cheeks. She had precisely six hundred and forty-three freckles. (Later I’ll speak about the academic regime in Bazoches and how it was that I came to count those freckles.) If you had freckles, it would make you look like a leprous witch, whereas she resembled a creature out of myth. And now I come to think of it, one of the few heroes of this age I haven’t actually met is your henpecked husband, who puts up with a monstrosity like you every night. Why the tears? Have I said anything that is not truth? Come, take up the quill again.

  The maidservant listened carefully to what I had to say. I must have been convincing, because she asked to see my accreditation. She could read, confirmation that she occupied a high position in the servant hierarchy. I told her what had befallen me, which put her in a position to help or have me thrown out. And she helped me. She went off somewhere. I waited for a little while (though it seemed forever). She came back with arms full of clothe
s.

  “Take this morning suit,” she said, “and hurry. They’re starting already.”

  I ran off in the direction indicated, and didn’t stop until I reached a perfectly square room with a low ceiling. For furniture, there were only a couple of chairs, and a door was set in the wall facing. And, next to that, the two lugs responsible for my muddy state. They were on foot, waiting to be admitted.

  The first was thickset and had a squashed nose, the nostrils facing more forward than down, not unlike a pig’s. The other was tall and scrawny, with legs like a flamingo. His rich boy attire did nothing to hide his ungainliness; instead of having grown gradually, he seemed to have been suddenly yanked from above with tongs. Porky and Stretch, I christened them in my mind.

  The fact that they greeted me indifferently, casually, as if this were the first time we’d laid eyes on one another, is not so strange as it seems. Word to the wise, my dear orangutan: People tend to be poor at looking and worse at seeing. The first time Porky and Stretch saw me, it had been fleeting, and now they didn’t recognize me. Wearing this wonderful morning suit, I looked completely different. When Stretch spoke, his competitiveness was plain to see.

  “Another cadet? Good luck to you, but just so you know, I’ve been studying the principles of engineering for, oh, years. Only one student is going to be admitted, and it’s going to be me.” He emphasized the word me.

  “My dear friend,” said Porky, interceding. “You forget that I have been awaiting this chance just as long as you.”

  Stretch sighed. “I cannot believe Vauban himself is about to walk through this door,” he said. “A man responsible for the building or remodeling of three hundred strongholds. Three hundred!”

  “That’s right,” said Porky. “To say nothing of the one hundred and fifty acts of war he’s been involved in, great and small.”

  “The fairest and greatest of which,” insisted Stretch, “was taking fifty-three different cities. Harder to penetrate than Troy, each and every one!”