He reached for his goblet, and had it half-way to his lips, when over the rim of it his eyes met those of his host. It was no more than a transitory glance, for Ferrante, of intent, let his eyes sweep on, idly and unconcerned. But in that flash he had seen something that now gave him pause. It was not much; but men of a high order of intelligence, as was Ferrante, are of a singularly swift receptivity to impressions. The Cardinal-Count, he had observed, was watching him furtively from under lowered brows, a something cruel and cunning in his glance. Then it was that, as in a flash of recollection, he remembered his subconscious observation that the wine for his followers and himself had not been poured from the same jug as that which had supplied the gentlemen of Reggio. And that trifle, which he had scarcely noticed at the time, assumed now gigantic proportions in his mind. The wine before him and his three officers was poisoned! He knew it as much by intuition as by the slight evidences he had.
In some fraction of a second did all this flash through Ferrante’s mind, and before that second was complete he had determined how to act.
Another in his place, and presuming upon the presence of his men-at-arms, would have risen there and then, and flung his accusation. Not so Ferrante. He would not have the laugh against him if, after all, he should be wrong; would not have it said that timidity had misled him. Besides, it pleased him to deal more subtly, more humorously, with Messer Guancia.
So he stayed himself in the very act of raising his goblet, and in the most natural manner - as one who has just bethought him of something that is of moment - he leaned across the board, and called to Orsini, who was seated some way below him on the opposite side. Orsini looked up.
“Your tablets,” said Ferrante. “I have remembered that I have a note to make.” And whilst Orsini fumbled for his tablets and Ferrante waited, leaning across the board, he took the opportunity to mutter two words quickly in Spanish to Ramires who sat immediately facing him.
“No bibas!” said he, under cover of the murmur of conversation about him, and trusting to the fact that, in Reggio, Spanish - particularly when it was slurred and muttered - would not be understood. By the quick lift of the Spaniard’s eyebrows he saw that he had caught the words.
Ferrante sat back, and lest Messer Guancia should suspect his motives he leisurely lifted his goblet, and appeared to sip the wine. In reality he did no more than hold it a moment against his tightened lips, which he was careful to wipe when he set down the cup again.
The eyes of the Cardinal-Count became alight with satisfaction. But Ferrante was blind to this. His neighbour handed him Orsini’s tablets. He opened them, and wrote the imperative command, “Drink not! Warn Taddeo.” He closed them and passed them back.
“Read what I have written, Fabio,” he said. “I wish you to bear it in your mind.”
Orsini obeyed him, and Ferrante admired the manner in which the youngster kept his countenance, and played his part. Fabio looked up smiling and nodded; then turned the tablets about in his hands as one who hesitates. At last, leaning over to della Volpe.
“I think this matter concerns you as much as it does me, Taddeo,” he said. “Does it not?” he added, and passed the tablets across to the veteran.
And he was no more than in time. He stayed Taddeo in the very act of lifting his cup. Taddeo read, was baffled for a moment, then understood, and nodded to Ferrante.
“I will see it done,” said he, and pocketed the tablets.
Ferrante heaved a sigh of infinite relief, and considered the second move in this queer game to which he had set his hand. In that instant the Cardinal-Count rose to his feet, and called upon his friends to quaff the health of their noble guests.
There was a premonitory scraping of chairs as the company prepared to rise. But Ferrante, swifter than the rest, leaped to his feet before them, snatching up his goblet as he did so.
“One moment ere you drink,” he cried, and with outspread left hand he stayed the company in the very act of rising. “Let me beg your Magnificence to resume your seat,” said he. “I have some words to say in my master’s name touching the surrender of Reggio - a message for you, which I make no doubt will lead you the more gladly to pledge us, and him with us.”
His eyes sparkled, there was a delicate flush on his still youthful cheek. But neither of these signs was the herald of an eager eloquence, as those others deemed them. They were the outward manifestation of the delight that Ferrante took in this game of strategy he had set himself to play; this pitting of quick wits against the clumsy murderous plan of the Cardinal-Count. In anticipation, he was already relishing the deadly jest he had prepared.
“My message to you,” he began - and carelessly, abstractedly, as he spoke, he passed the goblet into his left hand, “is a message of good will. Had bloodshed been necessary ere Reggio di Monte had raised her gates to us -”
He broke off abruptly, staring at the Cardinal-Count.
“What ails your Excellency?” he cried, alarm ringing loud in his question.
Instantly all eyes were turned upon the lord of Reggio, all necks were craned that men might obtain a better view of the prelate, who sat back, blinking in surprise. In that moment Ferrante’s left hand set down his cup beside Messer Annibale’s. His eyes never left the Cardinal’s face.
“Why nothing ails me,” said the prelate, nonplussed. “I am well.”
Ferrante’s fingers closed now over the stem of Annibale’s goblet. His own body thrust forward screened the act from those below him on his side. Annibale’s body, similarly placed allowed the lord of Reggio to see nothing of it. For the rest all eyes were too intent upon the Cardinal-Count to observe that swift exchange, and ere any glances returned to Ferrante he was holding his goblet at the height of his breast, as they had last beheld him.
“A trick of the lights, perhaps,” laughed Ferrante. “It seemed to me that your Excellency had turned pale, and that you sank back exhausted.”
“No, no,” said the prelate, with a reassuring smile. “I am well. I may have sat back. No more than that. Continue, pray, Messer Ferrante.”
Ferrante continued - a rambling speech full of words of great sound but little meaning, out of which it transpired that the people of Reggio might rest assured that in the Lord Cesare Borgia they would find an overlord to care for them as for his very children. It was hardly what he had seemed to promise at the outset, and it provoked the secret scorn of most of the Lord Guancia’s friends. When he had done he raised his goblet on high.
“I drink,” he said, “to the peace and prosperity of Reggio di Monte, and to the success and victory of our Duke’s arms.”
And slowly, with head well back, he drained his cup.
Whoever pledged Cesare Borgia, as he had called upon them to do, he was sure that the Cardinal-Count would not; and he observed that the prelate did no more than make a pretence of sipping at his cup, what time he watched Ferrante with evil, exulting eyes.
Ferrante’s officers watched him, too, their eyes dilating with alarm, whilst in obedience to his message of warning they did no more than pretend to touch their wine.
But one or two there were who drank, and among these was Messer Annibale, the Cardinal’s nephew. No doubt the luscious fare of his uncle’s table had quickened his thirst, for he drained his cup to the dregs ere he set it down.
And then, as Ferrante was resuming his seat, the Cardinal still watching him - Messer Annibale uttered a scream, clutched at his girdle as if to loosen it, and went over backwards, taking his chair with him. Chair and man crashed to the ground. Out of it rolled the nephew of the Cardinal-Count, and some little way along the floor; then he lay prone, his legs drawn under him, his contracted hands clawing at the tesselated floor, whilst his drawn mouth emitted scream after scream of anguish.
That and other horrid sounds rang upon the panic-stricken silence. The gelid hand of terror closed about the hearts of that noble company. Stricken sat all, with white faces and staring eyes, no face more white, no eyes more wide, than the lord of Reggio’
s own. Soldiers and servants stood aghast, and most aghast of all the seneschal who had handed out the poisoned wine and feared now - as feared his master - that there had been an error in the jugs.
Ferrante covertly watched the ghastly face of Messer Guancia during the time of his nephew’s cruelly long-drawn agony; he watched, and waited until the figure on the ground lay mercifully still. Then he rose once more, the only one at ease in that assembly. Mockery smouldered in his eyes and curled his strong lips as he broke the awful silence.
“It seems, my lord of Reggio,” said he, “that here is some mistake. Your seneschal has lacked the care that is so necessary when it is proposed to serve the guests with poisoned wine. It seems that you have been caught in your own toils.”
An effeminate youth across the board, who had no doubt drunk freely, uttered a piercing scream, and fell forward in a swoon. Ferrante smiled inwardly to see his plans thus furthered by the terror of a fool.
“Ramires,” said he quietly, “send up a score of men. Then close the gates, and make yourself master of the palace.”
Ramires went out. The dozen men that had come to fill the place of lackeys sprang to their pikes at a word from Ferrante.
“Sirs,” said he amiably to the company, “you will assemble at that end of the chamber - all save my lord, the Cardinal-Count.” And seeing a hand or two steal furtively to the breast of a doublet: “The man who bares a weapon,” he told them fiercely, “shall be strangled out of hand in the yard below. Be warned, sirs! I do not lack the means to constrain the unwilling.”
And they went, a flock of frightened sheep, all but three - the lord of Reggio, the one who was dead and the one who had fainted.
Taddeo’s pikemen, reinforced now by a score of others that Ramires had brought in, stood guard over them, a line of bristling steel through which none was mad enough to attempt to break.
Ferrante turned once more to the Cardinal-Count. Messer Guancia sat gripping the arms of his chair, but showing no other sign of life. The condottiero said but one word to him, said it pointing to the goblet that stood, almost untasted, before the prelate.
“Drink!”
The wits of the Cardinal-Count were in a mist; but at that sharp word of command they sought to struggle through. He stirred, shrank farther back into his chair at first. Then he reared his head and sought to summon courage to his glance and bearing that he might mask the terror inspired him by that cup which he believed to contain poison, but which Ferrante knew did not.
“I will not drink,” he answered.
Ferrante shrugged his shoulders. “We shall see,” he said, and called a soldier to him. “I make you Messer Guancia’s gaoler,” said he. “You will lock him in his chamber with a soldier to guard him constantly, and you shall give him neither meat nor drink until in the guard’s presence he shall have consumed that cup of wine.” He turned to his officers. “Come, sirs. Here is no more to do.”
His men-at-arms drove the gentlemen of Reggio out of the chamber and out of the palace, of which Ferrante remained in full possession. And ere they sought their beds he explained to his mystified lieutenants how he had juggled the affair, how fooled the Cardinal-Count for the second time that day.
“And now he sits there,” he ended, smiling, “with a cup of wine before him that is as wholesome and innocent as the milk he suckled in his infancy, yet believing it poisoned he dares not touch it; sooner will he suffer agonies of hunger and of thirst; possibly he may even die sooner than set lips to it. Is it not humorous?”
“It is horrible,” said Orsini, shuddering.
“It is just,” said Taddeo; and Ramires nodded.
“It is merciful,” Ferrante protested. “Another would have had him strangled. When he can endure no more, let him drink, and I’ll punish him no further.”
Next morning they went betimes to pay the prisoner a visit. They found him huddled in his great gilded chair, his scarlet robes drawn close about him. Before him on the table stood the tall gold goblet still untouched. As they entered he looked up at them with wild, blood-injected eyes. His face was ashen to the lips.
They considered him a while in silence. Then Ferrante spoke. “You are very obstinate, my lord,” said he. “You have but to drink to obtain release.”
It was intentionally an ambiguous speech, and the Cardinal- Count’s only reply was a shudder. Ferrante changed the guard and departed with his officers.
They returned at evening and found the scene unchanged - the old man huddled in his chair; the tall goblet standing on the board before him. But early next morning word was brought Ferrante that he had died in the night, and Ferrante called his officers and repaired with them at once to the great chamber.
There they found the long scarlet figure lying prone, already stiff and cold.
“How is this?” Ferrante asked the sentry.
“He drank some of the wine at midnight,” replied the soldier, “and he died upon the instant almost.”
Ferrante’s brows went up; his officers muttered their astonishment. He crossed to the table, and peered into the goblet. It was more than half full. He smiled thoughtfully. It was not the end he had expected, but it was very curious; it was most quaintly humorous in its way. The man had been fulminated by his terror; destroyed by his imagination.
As he stood there, considering the dead prelate, Ferrante gave utterance to his thoughts.
“Most strange,” said he, “how deadly a man’s terrors may become. Beware of fear, my friends; it is man’s worst enemy. It has laid this one low. He thought that he drank poison - and there he lies, poisoned; poisoned by his own imagination, for he drank no other.” And he stirred the body thoughtfully with his foot.
“Impossible!” cried Taddeo.
“There is some mistake in this,” added Ramires.
Ferrante looked at them and sneered. “It is the way of you; you can see no more than what is placed before you - not always that. This wine,” he said, taking up the goblet, “is as free from poison as when it was first crushed. Behold the proof of it.” And bearing it to his lips he drained the cup.
Then he hurled it from him with a force that sent it crashing against the wall. He reeled a moment, his hands to his face; stood another instant fighting for breath and rocking on his feet; then his knees gave way and he fell supine, with arms outstretched - dead.
In the Cardinal-Count’s right hand they found anon the explanation. It clutched a phial that gave off an acrid scent as of bitter almonds. The rest was easily imagined. The lord of Reggio, deeming himself doomed beyond all hope, and assured that sooner or later he must die by this cup of wine which he believed was poisoned, or else perish slowly of hunger and of thirst, had determined to drink, and so have done. But remembering the long- drawn agony of his nephew, which he had witnessed, and seeking at least to avoid the like, he had determined to increase the poison in the wine, and had emptied into it the phial which, it so chanced, he still had with him.
And that is the story of the passing of Messer Ferrante da Isola, and of the jest that killed him.
GISMONDl’S WAGE
Benvenuto Gismondi, thief and scoundrel, rode slowly northward along the old Aemilian Way, upon a stolen horse. The country all about him was a white glare of sun-drenched snow. Before him stretched the long straight road, of a less virgin whiteness, and in the distance - some four miles away - loomed hazily the spires of Forlimpopoli.
Benvenuto ambled on, cursing the cold and the emptiness of his stomach, and thrusting the numbed fingers first of one hand then of the other into his capacious mouth for warmth. His garments, that once had been fine, were patched and shabby; his boots were ragged, and in places a livid gleam from his sword peeped through the threadbare velvet scabbard. On his head he wore an old morion, much dinted and rusted, by which he thought to give himself a military air; from under this appeared long wisps of his unkempt black hair, to flutter like rags about his yellow neck. His white pockmarked face, half-hidden in a black fur of beard, wa
s the most villainous in Italy.
He was in sad case. There was too much respect for the property of others demanded in the Romagna these days, since the Lord Cesare Borgia had come to rule there, and such men as Benvenuto Gismondi were finding it difficult to make a living. For there was nothing heroic about Benvenuto’s villainy. He was no reckless masnadiero, to demand fat purses at point of sword in the open country. There were risks in that profession which he had no desire to face. He was essentially a town thief - of the kind that lurks in doorways on dark nights awaiting the chance to put a knife into the back of some wayfarer and, thereafter, plundering the corpse at leisure. And of that class the Lord Cesare Borgia had all but made an end in the cities where he ruled.
Therefore was Messer Benvenuto on his travels. He was for the north - for Bologna, perhaps or even Milan - anywhere where an honest God-fearing thief might ply his trade undisturbed by the excessive zeal of a meddling podesta. But he went with no good grace; he had matter for grievance in this enforced departure out of the Romagna; for he was a Romagnuolo to the core of him, and he loved his native land, accounting all others barbarous. Besides, in Cesena there was a certain sloe-eyed Giannozza, deep-bosomed and hipped like an amphora - the Hebe of the “Half-Moon” Inn - who had stirred our hero very violently to love, as he understood the emotion. The thought of her and of the warm luxuriance of her charms was torture to him as he rode there on the snow-spread Aemilian Way, whipped by the keen north wind; and it caused him to curse more bitterly than ever that Pope’s bastard whom he blamed for his misfortunes.
In the distance, a mere speck as yet on the eternity of a road, a horseman was approaching. But Benvenuto had no concern with him. His concern was entirely with his own distress, and particularly with the gnawings of his stomach. Beyond Forlimpopoli he could not go fasting. There were limits to a man’s endurance. Yet how was he to find a meal? He might sell his horse. But without a horse, how should he reach Bologna, or still more distant Milan? Besides, what should such as he be doing with such a horse for sale? There would be questions, not a doubt of that - there were always questions now in this distraught country - and if his answers failed to satisfy the questioners, as like as not they’d hang him. They were a deal too free with their hangings nowadays.
Collected Works of Rafael Sabatini Page 419