by Max Brand
Tizzo accepted the ax and looked down on it with attention. Of old, from his boyhood, he had heard about that ax, and he had seen it swung, more than once, in the hands of Taddeo. The steel had a curious look. It was blue, with a strangely intermingling pattern of lines of gray. And the story was that once a fine Damascus blade had been brought back from the Orient, and being broken it had been rewelded by the father of Taddeo, not into a new sword, but into an axhead. That matchless steel, supple as thought, hard as crystal, had been transformed into a common woodsman’s ax. The blue shining of it seemed to be reflected, at that moment, in the flame-blue of the eyes of Tizzo as he swayed the cunningly poised weight of the ax.
For two lifetimes that ax had been in use, the handle altered, refined, reshaped, so as to give it a gently sweeping curve. The balance was perfect. It grew to the hand like an extension of the body.
Tizzo threw down on the ground the purse which he had just received from Falcone.
“I take the challenge, and if I fail, that purse is yours, my friends. Watch me now, Taddeo. Watch, Riccardo, Adolfo! There are ten enemies; if I miss one of them, the gold in that purse is your gold, and you will all be rich for ten years!”
So, measuring his distance, swinging the ax lightly once or twice to free his muscles, he suddenly attacked the dim target with no calm deliberation, but with a shower of strokes, as though he stood foot to foot with fighting antagonists. With each stroke the ax bit in deeply; and with the tenth a block of solid wood leaped out from the blazed surface of the tree and fell upon the ground — a perfect star with five points!
The three foresters raised a single deep-throated shout and actually fell on their knees to examine the work that had been done. But neither on the fallen star nor on the edges of the blazed surface appeared a single one of the lines which Riccardo had drawn with his knife. True to a hair’s breadth, the ax had sunk into the wood.
Old Taddeo, standing up, pulled the cap from his head and scratched the scalp in meditation.
“Wise men should teach only the wise,” he stated. “I have wasted my time teaching these two louts. But when I taught you the art of the ax, I taught two hands and a brain. Take my ax, Tizzo. Take my blue ax, and God give you grace with it. If it will not shear through the heaviest helmet as though it were leather and not hard armorer’s steel, call me a fool and a liar! Keep the edge keen; let it bite; and the battle will always be yours.”
Tizzo picked up the purse and tossed it to the old man.
“A gift is always better than a bargain,” he said. “Turn this money into happiness, and remember Tizzo when you drink wine.”
So he was gone, quickly, and found Henry of Melrose chuckling in the woods not far away.
“I followed closely enough to see what you did,” said the Englishman. “You understand one of the great secrets; coin is made round so that it may keep rolling. And the best of buying is a giving away!”
CHAPTER 20
JERONIMO DELLA PENNA had a dark, yellow skin, and a mouth which the earnest gloom of his speculations pulled down at the corners. He had large properties, but he was both penurious and absent-minded. His hose was threadbare over the knees, on this evening, but his brocaded cloak was fit for a king.
He kept striding up and down, and when he greeted Tizzo it was with a stare that strove to penetrate to his soul.
“Do you vouch for this man, my lord of Melrose?” he asked.
“I vouch for nothing,” said Melrose, “except for the state of my appetite and the cleanness of my sword. Here is the man I told you about. I found him willing to come. I know he has been driven out of Perugia. Perhaps that makes him fit for your purposes. For my part, I withdraw and leave you to find out about him as much as you please. Come to me later, Tizzo. I have a room in the south tower. We can have a glass of wine together, before you sleep.”
He went away in this abrupt fashion, leaving della Penna still at a gaze.
He said: “My friend, it is said that there is a price on your head?”
“That is true,” said Tizzo.
“It is said that you have been wronged by Giovanpaolo. But he has a way of winding himself into the hearts of men so that they serve him more for love than for money. If he has dropped you today, can he pick you up tomorrow?”
“Perhaps,” said Tizzo.
Della Penna started. “Do you think that he can take you again when he chooses?”
“How can I tell?” asked Tizzo, calmly. “I am not a man who knows the mind he will have tomorrow. The days as they come one by one are hard enough for me to decipher. Every morning, I hope to find a pot of gold before night; and how can I tell what will be in the pot? The hate of Giovanpaolo, or his friendship? It is all one to me.”
“And yet Melrose brought you to me!” pondered Jeronimo della Penna. “Tell me, Tizzo — because I have heard some rare tales of your courage and strength and wild heart — are you a man to pocket an insult?”
“I am not,” said Tizzo.
“Are you a man to return wrong for wrong?”
“I am,” said Tizzo.
“Are you a man I could trust?” pursued della Penna.
“I’ve never betrayed a friend,” said Tizzo.
“Ah! You won’t answer me outright?” exclaimed della Penna.
“Signore, you are a stranger to me,” said Tizzo. “Why should I boast about my faith and truth? You must do as I do — take you as I find you. If you can use me for things I wish to do, I hope to shine with a very good opinion. If you try to ride me uphill against my wishes, you can be sure you’ll be sooner weary of spurring than I of following the road.”
Della Penna scowled.
“You are one of these fellows,” he said, “who have been praised for speaking your mind right out, like an honest man.”
“Sir,” said Tizzo. “I think that only a fool trusts the man who is out of his sight.”
“Do you know why I have sent for you?”
“I guess that you plan something against Giovanpaolo or some others of your own family who have the control of Perugia.”
“If that were the case, what do I know of you?”
“Nothing except that you think I have a grievance against the same people. I make no promises; I ask none from you. If there is mischief abroad, perhaps each of us will make his own profit.”
Della Penna smiled, faintly. He had found something in the last speech that appealed to him very much. Now he said: “There is one man in the world who can tell me the truth about you. But before he is through searching you, you may wish that you had let your soul be roasted on a spit in hell. Come with me, Mr. Honest Man.”
They went down a corridor which communicated with winding stairs and came up these to an open tower from which Tizzo could look across the dark heads of the hills to a little group of lights which, he knew, shone from the village of Falcone. On this top story of the tower there was a fat old white-headed man with a red nose and a very cheerful smile, who greeted della Penna warmly, turning from an iron kettle in which he was stewing some sort of a brew over a little corner hearth.
“Messer Baldassare,” said della Penna, “I have brought—”
“A good sharp blade that will be useful unless it cuts the hand which tries to use it.”
Della Penna was so struck by the saying that he turned sharply about toward Tizzo, but Tizzo was too busy staring into the white circle to pay the least attention. It seemed to him that great white sign upon the floor was as dangerous as the entrance into hell itself. It was a pit of damnation on the verge of which he stood and, covertly, he crossed himself.
“How do you know,” asked della Penna, “that I wish to use this man? You have cast no horoscope for him nor even consulted your herbs on his behalf or on mine. Explain what you mean?”
This sharply inquiring tone did not upset the magician in the least, and he turned his red, jovial smile on della Penna as he answered.
“I have served your father and you for so long that whe
n great good or evil come toward you my invisible agents are apt to whisper something in the air, indistinct words. I was about to make those words become clearer. I was about to force the spirits to speak to me in real language. I had drawn the circle on the floor and heated the broth, as you can see for yourself, when you appeared with the very man about whom I heard the whisper.”
“How do you know it is the very man?” asked della Penna.
“Look!” said the magician.
He extended his hand above the steaming pot. In an instant the steam had turned crimson, and the hand of Messer Baldassare was gilded red, also.
Tizzo uttered a faint, choked exclamation. His knees grew weak. He was terribly certain that now he was beholding the handiwork of the devil.
“When I saw the red light strike my hand,” said the magician, “I knew that you were near — on the very stairs about to open my door. I had barely time to put my hat on my head before you came into the tower.”
He was wearing a square, yellow, high hat with certain cabalistic signs worked in black upon it; Tizzo remembered the saying that it is not safe for common men to look upon an enchanter when he is serving the devil with his arts.
“Look into this man, Baldassare,” said della Penna. “Shall I have good or evil fortune from him?”
“Better than for me to speak, I can force him to speak for himself and to utter the truth.”
“Force him, Baldassare?” demanded the patron.
“Give me three drops of your blood, young man,” said the enchanter. “Come, and let me put them into the pot. Come without fear. In the circle, there is no harm for you!”
But Tizzo nevertheless chose to edge cautiously around the circle and so come to the caldron.
“Give me your hand!” said Messer Baldassare in a sudden, loud, and terrible voice.
He caught the right hand of Tizzo and stared straight into his eyes. The very soul of Tizzo was shaken, but he looked back and thought that the face of the enchanter had turned into the face of a frowning lion. The eyes were sparks of fire.
“Now,” said Baldassare. And drawing the hand of Tizzo until it extended over the pot, Baldassare plucked out a bodkin and pricked a finger until the blood ran. The running of the blood he watched carefully and suddenly threw the hand from him.
Then, stepping to the circle in haste, Baldassare drew certain signs with a rapid piece of chalk. Tizzo, frozen in his place with horror, felt the hair prickle and rise on his scalp.
Baldassare, dropping on one knee, held out both hands, palms down, close to the floor. It was the gesture, Tizzo knew, of one who prayed to the infernal powers.
What would be revealed, now? In what manner would the enchanter learn of the plot which Tizzo had made with Giovanpaolo to come at the truth of any machinations which this same scoundrelly della Penna was practicing against him?
It was time to prepare for an escape with foot and hand and sword; but Tizzo found that he could not move. The spell of the enchantment — was it already working upon him?
Then out of silence in which there was only the faint bubbling of the caldron, a voice issued, faint and far away, half stifled, but seeming to proceed from the steam of the pot itself. In obscure doggerel the voice said — and it was like the voice of Tizzo himself:
I have found no greater lord
Than the brightness of a sword;
I have found no lady’s grace
Sweeter than high danger’s face;
I shall serve no higher power
Than the stealthy midnight hour;
Trust me in the hour of sorrow
But beware of me tomorrow...
Here the voice ended. The enchanter, faintly groaning, rose to his feet and then sank wearily into a chair where he remained with his head bowed, as though exhausted by the labor of his spirit.
“Trust you in the hour of sorrow? That is my answer!” said della Penna, triumphantly. “If I can trust you in the hour of sorrow, let the devil carry you off wherever he pleases on the adventure of tomorrow. Messer Baldassare, here is something for your hand. I am very well pleased with you and the spirit that sang from the steam. Come, Signor Tizzo; there is much that I must say to you!”
CHAPTER 21
TIZZO, HIS BODY and his face darkened by the almost indelible stain of walnut juice, a sleek, black wig on his head, and his face aged at least ten years by the introduction of certain dark shadows in the natural lines of his features, finished dressing, looked at himself in a mirror, and turned with a laugh to Henry of Melrose and della Penna.
“If I had a mother, she would never know me,” he said. “If I had a father, he would deny me.”
“No,” said the baron. “He would see the same blue devil looking out of your eyes.”
“It would take more than a father,” said della Penna, critically, “to look into that face and see the blue of the eyes. He is safe, my lord. He can enter Perugia now, and walk straight through all the halls of the Baglioni, if he wishes, without drawing a second glance. This handiwork of Messer Baldassare, who is there that can see through it?”
They all agreed to this.
“There are horses ready,” said della Penna. “Ride as fast as you can to the town of Camerino. Go to the lord of Camerino and show to him this signet ring of mine. He will know it well. Ask him this question: How many? And when you have heard his answer, return to the city of Perugia as fast as you may. Go to the tavern of the Sign of the Golden Stag. There, wait until you see in one of the public rooms a man with a red band drawn around his head. When you see him, go to him privately and say: Camerino.’ That will be enough to win his ear and he will instantly ask what news you bring. Repeat to him then the number which the lord of Camerino has given to you. And leave him at once. When this has been done, remain at the Sign of the Golden Stag until you receive word from me, directly. As for your means of entering the town of Perugia, show at any gate the same signet ring which I have given to you, and you will be admitted without question. I am not without power in that city, and before long my power shall be greater. The time may come before many days when they will have a cause to think of me — the fat rats, the citizens of Perugia!”
Here the Englishman remarked: “I shall wait for you at the Sign of the Golden Stag, my young friend. Look for me there.”
“No, Henry,” protested della Penna. “You are too well known. You run too great a risk if you enter that town. They would rather see you dead than have all the Oddi stretched lifeless at their feet. For, without you, they know that the Oddi would be powerless.”
“I have ways of going into the city and coming from it safely enough,” said the Baron Melrose. “Remember, Tizzo. I shall see you at the inn.”
“Now hurry,” exclaimed della Penna. “Your servant is already waiting at the head of your horse. I have fetched him from the house of Falcone. Be swift, be faithful, and your fortune is made as well as your revenge.”
That was how Tizzo found himself mounted and on the road in another minute.
The one-eyed warrior, thief, and servant, Elia Bigi, merely said to him: “What am I to know, master?”
“To know nothing is to be wiser than I am,” said Tizzo, frankly.
They rode constantly through the night. And still there were relays of horses waiting for them at appointed places along the road, strong horses which beat the summer roads to dust as they galloped steadily on. It was a weary pair of riders who, at last, climbed into the mountain town of Camerino, dignified by the presence in it of the old university. And chance brought them straight on a procession of riders who had come back from hawking with some short-winged hawks on the wrist, and, above all, a beautiful pair of peregrine falcons.
One of these was on the wrist of a middle-aged man who rode with a downward smile of crafty thought on his fat face.
“That,” whispered Elia Bigi, “is the lord of Camerino.”
So Tizzo, hurrying his horse to meet the aristocrat, held out his hand in greeting, having turn
ed the signet face of della Penna’s ring around to the inside of his finger. He made sure that those crafty, downward eyes were fixed on the signet as he spoke.
Instantly the eyes of the lord of Camerino lifted to the face of Tizzo.
“What news of my friends?” he asked, quietly.
“How many?” questioned Tizzo, with a smile.
There was half a second of pause before the other answered: “Two hundred and fifty. If time is given.”
And Tizzo fell back at once from the group of riders and let them go on with their tired, sweating horses.
Camerino was half a mile high in the mountains; Tizzo and Elia Bigi dropped by looping roads through the valleys and climbed again toward Perugia. It was night when they came before the dark height of the gate of Marzia. The lights of the guard showed vaguely, the three Etruscan busts above the gateway and the heads of the two proud horses which flanked the group. To the captain of the gate, Tizzo showed the signet ring. There was no asking of questions. The gate was opened to them at once, and they entered into that narrow, winding way, so capable of defense, so sure to check the onrush of attackers, and so advanced into the narrows of Baglioni Street.
It was well-named; because to either side the lofty tops of the palaces of the Baglioni lifted toward the stars, fencing a narrow, crooked way through heaven.
Elia Bigi said at the ear of his master: “Here are the seats of the mighty, and the mighty are asleep. They are so rich, these Baglioni, that poison is beside every bed; a knife is sharpened for every throat. And yet they can sleep.”
“Not all of them,” answered Tizzo.
For, as he spoke, a number of retainers bearing lights rounded a bend of the narrow street with several horsemen behind them. The fellows who were on foot in advance kept calling out: “Room for the noble Semonetto! Room for his highness!”
At these calls, the crowd in the street shrank back at once into entrances.
This Semonetto, as Tizzo knew, was of all the Baglioni the fiercest blade, the greatest warrior with the single exception of Giovanpaolo and, perhaps, the great Astorre, for whose wedding the city of Perugia was now in a tumult. He was still in the middle twenties and the expectation of the time was that he would go on to a greatness even surpassing that of the older members of the family, for already he showed the brain for war as well as the courage of a true lion.