Under the Witches' Moon: A Romantic Tale of Mediaeval Rome

by Nathan Gallizier

  CHAPTER IV

  THE WAY OF THE CROSS

  It was late on the following morning when Tristanwaked. The sun was high in the heavens and the perfumes from a thousandgardens were wafted to his nostrils. He looked about bewildered. Thedream phantoms of the night still held his senses captive, and it wassome time ere he came to a realization of the present. In the dream ofthe night he had lived over a scene in the past, conjuring back thememory of one who had sent him on the Way of the Cross. The pitilessrays of the Roman sun, which began to envelop the white houses andwalls, brought with them the realization of the present hour. He hadcome to Rome to do penance, to start life anew and to forget. So shehad bade him do on that never-to-be forgotten eve of their parting. Soshe had willed it, and he had obeyed.

  How it all flooded back to him again in waves of anguish, the memory ofthose days when the turrets of Avalon had faded from his aching sight,when, together with a motley pilgrims' throng, he had tramped the dustysun-baked road, dead to all about him save the love that was cushionedin his heart. How that parting from Hellayne still dominated all otherevents, even though life and the world had fallen away from him and hehad only prayer for oblivion, for obliteration.

  Yet even Hellayne's inexorable decree would not have availed to speedhim on a pilgrimage so fraught with hopelessness, that during allthat long journey Tristan hardly exchanged word or greeting with hisfellow pilgrims. It was her resolve, unfalteringly avowed, to leave theworld and enter a convent, if he refused to obey, which had eventuallycompelled. Her own self-imposed penance should henceforth be to live,lonely and heartbroken, by the side of an unbeloved consort, whileTristan atoned far away, in the city of the popes, at the shrines ofthe saints.

  At night, when Tristan retired, at dawn, when he arose, Hellayne'smemory was with him, and every league that increased the distancebetween them seemed to heighten his love and his anguish. But humanendurance has its limits, and at last he was seized by a great torpor,a chill indifference that swept away and deadened every other feeling.There was no longer a To-day, no longer a Yesterday, no longer aTo-morrow.

  Such was Tristan's state of mind, when from the Tiburtine road hefirst sighted the walls and towers of Rome, without definite purposeor aim, drawn along, as it were, towards an uncertain goal by Fate'sinvisible hand. Utterly indifferent as to what might befall among theSeven Hills, he was at times dimly conscious of a presentiment thatultimately he would end up his own days in one of those silent placeswhere all earthly hopes and desires are forever stilled. So much wasclear to him. Like the rest of the pilgrims who had wended their way toSt. Peter's seat, he would complete the circuit of the holy shrines,kiss the feet of the Father of Christendom, do such penance as thePontiff should impose, and then attach himself to one party or anotherin the pontifical city which held out hope for action, since the returnto his own native land was barred to him for evermore.

  How he would bear up under the ordeal he did not know. How he wouldsupport life away from Hellayne, without a word, a message, withoutthe assurance that all was well with her, whether now, his own fateaccomplished, others thronged about her in love and adulation,--he knewnot.

  For the nonce he was resolved to let new scenes, new impressions sweepaway the great void of an aching heart, lighten the despair that filledhis soul.

  In approaching the Eternal City he had felt scarcely any of theelevation of spirit which has affected so many devout pilgrims. Heknew it was the seat of God's earthly Vice-regent, the capital of theuniversal kingdom of the Church. He reminded himself of this and of thepriceless relics it contained, the tombs of the Apostles St. Peter andSt. Paul, the tombs of so many other martyrs, pontiffs and saints.

  But in spite of all these memories he drew near the place with asinking dread, as if, by some instinct of premonition, he felt himselfdragged to the Cross on which at last he was to be crucified.

  Many a pilgrim may have seen Rome for the first time with aninvoluntary recollection of her past, with the hope that for him, too,the future might hold the highest greatness.

  Certainly no ambitious fancy cast a halo of romantic hope over thegreat city as Tristan first saw her ancient walls. He felt safe enoughfrom any danger of greatness. He had nothing to recommend him. On thecontrary, something in his character would only serve to isolate him,creating neither admiration nor sympathy.

  All the weary road to Rome, the Rome he dreaded, had he prayed forcourage to cast himself at the feet of the Vicar of Christ. He did notthink then of the Pope, as of one of the great of the earth, but simplyas of one who stood in the world in God's place. So he would havecourage to seek him, confess to him and ask him what it was it behoovedhim to do.

  Thus he had walked on--with stammering steps, bruising his feetagainst stones, tearing himself through briars--heeding nothing by theway.

  And now, the journey accomplished, he was here in supreme loneliness,without guidance, human or divine, thrown upon himself, not knowing howto still the pain, how to fill the void of an aching heart.

  Would the light of Truth come to him out of the encompassing realms ofDoubt?

  When Tristan descended into the great guest-chamber he found it almostdeserted. The pilgrims had set out early in the day to begin theirdevotions before the shrines. The host of the Golden Shield placedbefore his sombre and silent guest such viands as the latter found mostpalatable, consisting of goat's milk, stewed lamb, barley bread andfigs, and Tristan did ample justice to the savory repast.

  The heat of the day being intense, he resolved to wait until the sunshould be fairly on his downward course before he started out upon hisown business, a resolution which was strengthened by a suggestion fromthe host, that few ventured abroad in Rome during the Siesta hours, theRoman fever respecting neither rank nor garb.

  Thus Tristan composed himself to patience, watching the host upon hisduties, and permitting his gaze to roam now and then through the narrowwindows upon the object he had first encountered upon his arrival: thebrown citadel, drowsing unresponsive in the noon-tide glow, a monumentof mystery and dark deeds, the Mausoleum of the Flavian Emperor--or, asit was styled at the period of our story, the Castle of the Archangel.

  From this stronghold, less than a decade ago, a woman had lorded itover the city of Rome, as renowned for her evil beauty as for theprofligacy and licentiousness of her court. In time her regime had beenswept away, yet there were rumors, dark and sinister, of one who hadsucceeded to her evil estate. None dared openly avow it, but Tristanhad surprised guarded whispers during his long journey. Some accountedher a sorceress, some a thing wholly evil, some the precursor of theAnti-Christ. And he had never ceased to wonder at the tales whichenlivened the camp-fires, the reports of her beauty, her daring, herunscrupulous ambition.

  On the whole, Tristan's prospects in Rome seemed barren enough. Servicemight perchance be obtained with the Senator, who would doubtlesslywelcome a stout arm and a true heart. This alternative failing, Tristanwas utterly at sea as to what he would do, the prescribed rounds ofobediences before the shrines and the penances accomplished. He felt asone who has lost his purpose in life, even before he had been consciousof his goal.

  The strange incidents of his first night in Rome had gradually fadedfrom Tristan's mind with the re-awakening memory of Hellayne, neveronce forgotten, but for the moment drowned in the deluge of strangeevents that had almost swept him off his feet.

  As the sun was veering towards the west and the lengthening shadows,presaging dusk, began to roll down from the hills it suffered Tristanno longer in the Inn of the Golden Shield. He strode out and made forthe heart of Rome.

  The desolate aspect of high-noon had changed materially. Tristan beganto note the evidences of life in the Pontifical City. Merchants,beggars, monks, men-at-arms, condottieri, sbirri,--the followers of thegreat feudal houses, hurried to and fro, bent upon their respectivepursuits, and above them, silent and fateful in the evening glow,towered the Archangel's Castle, the tomb of a former Master of theWorld. It reared its massive
honey-colored bulk on the edge of theyellow Tiber and beyond rose the dark green cypresses of the PincianHill. Innumerable spires, domes, pinnacles and towers rose, red-littenby the sunset, into the stilly evening air. Bells were softly tollingand a distant hum like the bourdon note of a great organ, rose up fromthe other side of the Tiber, where the multitudes of the Eternal Citytrod the dust of the Caesars into the churches of the Cross.

  Interminable processions traversed the city amidst anthems and chants,for, on this day, masses were being sung and services offered up in theLateran Basilica, the Mother Church of Rome, in honor of Him who criedin the wilderness.

  In silent awe and wonder Tristan pursued his way towards the heart ofthe city. And, as he did so, the spectacle which had unfolded itself tohis gaze became more varied and manifold on every turn.

  The lone pilgrim could not but admit that the shadows of worldlyempire, which had deserted her, still clung to Rome in her ruins, eventhough to him the desolation which dominated all sides had but a vagueand dreamlike meaning.

  Even at this period of deepest darkness and humiliation the worldstill converged upon Rome, and in the very centre of the web sat thesuccessor of St. Peter, the appointed guardian of Heaven and Earth.

  The chief pagan monuments still existed: the Pantheon of Agrippa andthe Septizonium of Alexander Severus; the mighty remains of the ancientfanes about the Forum and the stupendous ruins of the Colosseum. Butamong them rose the fortress towers of the Roman nobles. Right there,before him, dominating the narrow thoroughfare, rose the great fortresspile of the Frangipani, behind the Arch of the Seven Candles. Fartheron the Tomb of Caecilia Metella presented an aspect at once sinisterand menacing, transformed as it now was into the stronghold of theCenci, while the Caetani castle on the opposite side attracted a sort ofwondering attention from him.

  This then was the Rome of which he had heard such marvelous tales!The city of palaces, basilicas and shrines had sunk to this! Hermagnificent thoroughfares had become squalid streets, her monumentswere crumbled and forgotten, or worse, they were abused by everylawless wretch who cared to seize upon them and build thereon hisfortress or palace. A dismal fate indeed to have fallen to the formermistress of the world! Far better, he thought, to be deserted andforgotten utterly, like many a former seat of empire, far better tobe overgrown with grass and dock and nettle, to be left to dream andoblivion than to survive in low estate as had this city on the banks ofthe Tiber.

  With these reflections, engendered no less by the air of desolationthan by the occasional appearance of armed bands of feudal soldiery whohurled defiance at each other, Tristan found himself drawn deeper anddeeper into the heart of Rome, a hotbed of open and silent rebellionagainst the rule of any one who dared to lord it over the degeneratedescendants of the former masters of the world. Here representativesof the nations of all the earth jostled one another and the poor dregsof Romulus; or peoples of wilder aspect from Persia or Egypt, withinwhose mind floated mysterious Oriental wisdom, bequeathed from the dawnof Time. And as the scope of Tristan's observation widened, the demonof disillusion unfolded gloomy wings over the far horizon of his soul.And the Tiber rolled calmly on below, catching in its turbid waves thegolden sunset glow.

  Now and then he encountered the armed retinue of some feudal baronclattering along the narrow ill-paved streets, chasing pedestrians intoadjacent doorways and porticoes and pursuing their precipitate retreatwith outbursts of banter and mirth.

  Unfamiliar as Tristan was with the factions that usurped the dominionof the Seven Hills, the escutcheons and coats-of-arms of thesemarauding parties meant little to him. Now and then however it wouldchance that two rival factions clashed, each disputing the other'spassage. Then, only, did he become alive to the dangers that beset theunwary in the city of the Pontiff, and a sudden spirit of recklessnessand daring, born of the moment, prompted the desire to plunge intothis seething vortex, if but to purchase temporary oblivion and relief.

  He faced the many dangers of the streets, loitering here and there andcuriously eyeing all things, and would eventually have lost himself,when the mantle of night began to fall on the Seven Hills, had he notinstinctively remarked that the ascending road removed him from theriver.