CHAPTER II
THE ESCAPE FROM SAN ANGELO
Hidden away in some secret vault of the great honey-colored MausoleumTristan found himself when the men-at-arms had departed, and he hadregained his full senses. Color had faded out of everything. Therock walls were lifeless and grey. The immense silence of the tombsurrounded him. The rayless gloom was without relief, save what sparselight filtered through a narrow grated window so high in the wall thatnothing could be seen from below, save the sky.
The torture of it all he could have endured very well. There wassomething greater. It was the thought of Hellayne. This dreadfuluncertainty swung like a bell in his brain, cut through the fibreof his being. And when these thoughts came over him in his loneconfinement he beat his hands upon the stone and wept.
They had placed him in a cell, which seemed to have been hollowed outof the Travertine rock. It was small, built in the thickness of themighty Roman walls. Tristan set his teeth hard, prepared to endure. Heknew well enough what it meant. He would be confined in this livingtomb till his enemies thought his spirit was broken, and then he wouldbe summoned before a tribunal of the Church.
Once a day, and once only, the door of his cell opened. By the smokylight of a torch, his gaoler pushed a pitcher of water and a machet ofbread into his prison. Then the red light died and darkness and silencesupervened. Yet it was not the ordinary darkness which men know.Through the haunted chambers of Tristan's mind fantastic forms beganto chase each other, evil things to uncoil themselves and raise theirheads. More and more drearily the burden of the days began to pressupon him. What availed heroic endurance?
But it was not only darkness, nor was it only despair. Nor was itonly silence. It was a strange impalpable something which haunted hisrestless, enforced vigil; a dim inchoate nothingness, that drove him tothe verge of madness. Though day draped the sky with blue and goldenbanners, to tell the sons of men that Night was past and they need notlonger fear, for Tristan darkness was not a transient thing, but anawful negation of hope.
All of this Tristan could have endured, had not the thought of Hellayneunnerved him utterly.
She was safe--so he hoped--in the Convent of Santa Maria in Trastevere.But, as hour succeeded hour, his assurance began to pale. Everythinghad been arranged with the Abbess. But--had she indeed eluded herpursuers? The empty coffin had no doubt long been discovered. Did theybelieve she was dead, or did the hand who had dealt the blow in thedark, the vigilant eye that had pursued her every step, plot furthermischief?
He thought of Odo of Cluny. The monk was influential, but there was, atthis hour, in Rome, one even more powerful, and he doubted not but thatby his agency the wafer had been placed into his doublet, though theevents of that fateful night from the time he had entered the Lateran,were like a black blot upon his memory.
Had Odo even sought admission to his cell? Did he, too, believe himguilty? Had his ears, too, been poisoned by the monstrous lie? To himhe might indeed have turned; of him he might have received assuranceof Hellayne's fate; and in return he might have reassured her who waspining at the Convent of Santa Maria in Trastevere.
But, was she ignorant indeed of what was happening in the seven-hilledcity of Rome? Would not the rumor of the terrible outrage committed atthe Lateran knock even at the silent walls of the convent? A captain ofthe Senator's guard caught red-handed in the perpetration of a crimetoo heinous for the human mind to conceive!
He reviewed his own life, the close of which seemed very near at hand.Free from cunning and that secret conceit which is peculiarly alarmingto natures that know themselves to be, in all practical matters,confounded and confused, he had, in a short time, found himself placedupon the world's greatest stage, a world little fit for dreamers andfor dreams. He had been plunged into the inner circles of the mightystruggle, impending between Powers of Light and the Powers of Darkness,upon a sea he knew not how to navigate, and upon whose cliffs his shiphad stranded.
One evening, when the cold greyness of an early twilight had envelopedthe city, and from the darkening sky every now and then was heard asound of approaching thunder, Tristan, counting the weary hours of hisunbroken solitude, which he could but measure by the appearance anddeparture of his gaoler, had been more restless than usual. He hadhoped to be summoned for early trial before those high in the Church,when, in Odo of Cluny, he would find an advocate, who alone might savehim from his doom. But nothing had happened. Nothing had broken thedreary, maddening monotony, save now and then the shriek and curses ofa maddened fellow-prisoner, or the moans of a wretch who was dying ofthirst or hunger.
Whoever the powers that dominated his life, they evidently had notdecreed his immediate death, as if they were rejoicing in the tortureof false hopes which each recurrent day waked in his breast, and whicheach departing day extinguished. The food never varied, and the waterintended for the cleansing of his body was so sparse that he had tohusband it as a precious possession till the gaoler refilled the bronzeewer on the succeeding day.
When waking from feverish, troubled slumbers, broken by the squeakingof the rats that scurried over the filthy floor of his dungeon, andother presences that caused him to pray for a speedy death from thisslow torture, he found himself nevertheless listening for the approachof the gaoler who, after dispensing his bounty, departed as he hadcome, silent as the tomb, without making reply to Tristan's queries.
Escape, to all appearances, seemed quite beyond the scope ofpossibility. Yet, with failing hopes, the spirit of Tristan seemed torise. Had not his good fortune been with him ever since he arrived atRome? Had he not, by some miraculous decree of destiny, again met thewoman he loved better than all the world? And then, they had left himhis dagger. After all, not such wretched company in his present plight.
It was on the eve of the third day when the voices of men coming downthe night-wrapt passage struck his wakeful ear.
In one of the speakers he recognized Basil.
"And you are quite sure no one saw you enter?" he said to his companion.
"No one!" came the snarling reply. "Nevertheless--they are on my track.I breathe the air of the gibbet which burns my throat."
"And you are positive no one recognized you?" spoke the silken voice.
"No one."
"Take courage, Hormazd. Then there is little danger, yet you shouldtake care that no one may see you. We are surrounded by spies."
"Do you not trust Maraglia?"
"I trust none! You will therefore remain a short time concealed in thissubterranean passage."
"Subterranean?"
There was a note of terror in the Oriental's voice.
"That is to say--the vaults! Here you will find honorable and pleasantcompany, who will not betray you. You will find straw in abundance andeach day Maraglia will bring you something to eat. Go slowly. How doyou like the abode?"
"Not even the devil can find me here."
"No one will find you here!"
"No one knows where I am," Hormazd interposed dubiously.
"Nor ever shall."
"It is of no consequence. So I am safe."
"You are safe enough. Lower your head and take care not to stumble overthe threshold. Here--this side--enter."
"Enter," re-echoed the other. Then there was a pause.
"It is very evident, you are afraid--"
"Afraid? No--but I am thinking we always know when we enter suchplaces--never when we shall leave them."
"How? Did I not say to-morrow night?"
"But if you should not come for me?"
"What profit would your death be to me? Where shall I find anotherwizard to bring to foretell the death of another Alberic?"
Tristan gave an audible gasp at these words. He felt his limbs grownumb. Had his ears heard aright? Surely they had not. Some demon hadmocked him, to drive him mad. Ere he could regain his mental balance,the voice of the Grand Chamberlain's companion again struck his ear.
"But if you should not come, my lord?"
"You could scream!
"
"What would that avail?"
"Mind you--I might have to stay here myself for sheltering such apatriarch as you."
"Nevertheless--to guard against all risks--leave the door open--"
He entered, but the door turned immediately upon its hinges.
"My Lord Basil--" shrieked Hormazd, "the door is shut--"
"I stumbled against it."
"Bring a light--open the door--" came a muffled voice from within.
"I shall soon return."
"Do not forget the light."
"Light!--Ay! You shall not want for light,--if what I say be not false:Et lux perpetua luceat eis," chanted the Grand Chamberlain in Requiemmeasure, as he strode away.
Silence, deep and sepulchral, succeeded. Tristan cowered on the floor,his face covered with his hands. If what he had overheard was true,he, too, was lost. What had happened? Who was the Grand Chamberlain'scompanion?
Now Hormazd began to scream and rave in the darkness. Terribleexecrations broke from the Oriental's lips, as he hurled his bodyagainst the iron bars of his prison cell. Demoniacal yells waked thesilent echoes. The other prisoners, alarmed and rendered restless, soonjoined in, and soon the dark vaults of the Emperor's Tomb resoundedwith a veritable pandemonium, a chorus of the damned that causedTristan to put his fingers to his ears lest he, too, go mad.
At nine o'clock that night the last visit was to be paid the prisoners.At nine o'clock Maraglia, the Castellan, came, attended by theguard, which waited outside. The Castellan was in a state of nervousexcitement. As he entered Tristan's cell he looked about, as if hedreaded a listener, then he approached his prisoner and whisperedsomething into his ear.
For a moment Tristan knew not what has happening to him. Was he alonewith a mad man and was Maraglia too possessed?--
The Castellan, to prove his assertion that he was a bat, beganforthwith to squeak, and waved his arms, as if they were wings.
Curious stories were told about Maraglia. No one knew, why he hadretained his post so long amidst ever recurring changes, and it waswhispered that he was subject to strange possessions of the mind. Hefaced his prisoner nervously, fingering a poniard in his belt. Tristanwatched his every gesture.
A little foam came out of the corners of Maraglia's lips. He wrung hishands and his voice rose into a sort of shriek. He jerked his head halfround towards the men-at arms outside in the gallery. The screams ofHormazd continued.
"It is the Ape of Antichrist," he whispered to Tristan. "I have a mindto try conclusions with him. Close the door."
Tristan's wits, preternaturally sharpened in his predicament put wordsin his mouth which he seemed unable to account for. He had heard rumorsof the Castellan. Perchance he might turn his madness to account.
"I can tell you much," he said. "But not here! But one thing Iperceive. You are approaching one of your bad spells."
Maraglia shrank back against the door. His face was pale as death.
"Then you know?" he squeaked.
Tristan nodded. The torch which the Castellan had placed in an ironholder that projected from the wall, was burning low and the resinousfumes filled the cell.
"Something I know--but not all! Yet, I believe I can cure you--"
"I am about to turn into a bat! And when I go abroad I scream likea bat--in a thin, high pitched tone. And I flap my arms--and flyaway--thus--"
Tristan nodded wisely.
"I know the symptoms--they are of Satan. Nevertheless, I can cure you."
"Without conference with the evil powers?"
Tristan pondered.
"You shall not imperil your soul! But--take heed! It is well that youhave spoken to me of these matters. For, from feeling that you are abat, a bat you will become."
Maraglia was pale as a ghost.
"Then I was just in the nick of time?"
"You are already half immersed," Tristan replied in a deep and menacingtone. "Take heed lest you be utterly drowned."
The Castellan shivered as one in an ague.
"Every Friday at midnight the Black Mass is said by one Bessarion, thatis of unthinkable age--a hideous wizard and High Priest of Satan. It ishe who has cast the spell over me."
Hope mounted high in Tristan. The alert confidence of his companionanimated him and he felt almost as if the great ordeal was over. Adistant bell was tolling. Its tones came in muffled cadence into thenight wrapt corridors of the Emperor's Tomb.
Nevertheless he shivered at the Castellan's confession. Maraglia, then,was under the spell of this Wizard of Hell.
"I have seen him stalking through these galleries," he turned to hisgaoler. "But I possess a spell which renders him harmless. He cannottouch me--nor breathe his evil breath into my soul. I can compel him totake away the spell he has cast over you--that is, if you so wish it."
The Castellan squeaked and waved his arms.
"You would do this for me?"
"If you will not betray me. For only a more powerful spell than thatwhich he possesses can take away the curse he has put upon you."
"Ah! If you would do this! It is coming upon me now. I am going mad. Iam a bat!"
And Maraglia squeaked like a whole company of dusky mice, and flappedhis arms as if he were about to fly away.
"This very night will I do it," Tristan replied. "But you must help me."
"What can I do?"
Tristan cast all upon one throw.
"Remove your guards from this corridor and leave me a light and a rope."
"It is but reasonable," Maraglia returned. "I will fetch them. Whenappears the wizard?"
"At midnight! See that I am not disturbed."
Maraglia nodded. Fear had almost deprived him of his senses.
"Last time I saw him he came from yonder corridor," Tristan informedthe Castellan.
"That may not be!" the latter replied. "Unless he hath wings. Thispassage leads to the ramparts."
"It is possible I have been confused by the darkness," Tristan repliedpensively. "Nevertheless, I will oblige you, Messer Maraglia."
The Castellan retired with many manifestations of his gratitude,leaving Tristan in possession of a lantern, a candle and a coil of rope.
It was midnight.
The sharp click of a flint upon steel was repeated several timesbefore a spark fell upon the tinder and it caught with a blue, ghostlyflicker. There were strange reflections in Tristan's cell. Curioussteely lights played upon him.
Then the candle ignited. The glow widened out. Tristan peered aboutcautiously. The door of his cell had been left unfastened by Maraglia.He had no fear of his prisoner escaping. No one had ever escaped fromthese vaults, except to certain death.
He crept out into the corridor. It was dark as in the realms of theunderworld. The silence of the tomb prevailed. After a time the passagemade a sharp turn at right angles. A cooler air blew upon his face,wafted through an unbarred embrasure, beyond which showed a star-litnight without a moon, but not wholly dark.
Drawing himself up into the embrasure he stood at last upon a broadsill of stone. A cool breeze eddied around him. He was at an immenseheight. A vast portion of Rome lay below. The Tiber seemed like a riverof lead. Far away to the left the dark cypresses of the Pincian Hillcut into the night sky in sombre silhouette. He was above the tombs ofHadrian and Caracalla.
Tristan shivered despite himself as he fastened the rope he had securedfrom the unwary Castellan to the stone ledge. It was not fear; but thatactual, physical shrinking, which induces nausea, had him in its grip.
"There is Rome," he said to himself with a savage chuckle.
He made a stirrup loop and curved it round a boss of antique tile,which stretched above the abyss like a gargoyle. Then, with infiniteprecaution, he lowered the coil of rope.
Dawn was already heralded in the East. A faint grey light appeared inthe direction of the Alban Hills. From over the Esquiline came theshrill trumpeting of a cock.
There was a horrible moment as Tristan's hands left the roof edge andhe fell a foot
to grasp the rope. He curled his legs about it, got itbetween his crossed feet and began to let himself down. The sinews ofhis arms seemed to creak. Once he passed an open window and distinctlyheard the snores of the men-at-arms who were sleeping within. Thedescent seemed interminable. As seen from above, had there been any oneto watch him, his form grew less and less. From a man it seemed to turninto an ape; from an ape as a night bird groping down the Mausoleum'sside; from a bird it dwindled to a spider, spinning downward on a tautthread. Up there, on the height, the rope groaned and creaked uponthe curved tile from which it hung. But tile and fibre held. Once hisfeet rested upon a leaden water pipe and he clung and swayed, glad ofa momentary release from the frightful strain upon his arms. That wasalmost the last conscious sensation. Clinging to the rope he came downquick and more quickly. His arms rose and fell with the precision of amachine. At last he felt his feet upon solid ground, where he reeledand staggered like a drunken man.
He had traversed a hundred thirty-five feet of air.
Under the Witches' Moon: A Romantic Tale of Mediaeval Rome Page 40