El protomedico está aquí,” she said in a comforting voice. “Would you like to speak en su presencia?”
“Yes.”
They sent for don Serafino, whom donna Eleonora had sent into the next room. The moment he saw Bonifati his face broke into a smile.
“If I’m here, it’s because of you,” Bonifati said to the physician. “You called me a coward because I was afraid to denounce the bishop, and since that moment I haven’t slept a wink. And so tonight I gathered my family together and took them somewhere safe. Then I attacked the two guards so that I would be arrested. I was worried that if I just came on my own to make the denunciation, the bishop’s men might be watching the guards outside the palace. At any rate, the guards and me are even. I gave it to them and they gave it right back to me. And here I am, at your service.”
Don Serafino looked at donna Eleonora, who signaled to him to proceed.
“Are you prepared to denounce Bishop Turro Mendoza, and to confirm this in court, for committing the foul deed against your son?” asked the physician.
“Yes.”
The Grand Captain stood up and called Torregrossa.
“With the Viceroy’s permission, go into the office with Signor Bonifati and take his denunciation. Then be sure to get Signor Bonfati some refreshment and lodge him in our office. Given the dangerous situation he’ll be in once he files the denunciation, I shall hold you personally responsible for any attempts to harm him and for anything that might happen to his family.”
Donna Eleonora intervened.
“As far as his family is concerned, tengo una idea mejor. Signor Bonifati, tell Signor Torregrossa where they’re hiding. They should be brought here, under a military escort. I want them to be lodged at the palace until the bishop is safely locked up.”
The session lasted an hour. The Judge of the Monarchy was of the same opinion as donna Eleonora—that is, that they must not bring the Apostolic Legacy into play. The matter should be handled through ordinary procedures.
The person to make the accusation would therefore be the Grand Captain of Justice.
The Captain then said that in that case, they must take into consideration that such a foul deed called for the immediate arrest of the offender as soon as the authorities had a certain amount of evidence in hand.
For this they had the ultimate proof: the testimony of the doctor who had treated the boy.
Must they now proceed with the arrest?
Donna Eleonora replied that in her opinion it was better to wait until the second denunciation was made by Giaraffa. And since neither the Grand Captain nor the Judge of the Monarchy knew anything about the matter, she told them the whole story.
And they were all in agreement.
That same day, though quite late in the evening, Turro Mendoza received a visit from someone he really hadn’t been expecting.
It was don Severino Lomascio, former Judge of the Monarchy.
Though he said nothing, the bishop was quite astonished to see him in such a shabby, neglected state, with his shirt in tatters. Only the foxlike eyes were the same as always.
“I thought you were still in jail,” said the bishop.
“Don Esteban let me out the day before yesterday,” said don Severino. “And I who once had my pick of houses, now that I’m out of jail I don’t know where to go.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because don Esteban has sequestered my two palazzi in Palermo along with the castle of Roccalumera.”
“And what about your family?”
“My wife took our two daughters and went to stay with her sister in Girgenti and doesn’t ever want to see me again. Luckily an old servant of mine gave me a bed and a dish of soup.”
The bishop got scared.
Want to bet that don Severino, reduced as he was to poverty, had come to ask him for money?
“Can I be of service to you in some way?” he asked cautiously.
He had no choice but to ask. To his relief don Severino shook his head “no.”
“The reverse,” said don Severino.
The bishop balked.
“What do you mean, ‘the reverse’?”
“Don’t you know? I mean the other way around.”
“The other way around compared to what?”
“I mean that it’s I who may be of service to you in some way. And you must believe me when I say so.”
“I don’t understand,” said the bishop.
“Well, I’ll explain. This evening, as I was leaving my servant’s house, I ran into a scribe from the office of the Judge of the Monarchy, a fine gentleman for whom I had done a huge favor when he was in office and who has forever remained grateful to me. And this scribe, with the utmost secrecy, revealed something very important to me, something that concerns you directly, which you know nothing about and which constitutes a great danger to you. So I thought it was best if I went out of my way to come here and tell you.”
“Then tell me.”
Don Severino yawned, blew his nose, looked down at his shoetops, and did not answer.
“Well?” the bishop insisted.
“It’s worth gold,” said don Serafino.
“I’ll be the one to determine whether it’s worth gold, after you tell me what this is about,” the bishop retorted.
“You’ll pay before and after,” said don Severino.
Before and after? What did that mean?
“You want half the money before and the other half after giving me the information?”
“No. I want to be paid first for the information, and then twice as much afterwards, for telling you how to get out of your pickle.”
“Are you joking?”
“No.”
“So how much is this information worth?”
Don Severino closed his eyes. Then he opened them and delivered the blow.
“Three thousand scudi, taking into account that we’re friends.”
Turro Mendoza gave a start in his chair.
“Have you gone insane?”
“Does that mean no?”
“Of course it means no.”
“Then I’ll be on my way,” said don Severino, standing up and heading for the door.
But before going out, he stopped, turned round, and asked:
“Does the name Bonifati mean anything to you?”
“Come back here!” said the bishop.
He’d wanted to shout his command, but the voice that came out of his throat was that of a turkey-cock being strangled.
Don Severino, grinning, returned and sat down.
But the bishop already regretted not having been able to stay calm. He put on an expressionless face.
“They say so many things about me . . . ” he said.
“This is written down.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean I want three thousand scudi in front of me first.”
“You want to dispossess me.”
“You’ll still be better off than having no more possessions at all, like me.”
“Let’s make it two thousand.”
“Well, if that’s how it’s going to be, I now want three thousand five hundred scudi. And that may go up to four thousand.”
“All right, all right.”
The bishop sat there a moment, thinking it over. Then he stood up.
“Wait for me here. This will take a while.”
“I have all the patience in the world.”
It was a good forty-five minutes before Turro Mendoza returned, followed by Don Puglia carrying three small sacks full to bursting and quite heavy. The priest set these down on the desk and then left, closing the door behind him.
Don Severino removed the string holding each bag shut, opened them up one by one, then closed them again.
“Prior to anything else, I would like to tell you something entirely for free. It’s not true that I came directly here after running into my friend the scribe. I went to my ex-servant’s house and gave him a note on which it is written that I’ve come here to talk to you about Bonifati. If I don’t return this evening, he will give this note to the Grand Captain. Do we understand each other?”
The bishop became immediately convinced that don Severino was lying. He hadn’t written anything, but was only trying to cover his rear. He pretended to believe it.
“Perfectly,” he said. “Now speak.”
“Bonifati has denounced you for butchering his son.”
The bishop acted as if he was having a heart attack. He made as if to stand up, but then fell back down in the armchair, shaking his arms in the air as if trying to grab something that wasn’t there.
“He denounced me?!”
“And that’s not all. They have proof. You haven’t been arrested yet because donna Eleonora wants Giaraffa—whose earlier denunciation of you for the same misdeed, as you’ll recall, was rejected by our Council—to return to Palermo to re-submit it. At this point, with two proven denunciations, you’re screwed once and for all.”
Turro Mendoza sat there saucer-eyed, sweat dripping down his brow and panting heavily. His entire body was mildly trembling, as a string of spittle dangled from a corner of his mouth. He was unable to speak. He gestured with one hand for don Severino to wait a minute.
“I’m sorry, but I have no time to lose,” said the other. “I’ll be back in an hour or so.”
He grabbed the sacks, put them inside a larger sack that he’d been carrying tied round his waist, wrapped his cloak around this, and went out. In the antechamer, Don Puglia, who was sitting behind a table covered with papers, looked at him and stood up.
“His Excellency told me to come with you.”
“I think His Excellency may have changed his mind,” don Severino said to him smiling, “At any rate I think he needs you here.”
When don Severino returned without the sacks, he found the bishop as pale as a corpse, but clearheaded again.
“I have no time to lose,” he began, sitting down.
“Me neither,” said Turro Mendoza.
“Then let’s get straight to the point. Have you meanwhile come up with any ideas of how to get out of this?”
“No.”
“I’ve done a count.”
“What kind of count?”
“A count of how many days you’ve got until they arrest you. You’ve got about six or seven. I know about these things.”
“And so?”
“And so donna Eleonora must be stopped before these seven days are up, before the Grand Captain gives the order to imprison you.”
“And how can we do that?”
“I know how. And it’s your only way out. The best part is that you yourself know it too, but you can’t see it.”
“Then make me see it.”
“First the gold.”
“And what if your idea doesn’t work?”
“It’ll work, it’ll work, I assure you. But the more time you waste, the worse it is for you.”
“Listen, I’ll tell you quite frankly: I haven’t got six thousand scudi here in the house. I have less than that.”
“How much have you got?”
“Five thousand.”
“Then all right.”
The bishop stood up with effort.
“I’ll go and . . . ”
“We’ll do as I say,” said don Severino. “Listen carefully. I’ll go out first. When you come downstairs with Don Puglia carrying the five sacks, you’ll find a carriage outside the front door, with me inside. Don Puglia will give me the sacks and go back and lock the front door. Then, after Don Puglia leaves, you will get into the carriage and I’ll tell you everything. Agreed?”
“Agreed.”
The first thing don Severino said to the bishop as soon as Don Puglia closed the front door to the house, was:
“Let me warn you that I’m armed. If you set some kind of trap for me, you’re a dead man.”
“I’ve set no trap,” said Turro Mendoza. “Now tell me the way out.”
“The way out has always been there, right under your nose. And instead of taking it at once, you started screwing things up, stirring up the populace, giving sermons at the Cathedral . . . making ghosts appear . . . They told me everything, when I was in jail. You’ve got her weakness right before your eyes, and you can’t—”
“Quit bullshitting,” the bishop cut him off. “What weakness?”
“She’s a woman,” said don Severino.
The bishop flew into a rage.
“Give me back those five thousand scudi!” he yelled. “You are a thief!”
“And you’re a stupid shit!”
“And how is that going to help me, telling me she’s a woman? What will that do for me?”
“It’ll do everything for you.”
“How?!” the bishop shouted in despair.
“How? You immediately send a letter to the Pope and ask him how is it possible that his Legate in Sicily is a woman?”
For a moment the bishop was breathless.
“Holy shit of Jesus! You’re right!” he exclaimed after he’d recovered his strength.
Getting out of the carriage, he went and started knocking wildly at the door. Don Severino’s coach and the five thousand scudi took off at high speed.
Don Severino did not know, as the carriage rolled along and he contentedly stroked the five little sacks at his feet, that he was carrying death along behind him.
Indeed Don Puglia, the moment he’d gone through the main door of the bishop’s palace, had quickly run across the interior courtyard and come back outside through a small door at the back of the building. Then he’d turned the corner and, hunching over to keep the coachman from seeing him, he approached the carriage from behind and climbed aboard, remaining upright with his feet on the axle and his hands gripping the metal handles used by footmen on the carriages of the nobility.
Shortly after the carriage had entered the woods of La Favorita, Don Puglia decided to spring into action. It was an old carriage, and the canvas covering had grown slack. By slightly shifting the position of his right hand and touching ever so lightly, he could feel the bulge created in the canvas by don Severino’s shoulders leaning against it from the inside.
He took out his dagger and, hanging tight onto the metal grip with his left hand, raised it in the air and brought it down with all his might in the middle of the bulge. The blade tore through the canvas, the clothing, the skin, and the flesh of don Severino. Don Puglia kept still and let a few minutes pass, and then he touched the canvas and felt that it was damp. With blood, naturally. Only then did he extract the weapon. Now came the most dangerous part. He didn’t know whether the coachman was young or old, and he didn’t know whether he’d been hired or was a friend of don Severino. He raised his right foot as far as he could and stuck the toes inside the handle where his hand had just been. He then pressed hard to see whether it would bear his weight. It would. In a flash he was on his belly on the roof of the carriage, dagger between his teeth. The darkness was very dense, and he couldn’t see a thing. He slid forward, fearing that at any moment the poles supporting the canvas might break. Then he realized that the coachman’s shoulders were just a short distance in front of him, less than an arm’s length away. He slid forward a little more. At that moment the carriage entered a stretch of road along which the trees grew more sparse. The wan moonlight was enough for Don Puglia to spring like a snake. The coachman let go the reins and without a word flopped to one side and then fell to the ground. In one bound, Don Puglia took his place, grabbed the reins, and stopped the two horses.
He got down from the coach, walked back to where the coachman had fallen, recovered his dagger, returned to the carriage, opened the door, pulled out don Severino’s lifeless body, throwing it to the ground, then climbed into the box, turned the horses around, and headed back for Palermo.
As soon as he’d returned to his palace, Turro Mendoza had raced into the library and had all the candelabra lit, ordering his servants to lay out on the table all papers and books having anything to do with the Apostolic Legacy—a phenomenon unique in all Christendom, which concentrated in a single person, the King of Sicily, and therefore the Viceroy who represented him, all civic as well as ecclesiastical power. This fine idea was the work of Pope Urban the second, who in 1098 had it passed into law with the bull, Quia propter prudentiam tuam. But then everyone forgot about it for centuries, or tried to forget, until, in the late 1400s, a certain Gian Luca Barberio dredged it back up. And this created a big row with the pope, who no longer wanted to recognize it. And so there were a great many disputes, squabbles, spats, tiffs, and vendettas between the kings of Spain and a variety of popes. Until, in 1605, one Cardinal Baronio machinated the conclusion that the famous bull had not been written by Pope Urban after all, but by the antipope Anacletus, and was therefore worth less than a counterfeit scudo. The kings of Spain replied that they didn’t give a holy fig about Cardinal Baronio, but wanted only to know what the pope himself thought about the authorship of the bull. The pope answered saying he needed a little time to decide. But then decades and decades went by and the papal decision had never come.
The bishop set aside everything he’d read and began to reflect when he was interrupted by Don Puglia entering the room.
“All taken care of. I recovered the five sacks and put them back from where we’d taken them.”
The bishop did not ask him how he’d managed to get them back, though he could easily imagine.
“What have you done with the carriage?”
“I set fire to it after taking it far away from here. And I set the horses free.”
“Good. Now go and get a few hours’ sleep, because you’ll be leaving in the morning.”
“Where am I going?”
“To Rome. You must deliver a letter from me to the pope. And you cannot take longer than three days. If you succeed, one of those five sacks is yours.”
“Then I won’t bother to get any sleep. I’ll go straight to the port. I’ll need to hire the fastest sailboat I can find. It’ll cost you a lot, but your letter will be delivered in three days time.”
It took the bishop more than three hours to write the letter.
But when he re-read it, he found it masterly. Every word was a nail in the coffin of donna Eleonora.
In case the pope had forgotten, the letter began with a brief history of the Apostolic Legacy in the Kingdom of Sicily and how this had always been a source of malaise on the island.
A malaise which, in the past few days, had worsened because of the trouble in which he, as bishop of Palermo and head of the Sicilian Church, had found himself when, upon the death of the viceroy, the man’s wife had taken office in his place.
Which made her, therefore, the new, born, Papal Legate.
Now, who had the Pontifical Legates always been? Cardinals, bishops, monsignors—all people who had taken the Holy Orders.
Had it ever happened before that the Legate was a woman? Not only had it never happened, but such a thing was unthinkable.
How, then, could a bishop obey a female Legate? Would obedience not smack of heresy? This was the question tearing his soul apart.
And this was why he, Bishop Turro Mendoza, with filial devotion, was entreating His Holiness the Pope to intervene at once with the King of Spain to have the viceroy repatriated and all her acts of government and fiat nullified, both sub jure proprio and sub jure legationis.
Most importantly, failing to take measures to eliminate such a monstrum in timely fashion would further complicate any definitive resolution of the question of the Apostolic Legacy in Sicily.
* * *
By six o’clock that morning, Don Puglia was already aboard a ship sailing for Naples.