A Dancer in Darkness (30 page)

It was the one altruistic act of his life, no matter what his motives were. But the moonlight was deceptive. He lost his way.

Antonio did not want to defend himself. Gipsies, too, had been at that funeral. They had ridden at once into the hills. He had learned the truth. There would be no insurrection now.

Three weeks ago he had arrived at the coast and established himself at Arosa. It had taken him a week to make contact with the gipsies and the bravos. He did not know what had happened. He had sent agents to Naples, but they had arrived too late. He learned only that the Duchess was not there. It was he who was responsible for the unrest in the hills. These men were loyal to him, and he had given them the promise of plunder. The sack of Amalfi would cover the escape of the Duchess. So much he had planned. Knowing that they would be together again had made all things possible. He had worked well.

Now she was dead.

It did not seem possible she was dead, for she was all around him. They had been happy in these hills. It was the one place where they had been happy. Her laughter was here everywhere. And lately he had felt more aware of her presence than ever, during this last day or two. He dismissed the gipsies. They waited to offer him grief, but he could not accept it. He could not accept the fact that she was dead. He did not know what to do next.

When we learn that someone we loved has died we feel much the same as in the instant when we realize someone has stolen our purse. We reach for it to pay. We turn to the one who has just died and say, What shall we do tomorrow? Neither is there. We are suddenly naked and nonplussed. But we know it is only a mistake. We shall do thus and so tomorrow anyway. Grief comes later. Like a man mortally wounded by an arrow, we go on with what we were doing before, through an
emotional
no-man’s-land, as though nothing had happened. Only later do we drop in our tracks. Only later are we surprised by grief.

Antonio had been walking down towards the chapel when the news came. Automatically he continued down the hill, through the meagre ruins of Arosa, past the abandoned house that was to be built for their child. Perhaps his walk became a trifle uncertain. That was all.

He heard the Duchess rustling beside him, as she would when he liberated her from Amalfi, and they ruled the gipsies in the hills, or fled the country altogether. The gipsies fell back before him. They made a space for sorrow. Then, frightened by something immobile in his manner, they began quietly to melt away back into the hills.

He did not notice. He reached the door of the chapel, pushed it ajar, and shambled inside. Then it hit him. Just as he looked around that empty, dusty room, it hit him.

The chapel was never used now. Dust lay heavy on
everything
. The light was dim. The church was damp. He did not notice. He sank to his knees. He did not know how long he stayed there. He was not praying. He was not thinking. He was aware only of emptiness.

The Church frowns on suicide. St. Augustine and the Egyptians saw to that. Martyrs might allow themselves to die, ascetics might torture themselves, and virgins might kill
themselves
to preserve their virginity, if they were Christian virgins. But to all others voluntary death was impossible. We are not allowed to incinerate ourselves. Hell is set aside to accomplish that. We must not infringe upon its prerogatives. But he did not want to kill himself. He wanted to throw himself away.

Slowly the world settled into place. He looked around him at the deserted room. Then, glancing up, his eye caught the altar-piece. He saw himself, kneeling, and the Duchess, as the Virgin, before him. She had a special way of saying, Antonio. He could hear it now. He gazed at the picture.

It was at this moment that Bosola drew rein above Arosa, was about to start down, and then drew back hastily. Four riders had appeared in the gully below him. They moved swiftly through the ruins of the town, shouting to each other, with a
military clatter. Then they spotted the open door of the church, jumped off their horses, and ran in.

In the chapel Antonio heard none of this. He continued to look at the painting, and anger began to stir in him. He would rouse the gipsies after all. They would sweep down on Amalfi and destroy it utterly. There would be fighting, and in the fighting he might die. Both the Sanducci were down there, so the gipsies had said. He would cut them down.

With a last wistful glance at the painting, he scrambled to his feet and turned to run out of the church. In the centre of the village there was a large gong. He would beat upon it, rouse the gipsies in the hills, and they would start at once.

He never reached it.

In the vestibule four figures jumped on him. He was not armed. He lost his footing and fell. They were quick about the business, and brutal. Something cut into him. He was bloody. He felt himself dragged along the stone floor and out into the dirt. Someone bent over his body with a knife, sobbing with rage. The figure turned, held something up, and then, lifting a spurred heel, kicked him in the face repeatedly. As he lost consciousness his last thought was of the Duchess. He thought she was standing beside him. Then he was dead.

From his hill-top Bosola saw the four riders drag the body out. He saw what they did to it. Then they leaped on their horses and galloped off. The landscape waited. Bosola shivered, but despite himself he had to ride down to make sure.
Uncertainly
he pushed his horse forward.

He drew to a halt before the church, but did not dismount. There was not much left of Antonio. They had kicked his skull in. That would have been Marcantonio’s touch. But they had also castrated him, and Bosola knew who had done that. As he looked down something snapped inside him. He had not known before that he had loved Antonio. As he saw that raped torn thing lying beside the body, he lost all control of himself.

Automatically his spurs dug into the flanks of his horse. The horse jerked forward, almost throwing him. Cursing and
sobbing
, he took off after Ferdinand.

When he reached Amalfi he took refuge in a tavern. There he lay for a day and a night trying to find some means of revenge.
It was there the messenger found him out. That was the
Cardinal’s
doing. For once in his life the Cardinal was angry and afraid.

It would be a mistake to think that the ambitious madmen of the Renaissance were a horde of sadistic undisciplined brutes. The guards of a torture chamber enjoy what they do. Therefore they will never rise. A love of cruelty limits them. But the Commandant is above pleasures. He is an executive. Certain things must be done. He deputizes them to those best suited to the work. His genius is to know his servants
thoroughly
. But they are only servants. He has no part in their concerns.

Yet occasionally the machine runs wild. Even the
Commandant
cannot stop it. That is what had happened to the Cardinal, and certainly he did not like it. There comes a time when we must sacrifice even ourselves to our ambitions, for ambitions are omnivorous. First they eat others. Then our relatives. Then our lovers. Then us. A great man is thus always a phoenix. He rises from his own ashes into success. Therefore he is always a trifle impersonal: he has left himself behind. And if there was one flaw in the Cardinal’s nature, it was that he never realized that he was not a great man.

Therefore he drove on. And Ferdinand stood in his way.

Sitting in the Piccolomini Palace, drawing up his own plans for a regency, the Cardinal was aware of every rumour. The whole palace rocked and creaked with whispers, as a building rocks and creaks before a tornado comes. And many of these rumours concerned Ferdinand.

Ferdinand had gone mad. He could overturn everything. Yet he could be removed in no ordinary way. That was
troubling
. But decision brings a kind of peace. The Cardinal, having reached his, felt once more serene, a little sorry, but serene. He called for a litter and had himself carried to Sor Juana’s convent. He had not visited it before. He looked around him
curiously
, feeling faintly amused. Yet he shared her views. If
religion
was not gorgeous, it could scarcely be said to exist. But
she had spread herself too thin. Some of the plaster-work was decidedly trumpery. That would not do.

He found her in the library. It was the room that most fascinated her. Now she was in control, she need no longer pretend to be austere. The convent would also contain musical instruments and a telescope and celestial sphere. The latter was already being cast in Milan. It was to be ornate. For it was quite true, she had turned from the world, but only to the stars.

She received him rather grandly, despite the fact that her hands and habit were splattered with chalk dust. He was not impressed. He knew too much about her. For some reason her grandeurs had been more real when he had known less.

“I want you to send for your brother,” he said.

Sor Juana looked taken aback. He was in a hurry and had no time for courtesies. “I know he is here,” he said. “I wish to see him.”

“I do not know where he is.”

“He came here.”

“I had him denied entrance.” She was slightly nervous now. Her eyes darted away from him. But she did not lose her poise. Nothing would ever make her lose that.

It was a quality that more than any others he admired. He hated to take it away from her. He gave her one last chance. “Come,” he said. “I am sure you did. But do as I say, I cannot seek him out myself.”

“What will you do with him?”

The Cardinal was surprised. Again he noted that she had a stubborn mouth.

“Does it matter?”

“Perhaps,” she said.

He was annoyed with her. Loyalty was a plebeian trait he would not have expected of her. It was necessary for him to use pressure. He was sorry. Their relations would now be spoiled, and he would miss them.

Though it made him sad to do so, he always made it a point to find out the truth about everyone. No one was so guileless that he had not some secret that might some day be of use. And the truth about Sor Juana now bulged to a file of documents. She was a usurer. She lent money at high interest, very skilfully
and privately, but yet by now the sum must be quite large. Hence the splendour of this convent, no doubt.

He glanced around the room. “These decorations are very costly,” he said.

She must have been waiting for this for years. Instantly she knew. He could sense that. “So?”

“Do you remember, years ago, that a man called Domenico Allasi came to you? You should have had him investigated with more care. He was in my employ. So were one or two others. Usury is, after all, an ecclesiastical crime. They might be forced to testify before an ecclesiastical court. Or they might not.”

She did not stir. She scarcely breathed. “Have you known this long?”

“For as long as you have made money by it. You have made a great deal.”

“I kept none. It is all to be spent here.”

“That makes no difference.” He paused. “Can you find him?”

“Yes,” she said wearily. “I can find him.”

Nothing stirred in her face, but he could tell she was bitter. Yet she cared nothing for the man, and even hated him. He shrugged. She puzzled him. He did not like to do these things.

He waited restlessly at the palace. He knew Bosola had some strange attachment to Antonio, even though he had helped to betray him. He thought he could count on that, but he was not sure. And the matter must be finished with
despatch
. He paced up and down.

Bosola was brought to him after dark, at eight.

The Cardinal looked at him with frank curiosity, and was almost unable to recognize him. Something had shattered him. He was dressed like a waterfront rowdy. He had become
Niccolò
Ferrante again. There was justice in that. He was not Bosola any more. It was as though he had come to the end of a long road, only to find that it did not lead to his destination. He twitched.

The Cardinal was pleased. “My brother has murdered Antonio di Bologna,” he said dryly, and as soon as he had watched the effects of that, knew he had chosen the right instrument, and an instrument, moreover, that would be easy
to deal with afterwards. He repeated what he had said, patiently, as though dealing with a child. Something happened to Bosola’s eyes.

“Shall I tell you where to find my brother?” prompted the Cardinal, and sighed with relief, eager to have the man gone. He did not like to be in his presence. He was no longer a man, but a thing.

All the same, after Bosola had gone, he found he could not sleep. For some of the things we have to do will not let us sleep, no matter how reasonable we are.

Ferdinand had refused to lodge with his brother. He
distrusted
him too much. He could bear to see no one. Therefore he had commandeered a small, disused palace not far from the Cathedral and the tomb-house attached to it, but at the rear and difficult of access through narrow lanes which admitted no light. Here he lurked with his whole company. Ostensibly he had come to Amalfi to protect his interests and to watch the Cardinal. He did neither.

The palace was a crumbling shell. Each year a little more of it settled into the earth. Scarcely a room in it had a level floor. The courtyard was too narrow. The rooms were tall, deserted, barren, and damp. They were littered with forgotten furniture. The kitchens’ flues would not draw. Here he and his company camped out. A few chambers had been aired and made
habitable
, but the corridors were littered with fallen fresco and refuse. The great hall had been converted into a stable. The stench was bad.

What light there was came and went fitfully. Candles and torches only scorched the gloom. Beside Marcantonio, the bravos, and a few servants, there was no one in the building but a company of dwarfs in yellow suits. These had turned up from nowhere, the wreck of a travelling show, and Ferdinand had let them stay. He did not even realize they were the dwarfs in his service, whom he had dismissed half a year ago.