The Revolution of the Moon

by Andrea Camilleri

  They approached. The man, who looked about forty and had a long beard, dishevelled hair, a naked, very hairy chest, and wild eyes, didn’t move.

  “I need to ask you a few questions,” said don Filippo.

  “And you can go and get buggered, both of you,” said the man.

  Torregrossa’s kick broke two of his teeth, as well as his nose. The man closed his eyes and fainted.

  Torregrossa, who always carried a chain on his person, chained the man’s hands and bound his legs with some rope. They went into the hut.

  Some men’s clothing of apparently high quality, including a jacket with a gash in the back and a huge bloodstain, was hanging from a nail. On the ground were two boots of fine leather.

  In one of the jacket’s pockets they found a gold signet ring with the coat-of-arms of the marquisate of Roccalumera.

  There was no doubt about it. The clothes had belonged to don Severino Lomascio.The man had stripped the corpse and taken its things.

  They went back outside. The man’s eyes were open again.

  “Where did you put him?” asked Torregrossa, raising his foot to deal him another kick.

  “Look in back,” the man muttered.

  They went behind the hut and immediately noticed some freshly turned earth.

  “It’s not deep,” said Torregrossa, crouching down.

  He started removing the dirt with his bare hands.

  Before long a face began to emerge.

  “It’s the marquis of Roccalumera,” said don Filippo Arcadipane.

  Without wasting a minute, the Captain of Justice ran to tell the Judge of the Monarchy about the letter and the discovery of the corpse, then they both dashed over to the palace.

  Donna Eleonora couldn’t believe what she heard. She made an immediate decision.

  “Since the main charge is now doble homicidio, the case no longer falls under the jurisdiction of the Holy Office, but becomes a matter for the Royal Court. The two crimenes contra a los niños now become the second charge, and must therefore be judged by that same Court. Please inform don Camilo.”

  “Straight away, my lady,” said don Gaetano Currò.

  “When can the trial begin?” asked the marquesa.

  “Even tomorrow morning, as far as I’m concerned,” said don Filippo.

  “I’m ready, too,” said don Gaetano.

  “All right, then, que sea para tomorrow. I would like, however, for the bishop to be present for la primera sesión.”

  “Does that mean he must appear before the court tomorrow in chains?” asked don Filippo.

  “Chains or no, quiero que sea presente. It’s his right, after all. And his detention should go unnoticed.”

  And this, indeed, was the problem. Don Filippo Arcadipane scratched his head because he didn’t know how to do this.

  By the time he got back to his office, he’d reached the conclusion that the only solution was to discuss the matter with Torregrossa.

  “Let me get this straight,” said Torregrossa, after don Filippo had explained the problem to him. “So, at sunset, the bishop’s palace will be evacuated, so that the only people sleeping there are the bishop and his secretary?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And the bishop sleeps in his own bedroom, with Puglia the secretary sleeping in the antechamber?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the great front door will be locked at sunset by the soldiers who will stand guard the rest of the night?”

  “Yes.”

  “Could you do me a favor and tell the soldiers to let four men with a cart through to deliver some wine?”

  Don Filippo balked.

  “Wine?”

  “Leave it to me.”

  Fifteen minutes after the great door of the bishop’s palace was closed, a cart pulled by a cadaverous horse pulled up outside. On the cart was one man holding the reins, and three other men who were clearly half drunk.

  In the middle of the cart, held fast by ropes, was a huge barrel.

  “We’re bringing the wine,” said the man with the reins.

  The soldiers on guard, who’d been informed in advance, didn’t say a word and opened the great door.

  Before going inside, the man said:

  “Please leave it open, because we’ll be coming back out shortly with the empty barrel.”

  The cart went into the courtyard and vanished from the view of the guards.

  Torregrossa, who was the man with the reins, stopped it outside the door to the bishop’s private apartment.

  “Come on, lads, let’s unload the barrel.”

  They took it down from the cart and set it on the ground on one of its flat sides. Then Torregrossa climbed up onto the cart, bent down towards the barrel, and removed a metal hoop with both hands, whereupon the entire upper part could be lifted like a lid. It had taken three hours to have the thing prepared by a master carpenter and master blacksmith.

  “Let’s leave it like that and go upstairs,” said Torregrossa.

  The door was open. They climbed two flights of stairs on tiptoe, then came to another door, this one closed.

  “This leads into the antechamber,” Torregrossa informed the others in a soft voice.

  He turned the knob and pushed, and the door opened. Stepping back with the other two, Torregrossa made a sign to Luzzo Luparello, who was a colossus, to go in first.

  Luzzo threw the door open and immediately looked around, pretending to be confused.

  Don Puglia, still dressed, was sitting on the bed that had been set up in the antechamber, busy reading a map by the light of a candlestick. He shot to his feet.

  “Who are you?” he asked in alarm.

  And he immediately reached down and pulled out the dagger he kept in a special sheath strapped to his leg.

  “I’m so sorry!” Luzzo said in a raggedy voice, like one who’d been drinking a lot. “But I’m lost and can’t find my way out of this stinking palace.”

  “Get out!” said don Puglia, drawing near.

  Which was a big mistake.

  Because immediately Luzzo’s fist to the pit of his stomach, followed by a mighty kick to his cojones, laid him out on the floor, unable to open his mouth.

  In the twinkling of an eye he was bound and gagged by three men who moved without making the slightest sound, and then tossed onto the bed.

  “May I?” Torregrossa then called out, opening the door to the bishop’s chamber and going in.

  Turro Mendoza, who was sitting at his desk, writing, looked up and blanched.

  Then he stood up and, emitting a long wail, fell to his knees.

  “Excellency, look, you’re making a mistake: I’m not God Almighty,” said Torregrossa.

  “Don’t kill me, for pity’s sake! I beg you! I’ll give you all the money you want! Spare me!” the bishop implored, folding his hands in prayer and trembling all over.

  “Wrong again, Excellency. We’re just here to take you to jail. We’ll leave it to the executioner to kill you. It’s your choice: are you gonna come quietly or make trouble?”

  The bishop, who had feared the worst, resigned himself.

  “Tell me what you want me to do,” he said.

  “Nothing. Just come with us.”

  Two men carried Don Puglia away.

  Luzzo helped the bishop to descend the stairs, supporting his shoulders, otherwise the prelate, his legs having turned to mush, was liable to fall and break his neck.

  First they stuffed Don Puglia into the barrel, all bound and gagged as he was.

  The problems arose when it came time to put His Excellency inside. His feet and legs went in all right, but his belly immediately plugged up the opening, preventing the rest of his body from entering.

  With two of the men holding the bishop’s arms in the
air, Luzzo tried to stuff the rolls of belly-fat into his body, but the mass of lard simply shifted first to the left, then to the right, still preventing the body from going down into the barrel.

  Then the third man, along with Torregrossa, intervened, pushing in from the sides in counterthrusts as Luzzo pushed from the center.

  “One, two, three . . . Push!”

  And thus, one barleycorn at a time, by dint of pushes, squishes, nudges, and curses, the belly went through.

  Torregrossa then lowered the hoop, making it impossible to open the barrel from the inside, but now there was another snag.

  Because the four of them were unable to lift the barrel with the two men inside, they had to resort to an elaborate song and dance. That is, unhitch the cart, lean the tilting vehicle on its shafts, roll the barrel up onto them and into the cart, fasten it with ropes, and then hitch it all back up to the horse.

  At last the cart, with its four men and the barrel, could leave the episcopal palace.

  Later, in the prison courtyard, to get the bishop and Don Puglia out, they had to break the barrel.

  * * *

  That same evening only two keys, both rather large, were found among the bishop’s clothes, and he stubbornly refused to say what doors they were for.

  And so the Grand Captain, together with Torregrossa and ten other men, went and searched Turro Mendoza’s private apartment. But they found nothing of any importance.

  They were about to leave in disappointment when Torregrossa noticed that the table in the dining room had been set for two, and the dishes with cold food hadn’t been touched. Apparently the bishop and Don Puglia hadn’t had time to eat before they were arrested.

  But what drew Torregrossa’s attention was a tiny little cask of wine all covered in dust, resting on the table atop a wooden support. Opening the spigot slightly, he put his hand underneath and brought it to his mouth. It tasted exquisite, like an old wine of very high quality. His Excellency treated himself well.

  “The bishop must have his own cellar,” he said to the Grand Captain.

  “Let’s go and have a look.”

  They went down to the ground floor. Right beside the main entrance was another door. They stuck one of the two keys in the lock. It was the right one. The door gave onto a long staircase leading down. At the bottom there was a second door, made of iron. It opened with the other key.

  It was a large cellar. After searching everywhere for two hours, they found a large hole behind a barrel. Piled inside were ten small sacks full of gold scudi. Two were stained with blood.

  * * *

  Nobody in Palermo knew that the bishop was awaiting trial. Because donna Eleonora, so as not to arouse suspicion, had ordered the guards outside the episcopal palace to carry on as though His Excellency were still inside, in his apartment.

  But before the trial began, Turro Mendoza raised an important objection.

  His secret intention was to gain time as he waited for an answer from the pope. And so he said to the Grand Captain of Justice that he, as head of the Church in Sicily, could not be judged by an ordinary court, but only by a court of similar rank to his own.

  Donna Eleonora and the Judge of the Monarchy discussed the matter and came to the conclusion that it should be the entire Holy Royal Council to pass judgment on the bishop, a procedure never used before.

  Thus the lone novelty of the occasion was that a chair was placed in the middle of the great hall for the defendant. Donna Eleonora refused to attend.

  The Judge of the Monarchy was appointed to preside over the proceedings, while the prosecution’s case would be argued by the Captain of Justice.

  “The first crime with which you are charged is that of having ordered the killing of don Severino Lomascio, marquis of Roccalumera, and of his coachman, Annibale Schirò, a crime materially carried out by your secretary, Don Valentino Puglia.”

  From the very first words, the bishop was stunned and taken aback. He’d expected to be charged with the foul deed, not with double murder. How the hell had they found out?

  He broke out in a cold sweat.

  He’d just remembered that don Severino had warned him that he had covered himself by writing a letter to the Grand Captain, but he hadn’t believed him.

  And indeed:

  “The charge,” don Filippo Arcadipane continued, “is supported by a letter from don Severino, stating—”

  “A letter means nothing!” the bishop interrupted him. “In reality, the marquis of Roccalumera came to me asking for money, and I refused. This is his revenge.”

  “In the letter,” don Filippo resumed, “the marquis lucidly predicts that, in order to recover the six thousand scudi you gave him in exchange for some precious information, you would have him killed by Don Puglia in the woods of La Favorita.”

  “‘Predicts’! . . . It’s all just talk! You have nothing in your hands that could—”

  “We have recovered the body of the marquis, who was clearly stabbed in the back. We have an eyewitness to the murder, who afterwards stripped don Severino’s corpse, and in his cellar we found two small, bloodstained sacks of gold pieces.”

  The bishop realized he was finished.

  He opened his mouth to say something, but no matter how he tried, no sound came out.

  “Finally, I must inform you that last night Don Valentino Puglia confessed to the two murders.”

  Don Filippo neglected to mention that at the jail they’d used a wee bit of boiling oil, letting it drip onto his naked flesh one drop at a time, to persuade him to talk.

  And he would make sure not say anything about it to donna Eleonora, either.

  “I don’t believe it!” the bishop found the strength to shout.

  “Please bring in Don Valentino Puglia,” the Grand Captain ordered the two guards standing on either side of the door.

  They went out and returned holding Don Puglia, who couldn’t stand up, by both arms.

  Great burn marks were visible on his naked chest.

  “Forgive me,” he said in a faint voice to the bishop, who covered his eyes with his hands and said nothing.

  Don Puglia was taken back outside.

  “Do you admit to having ordered the killing of don Severino Lomascio?”

  “Yes,” said the bishop. “But I knew nothing about the driver.”

  “Let us move on to the second charge, that of having committed the foul deed upon two young boys of the cathedral choir. Principal witnesses for the prosecution are the two doctors who treated the boys after you—”

  “That’s quite enough,” Turro Mendoza. “Quite enough. I confess to having subjected those two children to my desires. And, if you really want to know, it’s something that’s been going on for years, except that no one has ever had the courage to denounce me. But, I’m telling you now, I won’t answer any questions. So let’s end this now.”

  And they ended it then, because there was absolutely nothing more to do, not even to call the witnesses.

  It was probably the shortest trial in the history of trials.

  The bishop was taken into a room to await sentencing, while the Councillors had the door of the great hall locked so that no one could listen.

  That Don Puglia, as the material executor of the crime, had to be condemned to death, none of the Councillors had any doubt.

  There was quite a debate, however, and a lively one, over Turro Mendoza’s sentence: death or life imprisonment?

  Don Filippo Arcadipane maintained that there was no difference between those who commissioned murder and those who executed, and therefore the death penalty should be applied to both. For his part, the Judge of the Monarchy agreed with don Filippo but reminded everyone that even a life sentence for a bishop would have serious repercussions for relations between Spain and the Papacy, so one could only imagine the mayhem that a death sen
tence might trigger.

  They put the question to donna Eleonora.

  At first she said that she absolutely did not want to interfere in any decisions of the special tribunal. But then, in the end, she decided to state her opinion.

  “I believe the bishop must be formally condenado a muerte. But at the moment of pronouncing the sentence, el tribunal will request that the viceroy grant clemency to the condenado by commuting the sentence to life imprisonment. I, of course, will then willingly grant the court’s request.”

  And so it was done.

  Then, Don Benedetto Arosio, bishop of Patti, with the marquesa’s permission, wrote to the pope explaining how they had arrived at the painful decision to jail the bishop of Palermo, and that they now needed to arrange for a replacement.

  But he decided to take his time posting the letter, and would wait until the bishop had already been in jail for a good week.

  Meanwhile, however, the pope, upon receiving the letter from the king of Spain, had weighed his options and come to the conclusion that it was much more crucial to have the viceroy recalled to Spain than to insist on annulling her acts of government.

  And thus he wasted no time answering His Majesty, saying he was ready to accept the conditions the king had presented.

  If he’d known in time about the arrest and conviction of Turro Mendoza, he would certainly have raised a ruckus, but the bishop of Patti’s letter arrived too late for that.

  * * *

  At the dinner table the evening of Turro Mendoza’s sentencing, don Serafino noticed that donna Eleonora was melancholy. Mysteriously, however, the light veil that seemed to have fallen over her eyes did not dim their splendor, but made them even more like a bottomless lake, enchanted and enchanting, in which the night sky’s stars were reflected and sparkled like flickering lights.

  The marquesa didn’t feel much like talking, and don Serafino respected her silence—even though he would have given more than his life, his very soul, to have known the reason for that melancholy, and to make it disappear.

  Then, out of the blue, she said:

  “All those who offended mi esposo have paid for it. Ahora don Angel puede reposar en paz, for I have avenged him.”