The Rising Storm

by Dennis Wheatley

  Roger raised his eyebrows. “That is indeed an altruistic gesture. Apart from his strange ordinance about burials he seems to me a model Monarch.”

  “He is certainly far better than most, for in a score of years he has doubled the wealth of Tuscany. By making all classes subject to taxation he has reduced the average to eighteen pauls per annum per head, which must be considerably lighter than anywhere else in Europe. I am told that even in England it is in the neighbourhood of forty-five.”

  “In spite of that he has succeeded in extinguishing our National Debt, and by allowing free trade in corn he has brought its price down to a level which enables us to live cheaper here than in any other part of Italy. Moreover, he is always devising new ways to encourage trade and agriculture. Recently he has offered a gold medal every year for the proprietor who plants the greatest number of new olive trees, and the plantings of the winner this year exceeded forty thousand.”

  With a shake of his head Roger took up the Chianti flagon to refill the glasses, and said: “Really, in view of all this, despite the antagonism he has aroused among the priesthood, I cannot conceive why he is not more generally regarded with affection by his people.”

  His informative host sank his deep voice to a lower note. “I feel sure, Monsieur, that you will not repeat me, but His Highness has one failing which would render him obnoxious to any race. He is the most furtive and suspicious man that ever was born. I am told that at times he even deceives his most intimate advisers, and ’tis certain that he sets spies upon them. Not content with that, he sets spies upon the spies. His secret police are legion, his curiosity unbounded, and he is for ever prying into the private affairs of every official or person of any consequence at all in the whole country.”

  “When he learns that they have committed some fault does he act the tyrant?” Roger enquired.

  “Nay; as a ruler he is remarkable for his humanity. He has much improved the dispensation of justice, abolishing the courts of the feudal lords, and securing for the meanest of his subjects the right of appeal to the highest tribunal. He has also done away with torture and reformed the prison system. But no one likes the thought that their every act is spied upon and reported.”

  “What sort of a man is he personally?” said Roger, now working round to the matter that particularly interested him. “Is he easy of access?”

  “By no means,” came the prompt reply. “He works too hard to be able to give the time to appear in public except on State occasions. And his natural secretiveness provides a bar against his indulging freely in social intercourse with his nobility. He is most autocratic in temperament, believing that the people are quite incapable of reforming themselves, and that their condition can only be bettered by divine inspiration interpreted through their rulers. That, too, is the mainspring of all his religious reforms, as he regards himself as established by God to be the guardian and tutor of his people. Yet, pious as he is by nature, he does not deny himself mistresses.”

  “That was also the case with the bigoted James II of England,” Roger smiled, “and of Louis XIV of France, even when he was in the toils of the Jesuits.”

  “True!” laughed the fat Signor Pisani. “But did you set eyes on our Grand Duchess you would hardly blame His Highness for his infidelities. She is, as you may know, a Spaniard, and sister to the newly enthroned King Carlos IV. A plainer gawk of a woman ’twould be hard to find; she is as yellow as a lemon and pimply at that; so ’tis not to be wondered at that her husband prefers the beds of other ladies, and in particular that of the beautiful Donna Livia.”

  “Is this favourite mistress a noble lady or a courtesan?”

  “She is an opera singer, and her voice, while good, is the least of her charms. She has Titian hair, green eyes and a figure … Ah!” Lacking words to describe it Signor Pisano could only break off and kiss the tips of his fingers with a loud smacking sound in an attempt to show his appreciation.

  “Is she accepted by the Grand Duchess and given apartments in the palace, as was Madame du Barri at the Court of Louis XV?” Roger asked.

  “His Highness’s religious scruples do not permit him to acknowledge her openly,” Pisani grinned, “so she lives in a house of her own near the Palazzo Pitti, and he goes there to sup with her most nights of the week, except Fridays and Sundays. But the Grand Duchess is so tolerant of her husband’s weakness that she often visits his favourite as an escape from her own loneliness. She is a great needlewoman and frequently takes her embroidery round to Donna Livia’s house, to work upon it there in the afternoons.”

  Roger regarded his fat landlord with a new interest, and said: “You will, I trust, forgive me, Signor Pisani, if I remark that for an ordinary citizen you seem peculiarly well acquainted with the secrets of the Court.”

  The Tuscan laughed again. “That is easily explained, Monsieur. It so happens that I have long enjoyed the friendship of Herr von Streinefberg, who is His Highness’s confidential secretary.”

  “I wonder, then,” said Roger with appropriate diffidence, “if I might trespass on your good nature to arrange for me to meet Herr von Streinefberg? I have some business to transact while in Florence, in which I am certain his good offices could be of great assistance to me.”

  “I would do so willingly, were it possible; but unfortunately my friend left here for Vienna only a few days since on urgent business connected with the Emperor Joseph’s illness.”

  “With whom then would you suggest my getting in touch with the object of securing His Highness’s interest in my affairs?”

  Signor Pisani considered for a moment, then he said: “Monsignor Scipione Ricci enjoys his dubious confidence more than any other man. He has apartments in the Pitti, so I suggest that you should go there and secure an interview with him through one of his secretaries; or, better still, his major-domo, Signor Zucchino. The latter is not a particularly pleasant person, but he has his master’s ear, and will, I am sure, pass you in if you grease his palm with a couple of sequins”

  Roger thanked his new friend and, as the bottle was now empty, bade him good night; then went upstairs, well pleased with the information he had gained at so little cost, to spend an hour with Isabella before going to bed.

  The following morning by nine o’clock he was at the Pitti Palace, enquiring for Signor Zucchino. At first he had some difficulty in making himself understood, as he spoke no Italian, and French proving useless, he had to do his best with Latin and the smattering of Spanish he had picked up from Isabella. But at length he was conducted through a maze of lofty corridors to a little room equipped as an office, where, behind a desk littered with bills, a small man clad in black velvet was sitting.

  Having bowed to him Roger opened the conversation in French, and, to his relief, found that the major-domo spoke sufficient of that language to understand him. He gave his name as Monsieur le Chevalier de Breuc, and said that he had just arrived from the Court of France upon business which he wished to discuss with Monsignor Ricci.

  Signor Zucchino’s sharp black eyes appraised Roger quickly, then he enquired the nature of the business.

  On Roger declaring that it was a strictly confidential matter, the major-domo showed signs of hauteur; but when his visitor gently clinked the gold in his breeches pocket and, producing two pieces, slid them under a paper on the corner of the desk, his manner changed at once.

  In halting French he said that his master was, unfortunately, absent in Pisa, but would be back in Florence the following day, and he would do his best to arrange an audience.

  Roger then handed him a slip of paper on which he had already written his name and address; and, on the major-domo promising to communicate with him, took his leave.

  Now that he had a free day before him he was extremely anxious to take advantage of it to see the most outstanding of the many art treasures in Florence, so immediately he got back to his lodgings he consulted with Isabella on this project. As they occupied separate rooms, and her servants now referred to her
as Madame Jules, no one there had suggested by as much as the lift of an eyebrow that she was not his sister-in-law; and they decided that there could be no risk of her identity being discovered if she went out, provided she wore a mask.

  By half-past ten Hernando had secured a carozza for them, and, leaving Quetzal in his care, they set off like a young honeymoon couple to see the sights of the city. First they paid tribute to the Venus de Medici, as the Venus de Milo was then called, and they agreed that no copies that either of them had ever seen did justice to the supreme beauty of Cleomenes’ original. Then they devoted most of the rest of the day to the magnificent collection of pictures in the Grand Duke’s residence, the Pitti Palace, which was always open to the public.

  Roger had long been interested in paintings, but the Raphaels, Titians, Rubenses and Correggios aroused his enthusiasm for the art to a degree that it had never previously reached, and he declared that afternoon that when they had a home of their own they must certainly start a collection, however modest its beginnings might have to be.

  It was this which made Isabella insist on stopping at an art dealer’s on their way back to Pisani’s, in order to buy him a picture as the foundation of his new hobby. By great good fortune they found a small head and shoulders of Saint Lucia, which was Isabella’s second name. It was a beautiful little thing of about nine inches by six; the Saint was wearing a robe of brilliant blue, and behind her head there was portrayed a fairy-like scene of woods and a mountain with a tiny castle perched on top. The dealer swore that it was an original Andrea del Sarto, and wanted a hundred and twenty gold sequins for it. Roger demurred at such extravagance, and when Isabella overruled his protests, he would at least have attempted to beat the man down; but she said she would not sully her gift by haggling about its price, and told the dealer to carry it to their lodging, where she would pay him what he asked.

  On their second day in Florence they went out again early in the morning to see the famous sculpture of Niobe striving to protect her children from the murderous shafts of Apollo; and still more pictures. But at eleven o’clock they tore themselves away from a gallery containing some of the finest examples of Benvenuto Cellini’s gem-encrusted goldsmith’s work, and hurried back to Pisani’s, in case a message had arrived for Roger giving him an appointment with Monsignor Ricci.

  However, no word had yet come from Signor Zucchino, and to Roger’s intense annoyance he had to waste the whole afternoon kicking his heels in their lodgings without hearing from the major-domo. It was not until he and Isabella were sitting down to supper that a messenger at last arrived, bearing a brief note which said:

  Monsignor Ricci has been much engaged on affairs of State since his return at midday; but he will grant you a few minutes if you attend upon him at half-past eleven tonight.

  The script was in Italian but Isabella understood enough of that language to translate it, and Roger sighed with relief when he learned its purport. After they had supped they ordered another bottle of wine, and sat up making fond plans for the future over it until it was time for him to set out for the palace. Then, having kissed Isabella good night half a dozen times, he buckled on his sword, drew his cloak about him, and went out into the darkened streets of the ancient city.

  A faint moonlight now lit the stone façades of the great mansions, making them even more impressive, and as Roger walked briskly along the narrow, cobbled streets he marvelled once again that so small a country, with a bare million inhabitants, should have proved capable of producing such lasting memorials to the greatness of its rulers; when the Kings of France, with twenty times their resources, had failed to achieve one-tenth of the grandeur of the Medicis.

  As he crossed the bridge over the Arno he was thinking of Isabella, and the picture of her patron saint that she had bought him that morning. The thought occurred to him that at a not too distant date they must return to Florence for a delayed honeymoon. She seemed to derive as much pleasure from its unique treasures as himself, and in no country except his own had he found such congenial surroundings. Even if the people grumbled about the innovations introduced by their Austrian Grand Duke, they seemed remarkably carefree. There were no midnight beggars in the streets, or outcasts trying to snatch a few hours’ uneasy slumber in the shadow of the doorways. The city now slept, its citizens serene, untroubled, secure within their homes. On the far side of the river he entered the street leading to the palace.

  Suddenly a group of dark, swiftly moving figures emerged from the shadows. Roger glimpsed a patient mule being held by one as the others rushed upon him. Springing back he grasped his sword-hilt. His shout was drowned in the scamper of running feet. He had drawn his weapon no more than six inches from its scabbard before his arm was caught in a fierce grip. Next second he was overborne and hurled headlong into the gutter.

  Chapter X

  The Hooded Men

  As Roger went down he kicked out hard. His right foot caught one of his attackers in the crutch, drawing from him a screech of pain. But at least three men had charged in simultaneously and two of them fell right on top of him. Clenching his fist he smashed it into the face of one and, with a heave of his body, threw off the other.

  Since the age of eighteen he had been just over six feet in height, but in the past three years he had filled out; so although his slender-boned hips still gave him a fine figure he was now a fully grown man with a broad chest and powerful shoulders. As he never lost an opportunity to practise fencing and often spent many hours a day in the saddle he had no superfluous fat and his muscles were as hard as whipcord. Moreover he had a cool head, great agility and, in a fight such as this, was never handicapped by the least scruples about using unorthodox methods to get the better of his enemies. So, had he not been taken completely by surprise, three or four underfed street roughs would have found that in attacking him they had caught a Tartar.

  Even as it was, he had succeeded in inflicting grievous injury on two of them in as many seconds, and as he rolled over to get clear of the squirming body he had just thrown off he kicked out again backwards. His heel met solid flesh and elicited a spate of curses.

  Thrusting one hand against the cobbles he gave a violent twist of his body and scrambled to his knees. To his dismay he realised that his attackers numbered five at least. Only one lay hors de combat, groaning in the middle of the narrow street. The two others who had knocked him down were staggering to their feet on either side of him; a fourth, who had been holding the mule, was running to their assistance, and the scraping of boots on stone behind him gave warning that one or more of the band were about to take him from the rear.

  Once more his right hand grasped his sword hilt. If only he had time to draw it and get his back against the wall, he felt that he might yet succeed in beating off the gang of bravos until the sounds of the conflict brought the Watch to his assistance.

  But in a moment his hopes were shattered. A man behind him threw a cloak over his head. Another seized his arms and wrenched them painfully together till his elbows met in the small of his back. Instantly a dozen hands were grasping him. Someone tied the cloak round his neck, so that his head was encased in a stuffy bag, and his shouts for help were muffled. His arms were tied together with a piece of cord. Still he kicked out, but he was borne to the ground, and while one man sat upon his legs another secured his ankles. Then he was rolled over and over sideways upon other cloaks that had been spread out on the ground, till he was encased like a mummy in a roll of carpet.

  Next, he felt himself lifted up, carried a few yards and dumped face down across the back of the mule, with his head dangling on one side of the animal and his feet on the other. The cursing, panting and excited exclamations of his captors had now ceased, and in silence the party sent off along the street.

  The blood was running to Roger’s head, and in addition he found it extremely difficult to breathe, so for him to think at all was by no means easy. But as he gasped for air in the stifling folds of the cloak, various half-formed
thoughts came to him. He had been set upon by robbers! Yet they had made no attempt to take his jewels or money from him. If they were not robbers what possible motive could they have for attacking him? Perhaps they had mistaken him for someone else? Where was he being taken? Perhaps they were robbers and meant to hold him to ransom? Anyhow it seemed clear that they intended him no bodily harm, as not one of them had drawn a sword or stiletto during the struggle. He had sustained no injury at all. That at least was much to be thankful for.

  At this point lack of air made him feel as though his head was going to burst, and with the steady jolting of the mule alone still impinging on his mind he lapsed into semi-unconsciousness.

  When he came to someone was pouring Grappa down his throat. The fiery spirit jerked him back into full possession of his senses. He had been unwrapped and untied and was seated in a chair with his head lolling back, staring up at a low, vaulted ceiling of plain stone with Roman arches.

  With a gasp he thrust aside the glass that was being held to his mouth and sat up. Two rough-looking fellows with close-cropped hair, who were dressed in leather jerkins and looked like men-at-arms, stepped away from him, and he saw at once that this stone-flagged cellar was no brigands’ den. Yet, immediately opposite him, on the far side of a long table, was a sight calculated to make the boldest heart contract in swift alarm.

  Beyond it sat nine silent figures. All were clad in loose black robes that entirely hid their ordinary clothes and individualities. From their shoulders the robes merged into high-pointed hoods, having in them only mouth and eye slits.

  Roger’s first thought was that he had fallen into the hands of the Inquisition; but he was quick to recall that in a further conversation with Signor Pisani the previous day his landlord had told him that the Grand Duke had deprived the Holy Office of much of its powers in Tuscany, and that it was now only permitted to act as an ecclesiastical court for the trial of priests who had disgraced their calling. It then occurred to him that the Grand Duke’s measure had driven the Inquisition underground and that it still continued to function in secret. But, if so, what possible business could it have with him? Again, he could only suppose that he had been seized in mistake for someone else.