fleet, designed for speed, not comfort; for safety’s sake, she flew the yellow and red Spanish banner instead of the Neapolitan colours.
Despite Donna Esmeralda’s urging that I come below, I stood on the deck as we set sail from Santa Lucia’s harbour. Although it was night, the city glowed from the blazes that had been set, and the cannons lit up the sky like bursts of lightning, allowing me to pick out landmarks: the armoury and Santa Chiara, where my father had been crowned, were both aflame; the Poggio Reale, a magnificent palace built by my father when he was still Duke, was almost entirely consumed. I was relieved to see that the Duomo had, for the time being, survived.
As for the Castel Nuovo, it burned brightest of all. I could not help wondering how the people had reacted when they discovered Ferrante’s museum.
I stood a long time watching on the deck, listening to the lap of the waves as Naples receded, a glittering, angry red jewel.
Spring-Summer 1495
VIII
We sailed due south through the warm waters of the Tyrrhenian Sea, and within a matter of days, arrived in Messina, once called
Sicily had been ruled for the past twenty-seven years by King Ferdinand of Aragon, he who had joined his kingdom to that of his wife, Isabella of Castile, with the idea of uniting Spain. Besides his blood ties to my family, Ferdinand had good reason to be kindly to the Borgias. As Jofre explained it, when his father Rodrigo was still Cardinal of Valencia, Ferdinand sought Pope Sixtus IV’s formal sanction of an Inquisition, by which he and Isabella hoped to rid their kingdom of all Moors and Jews, Christianized or not.
Sixtus flatly refused. Only after long, intense lobbying by the persuasive and powerful Cardinal Rodrigo Borgia did the Pope slightly relent-allowing the Inquisition to proceed in the province of Castile alone.
‘King Ferdinand was so grateful for my father’s help,’ Jofre told me, with a naivete that might have been touching had it not chilled me to the bone, ‘that he lent his full support to my father’s election as Pope.’
After we set foot upon land and news of our flight from Naples had spread, we were welcomed by the Spanish ambassador, Don Jorge Zuniga. We had taken refuge at a barely adequate villa that left us sorely crowded, with the brothers sharing a bedchamber, Alfonso and Jofre another, and Giovanna, Esmeralda and I a third, so that Ferrandino had the privacy befitting a monarch.
Don Jorge appeared the night of our arrival. He cut a dashing figure, in a cape and matching tunic of bright carmine, with a quick, easy smile beneath a drooping black moustache. I believe he had expected a warm welcome from our family, and abject pleas for help; he certainly did not expect what he received.
‘Your Highnesses,’ he said, bowing low to us all, and removing a feathered velvet cap with a sweep of his arm. ‘It is with great sorrow that I learned of the circumstances surrounding your journey to our fair island.’ He paused. ‘Our agents informed us of the uprising amongst the barons; we assume that they were emboldened by the events at Capua.’ The city of Capua lay inland, not far to the north of Naples. ‘The citizens there were so frightened by the size of Charles’ army that they opened the gates and let the French enter at will.’ He paused. ‘His Majesty King Ferdinand welcomes you, and stands ready to offer whatever aid you require.’
Ferrandino sat in the centre of our assembled family, in a place of honour, while the rest of us stood out of deference to his rank. Don Jorge, however, failed to notice the significance of this, prompting Uncle Federico to growl at him:
‘You will not address Ferrandino as His Highness any longer. He is now King Ferrante II of Naples.’
Don Jorge blinked in utter confusion, and began, ‘But King Alfonso…’ Then, ever the diplomat, he sensed the disapproval emanating from us, and bowed a second time, directing the gesture at Ferrandino. ‘Your Majesty. I humbly beg your pardon.’
‘Granted,’ Ferrandino said. Like the rest of us, he was exhausted, but projected an admirable air of authority. Even so, no amount of kingliness could erase the lines in his brow or the desperation in his eyes. His appetite remained poor, despite Giovanna’s coaxing, and his cheekbones now stood out in startling relief. ‘I do not know under what pretext my father came here to Messina; I can only assume that he was not forthcoming concerning the circumstances. I am also sure that you are a man of discretion, who can be trusted with the truth.’
‘Of course,’ the ambassador replied smoothly.
‘My father deserted us in our hour of greatest need,’ Ferrandino continued, ‘and stole a great deal of money from the state. We are here to retrieve it.’
Uncle Federico, whose indignance had been slowly building, could no longer contain himself. ‘You have been hosting a criminal! Is it not bad enough that your king did not supply us with troops in time…’
My half-brother turned on him and said sharply, ‘That is enough, uncle. You will not interrupt our conversation again.’
Federico pursed his lips.
‘We must offer our most abject apologies,’ Don Jorge said. ‘We assumed, when His Majesty-when His Highness Alfonso arrived, he did so for health reasons, to take advantage of our weather. We thought, most wrongly, that the family was aware of his arrival.’ He paused, tilted his head to study us each in turn, then said, ‘You are all royals here; I have no doubt you can all be trusted with the most confidential material.’
‘They can,’ Ferrandino affirmed.
‘I bring you very good news for the House of Aragon. Your calls for help have not fallen on deaf ears, Your Majesty. The Pope, the Emperor, King Ferdinand, Milan, Venice and Florence have banded together to form a Holy League. I apologize that we were unable to inform you of this fact earlier; there was too great a danger that the French might have intercepted a message and learned of our plans. But an army surpassing that of Charles’ will shortly be marching south from Rome to meet him.’
Ferrandino’s expression and eyes softened abruptly, as if he were looking upon something inexpressibly tender, like a newborn son, or a much-adored lover; for an instant, I thought he might weep. Though moved, he collected himself sufficiently to say, in a low voice, ‘God bless the Pope and the Emperor; and God bless King Ferdinand.’
Don Jorge arranged for carriages the following morning to take us to my father’s refuge. Federico, however, suggested Ferrandino remain behind-‘For,’ as he said, ‘it would not be seemly for the King to go begging for what is rightly his.’ The plan was to shame-and if necessary, threaten-my father into coming to his new sovereign, pledging fealty, asking forgiveness, and, most importantly, turning over the Crown treasures, which were still necessary if our troops were to fight alongside the Holy League. Certainly, they would be necessary for the day to day running of the kingdom-a prospect for which we now had real hope.
Ferrandino-transformed into a younger-looking man by what was probably his first night’s true rest in a year- agreed to Federico’s plan. Our two uncles wanted to go alone on their mission, but my brother convinced them otherwise. ‘Sancha and I must accompany you,’ Alfonso insisted. ‘We have a right to see our father and our mother, and ask them ourselves the reason for their actions.’
Thus, we all descended on the palazzo where the former Alfonso II now resided-a grand structure situated on a gentle slope above the harbour. Curiously, not a single guard stood watch at the unbarred gate; our own driver climbed down and swung it open wide, manoeuvred the carriage inside the courtyard, then secured the gate behind
