Collected Works of Rafael Sabatini

by Rafael Sabatini

  Anon, letting the reins lie on the neck of his ambling charger, he drew forth the map that Cesare had given him, and pored over it as if to gather inspiration from its tracings. One matter this study did determine - how Reggio di Monte should be approached. Not by the highway running up the valley along the river, whence their coming might be witnessed and their strength - or, rather, their weakness - observed by the men of Reggio on the heights. Rather must they approach it under cover, and to this end Ferrante ordered the troops - after the noontide rest - to strike away to the south and the hills. As a consequence they rested at nightfall on the slopes of Monte Quarto, with that stout hill as a screen between themselves and the eyes of Reggio.

  There they pitched the tents of the officers, and there the men bivouacked under the summer sky. Ferrante ascended the hill alone that night, and from the summit he looked across the narrow gap of valley at the lights of Reggio on the hill-top opposite, a bowshot away. That was his first view of the town. He had come and he had seen; but to the conquering he perceived no way just yet. Would a way be opened to him? He sat down to think, and so near did the lights of Reggio seem that he entertained the perfectly idle reflection that a bridge thrown across the gap would afford an easy solution of the riddle.

  Now this papal fief of Reggio di Monte, you are to know, had been unlawfully sold by the late Pope, Innocent VIII, to Count Prospero Guancia, and upon the latter’s death had been inherited by his brother Girolamo, Cardinal-Deacon of Santa Apollonia, who now held it, in open rebellion against the authority of the Holy See. For whilst the Cardinal-Count as cleric must, and did, acknowledge the sovereignty of Pope Alexander VI, as tyrant he refused - so far as Reggio di Monte was concerned - to recognise in the latter his temporal overlord. He was by no means blind to the danger of this insubordination; but he was a crafty and far-seeing opportunist, employing well-paid spies at Rome to keep him informed of his danger’s precise degree.

  Hitherto, Cesare Borgia had been fully engaged beyond the Apennines, in the conquest of the Romagna, with no time to turn aside to gather so comparatively insignificant a fruit as Reggio di Monte. The Cardinal-Count well knew that in the course of things his own turn should come, and that he might be forced to yield his fief. But it was also possible that chance might serve him; and he deemed it as well to wait in his out-of-the-way corner of Tuscany until the enemy was at his gates. He had known a spasm of fear when word was brought him that the Pope’s son was in Tuscany, marching upon Piombino, and he wondered uneasily whether Cesare would turn aside to dislodge him from his stronghold. But he did not consider the peril imminent, knowing as he did that Cesare was in haste, that he was awaited in Rome, and that he was to join the French in the Neapolitan campaign. That Neapolitan campaign was a sweet subject of reflection to the Cardinal-Count. Much might happen in the course of it, and a French defeat would mean such loss of power to the Pope that it was unlikely Reggio or any other Northern tyranny would be further disturbed by Borgia ambition. So overwhelmingly clear was this to the Cardinal-Count, so firmly did he found his hopes upon it, that he was resolved to withstand any but an overwhelming attack that might be made upon him in the meantime. To this end he had made due preparation. He was well victualled to resist a siege, and, if poorly garrisoned, he could rely upon the natural strength of Reggio, the stoutness of its walls and its almost inaccessible position on its craggy heights.

  The game he was disposed to play was a very plain and obvious one, and it was obvious to Messer Ferrante, who was considering it as he sat there on the hill-top and looked across the valley at his prey. Not to such a detachment as Ferrante commanded would the Lord of Reggio surrender, and Ferrante could imagine the laugh of scorn with which his lordship would greet the appearance of the full force that had been sent against him. Therefore, it followed logically in Ferrante’s mind that, if the Cardinal-Count was to see the force at all, he must be kept in ignorance of its weakness, be led to suppose it greater than it was - that a prompt surrender might be inspired.

  So far - and strictly in theory - all was easy. In practice even this easy beginning seemed none too possible; and, if it were, what was to follow after? He sat there far into the night, devising impracticable stratagems, and weaving romantically impossible plans.

  “If my men had wings now, or every horse of my condotta were a Pegasus,” he said aloud, and checked there, realising that this sort of speculation was unprofitable and could lead him nowhere. Yet it was a very perfect type of such plans as flitted through his mind.

  In the end he became angry. It was immensely flattering of the Duke to show such confidence in him by sending him with so entirely inadequate a force; but he now found it in his heart to wish that he had been given less confidence and more men.

  He sat on, resolved to await the coming of day, that he might take a survey of the ground before he went to rest. And presently the early summer dawn crept over the silent land, pale and colourless as a moonstone at first, then quickening to the iridescence of the opal, and lastly flaming into a glory of gold and purple in the east, behind the stark black mass of mountains that were Italy’s backbone.

  Ferrante surveyed the valley in the clear morning light. Below him was a farmstead with pasture-land and arable, beyond it a vineyard, and below this again an olive grove that ran down to the sparkling river winding at the bottom. From the water wisps of mist were rising, like steam from an overheated beast. Beyond it, to the south, a wedge of woodland spread some little way along its course. Before him, on a level with him, stood the red-brown mass of the city of Reggio, the Maschio Tower of the citadel standing square and clear above the rusty roofs. With the eye of the soldier he considered the stout walls and their roofed battlements, saw how these sprang from grey rock that was no whit less sheer, and observed how the rock in turn rose out of meadow-land that became ever gentler in slope and richer in hue as it descended to the emerald green of the valley by the river. He remarked the grey road, wound spirally about it, like a rope, and commanded by the city at every point of it, and he determined that that way lay no hope of effecting an entrance by surprise.

  Undoubtedly the Duke had set him a choice task. He stood leaning against a boulder, chin in hand, and very thoughtful. The sun’s hot face looked over the Apeninnes, and dispelled the last shadow from the narrow valley at his feet. He watched the river tumbling and sparkling in the morning light, watched the thin mist, rising more swiftly now. The sight of that mist brought him an inspiration; at least, it showed him what might be done if it were a fog, and indulging his dream he conceived a very subtle, crafty plan, for which, however, a fog was wholly essential. He came back to realities with an oath. There was no fog, and, since it was not in the power of man to make fogs, what purpose could it serve to waste time considering what he might do with one.

  He turned away in a mighty ill-humour, and went down the hill to his camp, more out of conceit with himself than ever he had been in his twenty-five years of life - which in Messer Ferrante, after all, was not so bad as it might have been in another.

  To the sentry standing by his tent he gave an order. “There is a farmstead over the hill. Let six men go there at once, secure every member of the household and bring all prisoners to the camp here.”

  It was a precautionary measure against word of their presence being prematurely conveyed to Reggio. He entered his tent, flung off his cloak, all sodden with dew, pulled off his long boots, and flung himself on his couch, tired from his long vigil. Presently the flap was lifted and Fabio Orsini came in.

  “Well returned,” the lieutenant greeted Ferrante. “Where have you spent the night?”

  “On Pisgah,” answered Ferrante sleepily, “surveying the promised land.”

  “At what hour do we march?”

  “’Tis what I most desire to know. By your leave, I’ll seek counsel in sleep.”

  Orsini made shift to depart. At the entrance he looked back. “Have you commands for me?” he asked.

  Ferrante’s a
nswer seemed an odd one. “Can you make fogs?” quoth he.

  “Fogs?” echoed Orsini.

  “Ay, fogs - dense fogs, white fogs, fat fogs.”

  “Why, no,” laughed Orsini.

  “Then,” said Ferrante, “I have no commands for you.” And he turned over to go to sleep.

  When he awakened he found his three officers assembled in his tent.

  “It is noon, Sir Captain,” said Ramires.

  “Did I make it so?” grumbled Ferrante peevishly. “What now?”

  “We have come for your orders.”

  “Then I’ll order breakfast,” said Ferrante, and sat up rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

  “We refer to marching orders,” della Volpe explained, rolling his one eye fiercely.

  Ferrante drove his fingers through his rumpled hair and flung his jaws wide in a yawn. “Whither do you march?” he inquired, when he had recovered.

  “Whither?” they cried in chorus, and looked at one another. Ferrante began to find them entertaining; also his opinion of them as soldiers sank considerably. They were mere fighters, stout fighters, but no more. “Let us take counsel,” he said. He rose, went to the entrance, and bawled for one of his esquires, calling for meat and drink.

  “I spent the night up yonder,” he informed them, “considering the matter of our attack, and surveying the land. I discovered one important thing, sirs.” He paused.

  “Yes, yes?” they cried.

  “That this is no easy business,” he informed them easily.

  “Thus much we knew,” roared della Volpe.

  “Ah, you knew? Good! That is where your intelligence surpasses mine.”

  The single eye of the grizzled captain of foot fixed itself sternly upon Ferrante.

  “The question is,” said Ramires slowly, “when are you going to attack?”

  “I crave your pardon,” said Ferrante, “but that is not the question at all. The question is - how are we going to attack?”

  His esquires entered, bearing bread and meat, fruit, and eggs beaten in wine. Ferrante took the things, spread them beside him on the camp bed, and began to eat.

  “What do you counsel?” he inquired, his mouth full.

  The question seemed to perturb them, suggesting considerations hitherto ignored.

  “Why,” said Ramires, “here’s a deal of bother about seizing a thieves’ nest.”

  “There is likely to be a deal more before it’s seized,” said Ferrante, and quaffed his mess of eggs and wine with relish. Yet their stupidity, their failure to see his difficulties even when he suggested them, began to put him out of patience.

  “I am all for the direct attack,” said della Volpe, with the fighter’s scorn of the schemer.

  “It should be dear to you,” said Ferrante. “It has cost you an eye already.”

  The remaining eye glowered fiercely out of that scarred face. “My eye was my own to lose.”

  “As is your temper - though you were wiser to retain it, Ser Taddeo.”

  “And I thank God I lost my eye,” went on the condottiero, “since, had I two, I might see as much danger as do you.”

  “I think,” said Ferrante, “that you have made that jest before.”

  “Sirs, sirs!” cried Ramires, intervening. “We are concerned at present with the attack on Reggio.”

  “For myself, and to be frank,” said Ferrante, “I am more concerned with breakfast. But let that be. I can listen as I eat. Expound me your plans.” And he sank his teeth into the succulent fibres of a peach.

  Ramires braced himself to the task, and with the occasional interpolations from della Volpe he propounded strategies that were old in the days of Cyrus, but none of which would have led that same Cyrus into Babylon, nor was likely to lead them into Reggio. Orsini stood listening, but venturing no opinion. Ferrante ate, drank, and heard them as soberly as he might.

  “You assure me of one thing,” said he, when they had done. “That you have never seen this city of Reggio. Go up, and look at it, I beg.”

  “What will take one place will take another,” said della Volpe.

  “Always granting that that other is not Reggio,” put in Ferrante. “Go up; go up, and survey the town; and, ere you go, put off your armour, lest it glitter. When you have seen, perhaps you will have help to offer me.”

  As they were departing, by no means in the best of moods, he stayed them.

  “Can you make fogs, Messer Taddeo?” he asked.

  “Fogs?” quoth Taddeo, bewildered.

  “It is plain you cannot. Can you, Ramires?”

  “Is it a jest?” quoth the Spaniard, with a great dignity.

  “It is plain you cannot either. I have a plan for bringing the arrogant Messer Guancia to his knees. But my plan requires a fog. Since you cannot make me a fog, perhaps you’ll go pray for me; and whilst you’re gone, I’ll try to think of something better.”

  They went out accounting him mad, and the Duke no better for having given him charge of this expedition. They comforted one another by vilifying him as they climbed the hill to get a view of Reggio.

  After sunset Ferrante’s tent was once more invaded by his officers. Taddeo had a plan, he claimed - a most original plan. Ferrante looked up hopefully.

  “A night attack!” Taddeo announced, with pride.

  Ferrante sneered. Taddeo argued; let them set out in an hour; there would be no moon; they could reach Reggio undetected and surprise its gates.

  Ferrante’s sneer grew broader. “An excellent plan, Messer Taddeo, but for one thing which you have overlooked.”

  “And what may that be?” challenged the truculent veteran.

  “That they are not all stone-deaf in Reggio, and therefore that a thousand men winding about a hard mountain road would be heard before they were half-way up. Then, Messer Taddeo, we shall have as pretty a shower of rocks and boiling pitch to greet us as ever rained on a parcel of fools.”

  Taddeo was angry, and he had the support of Ramires, whilst Orsini - as became his youth - stood neutral. It was all very well for Ferrante to sneer at their suggestions; but what better could he offer?

  None, he admitted. “If only we had a fog, now -” he began; and at the very mention of the word they flung out in a passion and left him.

  But despite the ease he affected in their presence his mind was tortured by perplexity. He slept but ill that night, and he awoke at peep of day. He rose, dressed, and went out into the clear, steely light of dawn. Very slowly, and his wits very busy about this appalling riddle that had been set him, he ascended the hill. He fostered a faint hope that the renewed contemplation of Reggio might inspire him.

  The light grew rapidly as he went up, and by the time he had gained the summit it was broad day. Arrived there he uttered a soft ejaculation, and it was not across at Reggio, standing dark and sharply outlined against the pale southern sky that he stared, but down into the narrow valley at his feet. He stared and stared, misdoubting his senses, fearing that he must be asleep in his tent and dreaming - dreaming of the thing that so obsessed his mind. For half the valley was blotted from his sight in the thick billows of a mist that hung there above the now hidden river. It was the fog of his dreams. Then he roused himself. Here was no time to be lost. Every moment was of value, for none might say how soon that mist would rise.

  He turned and flung down the hill again like a madman. Like a madman he burst upon the awakening camp, bawling for trumpets, and kicking sleepers out of their dreams.

  “To horse! To horse!” he bellowed, and presently to his own were added the brazen voices of half-a-dozen trumpets.

  His officers, half-dressed and unkempt, came hurrying for his orders. He issued them sharp and briefly; the officers dashed off again to see them executed. Soon all was a confusion of scurrying men and stamping horses. Soon out of that confusion order began to resolve itself. The foot was ready first and, as it formed up, Ferrante waited for no more. He flung himself on to the charger one of his esquires had fetched him,
summoned trumpeters to his side, caught up the great red and gold standard bearing the device of the bull, and shouted to the foot to follow him.

  “Ramires, marshal the horse; but do not stir until my trumpets summon you. Fabio, see to the guns. Taddeo, follow me. On, on!”

  At a run he led them up to the crest of Monte Quarto, his mounted trumpeters busy all the while, rousing the countryside with their brazen din, and bringing all Reggio to the walls in quick alarm. Over the hill’s crest he led those six hundred men, marching four abreast, for the way was narrow; down he led them until himself and the foremost ranks were plunged into the mist, and hidden.

  “Now run,” he bade them - for their descent of the hill had been sedate so far; and he led them - not down, but away to the right, and round the flank of the hill until they rejoined the rear of the column near the summit once more. There he stood aside, bidding them on; and Taddeo, who grasped his meaning, went on with them, and over the crest and down and round again in an unbroken chain. At last, when the whole column had five times repeated the manoeuvre, and five times been round and over the shoulder of Monte Quarto, Ferrante bade Taddeo halt and marshal them there as they returned. Then he sent forward Orsini with the guns and baggage-carts - the latter empty, for there had been no time to break camp - and after these he followed again, with Ramires now and the horse, his trumpeters more vociferous than ever.

  The manoeuvre of the foot was repeated with the horse, and after these came again more foot, more guns and baggage-carts, and lastly more horse. For upwards of an hour did the fearsome pageant which Ferrante’s cunning had devised to terrorise the defenders of Reggio continue to parade before the scared eyes of the watchers on the walls. For an hour and upwards did the Cardinal-Count himself observe those vast forces pouring over the summit of Monte Quarto in a never-ending torrent of steel-cased men and splendid horses, flashing and glittering in the morning sun that shone upon the heights. Into the mist below they passed - to ford the river, and cross the valley, thought the Cardinal-Count - to be led round and back, in fact, over the shoulder of the hill again, and down and round in never-ending legions.