Gismondi watched them, fascinated. The two attendants, he supposed, would do the uprooting when the weed was discovered; for that reason did they accompany Bentivogli, and for that purpose did they withdraw into the shadow, as more fitting than the light for the deed of darkness that would presently be done. An icy sweat broke on his skin.
“Ancona!” called Bentivogli in a loud voice, and the name boomed mournfully on the chill air.
A masker rose upon the instant, thrusting back his chair, and marched resolutely down the room to confer with the master- plotter.
Gismondi wondered how many moments of life might yet remain him. There was a mist before his eyes, and his heart thudded horridly at the base of his throat with a violence that seemed to shake him in his chair at each pulsation, and he marvelled that the boom of it did not draw the attention of his neighbours.
“Arezzo!” came the voice, and another figure rose and went apart, passing the returning “Ancona” on the way.
Bagnolo followed Arezzo, and Gismondi began to realise that the president was taking them alphabetically. He wondered how many more there might be before Faenza - the call to which he must respond, since Crespi was of Faenza, as he knew. He wondered too what questions would be asked him. From the knowledge he had gathered from the letters be found himself able to surmise them, and he knew what answers he should make. His terror abated, but it did not leave him; some other questions there might be - something for which those papers did not make provision; there must be.
“Cattolica!” came the summons, and a fourth conspirator rose.
And then, of a sudden, the whole company was on its feet, and Gismondi had risen too, mechanically, from very force of imitation, and the heart-beats in his throat were quickened now with sudden hope. In the distance there had been a sound of voices, and this was followed on the instant by a heavy tread in the corridor without - a tread accompanied by the clank of armour.
“We are betrayed” cried a voice - after which, in awful silence, the masked company stood and waited.
A heavy blow smote the door and it fell open. Across the threshold, the candlelight reflected from his corselet as from a mirror, came a mighty figure armed cap-a-pied; behind him three men-at-arms, sword on thigh and pike in hand, pressed closely.
Three paces within the room the great armoured figure halted, and surveyed the company with eyes that smiled grimly from a bearded face.
“Sirs,” he warned them, “resistance will be idle. I have fifty men at hand.”
Bentivogli advanced with a firm step. “What is your will with us?” he challenged, a fine arrogance in his voice.
“The will of his Highness, the Duke of Valentinois,” was the man’s answer, “to whom your plot is known in its every detail.”
“You are come to arrest us?”
“One by one,” said the captain, with an odd significance and a slight inclination of the head. “My grooms await you in the courtyard.”
For an instant there was silence, as well might be at that pronouncement, and Gismondi understood - as all understood - that here, in the courtyard of this palace, those gentlemen caught red-handed were to expiate their treason at the strangler’s hands.
“Infamy!” cried one, who stood beside Gismondi. “Are we, then, to have no trial?”
“In the courtyard,” replied the captain grimly.
“Not I, for one!” exclaimed another, and his voice was fresh and youthful. “I am of patrician blood, and I’ll not be strangled in a corner like a capon. If die I must, I claim by right of birth the axe.”
“By right of birth?” the captain mused, and smiled. “In truth your very birthright, so it seems. Come, sirs...”
But others stormed, and one there was who called upon his fellows to draw what steel they carried, and die with weapons in their hands like men.
Gismondi, apart, with folded arms, watched them, and grinned behind his vizor. It was with him the hour of exultation, of revulsion from his recent terrors. He wondered to what lengths of folly these rash men would go. He thought he might witness a pretty fight; but Bentivogli disappointed him of such expectations. He came forward to the table-head, and his voice was raised to dominate and quell the others.
“Sirs,” said he, “the game is played and lost. Let us pay forfeit and have done.”
What choice had they? What chance - all without body armour and few with better weapons than a dagger - against fifty men-at- arms in steel?
Again for a moment there was silence. Then one of the masked company, with a sudden, strident, reckless laugh, stepped forward.
“I’ll lead the way, O my brothers,” he said, and bowed to the captain. “I am at your orders, sir.”
The captain made a sign to his men. Two of them laid aside their pikes and came forward to seize that volunteer. Swiftly, and without word spoken, they hurried him from the chamber.
Gismondi smiled. This entertainment amused his cruel nature more than had done that other of a little while ago.
Again and again the men-at-arms returned; and victim after victim was hurried out to the waiting grooms in the courtyard. One set up a resistance as wild as it was futile; another screamed when he was seized. But in the main they bore themselves with a calm dignity. The soldiers went swifty about their work, and after a brief ten minutes there remained but four of the conspirators. One of these was Bentivogli, who as the leader reserved himself the honour of going last; two others were the men who had been attendant upon him; the fourth was Messer Benvenuto, who watched and waited, chuckling to think how the name of Cesare Borgia would stink in Italy for this night’s work.
The men-at-arms had re-entered and stood waiting for the next victim. Bentivogli made a sign to Gismondi that was plain of meaning. Gismondi shrugged, smiled to himself under cover of his mask, and stepped forward with a swagger. But when the soldiers seized him, he shook them impatiently aside.
“A word with you, sir,” said he to the captain, mighty haughty.
The captain flashed him a keen glance. “Ah!” said he. “You will be he whom I was told to look for. Tell me your name that I may know you.”
“I am Benvenuto Gismondi.”
The captain nodded thoughtfully. “I must permit myself no error here. You are Benvenuto Gismondi, and -” He paused inquiringly.
“And,” Gismondi completed impatiently, “I am here on behalf of the Duke Cesare Borgia.”
A quiet, wicked laugh broke from the captain’s bearded lips. One of his heavy gauntleted hands fell upon Gismondi’s shoulder; the other tore the vizor roughly from his face. Startled, understanding nothing, he was swung round so that he faced Bentivogli.
“Does your Excellency know the villain?” asked the captain.
“I do not,” answered Bentivogli, and added: “God be thanked!”
He clapped his hands vigorously; and now it was that Benvenuto realised into what manner of trap he was fallen, and what manner of ruse the master-plotter had adopted to weed out, as he had promised, the one who usurped the place of him that had been slain upon the Aemilian Way. That clapping of hands was a summons, in answer to which there came trooping back into the chamber the entire company of muffled plotters. No farther than the corridor had they been taken; and on arrival there to each one who had sustained with honour this ordeal had been explained the test that was afoot.
Betimes next morning Ramiro de Lorqua, Cesare’s Governor of Cesena, waited upon his master with a dagger and a blood-smeared scrap of paper.
He had to report that the body of a man had been discovered at daybreak on the far bank of the castle moat, by the drawbridge. The dagger that had slain the fellow had been employed to attach to him the label which Ramiro presented to the Duke. On this was scrawled: “The property of Cesare Borgia.”
Accompanied by his governor, Cesare descended to the courtyard to view the body. It lay there, covered by the purple, fur-trimmed cloak which Benvenuto had worn yesterday. Ramiro turned this down to disclose the ashen face. Th
e Duke looked, and nodded.
“It is as I thought,” said he. “It is very well.”
“Your Highness knows him?”
“A poor rogue whom I employed on a desperate venture.”
Ramiro — a thick-set, black-visaged, choleric man - swore roundly, as he did upon the slightest provocation. He would see to it that the culprits were tracked and found. Cesare shook his head, and smiled.
“You will search in vain, Ramiro,” he said. “Yet I can name to you the leader of the party that is answerable for this murder; I can tell you even that he rode out of Cesena at daybreak today, and what road he took. But to what end? He is a fool who has performed my justice for me, and knows it not. I fear him no more than I fear this poor carrion.”
“My lord, I do not understand!” said Ramiro.
“Is it necessary that you should?” smiled the Duke. My will has been done. Understand so much, and bury me this dead - and with him the entire affair.”
He turned away, to come face to face with Agabito Gherardi, who was approaching hurriedly.
“Ah, you have heard the news,” Cesare greeted him. “Now behold the face,” and he pointed to the dead.
Agabito looked and shrugged. “You would have it so,” he said. “But you could have taken them all.”
“And had all Italy calling me butcher for my pains - Venice, the envious, Milan, the spiteful, Florence, the evil-tongue - all of them lifting their horrid voices to the dear task of defamation. And to what end?” He linked an arm through Agabito’s, and drew the secretary away. “That was an effective scarecrow I set up amongst them last night.” He smiled grimly. “They could not dream that the whole thing was chance - that Benvenuto Gismondi was but a thief who had murdered this Messer Crespi for the sake of plunder. They conceive Crespi to have been killed, stripped and replaced in their council, all by my design. They conclude that I have as many eyes as Argus, and the conspiracy is as frost-bitten as your nose, Agabito. They are paralysed with fear of me and the ubiquity of my spies. No man of those plotters counts himself safe, and they have scattered to their several homes, all plans abandoned since they fear the worst.
“Could I improve upon the matter by hunting them down? I think not, Agabito. Benvenuto Gismondi has served my purpose as fully as I intended, and, incidentally, he has had justice and a fitting wage.”
THE SNARE
Messer Baldassare Scipione stepped out into the lane, and closed the green gate by which he had issued from his lady’s garden.
He stood a moment in the dusk of eventide, a fond smile upon his honest rugged face; then he flung his ample scarlet cloak about him, and departed with a jingle of spurs, erect and very martial in his bearing, as became the captain of the Borgia forces in Urbino.
At the comer, where the lane debouched into the Via del Cane, he came suddenly upon a very splendid gentleman who was lounging there. This gentleman’s eyes narrowed at sight of the valiant captain. He was Messer Francesco degli Omodei, cousin-german to Baldassare’s lady.
The captain’s bearing stiffened slightly. Yet his bow was gracious as he swept off his plumed cap in response to the other’s uncovering. With that he would have passed on had not Messer Francesco deliberately barred his way.
“Taking the air, Sir Captain?” he questioned, sneering faintly.
“By your gracious pleasure - and God’s,” answered Baldassare, smiling ironically into the other’s unfriendly face - a swarthy young face of a beauty almost classical, yet very sinister of eye and very cruel of mouth.
Flung out of countenance by that ironic counter, Francesco had no answer ready, whereupon: “You are detaining me, I think,” said the captain airily, and made shift to pass on.
“I will go with you, by your leave,” said Francesco, and fell into step beside the scarlet figure.
“The honour notwithstanding, I should prefer to go alone,” said Baldassare.
“I desire to speak to you.”
“So I had gathered. But I do not desire to listen. Will that weigh with you, Messer degli Omodei?”
“Not a hair’s weight,” laughed the other impudently.
Baldassare shrugged, and stalked on, his left hand resting naturally upon the hilt of his sword, so that the scabbard thrust up his scarlet cloak behind.
“Messer Baldassare,” said Francesco presently, “you come this way too often.”
“Too often for what - for whom?” quoth the captain stiffly, yet without truculence.
“Too often to please me.”
“Possibly. But not often enough to please myself, which, frankly now, is my entire concern.”
“I do not like it,” said Francesco, very surly.
Baldassare smiled. “Which of us can command what he likes? Now I, Messer Francesco - I dislike you exceedingly. Yet here I am suffering you to walk beside me.”
“It is not necessary that you should.”
“It would not be, had you the grace to perceive that your company is unwelcome.”
“There are ways of remedying such things,” said the other, very sinister now, and striking his hilt with his open palm.
“For you,” said Baldassare. “Not - alas! - for me. I am the commander of the Urbino troops. It is not for me to embark upon private quarrels. His Highness of Valentinois is impatient of disobedience to his laws. Messer Ramires - his podesta here in Urbino - is careful to enforce them for his own sake. I have no wish to hurt myself for the sake of hurting you. And you, Messer Francesco, being as craven as you are sly, presume upon this state of things to put upon me affronts which I may not resent.”
He delivered the last sentence through his teeth - a very whiplash. Under his outward calm a storm was raging in the bosom of this haughty, fiery-tempered soldier. For this was that same Baldassare Scipione who some years later was boldly to impugn the honour of the crown of Spain, and throw down a gage of battle which not a Spaniard in Christendom had the daring to take up. From that may you infer how he relished the impertinences of this Urbinate fop.
Francesco had checked suddenly, his face aflame. “You insult me!” he said thickly.
“I hope so,” answered Baldassare, outwardly imperturbable.
“Your insolence shall be punished.”
“I am glad that you see the necessity,” said Baldassare, facing the other with a smile.
Francesco’s frown showed how little he understood the captain. Baldassare proceeded to explain. “If you were to draw upon me now, here in the street, I should be constrained to defend myself. I could not then be blamed for what might happen; there are enough people abroad to bear witness to the true manner of the event. So proceed, I implore you, to visit with your punishment this insolence of mine.”
Francesco’s face had gradually lost its colour. His breathing was quickened. A smile twisted his mouth oddly.
“I see,” he said. “Oh, I see. But if I should kill you, I should have to reckon with the podesta.”
“Let not the consideration of my death deter you,” said Baldassare, still smiling, “for I shall see to it that it does not happen.”
Francesco stood a moment, scowling at the captain. Then, with a shrug and a curse, he turned on his heel and strode away, Baldassare’s soft, mocking ripple of laughter following him.
He went down the street in the deepening dusk, a fine figure of a man, heedless of the many greetings bestowed upon him as he passed - for well known in Urbino was Messer Francesco degli Omodei. Thus he came to the house of his friend Amerigo Vitelli, and entered in quest of him.
He found Amerigo at table, but disdained the invitation to join in the repast.
“I could not eat,” he growled. “I am fed to a surfeit with Scipione’s insolence. Fed to a surfeit! I choke with it.” And he flung himself into a chair, at the table, opposite his host.
Amerigo’s small, pale eyes surveyed him uneasily. A young man was this Amerigo Vitelli, of the Vitelli of Castello, and cousin to that Vitellozzo who served with Cesare Borgia. His age would be a
bout Francesco’s own, but nothing else had he in common with his friend. He was of middle height - or slightly under it - of a full habit of body, a flabbiness of flesh and a puffiness of face that told of his habitual excesses. He was dressed in blue velvet, richly jewelled and heavily perfumed, and he was being ministered by two comely striplings clad in silk of his colours - blue and gold.
The room in which he sat was lofty and sumptuous, and the splendour and character of its equipment reflected the voluptuary it enshrined. From a ceiling, on which was delicately frescoed the indelicate story of Bacchus and Ariadne, depended a massive candle- branch of silver-gilt charged with a dozen candles of scented wax, which shed a soft golden light through the apartment. The walls were hung with Flemish arras, on which were figured the erotic metamorphoses of Jupiter: his avian courtship of Leda, his taurine wooing of Europa, his pluvial descent upon Danae. The table was spread with snowy linen, and bore no dish of fruits or comfits, no cup or beaker that was not a precious work of art.
Behind Vitelli the windows stood open to the summer evening and the perfumes of the garden. The roofs of Urbino formed a dark shadow-mass in the deepening dusk, the tower of the Zoccolanti springing square and rigid, a black silhouette against the deep turquoise and fading saffron of the sky.
One of the silk-clad pages rustled to Francesco, and set a crystal cup before him. From a vessel of beaten gold whose handles were two hermaphrodites carved in ivory, the boy poured an old Falernian wine that was of the hue of bronze. Francesco gulped the half of it so carelessly that Amerigo scowled his displeasure. Such wine was priceless - to be inhaled with awe, and savoured sip by sip; not swilled like so much tavern slop.
Francesco, entirely unconscious that he was offending, set down his cup, and sank back into his chair, his face black with the displeasure that absorbed him.
“What has happened to you?” quoth Amerigo presently.
Francesco briefly related the tale of all this heat of his. Amerigo listened, what time he sliced a peach into a beaker of wine and hydromel.
Collected Works of Rafael Sabatini Page 423