Collected Works of Rafael Sabatini

by Rafael Sabatini

  The mad letter he despatched to her by an esquire, who was to see it safely into her own hands, waylaying her for the purpose at the palace door. This did the esquire, as he was bidden. Nevertheless, the letter passed unread into the hands of Leocadia, the waiting- woman. She would have read it, but that she lacked the art; so she bore it to Cassandra’s brothers, informing them whom she suspected was the sender, and also how this same Borgia captain had hung about their heels for this week past as though he had been their very shadow.

  Tito, the elder, heard and frowned, read the letter and laughed between contempt and anger, then passed it to Girolamo, who swore unpleasant oaths and lastly bade Leocadia call their sister.

  “Who is this man Ferrante?” inquired Girolamo, when the woman departed on her errand.

  Tito, who was pacing the chamber, stopped short and snorted contemptuously. “A by-blow of the Sicilian Lord of Isola by a peasant woman - a base knave of no fortune, an adventurer, who likely seeks to use our house and an alliance with it as a means to his ends.”

  “As an end in itself, more likely,” answered Girolamo, shifting in his chair. “You are very well informed concerning him.”

  “As to that - he is of some prominence in the Borgia train, and has command of a condotta,” Tito explained. “A handsome dog; and Cassandra, being a woman and a fool-” He spread his hands, sneering. Girolamo scowled.

  They were both swarthy, hawk-faced men, these Genelleschi, and much older than their sister, towards whom their attitude was paternal rather than fraternal.

  She entered presently, ushered by Leocadia, and she looked at them with a something of fear clouding the effulgence of her eyes.

  Girolamo rose, and proffered her a chair; she smiled at him, and took her seat, folding white useless hands in the lap of her blue gown.

  It was Tito who addressed her. “So, Cassandra,” said he, “it seems you have a lover.”

  “A - a lover? I?” said she. “Of your choosing, Tito?” She had a rather high-pitched voice that was quite colourless, and - to one skilled in tones - gave index to the extreme feebleness of her mind.

  “Of my choosing, ninny?” echoed Tito, mimicking her accents. He never had much patience with her. “Via! Pretend less innocence, my lady. Read me this letter. It was intended for you.”

  Cassandra took the paper from Tito, and knit her brows. Slowly and with great labour she set herself to decipher the heavy scrawl of her soldier-lover. At length she appealed to Girolamo.

  “Will you read it for me?” she begged. “I am but indifferent skilled, and the writing here is-”

  “Pah! Give it me,” broke in Tito, sneering; and snatching it impatiently away from her, he read it aloud. When he had done he looked at her, and she returned his glance quite blandly.

  “Who is Messer Prometheus?” she inquired.

  Tito glared savagely, inflamed by the inconsequence of her question. “A fool who overreached himself like this one,” he answered, tapping the letter. “It is not of Prometheus that I would hear you talk; but of this Ferrante. What is he to you?”

  “To me? Why, naught.”

  “Hast seen him none the less. Hast ever spoke to him?”

  It was Leocadia who answered. “Nay, my lord. I saw to that,” said she.

  “Ah!” said Tito. “He has addressed you, then?”

  “Daily, my lord - on leaving church.”

  Tito considered her sternly; then turned again to his sister. “This man,” he said, “seeks to court you, Cassandra.”

  Cassandra giggled. There was a tiny mirror in the heart of her fan of white ostrich plumes. In this she now surveyed herself, and the gesture was very eloquent.

  “You think it little marvel, eh?” put in Girolamo. Yet, though sardonic, he was more gentle than his brother in addressing her.

  She giggled again, looking from her mirror to her brothers. “I am very comely,” said she, with conviction. “And the gentleman is not blind.”

  Tito laughed loud and harshly. He scented danger. Fools such as his sister, whose only sense was a sense of vanity - he had no illusions on the score of her - were all too prone to responsiveness to a man’s admiration, and to go to foolish lengths in that responsiveness. Her views regarding Messer Ferrante must be corrected.

  “Fool,” said he contemptuously, “do you conceive that this adventurer is taken by your white face and baby eyes?”

  “With what else, then, pray?” quoth she, her brows arched upwards.

  “With the name of Genelleschi and the portion that is yours. What else have you that shall draw a needy adventurer?”

  A flush overspread the pretty, foolish face. “Is it so?” she asked, turning to Girolamo. “Is it indeed so?” Her tone quivered a little.

  Girolamo flung out his hands and shrugged. “Beyond all doubt,” he assured her. “We have sound knowledge.”

  Her eyes glistened and were magnified by sudden tears. “I thank you for this timely warning,” said she - and they saw that she was in a great rage - the rage that springs of vanity scarified. She rose. “Should this fellow again address me, I shall know what answer to return him.” She paused a moment. “Shall I send a reply to that insolent letter?” she asked them.

  “Best not,” said Tito. “Silence will be the best mark of your contempt. Besides,” he added, sneering, “your writing being more difficult to read even than his, might leave him in some doubt as to your real intentions.”

  She stamped a very shapely foot clad in a shoe of cloth-of-gold, turned, and angrily departed with her woman.

  Tito looked at Girolamo, and sat down.

  “You have been well advised,” said Girolamo, “and you have set up an effective barrier.”

  “Pooh!” said Tito. “A woman’s vanity is an instrument upon which the merest fool may play any tune he pleases. But I shall set up a more effective barrier still - the barrier of a tombstone - ere I’ve done. This insolent upstart shall be punished. To dare - to dare!” he cried.

  Girolamo shrugged. “We have done enough,” said he. “Be content with that. More might be dangerous to ourselves. This knave of Isola stands well in the esteem of Cesare Borgia. If he should come to any harm, the Duke might exact a heavy price.”

  “Maybe,” said Tito, and there for the moment let the matter lie, chiefly for lack of means to accomplish the thing that he desired.

  But when on the morrow he went to pay his court to this Borgia, for whom he had scant love, he heard a matter discussed in the antechamber that set him thinking. This matter concerned Ferrante. Men were talking of the change that had come upon the captain; of the want of discipline in his condotta, which had been the most orderly in the entire army, and of the Duke’s grave displeasure at this state of things. Messer Tito, gathering a sudden inspiration from all this, went presently to beg private audience of the Duke.

  Cesare was at work with his secretary in a pleasant sunny chamber whose balcony overlooked a garden all ablaze with blossom. Gherardi was writing, to the Duke’s dictation, a letter to Messer Ramiro de Lorqua, Cesare’s Governor of Forli. It was a letter that concerned the reduction of San Ciascano; and Valentinois, as he lightly paced the chamber, smiled as he dictated, for at last he had hit upon a plan to make a sudden end of that troublesome resistance.

  Gherardi concluded the despatch, and rose to make way for Cesare, that the latter might append his signature. At that moment a chamberlain entered with Messer de’ Genelleschi’s request for a private audience.

  Cesare paused, holding his ink-laden pen suspended, and his eyes narrowed.

  “Genelleschi, eh?” said he, and there was no pleasure in the tone. “Admit him.”

  He looked at his secretary. “What’s here, eh, Agabito? This man’s friendship for Bologna is notorious, yet he hangs about my court and now he demands audience of me. It would little surprise me to find him a spy of the Bentivogli, or of those interested in San Ciascano.”

  Gherardi slowly pursed his lips, and slowly shook his head. �
��We have had him closely watched - quite fruitlessly, my lord.”

  “Ah!” said Cesare, plainly unconvinced.

  Then the door opened, and the chamberlain ushered in Messer Tito de’ Genelleschi. The Duke drew the letter to him, and signed it “Cesare” swiftly and with a great flourish. He passed it to Gherardi, who stood at his elbow, and bade him seal it. Then, at last, he slowly turned his eyes upon the newcomer, who had advanced to the middle of the room, and - great man though he was in Lojano - stood there, like a lackey, awaiting the Duke’s pleasure.

  Cesare’s beautiful eyes turned dreamily upon him, with no hint of the scrutiny they were exerting, and Cesare’s voice very gentle and musical, invited him to speak.

  “Highness,” said Tito, “I have a grievance.”

  “Against us?” quoth Cesare, in a manner that invited confidence.

  “Against certain men-at-arms of your following.”

  “Ah!” There was undoubtedly a quickened interest in the tone. “Proceed, I beg, sir. This is a matter which it imports that we should know.”

  And now Tito unfolded the pretty tale he had prepared, which had it that on three occasions his sister and her waiting-woman had suffered rudeness at the hands of certain soldiers in the town - such rudeness that they dared no longer go forth save under an escort of armed lackeys.

  Cesare’s eyes kindled with anger as he listened. “An example shall be made,” said he. “Can you afford me particulars that will help me to lay hands on the offenders?”

  “No more than that they were men of Messer Ferrante da Isola’s condotta.”

  The anger grew in the Duke’s tone and glance. “Ferrante again!” he exclaimed. “But this exceeds all bounds.” Then suddenly, his voice sharp as a knife’s edge, “How know you they were Ferrante’s?” he asked.

  The question took Tito entirely unawares. The fool had not dreamed that a great man like Cesare would stoop to petty details of “how” and “why.” It was unworthy, and it was unusual, and so, unfortunately, Messer Tito had no answer ready. This he betrayed by his foolish expression, by the foolish blinking of his eyes under that glance of Cesare’s which of a sudden had become cold and searching.

  “Why-” he began, drawling that he might have time to think, and laughing to cover his confusion, “in the first place they were horse soldiers, and in the second - why - it was gathered from remarks that they let fall.”

  “Ah! And these remarks - what were they?”

  “You see, Highness,” explained the other, “I am but giving you the facts as related to me by my sister and her woman; unfortunately it did not occur to me to examine them so minutely.”

  Cesare nodded his head. “And you were justified by the manner in which justice has been dispensed in Italy. But my justice is not so. Your oversight shall be repaired at once,” he continued briskly. “I’ll sift this to the dregs, that there may be no misapprehension. Agabito, let a messenger summon Messer Tito’s sister and her woman instantly.”

  But as Agabito was departing on this errand, the Duke stopped him. Tito’s face - the sudden consternation of it - had told Cesare all he sought to learn.

  “Wait,” he said, and leaned back in his chair, laying tapering fingertips together, and smiling as if in self-contempt. “After all, where is the need? No, no, Agabito; we may confidently take Messer Tito’s statement to be correct. For of course these men of Ferrante’s would be known to the lady by their device.”

  “Ah, yes, yes,” cried Tito eagerly. “’Twas that, Highness. It had escaped my memory.”

  “It might well,” said Cesare. “So slight a detail. But now that you recall it, do you by chance remember what the device was?”

  Here Tito knit his brows, took his shaven chin in his hands, and appeared to be in a very travail of recollection. “Now let me see,” he muttered. “Surely, surely, I remember. I -”

  “Would it be blue and white?” quoth Cesare gently.

  Tito smacked fist into palm. “Blue and white - blue and white, of course,” said he. “’Twas so - ’twas blue and white indeed. How came I to forget it?”

  Agabito stooped low over the papers at the table, to hide the smile he could not repress - for the men of Ferrante’s condotta wore no such badge at all.

  “The matter shall be dealt with,” said Cesare. “Ferrante shall be called to account at once. Note that, Agabito,” the Duke commanded. Then he leaned forward, pondering for a brief moment. That Tito had lied to him he was assured beyond all doubt; but it remained for him to discover Tito’s full aim and motive. Was it Ferrante he sought to harm? Cesare set himself to find an answer to that question.

  “I deplore this matter, Messer Tito,” said he, with a very gracious courtesy. “It is not usual in my troops to give occasion for complaint. They are sternly schooled. But this Ferrante latterly - by the Host!

  — I know not what ails him!”

  “Like enough it will be the company be keeps,” suggested Tito, and thus advanced another step into his morass of falsehood.

  “Why, what company is that?”

  But now Tito made a feint of seeking to draw back. “Ah - no, no! I’ve been indiscreet. I have said more than was my intent. Forget it, Highness.”

  “Messer Tito,” said Valentinois very sternly, “do you trifle with me? Am I a man from whom things are thus to be concealed?”

  “But, my lord, I beseech you! If I were to say what it was in my mind to say, it might..it might -” He waved helpless hands.

  “Might it?” said Cesare, his brows raised. “Then let it, I beg you — and without more delay, for I have other suitors awaiting audience this morning. Come, sir, speak! What company do you imply is kept by Ferrante da Isola?”

  “Imply? Oh, Highness!”

  “State, then - I care not. Come, man, come. In what company have you heard of his being seen?”

  “Heard? Should I accuse a man on hearsay? Ah, no. I speak of what I have seen, Highness. On more occasions than one have I beheld this man of yours in a tavern of the borgo in the company of some gentlemen of Bologna who are well known to me. It may be innocent. It may be.”

  Cesare looked at him very coldly now. “You are implying, sir, that Ferrante da Isola consorts with enemies of mine to my hurt.”

  “Oh, my lord! Acquit me of that, I beseech you. I imply nothing. I but state what I have seen. The rest is but what you, yourself, infer, Highness; not what I imply.”

  “You could if necessary make oath concerning these same facts?”

  “I am quite ready, should you doubt my word,” said Tito, with a sudden access of dignity.

  “To perjure yourself?” quoth Cesare softly.

  “To perjure myself?” cried Tito, his tone of a sudden mighty haughty.

  Cesare was silent a moment, his fingers toying at his tawny beard, the faintest shadow of a smile quivering about his lips. Then he shrugged contemptuously, and looked the other straight between the eyes.

  “Messer Tito, I do not believe you,” he said.

  An angry scowl crumpled the smoothness of Genelleschi’s brow, and his quickened blood glowed through the tan of his cheeks. That he had lied, and knew it, did not temper his indignation at being given the lie thus coldly and calmly - and before a witness, too. There were men enough in Italy who would there and then have leaped at the Duke’s throat for such a speech. But Genelleschi was not of these.

  “Highness,” he exclaimed, in haughty and indignant protest, “you forget that my name is Genelleschi.”

  Cesare smiled, displaying teeth of a dazzling whiteness. He rose, slender and graceful in his deep purple surcoat.

  “Tis you forget that mine is Cesare Borgia.” His eyes caught Messer Tito’s glance, and held it captive. “As deeply as I abhor a liar, just so deeply do I love an honest, loyal soul; and such an honest, loyal soul is Ferrante da Isola.”

  “Complete your meaning, Excellency,” cried the other, his voice now thick with wrath.

  “Is there the need?” smiled Cesare
.

  Genelleschi all but choked. He felt that, if he remained, the wave of fiery anger that his soul sent forth would whelm all caution; so he bowed low - too low for courtesy pure and unalloyed.

  “Your Highness will suffer me to take my leave,” he said, and turned to depart.

  “I trust that is the most that you shall ever take of me, sir,” said the Duke, and dismissed him with a gesture.

  But as Genelleschi reached the door Cesare’s voice arrested him. “Stay, Messer Tito. You may be conceiving that I have used you harshly.” His eyes had narrowed suddenly, but Tito saw naught of this. “You may conceive that you have had an ill return for the service you came here to render me in warning me of this man’s treachery; that it would better sort with the ways of justice in which I claim to walk that I should satisfy myself that Ferrante is indeed innocent before convicting you of falsehood.”

  “I confess, Magnificent,” answered Tito, with a mock deference that did not escape the Duke, “that some such thought was in my mind.”

  “Bethink you, though,” returned the Duke, speaking slowly, “that Ferrante’s infatuation for your sister is known to me, as is also known that you and your brother account him an upstart of low birth, whose suit is an offence to your lofty station, whose throat you would cut but for the fear that I might take heavy payment for the life of an officer I rate so highly. Consider that I know all this, and ask yourself how can I believe your accusation, unsupported by any proofs, against a man whose loyalty to me has been tried a dozen times.”

  Messer Tito blinked in sheer surprise at the extent of Cesare’s knowledge, and was confounded by it - not realising that much of this same knowledge was inference, and the inspiration of the moment in that most subtle brain.

  His recovery was swift from that confusion which showed Cesare how truly aimed had been his shaft. To deny his attitude towards Ferrante, Tito realised, would be futile. But he could still belittle it; still claim that he brought Cesare this warning out of pure loyalty - must have brought it him though his own brother had been the traitor.