Delphi Collected Works of Max Brand US

by Max Brand

  He was now seen with two young companions on horseback behind the group of his forerunners, who kept the crowd back from his nobility. They were laughing with one another.

  “Back!” said Elia Bigi, at the ear of his master. “Quickly, signore. This is the great young Semonetto himself, the wildest and strongest blade in Perugia, unless Giovanpaolo himself be counted. Give him free passage. His temper is fiercer than any fire!”

  “It should have something to feed on, then,” said Tizzo, laughing. “A fire that is starved of wood soon dies.”

  And he kept his horse fairly in the middle of the street.

  The forerunners of the Baglioni were instantly about him. Two or three of them sang out for him to keep from the path; one man laid his hand on the bridle of Tizzo’s tired horse.

  “Keep your hand back, brother,” said Tizzo. “Even if there is a helmet oh your head, I have a hand heavy enough to knock a dent in it.”

  The man-at-arms, hearing this threat, instantly sprang into a posture of defense and snatched out his long and heavy sword.

  “What’s the matter there?” cried a loud voice. And young Semonetto rode up to the van on a great white horse. Of all the men Tizzo had seen, this was the most magnificent. Such shoulders, such a head and such a bearing were beyond comparison.

  “Here is a fool of a stranger,” said one of the servants, “who refuses to make way for your highness.”

  “What do you mean, fellow?” asked Semonetto. “I am Semonetto of the Baglioni. What will you have?”

  “My share of the street, even if you were the lord of the sun and the moon,” said Tizzo. And he looked fixedly at the other, as a hunting hound might have looked at the throat of a lion, wondering if just there a touch of the teeth might not give an ending to the battle.

  “Are you drunk?” demanded Semonetto.

  “Only with a little wine,” said Tizzo. “But you are drunk with pride, Semonetto. You have too much blood in your body. You are swollen.”

  “Master, master!” groaned Elia Bigi, in terror.

  “If I have too much blood, are you prepared to let some of it?” demanded Semonetto.

  “My friend, I’ll gladly be your doctor,” said Tizzo, fingering the handle of old Taddeo’s ax which hung beside his saddle.

  “Have at you, then!” shouted Semonetto, in a sudden and uncontrollable rage, and he spurred his big white horse straight down the street toward Tizzo. A sword had come into Semonetto’s hand as he spoke. His height, the bigness of his horse, the sharp down-slope of the street made him loom like a giant above Tizzo. And the long sword darted like a silver snake at Tizzo’s breast.

  Taddeo’s ax was swiftly in the hand of Tizzo. It feathered as true and as light in his grasp as though it had been made of painted wood.

  He had little time. In a flashing semicircle the head of the ax went up and met the deadly lunge which was aimed at his heart. As he parried, Tizzo laughed, and as he laughed the axhead struck the sword away. The violence of the parry knocked the long blade high up; and then Tizzo struck in turn, with one hand, a lightning fast circling of the ax.

  Semonetto might well have been cloven to the chin by that blow, but his was the instinct of the true fencer, and he turned his sword into a parry to guard his head.

  The descending weight of the ax met the long steel and snapped it. But the shock turned the blade of the ax so that it glanced flatling from the head of Semonetto. The shock hurled him prostrate across the bows of his saddle.

  And at this, a wild yell of despair and rage and anguish came from all the followers and companions of the young noble. They drove in a flock, straight at Tizzo.

  The ax, which was perfect for the dealing of a single stroke, was less valuable in such a melee as this. Tizzo, hooking the heavy weapon beside his saddle, instantly pulled out his sword, which was blade and shield at once in his perfect hand. And here Elia Bigi proved the goodness of his fighting heart by pressing in beside his master in this hopeless quarrel against overmastering numbers.

  They put aside a dozen strokes. The clashing of steel began to resound through the street when the voice of Semonetto called out, loudly: “Swords up! Hold every hand.”

  His order was obeyed. And Semonetto, riding weaponless through the crowd of his friends, came up to Tizzo and held out his hand.

  Semonetto was pale. A thin streak of blood coursed down one side of his face, but he was smiling as he said: “My lord of the moon and sun, that was a good, swift trick of the ax. And I see that you are the master of a sword, also. My friend, come to see me tomorrow. I yearn with all my heart to cross blades with you again. In any case, I wish to call you a friend, whether living or dead. You know my name. Find your way to my house and a wel welcome. Now, my friends,” he added to those around him, “beware of lifting a hand against this dark-faced stranger. He is my companion from this moment. He is my confederate and friend.”

  He added, in a voice that was probably louder than he intended to make it: “Get me home, some of you. My head is broken, and I am half sick from that blow! Fool that I am to venture out with no steel to guard this thin pate of mine!”

  CHAPTER 22

  THE PRESS WAS gone instantly from the street and Tizzo, riding on unhampered and unfollowed, at the side of Elia Bigi, said: “That was very well done, Elia. When the fellow with the halberd took that swing at my head I was sure that it was my last moment. I saw the flash of the steel from the corner of my eye, but never in time to make a parry. You were the hand that saved me then. I thank you from my heart.”

  “What am I to say, then,” remarked Bigi, “about the man in the green and red hose who ran in with his target and sword and would have cut my throat if you had not knocked his blade aside from the true thrust which he was making with it?”

  “Say nothing,” said Tizzo, “except to thank God, with me, that we are both men, and true to one another.”

  “That’s a very handsome thing to say,” declared Elia, rubbing his big hands together and chuckling, “but your way of searching for trouble is something more than manly. It is more like an angel’s; and an angel you are apt to become, one of these days, if you continue always as you have begun. If you keep on sowing the teeth of dragons every day of your life one of them will stick you in the heel and poison your life.”

  Tizzo laughed in turn. They had come now within the sight of the Sign of the Golden Stag, and now rode through the entrance into a courtyard which Tizzo could remember very well.

  It seemed to Tizzo that the very man who showed him to a room looked closely and covertly at him. But, as Elia said afterwards this was a mere trick of his imagination.

  “The hunted rabbit sees a wolf in every strange hare,” said Elia. “Now we are as safe as any other man in Perugia to drink wine at our ease until the devil and your own weariness with life cause you to get us into more trouble.”

  “You shall have your wine,” said Tizzo, “but now I give you the smallest part of an hour to go out and find exactly where the Lady Beatrice is now lodged. Go quickly, and return to me.”

  He went out while Tizzo looked about his room and examined the windows which opened on the one side upon the paved court and upon the other, just beneath the eaves, overlooked the outer street. There was no country in the world, at that time, which offered so many conveniences to travelers as the inns of Italy.

  And Tizzo, after he had tried the softness of the bed with a backstroke of his ax, and tasted the pitcher of red Umbrian wine which was brought to him, decided that he would have a few hours of happiness, no matter what would follow.

  It was at about this time that Elia Bigi re-entered the room.

  “I’ve been stopped by a hard-faced captain of infantry,” he said, “who remembers that I was once employed by a certain Tizzo, the Firebrand.”

  “What did you say to him? Tell me honestly,” said Tizzo.

  “I told him,” said Elia Bigi, grinning sourly, “that although I was a male cat I had already spent eight
of my lives and that I did not wish to pay down the ninth of them for the sake of a flame-headed, wild-brained fellow with an eye crazier than that of a warhorse. So I now had service with a quiet young man who did not fight with swords or axes above once a day, except on the Sabbath, when he might blood himself twice; and who never played at dice for more than five hours at a sitting, or drank more than two gallons of wine before rising from the table. The lieutenant said that I was wise to find such a quiet master and that he would pay his respects to you tomorrow.

  “He asked me if I knew that there was a price of two thousand florins on the head of that same Tizzo. I swallowed twice before I was able to repeat the words after him.”

  Tizzo laughed. “But did you come back to me without news of the Lady Beatrice? However, of course you would not have word of her at a common tavern.”

  “Would I not?” asked the servant. “The poor people are always the ones to talk about kings and lords and ladies. The Lady Beatrice cannot so much as crook the little finger of her left hand without the report of it going the rounds of Perugia. There is a certain French lord who swears that if he could have enjoyed the privilege of killing you he might have taken your place in her favor.”

  “Enough of that,” said Tizzo. “But tell me the name of the frog-eater, the forked carrot, the damned parlez-vous who dared to handle my name and that of the lovely lady in the same breath?”

  “If I told you that you would have him dead and yourself hanged before morning,” said Elia. “However, it is true that the Lady Beatrice now sleeps in the house of her cousin, the rich Grifone. Her room, since she left the convent and you left Perugia, is the third room on the south side — the room with the three little columns of white marble, banded with blue, in front of each window.”

  Instantly Tizzo was drinking wine with his left hand and scribbling with his right:

  Adored and most beautiful, queen of the world and of Tizzo, spitfire and nightingale, flirt and angel, most exquisite Beatrice of whom waking I dream, and for whom sleeping I wake, hear me and forgive me:

  I am at the Sign of the Golden Stag, come to see the wedding of my lord Astorre, and would to God that it were yours and mine.

  I love you past thought. I shall see you before I leave Perugia or die attempting it.

  Farewell for a moment, which to me is an age, loveliest, maddest, sweetest of women.

  Thy servant that will one day be thy master by the help of God, two spurs, and a good right arm.

  Tizzo

  This letter he sealed, kissed, and presented to Elia.

  “Tie a pebble to it and throw it in at one of those same columned windows of which you spoke,” said Tizzo. “Remember that if you are seen making the throw, your throat will be cut. If the letter falls into any hands but hers, my throat will be cut.”

  At this, Elia was gone quickly from the room and left his master walking up and down in an agony of impatience.

  It was still the greater part of an hour before Elia returned and gave his master a letter from which a light and delicate fragrance came to the enchanted senses of Tizzo, but when he opened the letter he found written, merely:

  I had forgotten that you were living; your letter reminds me that you will soon be dead if you linger in Perugia.

  Farewell.

  There was no signature. Over the brutal words Tizzo pored for a long time but could not extract from them any semblance of a tender meaning.

  CHAPTER 23

  THE SLEEP THAT tumbled at last over the excited brain of Tizzo was a storm of nightmares. When he wakened, it was with sun in the window, a fanfare of trumpets ringing through the street outside, and a joyous voice of citizens crying through the air.

  And far and near through the city there were high sounds of music.

  “Hai, Elia!” cried Tizzo. “Is it the end of the world and are we all going to heaven?”

  And running to the window he looked out on the most splendid sight that had ever graced his eyes, for directly beneath him he saw twenty knights riding up the street in gilded armor that shone like fire, while trumpeters paced before them, blowing their blasts in great, strident harmonies. And after the knights walked girls each as gay as a wind of spring that dances at once all the wild flowers in the field, so bright were their costumes. In between the out-roaring of the trumpets, the girls were dancing, and from their filled aprons scattering roses, roses, nothing but roses white and yellow and crimson on the pavement. Behind them, in turn, came eight horses as white as snow, each led not by a mere page or groom, but by a man of noble birth.

  The eight horses drew a great carriage canopied loftily with flowing velvets fringed with gold and silver, and under that canopy sat Messer Astorre Baglioni and his bride.

  It seemed to Tizzo, at that moment, that Astorre Baglioni was the most glorious man he had ever seen or dreamed of, because he was dressed from head to foot in blazing gold, and with a great golden collar oversprinkled with jewels, the gift of My Lords of Venice, whom the famous warrior had served in their time of need.

  In fact, the eyes of the world were fixed, for this day, upon Perugia and on this almost royal wedding.

  As for the bride, Tizzo could hardly tell whether she was beautiful or no. At least she bore the great name of the Orsini, dazzling to the mind that knew its famous history, and the pearls that covered her sleeves and her hair dazzled the eye of Tizzo.

  Behind that chariot of fame rode, in advance of all the rear escort, a single figure on a great black horse, armed in chased steel completely except for the stern young head. That was Semonetto. As he went by, there was almost as great an outcry in his honor as in that of the bridegroom and the bride. For all of Perugia had been beautified by the great undertakings of this youth in honor of the marriage.

  As young Semonetto rode by, the voice of Tizzo was among the most shrill as he leaned from his window, so Semonetto looked up. Instantly he shouted a greeting, waving his arm, and still was waving it to Tizzo as the black charger carried him from view around the next bend of the street.

  Tizzo was out in the throng at once, with gaunt Elia Bigi striding behind him. The weight of Beatrice’s letter was heavy on the heart of Tizzo, but in this time of public rejoicing, he could not help but rejoice, also.

  They were coming into the yard of the Golden Stag when Tizzo saw, suddenly, a tall man about whose head was tied a scarf of crimson silk with fringed tassels falling down behind his neck. In the wild riot of that day such a Turkish bit of decoration passed for nothing, but Tizzo remembered the instructions of della Penna.

  He passed close to the tall fellow and, as he did so, he was startled to see the disfigured face of the most poisonous of his enemies: Marozzo.

  A dagger stroke would have been a proper greeting for the scoundrel, but instead, Tizzo walked slowly past, fingering his cap so that the great signet ring of della Penna showed clearly on his hand. Marozzo could not miss it.

  Instantly he was touched on his shoulder.

  “How many?” demanded the voice of Marozzo, huskily.

  “Two hundred and fifty,” said Tizzo.

  “Ha!” exclaimed Marozzo, and Tizzo turned around to find his eyes blazing.

  “They have drawn you in, Master Tizzo, have they?” sneered Marozzo. “A fine bargain they have made, when nameless dogs are to hunt at the sides of gentlemen!”

  “Mateo,” said Tizzo, calmly, “the next mark I put on you will not be a thing which a rag can cover. Go carry the news to your masters and stop snapping at my heels. There will be a time for our own private brawling, but this is not the day.”

  He walked on into the tavern and went singing up the stairs, with Bigi behind him, but when he threw open the door of his room he was amazed to see a jaunty youth in a green doublet and parti-colored hose, half red and half yellow, lolling in a chair near the window and sipping wine.

  “You take your ease, my friend,” said Tizzo, “but you take it in the wrong room.”

  “A fig for you and your
rooms,” said a rather husky, boyish voice, that sounded on a familiar chord in the memory of Tizzo. Anger brought the old flame-blue into the eyes of Tizzo as he answered: “A fig for me and my rooms? Young lad, I give you while I count three to get from that chair through the door.... Elia, where is your whip!”

  “Whip?” said the figure that still lolled in the chair. “Whip — to me?”

  And a slender poniard, a mere gleam of light, came into the hand of the stranger.

  The sight brought the sword of Tizzo whistling from the scabbard.

  “You have a sword as well as a knife. Draw it and we’ll have a little game together!” he challenged.

  “Have at you!” cried the stranger, and was instantly up, and sword in hand. But at this moment the sunlight fell on the face which had been darkly shadowed and Tizzo sprang back with a cry.

  “Out of the room, Elia!” he said.

  “What is it? A saint or a bit of the true Cross?” asked Elia, and strode grumbling from the room, slamming the door heavily behind him.

  Tizzo, throwing his sword onto the bed, ran forward with his hands stretched out: “Beatrice!” he said. “Mother of heaven, you have not come here? Beatrice, if a whisper comes to the ears of Perugia your reputation is ruined, blackened forever; so quickly — go—”

  She dropped her sword back into its sheath, the poniard clanked home in the scabbard.

  “Tizzo,” she said, “my reputation will still be good with you, and what do I care about the rest of the world?”

  “And what did you care for me,” he asked, “when you wrote to me last night?”