Our carriage wheels rolled forward just past the archway, then settled with a creak to rest beneath the Triumphal Arch of Alfonso I. We were effectively trapped inside the unbarred courtyard while our protectors tried to hack their way through the enemy line at the gate.
I peered through the carriage window.
‘Do not look!’ Jofre warned, and Ferrandino echoed him.
‘Do not look! I am sorry you women must be exposed to the harshness of war.’
But I was fascinated, just as I had been by Ferrante’s museum of mummified corpses. I watched as an unarmoured Angevin nobleman, his fine brocade tunic damp with sweat and blood, his face soot-covered, wielded his sword mercilessly upon the infantryman farthest to my right. The noble was middle-aged, exquisitely trained; our soldier was young and terrified, and not long after being engaged, he stumbled slightly. It was enough for the older Angevin to move in for the kill, which he did, most efficiently: one stroke, two, and the young foot man turned, shrieking, to stare in horror at his right arm-which no longer bore a sword, or a hand, or an elbow. It was no more than a bleeding stump, and the lad fell back in a faint.
The noble parried his way past a second infantryman, then a third, by which time I could hear his victorious shout: ‘Death to the House of Aragon! Death to Ferrandino!’
His lips were still rounded in the final ‘O’ when one of our horsemen-disconcertingly close to the window-leaned down with his sabre and neatly ran the width of his blade along the Angevin’s shoulders, severing the head from the body.
The head toppled down, bouncing off the horse’s flank, then beneath its hooves, which kicked it beneath our carriage; a swift gush of blood spewed from the decapitated corpse’s neck, then its brocade-clad shoulders fell back and away. Our wheels attempted to roll forward and were obstructed as if by a great stone; the driver lashed his steeds until they pulled with all their might. With a great upward lurch, the carriage jolted over the Angevin impediment. Blessedly, the cacophony of battle drowned out the sound.
Across from me, Donna Esmeralda began a tremulous, impassioned prayer to San Gennaro for our safety; white-faced, Giovanna seized Ferrandino’s arm and held it fast.
More swords flashed silver in the sun. I saw a commoner engage our men, and get run through for his efforts; I saw another of our foot soldiers wounded, this time in the thigh. He fought as long as he could, then fell for want of blood. Though I could not see his end, given the height of the carriage and the soldiers that blocked my line of sight, I saw the rebel who raised his sword, again and again, and hacked at the fallen man.
After a time, we began to move in earnest, and made our way out onto the street. I turned for a final look at the Castel Nuovo. The gates were still open wide, even though the last of the royal carriages had passed; Angevins and commoners swarmed beneath the Triumphal Arch. In vain, I searched for helmets with plumes of gold and blue.
I craned my neck even more: behind us, the armoury was fully ablaze, its stone walls jagged and gaping. Farther beyond, greyish haze rose from fires dotting the landscape near Vesuvio. One would have thought the volcano had belched smoke and flame on the city, but this time, it bore innocent, silent witness to the destruction wrought by man.
Before I could take in more, Alfonso, seated next to Esmeralda, spoke firmly. ‘Leave it, Sancha. There is no point…’
He was right, of course. I forced myself to turn round and face forward, to censor the thoughts that tried to rise, of the pitiful people we had left behind in the courtyard, of my childhood home, abandoned to the enemy.
We clattered down the cobblestone streets. Our path took us directly along the coast. To my left lay the placid bay; to my right stood the exterior gardens of the royal palace, now a battlefield, and past them, the Pizzofalcone, on whose slopes Aragonese palaces burned. Behind me lay the city.
Our progress was steady but far from swift, given the size of our military escort. But our destination, the ancient fortress of the Castel dell’Ovo, which guarded the harbour of Santa Lucia, loomed ever closer. Now that we had passed through the thick of the fighting, for the first time I considered not what our family was leaving behind, but where we were going. Ferrandino had called for a ship: had he a destination in mind?
Were I King of a war-torn nation whose treasury had been stripped bare, there was but one place I would go. The notion caused me some trepidation-but I was immediately distracted by a sight that aroused my indignance: two commoners were running away from the royal palace, carrying the rolled-up Turkish carpet that had graced the floor of my father’s office. Worse, a third man accompanied them, clutching in his arms the golden bust of Alfonso I from my grandfather’s mantel.
My indignance did not last long. My ears filled with a booming, searing blast of wind: at the same instant, the carriage pitched sideways to the left, hurling me against Ferrandino and him against Giovanna; likewise, Esmeralda was thrown against my husband and brother. I cried out involuntarily at the shock, half-deafened, barely able to hear my own voice or the shrieks of the others.
Simultaneously, I was spattered with blood entering the window. For a breathtaking moment, we teetered on two wheels, propped against screaming men and horses. As all of us within the carriage clawed for purchase, soldiers rushed to push it: at last, it settled upright with a jolt.
Once we had collected ourselves, I stared out my window at the source of the commotion: a cannonball. It sat harmlessly now upon the cobblestone, but it had exacted a grisly toll. Beside it lay one of our riders, his thigh and the belly of his hapless mount sheared almost in half; the blood and bones and meat of man and horse mingled, impossible to distinguish.
Only one kindness had been granted them: both appeared to have been struck dead at once, for the young soldier’s open eyes and composed expression showed intensity, but no sign of astonishment or fear; he still bore the reins in one clutched fist. The horse’s large, handsome head was up, the bit still in his mouth, his eyes intelligent and bright; one of his front hooves was lifted gracefully, in preparation for the next prancing step. Each seemed, with the exception of their horrid, gaping wounds, a beautiful example of youth and strength.
I had wanted to be strong and perfect and brave, for the sake of the others, but I bowed my head, able to bear no more; in that fashion, I travelled the rest of the way to the Castel dell’Ovo. The image of the young rider and his mount accompanied me; indeed, it travels with me still.
I had grown up in Naples, but had never had cause to visit the homely keep named for Virgil’s mythical egg. It was scarcely the place for a princess to entertain herself, being a great stone square, wider at the base than at the top, with no furnishings other than military weaponry; it had been constructed to serve as a lookout and first defence against those who invaded by sea, and a last refuge and defence against those who invaded by land. It smelled dank and forbidding; the worn, uneven brick steps were slippery with mildew.
Rather than stay in safer quarters below, I insisted on climbing to the top, where soldiers served as lookouts. Several cannons, accompanied by piles of iron balls, stood at each turret, ready to fire down into the city. All of us who had travelled in the carriages-including those in the family who had preceded and followed us-had been deeply shaken not just by the ignominy of forced retreat, but by the suffering we had witnessed. I could not bear to sit and mourn with Donna Esmeralda as we waited for rescue; instead, I distracted myself by looking out at the sea, for the ship that was to take us away.
There was no sign of it. For hours, there was no sign, and I paced restlessly upon the aged bricks of the terrace while, from time to time, Alfonso emerged from below and asked whether the boat had been spotted.
No, I told him again and again, and each time, he returned to the chamber downstairs, where the King and his general were engaged in discussions of strategy. I stared west, refusing to watch the destruction of the city behind me, and watched as the sun moved lower towards the horizon.
The final time he inquired about the ship, I demanded:
‘Where are we going?’
He leaned forward and spoke in my ear, as if relaying a state secret that the soldiers were not to hear, even though his answer seemed so expected and obvious to me, it would have made no difference had he shouted it down into the streets. ‘Sicily. They say the King there has granted Father refuge in Messina.’
I gave a single nod.
Soon it was dusk, and I went downstairs to see the family. Given the delay, we had all grown quite nervous as to whether the general had kept his word, and the ship was indeed on its way: but once the sun had completely set, a shout came from one of the lookouts.
We hurried down to the ship without protocol, without elegance, without fanfare. The vessel was small and
