What? I sat up, fogged by sleep. For a moment, the announcement seemed very natural; it was Christmas, and my mother had come to visit her children, just as she did every holiday. I had forgotten that she had gone to Sicily; I had even forgotten about the uprising, and the French.
What? I repeated, this time properly startled, as my waking memory returned. I pulled a wrapper around my shoulders and hurried into my antechamber.
In the instant before I laid eyes upon my mother, I hoped that she had come to her senses, had accepted my offer to come and live in Naples. My heart ached to think of her, cut off from the world, trapped with a man who might have loved her in his tortured way, but had never known how to demonstrate that love properly; now that he had gone mad, he could not even acknowledge her presence.
One glance at Madonna Trusia drew from me a horrified gasp. I expected a smiling, radiant beauty; instead, standing just inside the doorway next to Donna Esmeralda was a stricken old woman dressed in black. Even her golden hair was veiled, like the sun blotted out by storm clouds. She was frail, thin, with an ashen pallor and grey shadows beneath her eyes. It was as though all my fathers misery and pain had been transferred to her, sapping the joy and comeliness that had been hers.
My mother sagged into the nearest chair and spoke to Esmeralda without looking at either of us. Fetch my son.
Beyond that, she said no more; she did not need to, for I knew at once what had happened. I pulled a chair close to hers, and took her hand; she bowed her head, unwilling to meet my gaze. We sat in silence, waiting. I felt a constricting ache at the base of my throat, but did not permit myself to cry.
After a time, Alfonso appeared. He, too, took a single glance at our mother and knew at once what had transpired. He is dead? he whispered.
Trusia nodded. My brother knelt before her and hugged her skirts, his head in her lap. She stroked his hair; I looked on, an outsider, for my greatest sorrow was not my fathers death, but the suffering it provoked in the two I loved most.
At last Alfonso raised his head. Was he ill?
My mother put a hand to her mouth and shook her head; for a long moment, she could not speak. When she at last had a measure of control, she lowered her hand, and in a tone that seemed rehearsed, began to tell the tale.
It was three weeks agoHe had seemed to come to himself previously, to realize what had occurred-but then he stopped sleeping altogether, and the madness returned worse than ever. He was angry, restless, often pacing and shouting, even when he was alone in his favourite chamber. You remember the room-the one with the great chair, and the sconce above it.
That night, she continued, with increasing difficulty, I was awakened by a great groaning, scraping sound coming from Alfonsos chamber. I feared he might have hurt himself, so I hurried to see him at onceI took a taper since he always sat in darkness.
I found him pushing his chair across the room, and when I asked him why he was doing so, he answered irritably, I have grown weary of the view. What else could I do? She paused, filled with sudden remorse. The attendants were all aslumber, so I set down the candle and helped him as best I could myself. When he was satisfied, I left him in the darkness.
I went back to bed, strangely agitated. I could not sleep-and only a few moments later, I heard another noise-this one not as loud, but there was something about itSomething so that I knew She put her hands to her face and bowed beneath the weight of the memory.
From thence, she was only able to speak haltingly, so I summarize here what she relayed:
My father had carried in a second chair, one much lighter than the one he had used as a delusional throne, and set it beneath the heavy wrought-iron sconce suspended from the ceiling, then stepped onto its seat. He had procured a length of rope; this he knotted to his royal sash, which bore upon it jewels and medals won for his victories at Otranto.
The rope he fastened securely to an arm of the sconce; the sash he wrapped snugly about his neck.
The sound my mother heard was that of the lighter chair being kicked over.
The heart ofttimes knows things before the mind deduces them; the impact of wood hitting marble evoked in Trusia such alarm that she rushed, without wrapper or candle, into my fathers chamber.
There, in the faint light of the stars and the beacon of Messinas harbour, she saw the dark form of her lovers body, rotating slowly in the noose.
Expressionless, toneless, my mother proclaimed, I can never rest now, for I know he suffers in Hell. He is in the Forest of the Suicides, where the Harpies nest, for he hanged himself in his own house.
Still kneeling before her, Alfonso gently caught her hands. Dante is pure allegory, Mother. At worst, Father is in purgatory, for he did not know what he was doing. He did not even know he was in Messina when I spoke to him. No man would condemn another for an unknowing act-and God is more compassionate and wiser than any man.
My mother looked up at him with an expression of pathetic hope, then turned to me. Sancha, do you believe this is possible?
Of course, I lied. But if one put any faith in Dante, King Alfonso II would right now be in the seventh circle of Hell, in the river of blood which boiled the souls of those tyrants who dealt in blood and plunder. If there were any justice, he would be trapped next to his sire, Ferrante, torturer, creator of the museum of the dead.
There was one other place he belonged-in the farthest depths of Hell, in Satans jaws, the place reserved for the greatest traitors. For he had betrayed not just his family, but his entire people. There was no brimstone there, no fire, no heat-only the worst cold of all, cruel and bitter.
As cold as my fathers heart, as cold as the look I had so often seen in his eyes.
My mother remained in Naples and recovered slowly from her sorrow. For myself, I prayed out of desperation to a God I doubted: Keep my heart from evil; let me not become as my father was. After all, I had already killed a man. Often I woke, gasping, feeling a spray of warm blood upon my brow, my cheeks, imagining that I wiped my eyes and gazed at the amazement in my victims dying eyes. A noble act, everyone said. I had saved the King. Perhaps I had saved Ferrandino, but there was still nothing noble in the taking of a life.
Despite the tragedy of my fathers death-the circumstances of which were hidden from the public and the servants and never discussed again within our family-life in Naples grew happy once more. Ferrandino and Giovanna were married in a glorious royal ceremony, the palace was refurbished and became once more a luxurious dwelling, and the gardens began to grow back. Under Alfonsos influence, Jofre became a dutiful husband.
Five months passed. By May of the year 1496, I had just grown comfortable in my contentment, and no longer dreamed every night of cannon fire and warm blood, no longer closed my eyes and saw the silhouette of my fathers body dangling in the darkness. I had Ferrandinos promise that my husband and I would remain in Naples; I had the company of my mother and brother, and wanted for nothing. For the first time, I entertained the idea of raising my sons and daughters in Naples, amongst family members who would show them only love.
Pope Alexander, however, had other plans.
I was sitting with my mother and brother at supper when Jofre appeared with a piece of parchment in his hand, and a look of dread on his face. I surmised at once that he was obliged to tell me the contents of the letter, and that he was terrified of my reaction.
He had good reason to be afraid. The letter was from his father. I guessed correctly that the scene between us was about to become unpleasant, so I excused myself from supper, and we two went to discuss the matter in private.
According to Alexander, the war in Naples has reminded us of our own mortality, and the fragility of all life. We wish to live out the rest of our years surrounded by our children.
All of them-including Jofre, and especially his wife.
I thought of the Count of Marigliano, who had visited me in Squillace at Alexanders behest, when I had been accused of unfaithfulness to Jofre. He had warned me in a discreet manner that one day His Holiness would no longer be able to contain his curiosity: he would want to see with his own eyes the woman his youngest son had married, the woman everyone claimed was more beautiful than his mistress, La Bella.
I cursed, I waved my arms at poor cowed Jofre. I insisted that I would not go to Rome, even though I knew my refusal was doomed. I went to Ferrandino and begged him to convince His Holiness to let me remain in Naples-but we both knew that a kings word held less sway than a popes. There was nothing that could be done. After waiting so long for Naples to be returned to me, she was taken from me again.
Late Spring 1496
X
Jofre and I rode into Rome on the twentieth of May, 1496, to the chiming of cathedral bells at ten oclock in the morning on a brilliantly sunny day. For the entertainment of the assembled crowds of noblemen and commoners, we organized ourselves into a parade, which would be met by Lucrezia Borgia, the Popes second eldest child and only daughter, and led to the Vatican.
Alexander VI had done what no pope before him had dared to: he openly acknowledged his children as his own, instead of referring to them as nieces or nephews, as other pontiffs had done in the past. It was said he loved them dearly, and this must have been the case, for he brought them all to live with him in the papal palace immediately after his election. Even outside my marriage to Jofre, I had heard talk of Lucrezia: it was rumoured that she was exceptionally beautiful.
What is your sister like? I had asked Jofre, on our journey northward.
Sweet, he had said casually, after a moments reflection. Modest, and very charming. You will like her.
Is she beautiful?
He hesitated at that. She ispretty. Not so pretty as you, of course.