The Family - Mario Puzo [164]
Now he must begin to end it . . .
As he had for the last several weeks, Jofre walked down the long spiral staircase in the cellar of the Castel Sant’ Angelo, to the dungeons. There he moved past the sleeping guards, who noticed him less each day, and made his way into the small squalid dungeon in the corner.
There on a simple cot covered with straw, her dark hair wild and gnarled with knots, Sancia sat silent as a statue. Tears filled his eyes as he watched her, but she did not seem to see him.
The guard unlocked the gate, and Jofre walked inside. When he sat down next to her and reached for her hand, she did not pull away, but her hand was limp and cold.
“Sancia, Sancia,” he pleaded. “Please don’t do this. Please don’t let yourself leave me without a fight. I have sent a message to your uncle, and I am certain he will come to claim you shortly. But I fear to leave myself, for fear some harm will come to you.”
Sancia began to hum softly, but said nothing.
Jofre knew what he must do. But how?
Since the day his father had thrown Sancia in the dungeon Jofre had been guarded constantly, his every movement watched. Except when he walked down the stairs at the Castel Sant’ Angelo, he had spent not one moment alone.
Cesare had just returned, and had reassured his brother that after a small period of time he could see to it that the Pope would set Sancia free.
Now Jofre looked over at his wife, and tears filled his eyes. She would free herself forever if he did not hurry. And he would not be able to bear it.
It was then that a guard came toward him, and called him by name. But Jofre did not recognize him, though his voice was reminiscent of someone he had heard before. He had clear blue eyes and a cap of dark hair, and though his features were heavy, they were definite enough to give him the appearance of strength.
“Do I know you?” Jofre asked.
The young man nodded, but only when he held out his hand in greeting, did Jofre remember.
“Vanni,” he said, embracing him. “Vanni, how did you appear without being caught?”
The guard smiled. “It is an effective disguise, don’t you agree? Now, come, we must speak for a time—before we have no time at all.”
A few days later, as the orange sun set over the dusky countryside, two men stood in front of a large stable. Dressed in cardinal’s robes, the taller one was giving instructions to four mounted riders. They were masked and wore black, hooded cloaks.
“Do exactly as I direct,” the more imposing cardinal said. “There must be no trace. No trace. It must be finished . . . finally.”
The four masked riders swept over the sand dunes to the farm of the old woman called Noni. She shuffled slowly forward to meet them, her wicker basket on her arm.
One rider leaned far down from his saddle to speak to her, quietly, as if he were whispering an important secret. She nodded, looked from side to side, then shuffled back to her garden. In a moment she returned, carrying a handful of dark berries. She walked into her cottage, slid the berries into a small leather bag, and handed them to the rider, who was now waiting inside.
“Grazie,” he said politely. Then he drew his sword, and with one swift stroke split her skull in two.
Within minutes Noni’s cottage was in flames, her body inside.
The riders mounted again and rode off over the hills.
The morning of the banquet in celebration of Cesare’s victories and Alexander’s eleventh anniversary on the papal throne, Alexander awoke with a feeling of uneasiness. He had tossed and turned all night, unable to sleep. And so as he sat on the side of his bed