My private apocalypse began on the fifteenth day of July, barely two weeks after the ominous collapse of the ceiling upon the papal throne. We dined that night with His Holiness, and Lucrezia and I struck up a comfortable conversation with her father, one that we were reluctant to abandon when Alfonso stood up and announced:
‘With your leave, Your Holiness, I am tired this evening and wish to retire early.’
‘Of course, of course.’ Caught up in the discussion, Alexander dismissed him cursorily but civilly, with a wave of his hand. ‘May God grant you a good night’s rest.’
‘Thank you.’ Alfonso bowed, kissed Lucrezia’s hand and mine, then was off. I do not remember what we were chatting about, but I remember looking up at him, and being touched by the weariness in his face. Rome and its wicked intrigues had aged him; the sight prompted a distant memory: I was a mischievous eleven-year-old in Ferrante’s palace, taunting my little brother about our grandfather’s museum of the dead.
There were many things I wished I had never discovered; many things I wished I had been able to protect my brother from in Rome, allowing him to live in ignorant bliss. But such had been impossible.
I felt an odd desire to leave my conversation with Lucrezia at that moment and see Alfonso home-but to do so would have been rude. In retrospect, I cannot help but wonder how our lives would have changed had I accompanied him. Instead, I smiled up at him as he planted a kiss upon my hand; when he was gone, I dismissed all previous thoughts as useless worry.
An hour or two later, Lucrezia, the Pope and I had moved our talk out into the Hall of the Saints; our voices echoed off the walls of the vast, near-empty chamber. I had grown tired and was thinking of departing when we heard thunderous footfall and the alarmed voices of men headed towards us. Before I had time to realize what was occurring, soldiers had entered the room.
I looked up swiftly.
A uniformed papal guard, accompanied by five from his battalion, walked up to Alexander. He was a youth, no more than eighteen, his expression dazed, his complexion ashen with fright. Protocol demanded that he bow and ask permission to address His Holiness; the boy opened his mouth, but could not bring himself to speak.
In his arms, limp and pale as death, was my brother. I thought at once of the image of the Virgin, cradling the pierced and perished Christ.
Blood streamed from Alfonso’s forehead, painting his golden curls crimson, obscuring half of his face. The mantle he had worn earlier that night was gone-torn away-and his shirt slit in those areas where it was not stuck to his flesh with blood. One leg of his breeches was likewise soaked scarlet.
His eyes were closed; his head lolled back in the soldier’s arms. I thought that he was dead. I could not speak, could not breathe; my greatest fear had come true at last. My brother had perished before me; I no longer had reason to live, no longer had reason to abide by the morals of decent men.
At the same time, I saw the depth of my foolishness in a flash: I had always known, deep in my heart, that Cesare would try to kill my brother, had I not? It was the greatest possible revenge he could possibly take on me for rejecting him-greater, certainly, than taking my own life.
Had he not threatened as much at our last private encounter?
Lucrezia bolted to her feet, then fainted without a sound.
I left her on the floor and rushed to my brother. I put an ear to his gaping mouth, and nearly collapsed myself with tormented gratitude to hear the sound of his breath.
He was alive-alive, but terribly wounded, if not mortally so.
Behind me, Alexander had climbed down from his throne and was reviving his daughter.
I believe that determination and the realization that she was desperately needed returned Lucrezia almost at once to her senses. ‘I am well!’ she called, angry at herself for a show of weakness at such a time. ‘Let me see my husband! Let me go!’
She pulled away from her father’s embrace and stood beside me as both of us assessed Alfonso’s wounds. I wanted to scream, to faint as Lucrezia had. Most of all, I wanted to strangle His Holiness as he stood there, feigning innocence, for I had no doubt he had full knowledge of the planned attack.
I stared at Alfonso’s limp and beautiful form; like his wife, I forced myself into a state of preternatural calmness. In my mind, I heard my grandfather’s voice.
‘We cannot move him,’ Lucrezia said.
I nodded. ‘We need a room here, in these apartments.’
Lucrezia glanced at her father-not with her usual adoration and solicitousness, but with an uncharacteristic strength. In her grey eyes lay a clear threat should her command not be carried out. Alexander buckled at once.
‘This way,’ he said, and gestured for the soldier carrying Alfonso to follow him.
He led us to the nearby Hall of the Sibyls, where the guard gently laid Alfonso down on a brocade-covered bench. Lucrezia and I followed so closely, we pressed against the soldier on either side.
‘I will summon my doctor,’ Alexander said, but his words were ignored as Alfonso suddenly coughed.
My brother’s eyelids fluttered, then opened. Gazing up at Lucrezia and me, hovering tightly over him, he whispered: ‘I saw my attackers. I saw who directed them.’
‘Who?’ Lucrezia urged. ‘I will kill the bastard with my own hands!’
I knew my brother’s next word even before he uttered it.
‘Cesare,’ he said, and fainted again.
I let go a curse.
Lucrezia winced, and clutched her midsection, buckling forward as though she herself felt the bite of a blade; I caught her elbow to steady her, thinking she might fall.
She did not. Instead, she gathered herself, and showing no surprise at this horrifying revelation, addressed her father in an even, businesslike tone, as if he were a servant.
‘You may call for your doctor. But in the meantime, I shall send for the King of Naples’ own doctor. And the Spanish and Neapolitan ambassadors must be summoned at once.’
‘Send for water,’ I added, ‘and for bandages. We must do what we can before the doctor gets here.’ As my brother was still bleeding, I unfastened my sleeves at the shoulders and removed them, then pressed the heavy velvet fabric to the gushing wound on his brow. I called upon my father’s coldness, his lack of feeling, and for the first time, was grateful to find it in myself.
Lucrezia followed my example; she, too, removed one of her own sleeves and applied it to the wound on Alfonso’s thigh.
‘Send for Alfonso’s grooms-and my ladies!’ I demanded. Suddenly, I wanted nothing more than the comforting presence of Donna Esmeralda, and the company of our most trusted people from Naples.
In our desperation, Lucrezia and I failed to realize that the Pope himself took note of most of our requests, and ran to relay them to servants. One or two of the papal guards attempted to leave to follow our orders, but I looked up at them sharply. ‘Stay here! We cannot be without your protection. This man’s life is at stake, and he has enemies within his own household.’
Lucrezia did not contradict me. When her breathless father returned, she said, ‘I must have a contingent of at least sixteen armed men at the entrance to these chambers at all times.’
‘Surely you do not believe-’ her father began.
She eyed him coldly, her expression showing she most surely
‘Very well,’ Alexander said, in a voice oddly quieted-by guilt, perhaps, at seeing the grief he had allowed Cesare to inflict on Lucrezia. For the first time, the Pope demonstrated publicly the coward that he was: his inconstancy was not so much the result of political scheming as it was the result of being pulled in opposite directions by his advisors and his children.
We were soon surrounded in our sanctuary by the Neapolitan and Spanish ambassadors, the Pope’s doctor and
