Soon enough they became friends and spoke freely to one another, enjoying the opportunity to talk of things outside the contaminations of war, politics and God, temporary though it was. Sundays and Wednesdays. The first few months went by swiftly, thanks to the field marshal.

One night, Curado said, ‘I’ve tried, Général, to have your circumstances reconsidered, but our Prince Regent remains stubborn. He is still extremely annoyed with Bonaparte for having forced his retreat from Lisbon. And as you are the Emperor’s closest and highest representative to hand . . .’

‘We are like brothers.’

‘For now, you must continue to endure.’ Curado stood and went to the window. He called out for his adjutant, who immediately came in through the door.

‘There,’ Curado said, pointing to the table.

‘Yes, Field Marshal.’

The adjutant began to remove items from a sack. There were bottles of wine, brandy, champagne, a small, stoppered earthenware jug of herbal digestive, tobacco, sugar and cured bacon. The adjutant left the room again and then came back with a pile of folded clothes: trousers, shirts, underwear, socks. Also, a new pair of Portuguese boots.

‘That is all,’ the field marshal said.

The young adjutant left the room and closed the door behind him.

Curado came over, rapped his knuckles twice against the tabletop. ‘So. I will be gone for a time.’

‘War?’

‘Yes, a small one,’ Curado said. ‘Across the Rio de la Plata. The Spanish are annoying the Prince Regent, too.’

‘He is easily annoyed?’

‘He is a spoilt child and thus men must die.’

‘Then I wish you good fortune and look forward to your return.’ Fourés pointed to the food and clothes. ‘And thank you.’

‘There is one other gift, Général, that I wish to make,’ Curado said. ‘I hope you will not take offence.’

She came the next evening, a young Pataxó Indian girl from the Bahia. The old man who swept the room and emptied the slop bucket led her through the door, her delicate wrist in his dry, arthritic hand. She was dark brown and small and very beautiful, with long shining black hair and round hips. She wore a simple white cotton dress, barefoot, and her ankles were ringed in bracelets of plaited leather and colourful stones, as were her wrists. There was a large wooden crucifix hanging from her neck.

‘Marta,’ the old man said and left. The door closed and the bolt snapped.

‘Marta,’ the général said.

The young Indian girl smiled. She walked over and stood by the bed, reached down for the hem of her dress and then pulled it up over her head. She dropped it to the floor. The candlelight flickered as she turned and slid naked inside the single white sheet.

Général Fourés sat at the table and sipped Curado’s brandy. That first night he sat and drank and watched Marta until she fell asleep.

HULK