Collected Works of Rafael Sabatini

by Rafael Sabatini

  She rose slowly. Her recovery of her faculties was complete. The immensity of her scorn blotted out fear and horror and all other things, leaving her supremely mistress of herself.

  “I laugh, my father, at that poor fool and liar who has dug himself a pit as deep as death. I could almost laugh at you for very scorn of your readiness to believe him. I think, sir,” she pursued, with a dignity the like of which he had never dreamed could dwell in her, “that you have lived too much with your books and too little with your daughter, else you had known better than for one instant to have given heed to this foul knave.”

  In that fair virgin’s eyes there glowed a majesty of anger that made her father cringe and tremble. No longer he the executioner of her, but she the judge of him, and pitiless in her judgment as only the child can be to the parent who has failed in parenthood.

  He leaned against the table and hung his head, a very criminal with all the feelings of a thief convicted. Mere words, after all, had robbed him of his self-respect, and Francesco was at hand to restore it him with words.

  “Alas, Beatrice!” sighed her cousin. “Better would it beseem you to admit your fault in all humility, to go down upon your knees and sue for pardon, than add to all the rest this gross... Oh, sir, oh, sir,” he cried to his uncle, “I have no words for it. That she should seek to hector so, while the body of her lover lies at her feet, here, to speak her shame.”

  “Ha!” It was a growl from her father. His eye rekindled. He threw back his old white head. “Can you explain that?” he challenged her.

  “I can,” said she, quite calmly. “But it would make a long story.”

  “Not a doubt,” he rumbled savagely.

  “It shall be told you later. Meanwhile, there is a shorter should suffice to brand this subtle gentleman, your nephew. That body which Francesco says shall speak my shame shall speak his villainy instead.”

  She crossed to the body, her glance upon Francesco who watched her in surprise. “Who do you say lies here?” she asked him, a world of disdain in her voice, almost a shadow of a smile about her pale lips.

  The look, the tone went through Francesco like so much steel. He steadied himself, attempted to shake off his sudden fears, studied the pink and white legs, and was stricken dumb.

  But the Count broke the momentary silence. “What serves that question? You heard him say ‘your lover’ - Baldassare Scipione.”

  She looked from one to the other, then down a moment at the bundle lying there. Stifling her repugnance she stooped quickly, and with shaking fingers pulled away the velvet folds that had formed about the dead man’s head. She disclosed at last the livid face and staring eyes of Amerigo Vitelli.

  “Look!” she bade them, erect now, and pointing to that face.

  They looked, and Francesco all but screamed his horror. He controlled himself, and his fertile brain worked now at fever pace. How this thing had chanced he could not for the moment think, nor did he greatly care. What mattered was to save himself - to save his neck from the strangler’s noose that was dangling now so close.

  The Count stared, and gasped, utterly bewildered. Suddenly his voice challenged Francesco, harsh and quivering: “What say you now, Francesco?”

  He looked at his uncle by an effort of will. By a still greater, he looked at Beatrice. Then he spoke. His voice trembled, his face was ghastly; but all this was as it should be. He had found his answer.

  “It is strange indeed, I should have been so mistaken,” said he. “Perhaps because I knew how my cousin stands towards Captain Scipione, I never dreamed that her midnight visitor could be another.”

  It was shrewd - infernally shrewd. For a moment it convinced the Count; for a moment it made Beatrice feel that the ground she had deemed so firm was crumbling beneath her feet. Then from the balcony a new voice spoke: “There are some folks in the garden can explain more fully.”

  They started round at that intruding sound, at that voice that rang with such sardonic calm. On the balcony, sharply outlined against the night’s black background by the light that beat upon him from the room, stood the tall figure of Baldassare Scipione in his scarlet cloak. So absorbed had they been that his soft approach had gone unheeded.

  He turned now, and made a sign into the night. From the garden, in response, came a faint clank of arms, then heavy steps rang on the staircase.

  Scipione stepped forward into the room. Beatrice sped to him. He put an arm about her, in protection, and over her head confronted the bewildered Count and the now terrified Francesco who had backed away before him until he clawed the arras and could back no farther.

  “There are some drunken revellers in the garden who followed their friend Vitelli, and saw him done to death but ten minutes since, as he was entering here, before he had passed those curtains. He fell into a snare that was baited for myself. You shall know more anon, sir. Meanwhile, here are the bargelli of the podesta to seek the murderer.”

  Six of the podesta’s men clattered in, some of the revellers hanging fearfully in their wake. One there was who pushed forward into the room - a slim figure in cloth of gold and with a gilded calf’s head mask upon his face. That absurd mask he tore off as he entered, and at sight of his dead master’s body, Amerigo’s page flung aside his lute, and poured forth twixt rage and sorrow the tale of what he had beheld. He was the witness to bring Messer Francesco degli Omodei within the clutches of the Justice of the Duke, and his neck into the strangler’s noose.

  THE LUST OF CONQUEST

  The hour of Cesare Borgia’s power and glory was that of full noontide. He had made an end of the treacherous condottieri who had dared to rise against him and for a moment to hold him in check, threatening not only to arrest his conquering progress but to undo all that he had done. He had limed a springe for them at Sinigaglia, and - in the words of the Florentine Secretary, Machiavelli - he had lured them thither by the sweetness of his whistling. They came the more readily in that they mistook their roles, conceiving themselves the fowlers, and him the victim. He quickly disabused their minds on that score; and having taken them, he wrung their necks with no more compunction than had they been so many capons. Their considerable forces he partly destroyed and dispersed, partly assimilated into his own vast army, whereafter he swept southward and homeward to Rome by way of Umbria.

  In Perugia his sometime captain, Gianpaolo Baglioni, one of the more fortunate rebels who had escaped him, was arming to resist him, and making big talk of the reckoning he would present to Cesare Borgia. But when from the high-perched eyrie of his ancient Etruscan stronghold, Gianpaolo caught afar the first gleam of arms in the white January sunshine, he talked no more. He packed instead, and fled discreetly, intent to reach Siena and take shelter with Petrucci.

  And no sooner was he gone than Perugia - which for generations had been weary of his blood-smeared family - sent ambassadors with messages of welcome to the Duke.

  Gianpaolo heard of this in Assisi, and his rage was a prodigy even for a Baglioni. He was a black-browed, powerful man, built like an ape with a long body and short legs, a fine soldier, as all the world knows, endowed with a reckless courage and a persuasive tongue that lured men to follow him. In quitting Perugia, he had listened for once to the voice of discretion, urged by the cold and calculating quality of his hatred of the Borgia, and by the hope that in alliance with Petrucci he might stir up Tuscany, and so return in force against the Duke.

  But now that he had word of how cravenly - as he accounted it - his city of Perugia had not only bent her neck to the yoke of the conqueror, which was perhaps inevitable, but had further bent the knee in homage and held out her arms in welcome, he repented him fiercely of his departure, and was blinded to reason by his rage.

  He was so mad as to attempt to induce Assisi to resist the advancing Duke. But the city of St Francis bade the belligerent Gianpaolo go with God ere the Duke arrived; for the Duke was already on his way, and did he find Gianpaolo there, the latter would assuredly share the fate which had
visited his fellow-rebels.

  Baglioni angrily took his departure, to pursue his road to Siena. But some three miles to the south of Assisi he drew rein, and lifted his eyes to the stronghold of Solignola, poised, gaunt and grey, upon a projecting crag of the Subasian hills. It was the lair of that indomitable old wolf Count Guido degli Speranzoni, whose pride was as the pride of Lucifer, whose fierceness was as the fierceness of the Baglioni - to which family he claimed kinship through his mother - whose defiance of the Pope was as the defiance of an infidel.

  Gianpaolo sat his horse under the drizzling rain, and considered Solignola awhile, with pursed lips. Tonight, he reflected, Cesare would lie at Assisi, which was as ready as a strumpet for surrender. Tomorrow his envoys would wait upon the Lord of Solignola, and surely, if he knew the old warrior, Count Guido’s answer would be a haughty refusal to receive the Duke.

  He took his resolve. He would ride up, and seek out Speranzoni. If the Count were indeed prepared for resistance, Gianpaolo had that to say that should encourage him. If his resoluteness had not been weakened, as had most men’s, by the mere approach of Cesare Borgia, then it might yet come to pass that here they should do the thing that at Sinigaglia had so grievously miscarried. Thus should his strangled comrades be avenged, and thus should Italy be rid of this scourge. Of that same scourge, as he now dubbed the Lord Cesare Borgia, he had himself but lately been one of the thongs. But Messer Gianpaolo was not subtle.

  He turned to his armoured followers - a score or so of men-at- arms who remained faithful to him in this hour of general defection - and made known his intention to ride up to Solignola. Then, by a winding mountain path, he led the way thither.

  As they ascended from the vast plain of Umbria, so leafless, grey and desolate under that leaden wintry sky, they perceived through a gap in the hills the cluster of little townships and hamlets, on the slopes and in the eastern valley, which formed the territory and dominion of Solignola. These lay practically without defences, and they must fall an easy prey to the Duke. But Baglioni knew that the fierce old Count was not the man to allow any such considerations to weaken his resolve to resist the Borgia, and to that resolve Gianpaolo hoped to spur him.

  Dusk was descending when the little company of Perugians reached the Northern Gate of Solignola, and the hells of the Duomo were ringing the Angelus - the evening prayer in honour of the Blessed Mother of Chastity revived in Italy by the unchaste Borgia Pope. Baglioni’s party clattered over the bridge spanning a chasm in the rocks in the depths of which a foaming mountain torrent, swollen and umber-tinted by the recent rains, hurled itself adown its headlong course to join the Tiber in the valley.

  Having satisfied the guard, they rode forward into the city and up the steep long street to the Rocca, regarded with awe by the burghers, who looked upon them as the harbingers of this invasion which they knew to be sweeping towards them from the north.

  Thus they came to the mighty citadel and thudded over the drawbridge into the great courtyard, where they were instantly hemmed about by a swarm of men-at-arms who demanded of them not only an account of themselves, but news as well of Cesare Borgia’s army. Gianpaolo satisfied them briefly, announced his name, and demanded to see Count Guido at once.

  The Lord of Solignola sat in council in the Sala degli Angioli - a chamber so known from the fresco which Luini had painted on the ceiling, representing the opening heavens and a vision of angels beyond the parted clouds. With the Count sat Messer del Campo, the President of the Council of Anziani, Messer Pino Paviano, the Master of the Artificers’ Guild, two gentlemen from the valley - the Lords of Aldi and Barbero - a gentleman of Assisi - Messer Gianluca della Pieve - and the Count’s two principal officers, the Seneschal of Solignola and the condottiero Santafiora.

  They sat about a long, quadrangular oak table in the thickening gloom, with no other light but that of the log fire that roared under the wide cowled chimney; and with them, at the foot of the table, facing the Count, odd member of this warlike council, sat a woman - the Lady Panthasilea degli Speranzoni, Count Guido’s daughter. In years she was little more than a girl; in form and face she showed a glorious maturity of womanhood; in mind and character she was a very man. To describe her the scholarly Cerbone had already, a year ago, made use of the term ‘virago’ - not in its perverted, but in its literal and original meaning, signifying a woman who in intellect and spirit is a man.

  It was by virtue of these endowments as much as because she was Count Guido’s only child and heir, that she attended now this council, and listened gravely to all that was urged in this matter of the Borgia invasion. She was magnificently tall, and very regal in her bearing and in the carriage of her glorious head. Her eyes were large, dark and lustrous; her hair of a glowing copper; and her tint of the delicate fairness that is attributed to the daughters of the north. The rich colour of her sensitive lips told of the warm blood that flowed in her; their set and shape bore witness to her courage and her will.

  Into this assembly, which rose eagerly to receive him, was ushered the Lord Gianpaolo Baglioni. He clanked into the room upon his muscular bowed legs, a sinister figure as seen in the gloom with the firelight playing ruddily upon his armour and his swarthy black- bearded face.

  Count Guido advanced to embrace him and to greet him with words of very cordial welcome, which at once told the crafty Baglioni all that he most desired to know. The Count presented him to the company, and invited him to join their council, since his arrival was so timely and since, no doubt, he would be able to offer them advice of which they stood most sorely in need, that they might determine upon their course of action.

  He thanked them for the honour, and dropped with a rattle of metal into the proffered chair. Count Guido called for lights, and when these were fetched they revealed the haggard air of Messer Gianpaolo which was accentuated by the splashed harness in which he came amongst them, just as he had ridden. His smouldering eye travelled round the board, and when it found the Assisian gentleman, Gianluca della Pieve, he smiled sombrely.

  “Hard though I have ridden,” said he, “it seems that another is before me with news of what is happening in Assisi.”

  Della Pieve answered him. “I arrived three hours ago, and I bore the news that Assisi has thrown up her gates to receive and harbour the invader. The Communal Palace is being prepared for him; it is expected that he will remain awhile in the city, making it a centre whence he can conduct such operations as he intends against such strongholds as may resist him.”

  “And is Solignola to be reckoned among these?” inquired Gianpaolo bluntly, his eyes upon Count Guido.

  The old Lord of Solignola met his glance calmly, his shaven hawk face inscrutable, his almost lipless mouth tight and firm. It was a face at once handsome, strong and crafty - the face of one who never would yield lightly.

  “That,” he answered slowly, “is what we are assembled to determine. Have you anything to add to the information afforded us by della Pieve?”

  “I have not. This gentleman has told you all that is known to me.”

  “None the less your coming is most timely. Our deliberations make no progress, and we do not seem likely to agree. You, perhaps, may guide us with your counsel.”

  “You see, Messer Baglioni,” put in the Lord of Barbero - a redfaced, jovial gentleman of middle-age - “our interests are different, and we are naturally governed by our interests.”

  “Naturally, as you say,” agreed Baglioni with imperceptible sarcasm.

  “Now we of the valley - and my friend Francesco d’Aldi, there, cannot deny it - we of the valley lie open to attack; we are defenceless; the few townships that have walls at all, have not such walls as will resist bombardment. It is a fine thing for Count Guido and the folk of Solignola itself to talk of resistance. Solignola is all but impregnable. And well-provisioned and well-garrisoned as the city is, Count Guido may, if it please him, resist long enough to enforce advantageous terms. But what in the meanwhile will be our fate down yonder? C
esare Borgia will avenge upon us the stubbornness of the capital. Therefore do we urge his Excellency - and we have in this the suffrage also of the Master of the Artificers’ Guild - to follow the example of Assisi and your own Perugia” (Gianpaolo winced) “and send his ambassadors to the Duke with offers of submission.”

  Gianpaolo shook his great head. “It is not the Duke’s way to avenge upon dependencies the resistance of a capital. He is too guileful, believe me. Whom he subjects he conciliates. There will be no such fire and sword as you fear for your townships of the valley. Solignola’s resistance - if she resist - will be visited upon Solignola alone. That much I can say from my knowledge gained in service with the Duke. Let me remind you of Faenza. What harm was suffered by the folk of the Val di Lamone? Why, none. The strongholds surrendered, and knew no violence, although Faenza herself resisted stubbornly.”

  “But to little purpose,” put in Paviano - the Guildmaster - sourly.

  “That,” said Count Guido, “is beside the point. And Faenza had not the natural strength of Solignola.”

  “Yet, ultimately,” protested Barbero, “surrender you must. You cannot resist an army of ten thousand men for ever.”

  “They cannot besiege us for ever,” snapped Santafiora, the condottiero, rearing his cropped bullet-head.

  Baglioni sat back in his chair, and listened to the hot debate that followed now. He was as one who has tossed down a ball into a field of players, and, having done so, watches it being flung back and forth in the course of the ensuing game.

  Count Guido, too, took little part in the discussion, but listened silently, his eyes passing from speaker to speaker, his countenance a mask. Facing him his daughter was sitting forward, her elbows on the table, her chin in her cupped palms, intent upon every word that was uttered, her eyes now glowing with enthusiasm, now coldly scornful, as the argument turned for or against resistance. But it was all inconclusive, and at the end of a half-hour’s wrangling they were no nearer a decision than when Gianpaolo had arrived.