by Max Brand
Tizzo let him go. He was no lover of bloodshed even in the midst of battle. The game was the thing, not the slaughter which delighted some. A moment later he was throwing back the bolt of the portal, thrusting the door wide.
But when he looked back he could see Melrose staggering, almost pitching to the floor with every short forward step he took, and behind him danger came pouring up the corridor like the shout of battle up a throat. He saw them coming, the glitter of the weapons in the tossing lantern light, then the wild faces; and always the shouting roared louder and louder.
He leaped to Melrose and supported him outside the door. To be in the open was at least some comfort. The taste of the sweet night air was a blessing and a mercy. And a changing wind had knocked the rain clouds out of the sky and blown up over the black towers of the city the golden beauty of a summer moon.
“Open air — the moon — the bright face of the Almighty God!” gasped the Englishman. “Now I can die content. Tizzo — for the last time, go — save yourself!”
As he spoke, it became impossible for Tizzo to save himself. Out of the portal of the cellar rooms, like a great smoke from a small mouth, came sweeping the men of della Penna — half-dressed servants who had been called up in the middle of the night unexpectedly, and the men-at-arms who had been on duty. Others in greater numbers were running from the interior of the house. The whole garrison was pouring through toward the street, but in the first whirling batch there were a dozen assailants who hurled themselves upon Tizzo.
His father, staggering back from this attack, had been brought to a pause by a sharp angle of the wall which protected their backs against assault but which also would make it more difficult for them to escape in any direction except straight to the front.
And straight in front lay the thronging swords of the enemy.
Tizzo, flashing back and forth in front of Melrose, like a panther in defense of some old lion, made the swinging arcs of the ax gleam with incredible lightness, incredible force. The cleaving power of that weapon was far greater than that of any sword. Where it struck solidly, it left more hideous wounds, also; and in the cunning grasp of Tizzo it did not possess the usual disadvantage of being a weapon of offense only. The dance of it in his hands swept aside the striking of many swords: his light advances staggered the crowded ranks of the enemy.
A man in full armor, the young nephew of the master, Marco della Penna by name, was directing that attack. He had in fact been in charge of the guarding of the house of his uncle during the emergency of this time of danger. He, now, seeing before him two of the greatest enemies of his house and above all the notorious red head of Tizzo, came striding through the crowd of his men like a giant with the plume blown high on his helmet and the great two-handed sword poised for a blow.
He shouted out to the others to join him, and the battle would be ended in an instant. But the rest held back an instant to see their mail-clad champion dispose of this dancing wisp of a Tizzo. And Tizzo, as he flashed back and forth in front of his father, panted forth a wild sort of laughter that was half a song. When that lofty champion came striding, Tizzo sprang a step to meet him, turned the swordstroke with an incredibly deft counter, and then hit right upward with the reverse of the swing of his ax. Under the arm, where the steel joints of the armor were multiplied and the steel itself was thin, Tizzo struck; and the ax crunched through the iron as through brittle wood, clove the flesh, crushed through the shoulder bone.
Marco della Penna, feeling himself so struck, so maimed and ruined for life that he never again could wield a weapon, dropped his sword and tried to break in with his dagger at Tizzo. But a hammerstroke from the back of the ax stopped his frightful screaming and laid him senseless.
Here there was a mere instant of pause, partly because a man of such importance had fallen, and partly because reinforcements were certainly coming at once out of the house. There was no occasion, it seemed, for men to put themselves in further danger from that uncanny, blue-bladed ax. Besides, Baron Henry of Melrose had leaned, weak as he was, and picked up the great fallen sword of della Penna. This he now managed to poise above his head, given strength and control of his body by the battle heat that was in him.
“Melrose! Melrose!” he thundered, and made the men of della Penna shrink a step farther back.
At the same instant there came a most astonishing change. For the battle cry of the Englishman was echoed by a shrill cry, “Melrose! Melrose! A rescue! Melrose!”
And over the paved street rattled the hoofs of several horses. Right at the crowd came a single rider, young, slender, shouting the battle cry of the baron; and Tizzo recognized the voice of the Lady Beatrice. Her horse, and those she led, were trained battle chargers. They did not hesitate to strike into the crowd, rearing, smashing out with their hoofs, and the della Penna men did not abide that charge.
Straight into the baron pushed the girl. He grappled at the horn of a saddle with his hands; the strength of Tizzo heaved him up until he was suddenly straddling the back of a horse, grasping at the familiar reins. Effort that should have killed another man in his condition seemed merely to have warmed his blood and brain.
“A Melrose! Melrose!” he shouted again, and vainly tried to sway the big two-handed sword again.
There was no need for more fighting. The men of della Penna had a chance to see, now, the slightness of the rescue party and they were running back to the attack, but the street was open and the three rushed away up it, leaving only yells of furious despair behind; and through that outcry, Tizzo recognized the voice of Jeronimo della Penna himself.
Disappointed malice would surely burn the heart of the man to a cinder.
CHAPTER 43
TIZZO STEPPED TO the bed and drew the curtain.
Antonio Bardi slept there in the midst of a troubled dream, one clenched hand thrown above his head. He had changed since the night when he joined the traitors at the Great Betrayal which had slain so many of the Baglioni. He looked older. His face was thin and even in sleep expressed a settled unhappiness.
“Antonio!” murmured Tizzo.
Young Bardi was wakened suddenly even by that quiet voice. He sat up with a start, snatching a dagger from under the sheet.
“Wait for me, comrades—” he called out.
Then, recovering from his dream, he stared at Tizzo. The dagger dropped from his grip — slowly he stretched out both his hands.
“Tizzo, it has been my prayer that you would come to me, ever since the news came that you, madman that you are, had entered the city.”
He rose, flinging a thin robe about him, thrusting his feet into slippers. Joy made him young again, as he saw his friend. He ran to the doors of the room and bolted them.
“How is it with you, brother?” he asked Tizzo, but then he answered his own question, saying: “But I see that you are well and I know that you are happy. You are in the enemy’s country. Every breath you take is drawn in danger. Every minute may be your last. And therefore you are happier than kings.”
“And you, Antonio?” asked Tizzo.
Bardi sighed. “Do you remember how you found me in this house not so many weeks ago?” he asked. “Do you remember that I was dying of the plague, Tizzo, and that a casket of the family jewels had been spilled out half on the table and half on the floor? Wealth would not help me, then, because famine and the plague were eating me like two wolves. And then you came to save me — you, a stranger, when no man of my own blood dared to enter the house on account of the poison in the air. Well, Tizzo, there is a poison in the air now. It kills me as surely as the plague. It is the poison of treason. And I am the traitor!”
He threw up his clenched fists.
“But the cold-blooded devil, della Penna, knows that my heart is not with him. He watches me day and night. He fears that at any moment I may gather all the wealth I can carry and with it slip away to join the army of Giovanpaolo.”
“No, brother,” said Tizzo. “You have a harder part than that. You
must stay inside the city.”
“I? Why do you say that, Tizzo? I tell you, I could make my peace with Giovanpaolo for all the troubles that have passed between us.”
“You could,” said Tizzo, “but if you try to escape, you’ll find it a hard thing to take away even your own body, to say nothing of anything else. Besides, you can help Giovanpaolo more by remaining inside the town. Have you heard from one or two people this same night?”
“Why do you ask?” said Bardi.
He peered with a worn and anxious face at his friend.
“A great lady, for one,” said Tizzo.
Bardi, starting, seemed about to check himself and then answered frankly: “I have seen her, Tizzo.”
“And a man with her, perhaps — a man who has been very close to me?”
“Luigi Falcone. Yes. I have seen them both. Was your hand behind that, also?”
“This is the point: Can I return to Giovanpaolo and tell him that he has strong friends inside the city?”
“It would be truer to say that his strong friends in the city wish that they were outside, and riding in his ranks.”
“You must see, Antonio, that one friend inside the city could be worth more than five hundred men-at-arms in his ranks. He has not strength enough to storm Perugia. It stands on its hill like an iron fist raised. There are more armed men inside it than Giovanpaolo can collect. And Jeronimo della Penna is watching over the town like a cat over a dish of milk. The chains are fastened across the streets every night. The walls are manned. The gates are guarded. Della Penna handles everything as though Perugia were besieged by a great army. And how can we break in against such precautions? Only through friends inside the town. We have those friends — you, Falcone, the Lady Atlanta. Working together, you can win some control over one of the gates. By bribery or by personal influence you may seduce some of the guards. Then, from the top of your house, fly a flag of some sort. Several flags, if you wish. But a red one among the rest. The direction toward which it points will indicate to us which of the city gates you have mastered. And when you fly the flag, we shall know that on that same night you expect us.”
“Aye,” said Antonio Bardi. “It is dangerous work, but it could be done. I am suspected; so is Falcone. All who have been your friends are hated now like so many poisoned wells inside Perugia. But we — and the Lady, who has the courage of a man — may be able to do these things.”
“You must, Antonio.”
“We shall, then,” said Bardi.
A rumor of noise broke upward through the house; there was a sudden tapping at the door of Bardi’s room.
“Hide, Tizzo!” breathed Antonio Bardi. “There is no servant I can trust. They are all in the pay of the devil, della Penna!”
Tizzo, casting one glance at the window through which he had entered, nevertheless stepped back behind the high tapestries which draped the bed. He heard the bolts of the door slide, then a breathless voice exclaiming: “Signore, they have come! The men of—”
The tramping of armored men followed; then the voice of Mateo-Marozzo was sounding through the room.
“I greet you, Bardi, in the name of Jeronimo della Penna, to know where you have hidden away the traitor, Tizzo!”
The flesh of Tizzo congealed as he listened.
Then he heard Bardi answering, calmly: “Since the night when the Baglioni were expelled, you should know that there is no friendship between Tizzo and me. He is a sword in the hand of Giovanpaolo, and that sword is pointed at my throat, along with all the rest of the danger which the Baglioni are gathering, for the attack on the city. What sort of nonsense is this, Marozzo, to come with armed men into my house at night and ask for Tizzo? Even if he were a hawk, he would not dare to fly over the walls of Perugia!” Then he added: “What’s happened? Where has there been fighting? Or has a horse kicked you in the face, Marozzo?”
“The damned villain, the murdering Tizzo has been at me by treachery and trickery!” exclaimed Marozzo. “But the end of him has come. He will never leave Perugia alive! They are doubling the guard on the walls, and he is caught like a bird in a net. He and the English Melrose!”
“Melrose lies in the dungeon of della Penna,” said Bardi. “Do you have to man the walls to keep him from escaping? Aren’t there irons to load him with?”
“He was loaded with iron,” said Marozzo, “but the fiend, the wizard Tizzo entered the prison and cut the irons from the body of Melrose.”
“Impossible!” cried Bardi.
“You say impossible — I say impossible — but the thing is done! Melrose has been taken from the torture chamber at the bottom of the prison. Taken away by one man, even though his great bulk was so wrenched by the rack that he had hardly the strength to stand up. Carried away by that lean ferret, that Tizzo — God, I go mad when I think of it! They are gone! They are gone! Bardi, if you give them shelter your head will fall the next day.”
“I know Melrose,” said Bardi. “Not even a giant could have dragged his helpless bulk up the long stairs of della Penna’s cellars.”
“Not a giant, but a Tizzo could manage the thing. It has been done. And the work is signed by the true signature of Tizzo. With his shoulder shorn almost from his body, young della Penna lies under the care of the doctors, ruined for life. He must exist with one arm all his days.”
“I listen to you,” said Bardi, “but still I cannot believe you.”
“Bardi,” said Marozzo, “the thing I have told you is entirely true. I have seen the blood that Tizzo spilled and the irons through which he cut. He is adrift in Perugia. He cannot have left the city so soon. And now the walls are well manned. He is likely as not to come at last to your house for shelter. Listen to me, Bardi! With him there is Melrose — a helpless mass of flesh, unable to stir without assistance. With him there is also a greater prize than all else — dressed as a slip of a boy — the Lady Beatrice Baglioni!”
“God rains miracles on Perugia tonight!” said Bardi. “The Lady Beatrice, inside the walls of Perugia, Marozzo, you are mad!”
“So I thought when I saw her,” said Marozzo. “But I with my own eyes have seen her this night, and talked with her. I am out of my wits when I think of it. Yes, she is here, drawn by her crazy passion for Tizzo which would make her run through flames. Bardi, if they come to your house, you will become the first man, the favored citizen of Perugia if you turn them over, at once, to della Penna.”
“The Lady Beatrice!” exclaimed the stunned voice of Bardi.
“Farewell,” said Marozzo. “Remember that all suspicions against you will be allayed if you can make the trap which catches Tizzo.”
CHAPTER 44
MAROZZO HAD DEPARTED when Tizzo issued from behind the bed.
Bardi, suddenly holding out his hand, grasped that of Tizzo strongly.
“There is such a flame of high heart in you,” said Bardi, “that you could turn a cat into a lion! But is the rest true? Melrose — have you used witchcraft to steal him from the prison of della Penna, from which no man ever has escaped?”
“No witchcraft, Antonio. Only a stolen pack of keys, a sharp file, and that ax of mine with the good blue Damascus steel in the head of it! All of these things — and then Lady Beatrice in the last moment bringing up horses like a cavalry charge to give us wings for our escape and scatter della Penna’s men. Now you know the entire story.”
“I hear the miracle told in simple words, but a miracle it still remains. Where are they now?”
“Waiting for me in the dark throat of a little alley, not far from here.”
“The Lady Beatrice!” murmured Bardi, staring. “And you left them there?”
“There was one thing more important than their safety. The retaking of Perugia. I had to find the key that would open one of the gates of the city to us. And I have found it, Antonio. You are the man!”
“I am — I shall do it! God stands on your side, Tizzo. Otherwise it could not be that you would pass through such dangers unhurt! But you an
d the Lady Beatrice, and Melrose — how will you leave the town?”
“I have no idea,” confessed Tizzo. “We have made two steps toward safety. What the third one will be, I cannot tell.”
“I shall go with you,” said Bardi. “The moment I am dressed, I shall go without, whatever comes of the adventure—”
“You will stay here,” commanded Tizzo. “Antonio, if you love me, remain here to play your part well. The other task is entirely mine. See Falcone and the Lady Atlanta again. Concert your measures. Spend money like water if you must; it will all come back to you. And let me go alone.”
“How will you leave the house?”
“By the window that gave me entrance.”
“Not even a cat could climb that sheer wall.”
“Not a cat, but a Tizzo can do it.”
Bardi, approaching the window, stared down at the profound darkness. There was only a faint, starlit glimmer of the wet pavement beneath. He drew back with a shudder.
“And yet your eyes are laughing at the danger!” breathed Bardi. “What breed of man are you, Tizzo? Give me your hand. Farewell!”
But hardly a moment later Tizzo, at the bottom of the great wall, picked up the woodsman’s ax which he had left there and went swiftly toward the little dark-throated alley where he had left Melrose and the girl.
Two steps from the entrance he called, softly, and the thinnest of whistles answered him. He had heard that signal before, from Lady Beatrice, and he recognized it now; that was why he was half-laughing with joy as he went forward.
The girl said: “All well, Tizzo?”
“Aye, all well,” he answered. “All well till daylight.”
He could make out the big outline of his father, stretched on the wet pavement at full length. The girl had made of her cloak a pillow on which the head of the Englishman rested.
“And you, sir?” asked Tizzo, on his knees beside the baron.
“Every moment better,” said the baron. “My legs and arms are still half asleep, but the life is coming back into them. Before noon tomorrow I shall be able to wear full armor and leap onto my horse again without touching the stirrups. But still even to sit up is a little hard. Tell me what you have done. You could not scale that wall after all, could you?”