Kings and Emperors

“They might’ve let hogs roam free, too,” Lewrie attempted to joke. “Fond as they are of ham in Spain and Portugal. Don’t see any, so the French must’ve eaten them, then shot the dogs and cats.”

“Catholic countries, sir,” Westcott reminded with a sneer.

“Dear God,” Mountjoy muttered with sad shakes of his head. “I imagined so much more of this wondrous city.”

“We should’ve asked that soldier where the army has its headquarters,” Lewrie said. “They might know where your man Marsh might be found. Unless he’s gone so native that nobody knows, of course.”

With no better idea, they strolled North from the river to the far end of the Praça do Comércio, where they were met by a party of Provosts doing their rounds, and discovered that the Commandant of Lisbon, General John Carr Beresford, was ensconced in the Castelo, an ancient fortress a long way uphill.

“Beresford!” Lewrie griped once they were on their way. “That fool! Remember him, Geoffrey, from Buenos Aires? He was the one in command, and surrendered his whole army to the Argentine rebels.”

“Wasn’t that much of an army, really,” Westcott scoffed, “or much of a battle when it came.”

“And he couldn’t even manage that,” Lewrie continued in some heat. “Garrison duty’s all he’s good for, though I thought that the Army would’ve sacked him by now. Christ, but they cling to their lack-wits like burrs to a saddle blanket!”

They could see the towers and battlements of the Castelo high above them, but it was a long, slow climb, and the cobblestones were treacherous footing. They passed homes with drying laundry strung cross the streets, tiny shops jammed between, slowly re-filling with foodstuffs from the countryside but still offering little, and an host of locals shopping for what little there was so far, and at inflated prices at that. People swarmed round moneychangers, pawn shops where family treasures were exchanged for money to keep body and soul together, people everywhere making their ways with sacks, crates, and kegs on their shoulders in search of better deals.

Even so, some of those tiny shops were aromatic with the smells of cooking, and Mountjoy would peek in to see what was offered, getting some of his good humour back as he extolled what he found; caldeirada de peixe, a fish stew with tomatoes, potatoes, and rice; cataplana, a shellfish stewed with wine, garlic, and tomatoes; ensopada de enguias, an eel stew; and acorda de camarrāoes, shrimp, garlic, and cilantro thick with bread crumbs. There some grilled strips of spicy chicken, another wee shop no wider than eight feet char-grilling sardines fresh from the sea. There were wine shops selling vinho verde, a crisp white, and reds by the meagre glass. Breads of various sorts, of course, and vegetables, were in others. Pastry shops were laying out hot custard tarts, some sort of cheesecake, and almond and egg custards.

“Damn my eyes, Mister Mountjoy, but you must stop,” Westcott insisted. “No more thrilling descriptions. You’re making me hungry!”

“Well, it ain’t as if we’ve an appointment with Beresford,” Lewrie pointed out, coming to a full stop. “Why not have a bite or two? Look, we’re almost to the Castelo, and there’s a tavern there, where the square opens up, right near one of the gates.”

“You’re still buying the wine,” Mountjoy insisted, this time in wry humour as they entered, took off their hats, and adjusted their eyes to the sudden dimness. The windows were few and small, though the double doors of the entry were as broad as the kind found in a barn. There were tables scattered about, a brace of opposing fireplaces for Winter days, a fair number of candles lit, and several Portuguese scattered about at their sublime ease, or indolence, listening to a musician; sipping wine, snacking on what fare the tavern offered. They found an empty table and sat down.

“That’s a fado he’s singing, by George,” Mountjoy said with a broad grin on his face.

“What, that caterwaulin’?” Lewrie scoffed.

It was in Portuguese, of course, slow for the most part, veering into a minor key, and both ineffably sad and haunting, then suddenly forceful and urgent, with many flourishes on the singer’s guitar.

“Sorrowful as all Hell, but most engrossing. Fados are a fascinating part of the country’s culture,” Mountjoy praised on.

“Then God help the Portuguese,” Westcott said, chuckling.

“Bom dia, senhores,” a waiter said as he came over.

“Ehm, bom dia,” Lewrie ventured, “ah … alguem aqui fala inglese?”

“Speak inglese, senhor?” the waiter puzzled over Lewrie’s horrid accent. “Sim, I do, falo um pouco … the little?” He launched into a lengthy explanation of how he’d become bilingual, all in fast Portuguese, of course, which went right over everyone’s heads. “Ja decidiram … what I get for you?” which sounded very much like zha-dee-see-dee-rowng, he asked at last.

The guitarist must have completed the long, long fado, for the locals in the tavern wearily clapped and whistled their appreciation. He began another tune, much faster paced, with many strums, plucks, and finger-drums against his instrument, head down in deep concentration, with a wide-brimmed country hat hiding his face.

“What the Devil?” Mountjoy asked as the musician began “Rule, Brittania!”

“Somebody likes us,” Lewrie said, turning to the waiter to ask for vinho verde.

“Viva Inglaterra!” the musician shouted, still head down. “Viva las inglese!”, and the local patrons raised a mild cheer to that, too.

“Maybe it’ll be their treat, hey?” Lewrie said, with a wink.

The guitarist suddenly looked up, then stopped playing, sprang off the tabletop to his feet, and swept off his hat. “Hallo, Mountjoy, and how d’ye keep, my good man?”

“Marsh?” Mountjoy blurted, stumbling to his feet and over-turning his chair in his astonishment. “How did you…?”

Knows how t’make the grand entrance, damn him, Lewrie thought as he stood as well.

“Have my ways, don’t ye know,” Romney Marsh/The Multitude said as he came over to shake hands, unable to help himself from dropping into his various guises as he explained himself. “Primero, I left Madrid as ze pobre musico, joos me an’ my guitarra, then from Seville to Ayamonte, I played ze gran caballero, wees deespatches from ze Seville junta. A fisherman, to cross the river and row up the marshes to Portugal … the French pay well for fresh eels and sardines, ye know … switched from Spanish to Portuguese, grounded the boat and walked off homeward with my nets and oars over my shoulder, and just kept on ’til I could steal a cassock and hat, some sandals, and became a Romish priest for most of the way, beggin’ my way, no problems at all, ’til I got close to Sentubal and the French patrols.

“Then, I made myself into a French cavalry officer from near Sentubal to the Tagus,” Marsh preened, changing his accent.

“You what?” Mountjoy exclaimed again.

“Well, the damned fool was just ambling along without a care in the world, looking for old Roman or Moorish ruins to sketch, and with an eye for available young women, too, I expect, as if he was in a park in Paris, not a hostile country. An extreme young’un, no error,” Romney Marsh said with a laugh as he sat down at the table with them and claimed a wineglass and the fresh-fetched bottle. After a deep sip, and an appreciative sigh, he continued his tale.

“I passed myself off to him as a Jesuit who had studied in Paris,” Marsh went on with a sly grin, “which explained my perfect French. There were some ruins, a mile or so off the main road, so I spun him a tale of their antiquity. He on his fine charger, me on my humble donkey, we rode up there. I warned him that what he was doing was dangerous, so … after he hopped about, sketching like mad, and we shared some bread, cheese, and wine, I fulfilled my warning.