LITMIR.BIZ

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      Concerned, I wrote to my brother Alfonso to learn the truth of the matter. It took weeks to receive a reply which gave little comfort.

       Have no fear, dearest sister,

       True, King Charles is hungry for conquest—but at this very moment, our father is meeting with His Holiness Alexander in Vicovaro. They have forged a military alliance, and have carefully planned their strategy; once Charles hears of this, he will be filled with doubts, and will give up his foolish notion of invasion. Besides, with the Pope so strongly on our side, the French people will never support an attack on Naples.

      Alfonso could not help trying to couch everything he told me in the most positive terms, but I understood his letter all too well. The French threat was real—so real that my father and the Pope were drawing up battle plans at a retreat outside Rome.

      I read the text aloud to Donna Esmeralda. ‘It is just as the priest Savonarola predicted,’ she stated darkly. ‘It is the end of the world.’

      I scoffed. I had no patience for the Florentine fool who fancied himself anointed by God, nor for the masses who flocked to hear his Apocalyptic message. Girolama Savonarola railed against Alexander from the safety of his pulpit in the north and lambasted the ruling family of his own city, the Medicis. The Dominican priest had actually presented himself to Charles of France and claimed that he, Savonarola, was God’s own messenger, chosen by Him to reform the church, to cast out the pleasure-loving pagans who had overrun her. ‘Savonarola is a raving madman,’ I said. ‘He thinks that King Charles is a judgment sent by God. He thinks Saint John predicted the invasion of Italy in the Apocalypse.’

      She crossed herself at my lack of reverence. ‘How can you be sure he is wrong, Madonna?’ She lowered her voice, as if concerned that Jofre, on the other side of the palace, might hear. ‘It is the wickedness of Pope Alexander and the corruption of his cardinals that has brought this upon us. Unless they repent, we have no hope…’

      ‘Why would God punish Naples for Alexander’s sins?’ I demanded.

      For that, she had no reply.

      Even so, Donna Esmeralda took to praying to San Gennaro; I took to fretting. It was not just that the family throne was threatened; my little brother was no longer considered too young to fight. He was trained in the art of the sword. If the need arose, he would be called upon to wield one.

      Life continued for the remainder of the summer in Squillace. I was kind to Jofre, though given his weak character, I could not bring myself to love him. In public we were affectionate with one another, even though he visited my bedchamber less often and spent more nights in the company of local whores. I did my best to show no sign of hurt or jealousy.

      September arrived, and brought with it evil news.

      Dearest sister, Alfonso wrote,

       perhaps you have already heard: King Charles has led his troops through the Alps. The feet of French soldiers are planted on Italian soil. The Venetians have struck a bargain with them, and thus caused their city to be spared, but Charles’ eye is now on Florence.

       You must not worry. We have amassed a sizable army under the command of Crown Prince Ferrandino, who will lead his men northward to stop the enemy before it ever arrives in Naples. I am remaining here with Father, so you need have no concern over me. Our army, once joined by papal forces, will be invincible. There is no call for fear, for His Holiness Alexander has publicly stated, ‘We would lose our mitre, our lands and our life, rather than fail King Alfonso in his need.’

      I could no longer hide my distress. Jofre tried his best to comfort me. ‘They will get no further than Rome,’ he promised. ‘My father’s army will stop them.’

      Meanwhile, the French made good time. They sacked Florence, that centre of culture and artistry, then pushed their way relentlessly southward.

      Our troops are making progress, Alfonso wrote. They will soon join up with the papal army and stop Charles’ men.

      On the last day of December in the year 1494, my brother’s prediction was put to the test. Laden heavily with priceless, stolen goods, the French entered Rome.

      Jofre received word of the invasion via a hastily-written letter from his older sister, Lucrezia. It was my turn to comfort him, as we both imagined bloody battles raging in the great piazzas of the Holy City. For days we suffered without word.

      One fateful afternoon, as I sat on my balcony composing a long epistle to my brother—the only satisfactory way I could settle my nerves—I heard the thunder of hooves. I ran to the ledge and watched a lone horseman ride up to the castle entrance and dismount.

      The style of his dress was Neapolitan; I dropped my quill and ran down the stairs, calling as I did for Donna Esmeralda to summon Jofre.

      I hastened into the Great Hall, where the rider already waited. He was young, with black hair, beard and eyes, and dressed in a noble’s finery of rich brown colour; he was covered in dust, and exhausted from a hard journey. He carried no letter, as I had hoped; the message he bore was too critical to commit to writing.

      I called for wine and food, and he drank and ate greedily while I impatiently awaited my husband. At last, Jofre entered; we gave the poor man leave to sit, and settled ourselves while we listened to his tale.

      ‘I come at the request of your uncle, Prince Federico,’ the rider told me. ‘He has received direct word from Crown Prince Ferrandino himself, who as you know was in Rome in command of our forces.’

      The word was immediately provoked my alarm.

      ‘What news of Rome?’ Jofre asked, unable to restrain himself. ‘My father—His Holiness, Alexander, my sister and brother—are they well?’

      ‘They are,’ said the messenger, and Jofre leaned back with a sigh. ‘So far as I know, they are safe behind the walls of the Castel Sant’ Angelo. It is the situation of Naples itself which is now dire.’

      ‘Speak,’ I commanded.

      ‘Prince Federico has bid me to relay the following: Crown Prince Ferrandino’s army entered Rome and engaged the French army there. However, King Charles’ forces outnumber those of Naples, and Ferrandino therefore was relying on the promised assistance of His Holiness.

      ‘Unbeknownst to the Pope, the Orsini family earlier engaged in a conspiracy with the French and captured Giulia, she who is known as La Bella, Alexander’s favourite. When His Holiness heard that Madonna Giulia was in danger, he ordered his own army to stand down and commanded Prince Ferrandino to withdraw from the city.

      ‘Prince Ferrandino, facing certain loss, was forced to obey. He now marches homeward, where he will prepare to engage the French army once again.

      ‘His Holiness, in the meantime, received King Charles in the Vatican, and there negotiated with him. In return for Madonna Giulia, he offered up his son Don Cesare—your brother, Prince Jofre—as a hostage to ride with the French. In this way, he has guaranteed Re Petito safe passage to Naples.’

      I stared at the messenger for a long moment before whispering, ‘He has betrayed us. For the sake of a woman, he has betrayed us…’ I felt such outrage that I could not move, could only sit and stare in disbelief at the young noble. Despite his speech about first giving up his mitre, lands, and life, Alexander had deserted King Alfonso, without surrendering a whit.

      The tired nobleman took a long drink of wine before continuing. ‘All is not well in Rome, either, Your Highness. The French have plundered the city.’ He turned toward Jofre. ‘Your mother, Vannozza Cattanei—her palace was ransacked, and it is said…’ He lowered his eyes modestly. ‘Forgive me, Highness. It is said they committed unseemly acts upon her person.’

      Jofre pressed a hand to his lips.

      The rider continued. ‘Madonna Sancha, your uncle, Prince Federico, sends this urgent message: Naples needs the help of all her citizens. It

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