Chess lessons were held three times a week.
Professor Ferrari soon discovered that Cerydra’s understanding of Chess was different from that of ordinary people.
Most Chess players—whether beginners or masters—thought about “how to win.” They would calculate moves, deduce variations, and look for their opponent’s weaknesses.
This was the normal, correct way to play.
Cerydra thought about “how to make the board reach the form it ought to have.” She played Chess as if she were tidying up a messy room.
It was not about attacking, defending, or scheming, but—restoring order.
Every piece should be where it ought to be; the entire game should present a state of balance, harmony, and adherence to some inherent law.
When she achieved this state, victory would often arrive naturally.
“When you play, it is as if you are executing some kind of rule,” Professor Ferrari once remarked.
Cerydra was tidying up the pieces on the board; her hand paused for a moment before she continued putting the ivory pieces back into the wooden box one by one.
“The rules already exist,” she said.
“I am merely finding them.” Professor Ferrari would remember these words for many years.
In the summer of 1922, the political climate of Italy was even more scorching than the August heat in Rome.
The black shirts of the Fascist Party spread across the northern plains like a tide.
Mussolini’s name climbed from the edges of newspapers to the front pages, transforming from an object of ridicule into an undeniable presence.
At the end of October, King Victor Emmanuel III made the decision that would change everything—when the Fascist armed forces marched on Rome, he refused to sign the martial law decree.
Mussolini was appointed as prime minister.
The atmosphere inside the Quirinal Palace became subtle.
No one discussed it openly, but everyone knew that something was changing.
Cerydra was seven years old.
She stood in front of the study window, looking toward the city of Rome.
She held her cane, the crystal Royal Piece pressed against her palm.
She had just finished a game with Professor Ferrari—today, she had defeated the professor in a formal match for the first time, using a gambit to launch an attack.
The professor took off his glasses, studied the board for a long time, and then said, “Your Highness has won.” She did not smile.
Because she knew that outside the chessboard, another, much larger game had just begun.
Her father had just made a move—appointing Mussolini as prime minister—a move that would be analyzed, debated, and judged repeatedly in history books.
Some said it was to avoid civil war, some said it was a surrender to the Fascist Regime, and some said it was the beginning of the end for the House of Savoy.
And she stood here, knowing all of this, yet unable to do anything.
Her seven-year-old body was too small.
She gripped the cane in her hand slightly tighter.
In 1923, Cerydra was eight years old.
That year, outside of Chess lessons, Professor Ferrari began to teach her the foundations of law.
It was not the civics education prepared for children, but real jurisprudence—the basic principles of Roman law, the system of the Justinian Code, and the concept of natural law.
These things should not have been taught to an eight-year-old child, but Professor Ferrari no longer used “should” to measure this student.
“What is law?” he wrote this question on the blackboard.
Cerydra thought for a moment.
It was not the kind of agonizing contemplation of a child, but a quiet, inward-seeking pause.
“Law is order,” she said.
“Whose order?” “…The inherent order of things.” Professor Ferrari put down the chalk.
“Does Your Highness mean that law is not created by people, but discovered by them?” Cerydra looked at him, her blue eyes holding a clarity that made the old professor feel a tremor in his heart.
“I do not know.” She said, this being one of the rare moments she said “I do not know.” “But I feel…
some rules already existed before people wrote them down.
People just wrote them down, and then called them ‘law’.” Professor Ferrari was silent for a long time.
That night, he wrote in his diary: “Today’s lesson, Her Highness discussed the origin of law.
Her words were like those of an ancient philosopher, not something a child could say.
Yet her expression was open and honest, without any pretense of profoundness, as if she were merely stating something self-evident.
This girl will surely be extraordinary in the future.” After writing this, he crossed out the last sentence and changed it to: “This girl’s future is beyond measure.” In the spring of 1924, Professor Ferrari brought a new chessboard.
It was not a standard board, but a “three-person Chess” set—a variant where three forces competed against each other on a hexagonal board.
He had intended to use this board to train Cerydra’s ability to handle complex situations.
Cerydra looked at the board for a long time.
Then she asked, “Why three sides?” “This is the design of the rules for three-person Chess, Your Highness.” “That is not what I am asking.” She reached out and pointed to the squares on the hexagonal board.
“I am asking, why do real games only have two sides?” Professor Ferrari was stunned.
“Black and white, enemy and friend, victory and defeat.” Cerydra’s voice was very soft.
“But the world does not only have two sides, does it, Professor?
Italy, France, Britain, Germany, Austria…
No one faces only one opponent.” The clamor from afar drifted in through the window.
It was a rally of the Fascist Party on the streets of Rome; the ranks of black shirts were singing the “Giovinezza,” and portraits of Mussolini were held high.
In 1924, in Italy, the Fascist Party had firmly grasped power.
The Matteotti Crisis had not yet erupted, but undercurrents were already surging.
Professor Ferrari looked at the nine-year-old girl in front of him and suddenly felt that she was not asking about Chess.
“Your Highness,” he said, weighing his words, “a Chess game is always just a mirror of reality.
What a mirror can reflect is always limited.” Cerydra did not ask again.
She lowered her head and began to set the pieces on the three-sided board.
Her white fingers pinched the ivory pieces, placing them one by one, steadily, into the center of the squares.
The cane leaned against the chair beside her, the crystal Royal Piece reflecting the light from outside the window.
Professor Ferrari looked at her profile.
Her short white hair hung by her ears, the blue at the tips of her hair deeper than it had been three years ago.
Her features were gradually maturing, the delicate contours becoming increasingly clear.
That beauty, which did not belong to this era, was blooming bit by bit within her nine-year-old frame.
And the pieces in her hand were placed with increasing steadiness.
In 1925, Cerydra was ten years old.
That year, Professor Ferrari formally submitted a report to the King.
The report detailed his teaching observations of Her Highness the Princess over the past four years, including her learning progress, intellectual development assessment, personality analysis, and a seven-page record of Chess games.
The end of the report read as follows: “Her Highness’s mastery of Chess is beyond what I can teach.
Her understanding of the game has transcended the level of technique and entered a realm I cannot reach.
She is not calculating moves; she is reading the laws of the game itself.
In forty years, I have never seen such a Chess player, regardless of age.
If Your Majesty permits, I suggest inviting Mr.
Mastroianni of the Rome Chess Club to play against Her Highness.
He is one of the best Chess players in Italy and might provide a new challenge for Her Highness.
As for other studies—she can already read Cicero’s original works in Latin, her arithmetic has reached a secondary school level, and she is exceptionally proficient in geography and history.
The speed at which Her Highness learns far exceeds what any known educational framework can explain.
I have taught for forty years and have never seen such a student.
I do not know how to describe her.
I can only say that she is a Royal Piece.
And the board is waiting for her to grow up.” The King was silent for a long time after reading the report.
Outside the window, the twilight of Rome was descending.
In 1925, in Italy, the Fascist Regime dictatorship had been basically established.
Mussolini had delivered that famous speech in parliament, declaring that he assumed full “political, moral, and historical responsibility” for the Matteotti case.
The voices of the opposition were being eliminated one by one.
The King’s power was being eroded bit by bit.
King Victor Emmanuel III put down the report and looked out the window.
In the garden of the Quirinal Palace, roses were in full bloom.
Ten years ago, in 1915, he had stood in this very spot, listening to the cries from the delivery room, and given his newborn daughter a name that did not belong to this era.
Cerydra.
He suddenly remembered the last sentence in Professor Ferrari’s report—”She is a Royal Piece.” The King closed his eyes slightly.
The board was indeed waiting for her to grow up.
But as a King, he knew better than anyone that this board had long ceased to have only two sides, black and white.
The Fascist Party, the military, the church, the royal family, the Allied Powers, and those forces faintly stirring on the horizon—various factions were intertwined and colliding on this ancient land, and the pieces in his hand were becoming fewer and fewer.
Ten-year-old Cerydra was currently sitting in that small study in the East Wing, facing the new opponent brought by Professor Ferrari—Mr.
Mastroianni of the Rome Chess Club.
He was a middle-aged man with a gray beard, said to be ranked in the top three in Italy.
The board was set, and Cerydra played white.
She reached out, her fingertips landing on the King’s pawn.
The cane leaned to the side, the crystal Royal Piece at its top quietly refracting the afterglow of the setting sun.
e4.
The roses outside the window were blooming, and the twilight of Rome was spreading over the dome of the Quirinal Palace.
The summer of 1925 was descending.