Then one evening, as Lytto accompanied him to his bedchamber, the Duke’s cold hand grasped the boy’s face, and he gazed into it, searchingly, for what seemed an age. Lytto withstood the gaze manfully, in a kind of challenge. Galeazzo was the first to relax.
“You’re so like your mother!” he said, and his face darkened.
Lytto did not know what to think. He had forgotten how much the Duke despised women.
The next day Galeazzo informed him that he was to be relieved of his personal duties so that he could devote all his time to mastering the French tongue. Lytto studied and studied, but every word of the language, already so harsh and barbaric-sounding to the Italian ear, now seemed even more repulsive and grating. He simply waited for a miracle, desperate to carry out some unprecedented act of heroism that would change everything at the eleventh hour.
Meanwhile something happened that had not occurred in ten years: Galeazzo summoned the highest-born citizens of Milan to the castle to announce his new tax arrangements. He received them in full princely pomp in the Council Chamber, sitting on his throne in a long, dark-green cloak, surrounded by his secretaries in their robes of state, with Lytto, in a crimson doublet, at the foot of the throne. On either side stood serried lines of guards, armed to the teeth. The townspeople were seated at the far end of the hall, the nearest of them a full hundred paces away. In the faces of their proud leaders there was a look of defiant hatred, but their grave formality concealed an element of fear, and when they spoke, their subdued voices were barely audible.
The proposals were duly read out, and no objection was raised. The Duke gestured for the three principal delegates to come forward to receive the new instructions from his hand and make them public.
The three nobles approached. Two of them were old men with beards, in long fur coats. The third was much younger. Lytto was struck by the haggard look on his sharp-featured face. The men knelt before the throne and the Duke held out his hand with the parchment. In that instance the young nobleman leapt to his feet, brandishing a long dagger — no one saw where he drew it from — and let out a blood-curdling scream. And Galeazzo’s star trembled.
But before he could land the blow, Lytto, with the unimaginable speed that only the undeveloped frame of a boy would be capable, appeared alongside and with unerring aim plunged his dagger into him. The assassin fell without a sound, and sprawled onto the steps of the throne, writhing grotesquely.
Lytto flung himself down on the bloodstained carpet at Galeazzo’s feet, trembling from head to toe with emotion, his head bowed low in full humility — while his heart sang with joy amidst the flood of tears. It had happened. The miracle had happened!
The next moment the line of guards had surrounded the throne and turned their lances on the citizens, who fled the chamber in a stupor of fear. The body was pushed to one side and covered over.
After what seemed an immensely long time, Lytto raised his head and met Galeazzo’s gaze. The eyes betrayed nothing. Neither joy at his escape, nor fear of the danger he had been in; neither hatred for his assailant, nor affection for his saviour. Nothing. A complete absence of human expression. Staring stiffly ahead, he remarked, very quietly and very calmly:
“You have a sure hand, Franghipani!”
And that was all. To Lytto, who had expected something rather different after what had just happened, it showed a total want of human understanding. All he felt now was that the miracle had happened in vain. It was too late. He had lost the battle. Galeazzo had killed off the one tie that had bound him to humanity. Filled with loathing, he returned the Duke’s cold stare for a moment. Then he suddenly leapt to his feet. He had seen the Face — the face, the vision, that had driven the Milanese painter to madness, the white, expressionless, horrific face on the throne, above the dark-green cloak: Galeazzo’s true face, with the mark of the Antichrist on his brow.
After this, Lytto spent no more time thinking. His doubts had all melted away. Now he understood everything. Instead of questions, he was filled with a bleak, dark indifference. He went about his business, fulfilled his duties mechanically, and let the hours and days pass over his head like tall cliffs tumbling down into a deserted valley. The time of his departure was drawing near. His speech was inaudible and his features expressionless — paralysed by that face, like a small animal hypnotised by the stare of a snake.
Then, just before the date of his departure, something occurred to shake him out of his stupor. The Duke was in council with his secretaries and a document was required. He sent Lytto out to fetch it. Lytto returned, set it down before him, then allowed the hand, whose whiteness had once been such a source of pride to him, to play briefly, with a fine, unconscious grace, on the table. Galeazzo’s glance strayed towards it, Lytto noticed the look, and suddenly it was as if he had woken from a dream.
Now he understood exactly why the Duke had said “You have a sure hand, Franghipani”. The Duke’s diabolical line of thought was clarified in a flash. Galeazzo had thought him capable of the very same act: he had been afraid that Lytto would kill him! So little did he believe in love, and so thoroughly had he banished the feeling from his own heart, that he was capable of conceiving such a thought in his head.
The boy’s earlier lethargy gave way to a fever of excitement. Once the notion had taken hold in him he could not shake it off. It was with him night and day. He stared at his trembling hand as at some alien object, one on which Fate had laid a terrible summons.
Now his mind was clear: Galeazzo was a tyrant — of all tyrants the most abominable — and the death of such a person was an act pleasing to God. By the end of a feverish night his plans had ripened to certainty, and the next morning he was once again as calm as he had been before temptation troubled his soul. He felt a strange strength in his limbs. His body seemed to him a light, comely thing, as if he were walking on air — as if it were something apart from him, with a will of its own, that might fly off uncontrollably.
At last came the day before St Lawrence’s. The following day he would have to leave. His project could be deferred no longer. That morning he washed and tended his appearance with particular care. Throughout the day people were struck by his youthful beauty, and many were sorry that he was going. At matins he confessed his sins and received the body of the Lord. In his free time he read Plutarch’s portrait of Brutus in the Parallel Lives. When darkness fell, he closed the book and made his way up to the castle chapel.
There he prostrated himself before the statue of St Ambrose. Words of profound meaning poured from his lips, as if someone were prompting him. On the evening of his great deed, Ippolyto di Franghipani prayed in the following terms:
“Good Bishop St Ambrose, you who watch by night over the fate of your people, help me to accomplish the deed attempted by that brave young man from Milan. Grant that I might be courageous and calm in the fateful moment, worthy of my illustrious ancestors, and a faithful emulator of the many glorious heroes of antiquity. It is surely right that it should fall to me to complete what has already cost the lives of so many people. Those brave souls would merely have ended the life of a hated stranger, but I shall sacrifice the one person I have loved above all others. My soul has been washed of its sins, and no selfish desire directs my weapon — I shall act only for the city and for divine Justice. For in the fullness of my heart I believe and confess that the true Christ lives, Christ who, though God himself, suffered for all mankind — while here, Father, is a man who refuses to enter into the sweet and tender ties of love with anyone. I acknowledge that the Tempter has come close to my soul, and I too have built a tower of solitude. But I also love the people of Milan, whom I do not know, as I love all humanity. Shut away in this castle of wickedness, I have felt their blood pulsing through my heart, and I listen to the words of my heart. I have no wish to set myself above the common people, but rather to suffer on my own behalf, on behalf of others, and all mankind. No sense of guilt troubles my soul, because through this deed I shall fulfil the tyrant’s own wish. It was he who opened my eyes; who — of his own free will — revealed himself to me in all his impiety and wickedness; who planted the thought of the deed in my mind, and placed the dagger in my hand. It was his way, this non-human in the midst of humanity, of destroying himself, through my agency. Like a scorpion. I know I am your sinful and unworthy servant, weak and fallible, and even as I ask this I do not entirely wish it. But look upon the purity of my intentions, Father, and intercede for me before the Holy Trinity, now and in the hour of my death. Amen.”