The Revolution of the Moon Page 18

  “Is there un pasaje interior between the cathedral and the bishop’s palace?” she asked.

  “Yes,” replied don Filippo Arcadipane. “The bishop can go directly from his palace to the cathedral through a door in the sacristy.”

  “We must keep this door locked. Have two or more soldiers posted outside it. The bishop must remain isolated in his palace apartment, which will be watched día y noche to prevent him from trying to escape. The cathedral must remain open for worship, so that no one can accuse us of abusing our authority. You, don Filippo, must tell the bishop, hoy mismo, of the decision we have reached as a result of the charges against him.

  “But what about when he has to appear in court?” asked the Judge of the Monarchy.

  “We shall ask him if he wants to admit his guilt. Si dirá que sí, he must present himself in chains. Si dirá que no, we shall take him by force after he has been convicted, and only then.”

  Contrary to don Filippo’s expectations, Turro Mendoza remained relatively calm upon hearing the news that he should consider himself under arrest, and that only out of respect for his person had donna Eleonora decided not to send him to jail. He answered by saying that this was a great trial the Lord was putting him through, and that he was confident he would get through it with the strength of his faith. Don Filippo then asked him for a list of no more than ten people who would be the only ones authorized to enter and leave the bishop’s palace. Among these ten the bishop included the name of Don Puglia, his secretary, who, he explained, was out of Palermo at that moment but would be returning soon. He was someone who should be allowed to come and go at all hours of the day and night.

  The enormous episcopal palace, between main doors, secondary doors, carriage gates and stable gates, not to mention little doors more or less hidden, counted no less than twelve entrances, which was why the armed soldiers placed on guard outside numbered in excess of twenty.

  And that was not all. These soldiers would stop the people entering, asking them the purpose of their visit and who they were going to see. It took barely half a day before all of Palermo realized that something odd was happening to His Excellency the bishop.

  The first night passed quietly.

  In the early hours of the following day, Inquisitor don Camilo Rojas y Penalta requested an audience with donna Eleonora.

  She’d seen him only once before, when don Camilo came to bow in obeisance to her, and she had immediately disliked him. Skinny as a skeleton, he wore an eye-patch around his death’s head of a skull, covering his left eye, which had been gouged out by a prisoner who, having nearly lost his mind after hours and hours of torture, had pretended to faint and then attacked him.

  Don Camilo always came off as a sort of starving, wild beast, because for many years now the Holy Office’s fortunes had been in decline. They couldn’t find a heretic anywhere for love or money, all the witches had disappeared, and they never got to burn anyone at the stake in the public square anymore. Where had all the lovely auto-da-fés gone? Nowadays one had to settle for torturing false witnesses, husbands with two wives, people who slandered others and told lies about them. All stuff that fell under the purview of normal secular justice as well, leading often to jurisdictional disputes between the two courts.

  Donna Eleonora had been expecting this visit ever since she had the bishop confined to his apartment, and she was well prepared.

  “I’m told that His Excellency Bishop Turro Mendoza is being confined in his palace,” don Camilo began. “And so I’ve come here to deplore the fact that the Holy Office was not duly informed, in timely fashion, of the accusations against him. According to the custom and the law, those who have never infringed—”

  “Do you know what they are?” the marquesa interrupted him.

  “The charges? No, and I would appreciate it if you—”

  “He is accused of committing a foul act against two little boys who were in the Cathedral choir.”

  The Inquisitor looked stunned.

  “Are you serious?!”

  Donna Eleonora looked at him but did not deign to answer. Don Camilo brought a hand to his forehead.

  “That seems quite unbelievable to me!”

  Again the marquesa said nothing.

  “Has he confessed?”

  “He says that this is a trial that God has chosen to put him through.”

  Don Camilo ran his tongue over his lips.

  “If he is guilty, which is yet to be determined, I know how to make him confess.”

  The sound of these words struck donna Eleonora like a punch in the stomach. She looked at don Camilo coldly, narrowing her eyes into little slits.

  “How can you be so sure that a man isn’t telling the truth—or better yet, the truth that you want him to say—simply to end the torture to which you are subjecting him?”

  “If the man says the truth I want to hear, he will at any rate still be telling the truth, because I know what is true.”

  Donna Eleonora couldn’t stand it any longer. She had to get this man out of her sight as quickly as possible.

  “And now that you know what the bishop is accused of . . .”

  “Now that I know, I think there’s no doubt that the case falls under the jurisdiction of the Holy Office. It involves a crime committed by a bishop.”

  “I don’t want to quibble with you,” the marquesa said sharply.

  “Please forgive me,” don Camilo said promptly.

  “Pray, take up the question with the Judge of the Monarchy,” donna Eleonora continued. “He is more competent in such matters than I.”

  Don Camilo bowed and made as if to leave. Donna Eleonora carried on speaking.

  “I should, however, like to underscore that, as the born Legate of the Pope, I would have the authority to judge the case of a crime committed by a bishop. But, at the moment, I’ve no wish to do so.”

  * * *

  That afternoon, when don Gaetano Currò, the Judge of the Monarchy, spoke with donna Eleonora, he seemed quite worried.

  “I discussed things at great length with don Camilo Rojas y Penalta. Unfortunately we have no arrows in our quiver,” he said.

  “So, is he right?”

  “Unfortunately, yes. There’s nothing in writing, mind you, but it is the custom that common crimes committed by men or women of the Church are the concern of the Holy Office. All the more so if they involve a bishop and head of the Church of Sicily. No, I’m afraid don Camilo will have to handle this. He cited seven cases of priests, including one monsignor, who were condemned for the foul deed by the Holy Office in the last three years.”

  “Did you verify this?”

  “Of course. I read all the sentences handed out over the past three years.”

  “Also las causas absolutorias?”

  “Yes, even the acquittals.”

  “Have there been cases where the Holy Office has acquitted priests of committing the foul deed because they found the accusations untrue?” asked donna Eleonora.

  “Yes, two.”

  The marquesa thought about this for a moment. Then she asked:

  “Do you know what kind of relationship Turro Mendoza and don Camillo have with each other?”

  The Judge of the Monarchy’s face darkened considerably.

  “To call them fraternal would be an understatement.”

  He paused a moment and then continued.

  “That’s what worries me. If they weren’t friends, it would make little difference whether Turro Mendoza was tried by us or by the Court of the Inquisition. But now you’ve got me wondering whether this isn’t all a maneuver whose ultimate purpose is to absolve the bishop of the accusations.”

  “As long as I am here, that will never happen,” donna Elenora said firmly.

  Don Gaetano Currò looked down at his shoes. The black flame that sometimes lit
up in that woman’s eyes was unbearable.

  “What can we do?” the marquesa asked after a pause.

  “For the time being, I would like some proof of our suspicions,” said don Gaetano.

  “Proof?”

  “Communicate the Holy Office’s request to the bishop, and wait to see his reaction. The Inquisition is synonymous with torture and any normal person would pay in gold to submit to the justice of a royal court. If, however, he accepts without objection to be tried by the Tribunal of the Holy Office, it means he’s putting his trust in his friendship with don Camilo and knows he’ll get off scot-free.”

  Don Gaetano returned to the palace two hours later. He’d spoken with the bishop, who considered it quite fair that he should be judged by the Holy Office.

  So there was no longer any doubt: don Camilo Rojas y Penalta would conclude that the accusations were untrue.

  “And so?” said donna Eleonora.

  “And so we have no choice but to proceed as if don Camilo had never made his request,” said don Filippo.

  “And what will we gain from that?”

  “Time, my lady. We will gain precious time. Before don Camilo has a chance to renew his request more forcefully, in writing, we have to have already judged and sentenced the bishop. The whole thing has to be settled as quickly as possible.”

  * * *

  In the meantime, it was a fine, sunny day in Spain as well as in Sicily, and two important things happened this day.

  The first was that His Majesty the King of Spain had promptly received the Pope’s letter. And read it. He immediately convened a meeting of his councillors.

  They had a brief discussion, and three hours later an answer was ready to be sent out.

  His Majesty had little trouble acknowledging the serious predicament in which the Holy Mother Church had found herself, having a Papal Legate undeniably of the female sex to contend with. And for this reason, however heavy the matter might weigh upon his heart, he was prepared to recall donna Eleonora di Mora, marquise of Castel de Roderigo, to Spain.

  But only on one condition, from which he would not waver. Sine qua non, as the Ancient Romans used to say.

  And that was that, given the fact that donna Eleonora had acted well sub jure proprio—that is, as far as concerned the Kingdom—and given the fact that she had never used her power as Papal Legate, His Majesty did not see any reason why he should nullify any acts of government or laws already instituted by her or debated before the last day of September. These were matters that concerned the Kingdom of Spain, not the Papacy. If His Majesty the King were to annul the acts of the Viceroy, it might be viewed as undue interference by the Church in the affairs of the Kingdom. What’s done, dear Pope, cannot be undone, and there’s no turning back.

  If the pope accepted these conditions, fine. Otherwise, the viceroy would not be recalled.

  It was his choice.

  In the meantime, awaiting His Holiness’ prompt reply, His Majesty the King humbly and filially bowed down in devotion.

  * * *

  The second important thing that happened was that Cocò Alletto, a man of sixty, woke up.

  It was not, of course, such an unusual thing for someone, at morning’s arrival, to wake up.

  The fact, however, was that Cocò Alletto did not awaken from a good night’s sleep, but from a drunken stupor so long even he didn’t know how many days and nights it had lasted.

  It had all begun when his ex-boss, don Severino Lomascio, marquis of Roccalumera and former Judge of the Monarchy, thrown in jail and stripped of all his properties, had shown up at the single room in which Cocò had been reduced to living.

  Don Severino had asked him if he would be so kind to give him a bed, and Cocò had lent him his own.

  And shared his soup with him.

  Then, the next evening, don Severino had returned in a rather agitated state.

  “The wheel of fortune may just have turned in my favor, Cocò!”

  He’d written a long letter and entrusted it to Cocò, saying that if he didn’t return that evening, he must deliver the letter at once to the Captain of Justice.

  And along with the letter, he had put a handful of coins on the table.

  “These are for your trouble.”

  And he’d left.

  Never in his life had Cocò Aletto had that much money, not even in the days when he worked as a manservant at Palazzo Lomascio.

  He decided that it was best to remain awake to see whether don Severino came home or not. He put the coins in his pouch, grabbed a jug, went out to the nearest tavern, had them fill it with wine, returned, and started drinking.

  He’d hidden the letter under the pallet that served him as a bed.

  When the morning light shone in, he realized that don Severino hadn’t returned.

  He decided to finish the jug of wine and go to the Captain of Justice. But then he suddenly fell asleep.

  When he woke up again, he didn’t know how much time had passed. Then he became convinced that don Severino had just gone out. And so he got up and went to have the jug refilled.

  That morning, however, he realized that a lot of time must have passed. Luckily there was still some water in the basin. And so he washed himself and headed for the palazzo of the Grand Captain, which was a place he knew well because he used to deliver letters there every other day when don Severino was Judge.

  In fact the clerk receiving letters as well as requests and denunciations recognized him.

  And, repeating the words don Severino had said to him, Cocò handed him the letter.

  Which, one hour later, was before the eyes of the Grand Captain of Justice.

  It began as follows:

  Most Illustrious don Filippo Arcadipane, this letter is from one who was once Judge of the Monarchy and sat on the Holy Royal Council but today is only Severino Lomascio, a wretch reduced to poverty and forced to resort to the basest expedients to survive.

  Survive?

  If you are reading these lines, it can only mean one thing: that I am dead. Murdered. You should therefore know that the person who gave the order to kill me—probably to his secretary, who I believe is called Puglia—is His Excellency, Bishop Turro Mendoza.

  Let me explain, with no pity towards myself first and foremost, the reasons.

  And here the letter went on to explain how, upon having learned by chance that the bishop was about to be put on trial for committing the foul deed upon two little boys of the choir, he quickly went to see His Excellency to ask him for three thousand scudi in exchange for the information, and another six for revealing to him how to get out of his predicament.

  Begging the honorable Captain’s pardon, he confessed that he did not think it advisable to tell him in a letter what the solution was. This would remain between him and the bishop.

  He was quite certain that Turro Mendoza would accept the offer and pay in advance.

  But he was equally certain that the bishop would do everything in his power to recover the money paid out, by using the services of his secretary, Don Puglia. And this was why he, don Severino, was in mortal danger.

  In his opinion, the most dangerous moment would be when he left the bishop’s palace in his carriage with the little sacks of coins. And he believed that were Don Puglia to follow him, the pursuit could only end in the woods of La Favorita, which he was forced to drive through to reach the place where he would take ship.

  He concluded with the hope that the letter would never reach the hands of the Captain of Justice.

  But if it did, he expressed the wish that it would help to send the bishop to jail.

  Upon finishing the letter, don Filippo Arcadipane remained pensive.

  Since the letter had reached him, it meant that don Severino had been murdered, and the bishop had recovered his money.

  But th
e letter was utterly worthless. The bishop could easily defend himself by saying that don Severino had made it all up.

  There was something, however, that might make a difference . . .

  He sent for Aurelio Torregrossa.

  “Have there been any corpses brought into the Misericordia in the last few days that were found along the carriage road that runs through La Favorita?”

  “Yes, sir, one. Of a man who owned a carriage, which he would put up for hire and drove himself. His wife identified the body.”

  Don Filippo pricked up his ears.

  “And has the carriage been found?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Find out the exact place where the corpse was found. Then we’ll go there together.”

  “To La Favorita?!”

  “Why not? It’s a beautiful day today, a walk in the open air will do us good.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The Day of Reckoning

  Like the good detective he was, Torregrossa didn’t take long at all to discover the spot where the coachman had fallen to the ground, already mortally wounded. A little farther ahead, he found a second large bloodstain mingled with dust.

  “Here there was definitely a second injured person.”

  “Yes, I can see it,” said don Filippo. “But where did he end up?”

  He got no answer because Torregrossa had tensed all up like a pointer. He started walking into the woods.

  “Where are you going?”

  He got no answer this time, either. He just stood there on the road, not knowing what to do.

  Then he heard Torregrossa’s voice.

  “Over here, sir!”

  Once amidst the trees, he noticed that there was a footpath not visible from the road. He followed it and soon found himself behind Torregrossa.

  “Look here, sir.”

  Half hidden amidst the clumps of wild grass was a sort of hut made of tree-boughs, mud, and wood. Sitting on the ground in front of it was a man, who was staring at them.