Chapter 39: The Banquet of Vipers
The Great Hall of the Neapolitan Royal Palace was a graveyard of memories draped in Spanish gold. Where once the banners of the House of Salerno hung, now the crimson and gold of Spain dominated every pillar. The scent of roasted boar and heavy Iberian wine filled the air, but to Julian, it smelled of decay—the rot of a kingdom sold by its own sons.
Julian sat at the long table, the Papal Cardinal to his right and the Spanish Viceroy, Don Diego de Lara, at the head. Seated across from them were the heads of the three Grand Families—the Caracciolo, the Pignatelli, and the Capece—the men who had opened the gates when the King was bleeding on the ramparts.
"A toast," Don Diego announced, raising a crystal goblet. "To the peace brought by the Crusader mandate. To a Naples that finally breathes under the protection of King Alfonso."
The traitorous nobles cheered, their voices too loud, their smiles too practiced. Julian raised his cup, his "Humanity" giving him a sharp, stinging awareness of the hypocrisy in the room.
'Look at them,' Julian thought, his gaze sweeping over the Caracciolo patriarch. 'Eating off the plates of the man they betrayed. If I still had the "Cool Protagonist" buff, I'd just be calculating their corruption levels. Now? I just want to see how they taste the salt in their food.'
"The Viscount is quiet," the Viceroy remarked, his eyes like flint. "Does the Imperial delegation find our hospitality lacking?"
"Not at all, Excellency," Julian replied, his voice a smooth, philosophical baritone. "I was merely reflecting on the nature of stability. It is like this wine—rich and potent, yet it leaves a bitter aftertaste if the grapes were harvested in haste."
A brief, heavy silence followed. The Cardinal cleared his throat, sensing the tension. "Peace is indeed a blessing, Don Diego. However, the Church is concerned with the... spiritual loose ends of the previous administration."
The Viceroy's smile didn't waver. "The 'administration' is extinct, Your Eminence. Spain has brought order to the chaos."
The Silent Judge
Outside the massive oak doors, Isabella stood among the guards. Her fingers traced the embroidery on her sleeve, her ears strained to catch the muffled echoes of the banquet. A young Spanish officer, emboldened by the wine flowing in the kitchens, leaned against the wall near her.
"A beautiful flower shouldn't be left in the hallway," the officer whispered, his hand reaching toward her chin. "The Viceroy is generous. Perhaps you'd prefer a warmer seat?"
Isabella's eyes went cold—the sharp, predatory look of a woman who had survived the Milanese courts. She didn't flinch. "My Lord is the Imperial Border Lieutenant. If you touch me, he won't just challenge you to a duel; he'll turn your logistics into a nightmare before your body hits the floor. Move."
The officer blinked, startled by the venom in her voice, and retreated. Isabella let out a soft breath. She looked at the closed doors. 'He's in there with snakes,' she thought, her heart giving a strange, unbidden throb. 'And here I am, pouting because he didn't bring me to the table. I'm a mess.'
Diplomacy in the Dark
"The King of Naples is dead," the Viceroy stated flatly as the servants cleared the first course. "His body was lost to the sea during the final retreat. There is no one to bury."
"A symbolic rite, then," the Cardinal suggested, his voice carrying the authority of Rome. "The people whisper, Don Diego. They see the empty throne and the unmarked grave. They call it a curse. If Spain wishes to be seen as a protector and not an occupier, it must show the mercy of the Cross."
Julian leaned forward, picking up a silver pear-knife. "Excellency, consider the pragmatism. A martyr is a dangerous thing. But a ghost that has been properly laid to rest? That is a closed chapter. We are not asking for a restoration. We are asking for a funeral. Let the people weep for one day, and they will work for you for a decade."
"And what of the rumors?" the Caracciolo Duke asked, his voice trembling slightly. "They say the Queen escaped. They say the boy lives."
Julian met the traitor's eyes. He didn't blink. "Survivors of such chaos are often figments of hope, Duke. If they existed, surely they would have sought refuge with their 'loyal' families? Since they have not appeared at your gates, one can only assume they are either ghosts... or guests of someone much more discreet than I."
The Viceroy's eyes narrowed. He recognized the threat hidden in the "philosophy." Julian was telling them: I have what you fear, but as long as you give me the burial, I'll keep the cage locked.
Suddenly, the doors burst open. A Spanish messenger, covered in dust and sweat, rushed to the Viceroy's side and whispered urgently. Don Diego's face turned a shade of purple that matched his wine.
"Prince Alaric," the Viceroy hissed, slamming his hand on the table. "That 'rebel' whelp has struck my garrison at Capua. 1,700 men dead or scattered! He flies the flag of the Naples Crown!"
Julian took a slow sip of his wine. "How tragic. It seems the ghosts are restless today. Perhaps a burial is more urgent than we thought?"
The Breaking Point
The news of Alaric's attack changed the air. The Viceroy didn't dismiss the meeting; he grew desperate. If the "Rebellion" grew, the Pope would have an excuse to intervene to "restore order."
In the back-channels of Rome, the Emperor was already meeting the Pope.
"Holy Father," Frederick said, looking at a map of the scorched Mediterranean coast. "Spain sinks your grain ships. Their 'rebels' burn the countryside. I have 50,000 men ready to act as a 'Peacekeeping Force.' I only need your word that the burial is a holy necessity."
The Pope hesitated. He saw Spain's overreach, but he feared the Emperor's ambition. "I will not grant a war mandate. But... I authorize a 'Mourning Guard.' You may move your troops to the border of the Papal States to ensure the funeral procession is not harassed by 'pirates'."
It was the opening the Emperor needed.
The Scoundrel's Solace
Back in the guest quarters of the palace, Julian collapsed onto a divan. The tension of the banquet had left him wired and exhausted. Isabella entered, carrying a basin of warm water and a fresh towel.
"You look like you've been fighting a war with words, My Lord," she said, her voice softer now that they were alone.
"It's worse than a war, Isabella. At least in a war, you know who's trying to kill you. In there? They all smiled while they sharpened their knives."
Isabella knelt beside him, beginning to clean the travel grime from his hands. Julian watched her, his "Humanity" surging. He reached out, playing with a stray lock of her hair.
"I'm sorry I left you outside," he murmured, his voice low and genuine. "I hated every minute of it."
Isabella froze, her face flushing crimson. "I... I'm a servant, My Lord. It's my place."
"No," Julian said, sitting up and taking her hand, bringing it to his face. "You're the only person in this city I actually trust. That makes you more important than any Viceroy or Cardinal."
Isabella's eyes shimmered. The "Philosophical Viscount" was gone; in his place was just a man who looked very, very tired of being alone.
[Isabella Favorability: +5 (Total: 50).]
"You... you really are a scoundrel," she whispered, leaning her forehead against his. "Using that face to make me forget I'm angry with you."
"Is it working?"
"Terribly."
The Compromise
The next morning, the Viceroy delivered his answer.
"Spain will permit a symbolic rite," Don Diego announced. "A burial of the Royal Garments, the Crown, and the empty casket. No body. No recognition of heirs. The ceremony will be held at the Cathedral of Naples under the joint guard of the Papacy and the Empire."
It was a partial victory. Spain saved face by not admitting the King's body was missing (and thus, potentially alive), while Julian secured the legitimacy needed to move the Queen closer to the front.
As Julian stood on the balcony, watching the first black banners of the funeral procession being raised, he saw the faint smoke of Alaric's fires on the horizon.
'The burial is the fuse,' Julian thought. 'And Alaric just lit the match.'
To be continued...