The Revolution of the Moon Page 11

  He did.

  Very well, then don Esteban had some news for him. Did he know that Jacopo, the twenty-year-old son of don Vincenzo Aricò, was killed in Catania four months following those events?

  The prince knew this.

  And did he know that don Vincenzo had died three months later, from heartache due to the loss of his son?

  The prince knew this too.

  But perhaps he did not know that don Vincenzo Aricò, as he was dying, had written a letter to don Angel—a letter that don Angel had never read, as he was already very sick. But donna Eleonora did read it.

  And did his excellency the prince want to know what the letter said, unless of course this might disturb him?

  His excellency the prince wanted to know, though purely for the sake of curiosity, given that he’d already resigned and, according to the law, could not be prosecuted in any way for any mistakes he might have made when in office.

  “Here is the letter,” said don Esteban, picking it up from the table and showing it to him. “Don Vincenzo confesses that the uprising broke out because his son, Jacopo, had had kidnapped and murdered—after having abused her at great length—the daughter of the merchant Angelo Butera. And that you, my lord prince, concocted a different story together with him, in exchange for three large sacks of gold coins. Along with the letter, don Vincenzo attached the testimony of his major domo, Nino Scileci, who’d gone materially to get the bags of money and was in the room when they were turned over to you. It is my duty to inform you, my lord prince, that yesterday evening this major domo, in person, and in our presence, verbally confirmed what he had written. And he submitted to us an empty sack identical to those in your possession. In conclusion, I cannot send you to jail, as you deserve, but I can require you to pay back three times the value of the three sacks of gold pieces.”

  “Why three times?” the prince, more dead than alive, managed to ask in a feeble voice.

  Don Esteban made a little smile.

  “It’s true, you don’t know yet. There is a new law, issued just this morning by donna Eleonora, which modifies the prior one. It also provides for the arrest of anyone who tries to avoid payment. You can go home now. You have one week to pay up. Tomorrow morning I shall let you know the exact amount you owe. We have to make some calculations. And I repeat: do not try to escape. You will be caught and arrested. You can go now.”

  Don Giustino did not stand up, and did not look at him.

  The prince left the palace walking like a drunkard, bracing himself against the walls to keep from falling. Not even if he sold the castle of Ficarazzi, the fief of Petralia, and his palazzo in Palermo could he scrape together enough money. One hour earlier he’d entered the palace a rich man, and he now was leaving it poorer than a beggar.

  CHAPTER TEN

  A Sunday to Remember

  It was only around the first light of dawn, when he put his mind at rest by accepting that Cilistina was now lost to him forever, that don Alterio had a clear idea of what he wanted to do and had to do. And everything he wanted and had to do could be summed up in a single word: revenge. But he couldn’t understand—since it was of no importance whatsoever—whether he wanted to take revenge for Cilistina’s murder or because don Simone had wounded his pride.

  Then, as if relieved of a great weight, he immediately plunged into a deep sleep.

  He woke up with donna Matilde shaking him, saying it was time to eat. It took great effort to open his eyes.

  “I’m not hungry,” he said.

  “Do you feel unwell?”

  Good God, what a pain!

  “I feel fine.”

  “So why do you want to stay in bed?”

  In his mind he cursed the saints, because if his wife found out, he would be forced to kneel down at once and beg forgiveness of the Lord.

  “Look, I’ll get up in a minute. Did the tailor bring the new clothes?”

  “Yes, this morning.”

  “Have some hot water prepared for me.”

  When Pippino told him the water was ready, he went into the lavatory and stayed there for an hour, washing himself inch by inch. Once he’d finished, he felt the need to wash himself a second time.

  He put on his new clothes and went out. He told his coachman to take out the most elegant carriage, the one with the ducal crest in gold, and to drive him to the palace. When he climbed inside, he lowered the curtains so that he could think, one word at a time, of what he would say to donna Eleonora.

  All of a sudden the carriage stopped. Perhaps an obstacle, he thought.

  But a moment later the door opened, a man rushed in, sat down beside don Alterio, and closed the door behind him.

  It was don Severino Lomascio, pale and frighted.

  “I was passing by in my carriage, and when I saw yours, I hailed it,” he said.

  Don Alterio noticed that he was trembling.

  “What’s happening to you?”

  “I’m fleeing Palermo.”

  “Why?”

  “They’re looking for me.”

  “Who is?”

  “The Grand Visitor’s guards. They’re after me because I didn’t show up at my appointed meeting with him this morning.”

  “And why didn’t you show up?”

  Don Severino looked at him in shock.

  “What kind of question is that? Haven’t you heard?”

  “No, what should I have heard?”

  “Didn’t you hear that yesterday, in barely two hours, don Esteban reduced the prince of Ficarazzi to total poverty and madness?”

  Now it was don Alterio’s turn to be shocked.

  “Really?!”

  Don Severino told him the story.

  “But you won’t solve anything by running away. The man will expropriate your possessions whether you’re here or not.”

  “In the meanwhile just this morning I sold two of my fiefs and my house here in town to don Onofrio Sucata and had him pay me in hard coin. I took a big loss, but it’s still better than nothing. I’m going to go and hide in a really out-of-the-way place near Girgenti, where they won’t find me even if they come with dogs. And what do you intend to do?”

  “When he calls me, I’ll go.”

  “Good luck,” don Severino said to him, getting out of the carriage.

  “Thanks, I really need it,” don Alterio said to himself as his carriage started moving again.

  It was just before ten o’clock, and they were in the sitting room of the private apartment, with donna Eleonora in an armchair and don Alterio standing in front of her.

  The marquesa had invited him to sit down, but he refused, standing stiffly before her like a soldier—even though his legs were shaking a little.

  “If I’ve understood you correctly,” said donna Eleonora, who for the fifteen minutes in which he’d been talking had maintained the same expression of near total indifference, “when you came to talk me into granting the subsidio to the Sagrado Refugio, did you already know for what horrible purpose the orphan girls were put there?”

  “Yes, I knew.”

  “And when you came with me to the refugio and realized the trick that don Simon was playing, you said nothing?”

  “That’s right”

  “And you did all this por una malsana pasión for one of the orphan girls?”

  “Unfortunately, yes.”

  “And you suspect that el marqués sent someone a matar a dos huérfanas, y a la chica de la que Usted estaba enamorado, because they were pregnant?”

  “I have reason to believe that is what happened.”

  “And this Sunday night there will be una fiesta particular at the refugio, among eight of the refuge’s regular patrons?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you aware of the irremediables consecuencias your words may have for you?”
/>
  “I am perfectly aware of them.”

  “Do you have any remordimiento for what you have done?”

  “No.”

  Donna Eleneora remained silent for a long time. Then she said:

  “I must now ask you a question that will be difficult to answer, ya lo sé. But you must answer sinceramente.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “The first time the Council voted in favor of el subsidio al marqués, did everyone already know that my husband, the viceroy,, estaba muerto?”

  Don Alterio’s gullet was as dry as the desert.

  He wanted to say yes, but no voice came out.

  He nodded his head affirmatively.

  “One last question—and mi decisión will depend on your answer. Why are you doing all this?”

  Don Alterio ran his parched tongue over his parched lips. He could have invented a hundred and one reasons, but with this woman it was best to be sincere.

  “For revenge,” he said.

  Donna Eleonora stood up ever so slowly.

  She was now a little pale, but her voice was the same as always, calm and harmonious. She looked don Alterio in the eye.

  Is there such a thing as a black flame that flashes dark and violent? For a moment he saw just such a mysterious flame burning in the marquesa’s pupils. And he felt more afraid than he ever had before in his life.

  “I understand how you feel,” said donna Eleonora. “Because I’m taking my own steps towards revenge. You men of the Council mocked a dead man and took shameless advantage of el cadáver de mi esposo. Jamás se lo perdonaré. My revenge on you will be to deny you your revenge.”

  Upon hearing these last words don Alterio felt himself dying. So it had all been pointless. Had he ruined himself for nothing?

  “But I won’t do it,” the marquesa continued. “You shall have your vendetta. Con una condición.”

  “What?”

  “That on Sunday night you take part in this fiesta.”

  “I’m sorry . . . but, I no longer want to set foot in there.”

  “But you must.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t think los presuntos caballeros who will taking part in the fiesta with the eight orphan girls can be charged with anything. The only one who will be placed under arrest will be the marquis. I, however, con toda mi fuerza, want to subject the eight of you a la ignominia general, so that your illustrious names will be mud, para siempre.”

  “I’ll do as you ask,” said don Alterio.

  That evening a rumor spread that don Severino Lomascio had been arrested trying to flee and because of this had been put in jail. There was also news that don Arcangelo Laferla, former Admiral of the Fleet, after being given the third degree by the Visitor General don Esteban, had been reduced to begging for alms on the streets. All his estates, and there were many, had been exprorpriated.

  On the occasion of the first meeting of all the consuls of the guilds, don Valerio Montano announced a new law promulgated by the Viceroy, donna Eleonora.

  The law—called the law “of the three thirds”—determined that anyone who had any work done by people belonging to the guilds had to pay a third of the estimated cost at the start of the work, another third halfway through, and the last third at the end. Thus it became no longer possible for the nobles, the rich, and the well-off to pay for labor whenever they damn well pleased or to pay only half or even not to pay for it at all, as often happened.

  The consuls were thrilled and called for a large demonstration of thanks on Sunday morning, at ten o’clock, to be held outside the palace.

  And since in the guilds there were a great many patri onusti, the word got around and all the “burdened fathers” of Palermo decided to take part in the celebration of thanks.

  That same day donna Eleonora received, in the Hall of Council, the six people who had agreed to become the new Councillors. They had been chosen one by one by don Serafino and don Alterio, and were all men whose honesty and rectitude were above suspicion.

  They were: Monsignor Don Benedetto Arioso, bishop of Patti; don Filippo Arcadipane, prince of Militello, Grand Captain of Justice; don Sebastiano Consolo, duke of Scianò, Grand Treasurer; don Gaetano Currò, marquis of la Fiumara, Judge of the Monarchy; don Michele Galizio, count of Sciacca, Admiral of the Fleet; and don Artidoro Giummara, baron of San Michele, Chief Administrator. The current protonotary and secretary were reconfirmed in their positions and witnessed the six Councillors’ bows of obeisance.

  It was determined that the Council would meet twice a week, on Tuesdays and Wednesdays.

  At four o’clock that afternoon, members of all seventy-two of the city’s guilds and one hundred and eighty “burdened fathers,” all with their wives and children, gathered in the square outside the Palazzo.

  Never had so many people been seen all together like that, and strangest of all, so happy.

  There were a few scrolls held aloft with wooden poles. The biggest one said:

  Palermo reborn! The time has come!

  We thank our Lady all and one!

  Some shouted out loud: “Long live donna Eleonora!” Some cried: “We are all with you!” But then, little by little, all the different voices became a single chorus:

  “Come to the window! Come to the window!”

  Donna Eleonora, who was watching, unseen, from a half-shuttered window, had no desire to come out into the open. It was the Chief of Ceremonies who finally persuaded her.

  “If you don’t, they won’t go away,” he said.

  Donna Eleonora opened the shutter and came to the window.

  As soon as the people saw her they were dumbstruck, dazzled by her beauty.

  A silence so total came over the crowd, it was frightening. Indeed, someone who couldn’t see well asked fearfully:

  “What happened? What happened?”

  One second later a roar went up from the crowd, making the earth quake.

  * * *

  Bishop Turro Mendoza also quaked when he heard what had happened in front of the palace. By this point the marquesa had all of Palermo in the palm of her hand. And surely it was only a matter of days before he was summoned by the Visitor General, who would pick him clean.

  And so he made a sudden decision. And a dangerous one. But, with nothing left to lose . . .

  Thus, at midday Mass, with the faithful crammed into the Cathedral—which was something of a surprise, since it was not any special feast day—the flock watched him step up into the pulpit.

  The bishop began by saying he wanted to open the eyes of the good people who were falling into a perilous trap laid by the Evil One. He said that the devil might be depicted with horns and a tail but that he very often changes aspect and can take on the appearance of an average gentleman or, worse yet—and this was something that happened more often—that of a very beautiful woman of angelic appearance.

  And not only did this devil in woman’s guise possess the power of beauty, but she also came across as a person of noble sentiment, generous and anxious to do good.

  “With a woman like that, it’s as if she is offering you a basket full of fresh, delicious fruit. You poor folk, how could you know it’s a trick? And so you give thanks, and you reach out and take one of the fruits. How good it tastes! So you want another. And so you reach out again, and you don’t see that this time, hidden at the bottom of the basket, is a poisonous snake, which bites your finger. You pay no mind to it, but meanwhile the devil’s poison has entered you, and there’s nothing more to be done. Now you, my faithful, you may be asking yourselves: How can he speak that way about a woman who is doing things for our betterment?

  “And so I now ask you: How is it that this person, in all the time she’s been here—and it’s been more than two years—has never once, never, felt the need for a confessor? Does that seem right to you? I ask this
of you, who confess and take communion regularly.

  “And I ask as well, how is it that our late Viceroy was in fine health until the day she arrived, and then started to get sick?

  “And finally, why does she keep her husband’s dead body in a room inside the palace and doesn’t want him given a proper Christian burial? Do you know how much the souls of the dead suffer . . . ”

  He interrupted himself for a moment, because an idea had flashed through his head, and then he resumed in conclusion:

  “ . . . how much the souls of the dead suffer when they are left without a prayer, without a Mass? These are the things I want you to reflect upon. And, like good Christians, you should have your friends reflect upon them as well, those who are unable to be here.”

  Having finished his sermon, he went into the sacristy and told his secretary to go and send at once for Don Asciolla, the priest of the palace chapel.

  He must come at once, without a moment’s delay. They would wait for him at the bishop’s palace.

  Going into his office, the bishop sent for Don Scipione Mezzatesta, a young priest whom he’d used in the past for certain matters better left unsaid. If they were ever to become known, they would certainly both end up in the clutches of the Holy Office.

  He told him what he wanted from him. And Don Scipione replied that he was ready and able, as always.

  With Don Asciolla, the bishop was curt and brusque.

  “Has donna Eleonora come to the chapel today?”

  “No, your excellency, she has never set foot in there.”

  “Have you tried to persuade her that, if she can’t be bothered to take Communion, she should at least come on Sundays to hear the Holy Mass?”

  “Never, your excellency.”

  “And why not?”

  “Because it’s no use, with that woman.”

  “Well it’s no use with you either, Don Asciolla. I’m transferring you here, effective immediately. Don Scipione will be taking your place at the palace chapel.”

  Towards nightfall, on the sly, some forty soldiers under the command of Captain Miguel Ortiz entered the area around the little palace of the Holy Refuge and took up positions. The captain found a spot from where he could keep an eye on the main door, and started counting the carriages that arrived and then left without their occupants. When the seventh one had come and gone, he knew that all the guests were now there, since the marquis had already been inside for some time.