Delphi Collected Works of Max Brand US

by Max Brand

  There were men — horrible to tell — who cried out for mercy, when they heard the cry of “Tizzo! Tizzo!” But the relentless ax soared and fell, unheeding.

  Then a slight form bore up behind him and the voice of the Lady Beatrice called: “Are you man or devil? Tizzo, in the devil’s name, since you care nothing for that of the Lord, show mercy!”

  After that, the terrible ax forebore some of those who screamed out in surrender.

  For the battle was no longer a battle. It was rout.

  The labor of mounting the steep streets had ended. There was level going across the top of the town, and here the assailants were able to make a faster progress, until they came into the piazza before the cathedral.

  Ten times, at least, rushing forward with a hungry purpose, Tizzo had made at the form of a knight armed cap-a-pie who continually shouted: “Della Penna! Della Penna! To me, brave hearts, good friends! Della Penna!”

  And always he was shut away by a press of many men and hard blows.

  It was as they entered the piazza that he saw a man who was armored with nothing whatever, and who carried a sword which he never raised, and the face of the man was the drawn, pale caricature of the features of the chief of traitors, Grifone Baglioni.

  Tizzo was close enough to see Giovanpaolo spur toward this man and then halt his horse, shouting: “Is it you — you—”

  Then he cried out: “Go your way — I shall not cover my hands with the blood of our house, as you have done! I shall not strike at you, Grifone!”

  And he swerved his furious horse away from that target.

  But Tizzo, crying out: “Let him stand! No man touch him!” found that his voice was wasted. For savage swords raised, and Grifone, expert swordsman that he was, never raised blade to defend his life. He fell under twenty strokes, and the wash of the battle poured over him.

  This Tizzo saw askance, and giving up his struggle to reach the spot, as he saw the traitor fall, pushed fiercely onward toward the figure with the white plume above the helmet about whom men were constantly rallying.

  “Della Penna!” was the cry that bubbled from the lips of the warriors who thronged about that tall form on the great black horse.

  And Tizzo rushed the swift Barb mare toward the figure, shouting: “Melrose! Melrose! Tizzo! Tizzo!”

  And he saw the man of the white plume snatch a lance from the hand of a man beside him, a great lance with a hooded hand-hold. Then, bowed above the long spear, della Penna rushed back to meet that implacable pursuer.

  To Tizzo, it was like the first movement of a dance. He waited till the last instant, then with an upward stroke of the ax head, he knocked the lance aside and, with a half-swing of the ax, brought it sheer down on the crest of the knight. That blade was sadly battered and blunted by the cleaving of solid armor. But the true Damascus steel had kept its temper; and as a hatchet cleaves the block of wood, so that stroke cleft the helmet of della Penna.

  He did not live to cry out once more. His body, lurching sidewise from the saddle, seemed reaching for the ground to break the force of his fall. And then the armored body crashed on the stones of the pavement loudly enough to be heard above the battle.

  It was the final stroke.

  There broke out, after it, a wild uproar of fear. No one remained to reward valor, and therefore all men fled. Moreover, the height of the town had been taken. As for the men who had supported the traitors, they took to their horses and poured out of Perugia as from a spot afflicted by the plague, and yet most of them had thought to spend the rest of their lives in the place as lords of the multitude.

  So the fall of della Penna unnerved his followers. And the men of Giovanpaolo rushed hard on their traces.

  It was said that fugitives from the battle were slain as far as ten miles on the other side of the city. And this was true.

  It was said that a certain number closed themselves into the cathedral and were there cut down by the inbreaking forces of Giovanpaolo. But this was false. For the garrison of the cathedral surrendered when Giovanpaolo, unwilling to cover the floor of the house of God with blood, permitted the men inside to depart in peace.

  But Perugia, down to the farther ward, was conquered and pacified all on one night, and blood ran on every street of the town.

  CHAPTER 51

  THERE WAS A scene which Tizzo did not see, but which remains to this day famous through all of Italy.

  For the Lady Atlanta, with four of her maidens as a train, advanced through the bloodstained streets of Perugia as far as the main piazza where the cathedral still stands. There she walked among the dead until she came to a place where a man lifted up his unarmored hand.

  And that was Grifone.

  Some say that they said a great many things. Some say that it was a scene sufficient to cover many pages of a record. But what actually happened was as follows:

  The Lady Atlanta, dropping on her knees, caught the hand of her dying son and called out to him. What he said in answer was: “Bartolomeo! Guido! Give me my armor! I must go out and fight gentlemen as though they were dogs!”

  At this Lady Atlanta said to him: “It is I, my son! It is your mother, and therefore speak to me.”

  But Grifone said: “I am already in hell. She would not speak to me. It is some lying devil!”

  In spite of what is written in other places, this is all that Lady Atlanta spoke to her son, and those were the words which he answered.

  Afterwards, her women lifted the dead body and carried it away. There were a number of men who would have been glad to strike a weapon into the dead body of the chief traitor, who allowed the noblest of his kindred to be killed by treason on the night of the Great Betrayal, but the fact is that all men drew aside when they saw the black-robed figure of Lady Atlanta carrying her son from his dying place.

  There were not many, however, who commented on the fact that he abandoned his house and rushed out into the street without armor, or that he failed to lift his famous sword in defense of his head. This, however, was the truth.

  What between the taking and the retaking of the city of Perugia, there was hardly a house in the town which had not been plundered at least once. Therefore, very few of the citizens had a reason to rejoice. But it must be said that one of the most cheerful voices that was raised inside the town, on days that followed, was that of Alfredo, the son of Lorenzo, who appeared at his old task, except that he now had under him three four-mule teams, each pulling a high-wheeled cart, each cart driven by a special driver. The one-eyed man remained at his house unhappily roving up and down all day and regretting the vanished times of his hard work, but all his neighbors looked up to him as to a mountain.

  In those days, there were many changes.

  Great men were pulled down. Many heads of traitors fell on the block. And new men were made rich and famous.

  Luigi Falcone gained a name as a great soldier instead of the repute of a scholar, only, and Henry of Melrose was given the rental of so many houses that he was made rich to the end of his days.

  But Tizzo was not there. He was gone.

  When men asked what had been done to reward the man who had prepared the way for the recapture of Perugia and who in person had formed the sharp edge of the entering wedge, they were told that he had disappeared.

  And this was true. For all of the men who loved him, and they were many, were unable to find any trace of him until several days after the fall of the town.

  It was at that time that the Lady Beatrice entered the room of her brother, now sole lord of Perugia, and threw a letter down on the table.

  “News from whom?” asked Giovanpaolo.

  “From the devil, I think!” said the girl.

  She flung herself down on a chair and the tears began to run down her face as her famous brother began to read aloud, slowly:

  Beatrice, blessed among women, my beloved, and most worthy of all loving, my glorious lady, my bravest and best of women, sweetest and dearest, a word from one who loves you to
distraction, who dies for the lack of you, whose breath is not drawn because you are not near him, who cannot eat or drink without having the taste of his food and his wine filled by the thought of you,

  My noble Beatrice,

  Why am I not there in Perugia to share in your high joy? Why am I not there to grasp the hand of my father and my foster father and to make us lifelong friends?

  Why am I not there to take you to the altar of our everlasting happiness?

  Alas, Beatrice, in the battle I saw a scoundrel of a traitor who was mounted on a great gray stallion.

  I saw him, and my eyes would not believe, and I chased him, and he fled.

  For two days he fled.

  But tomorrow I shall find him, without a doubt. I shall return riding the great horse perhaps long before this letter reaches you.

  And in the meantime, my heart yearns for you.

  I curse the villain who rode a horse so mighty that I could not help but pursue him.

  Farewell.

  I love you, my heart breaks for you, my blood runs cold in longing for you.

  Farewell again. Keep my memory near your heart. Remember me to the great hero, to my father, and to Luigi Falcone. And to Antonio Bardi.

  God, how much of my heart remains behind me in Perugia! But the gray horse I must have, and will have, and shall have.

  Farewell again,

  Tizzo

  The Great Betrayal (1935)

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER I.

  CHAPTER II.

  CHAPTER III.

  CHAPTER IV.

  CHAPTER V.

  CHAPTER V (Continued).

  CHAPTER VI.

  CHAPTER VII.

  CHAPTER VIII.

  CHAPTER IX.

  CHAPTER X.

  CHAPTER XI.

  CHAPTER XI (Continued).

  CHAPTER XII.

  CHAPTER XIII.

  CHAPTER XIV.

  CHAPTER XV.

  CHAPTER XVI.

  CHAPTER XVII.

  CHAPTER XVIII.

  CHAPTER XIX.

  The magazine in which the novel first appeared in February 1935

  THE GREAT BETRAYAL

  BY GEORGE CHALLIS

  AUTHOR of “The Naked Blade,” “The Firebrand,” etc.

  CHAPTER I.

  TIZZO RIDES TO BEATRICE.

  TO THE CREDIT of Tizzo there stood a number of things for a man who was not much past twenty and who had no more family than a rabbit in the fields.

  Item: five duels with the best blades of the town of Perugia, in all of which ne was the conqueror, through luck and a certain nameless cunning of the hand none had resulted fatally.

  Item: the great favor of Messers Astorre and Giovanpaolo, war lords and battle-leaders of the powerful and ruling house of the Baglioni.

  Item: a purse filled either by his patrons, the Baglioni, or by clearheaded gambling, or by the wealth of his foster-father, Luigi Falcone; a purse worn out by these emptyings and fillings.

  Item: handsome lodgings in the inn.

  Item: a one-eyed cut-throat with a patch on his face, a leering smile, and the cunning of the devil, named Elia and devoted to the service of Master Tizzo.

  Item: a head of hair which, being cut short to accommodate a helmet; looked a little less burning red than in younger days when it had gained him the name of Tizzo, the Spark.

  Item: eyes the color of the blue of flame.

  Item: an engagement to meet this night, under the moon, in the summer house of the country estate of Astorre Baglioni outside the city, the beautiful sister of Messer Astorre, the Lady Beatrice.

  Of all of these articles in his favor, young Tizzo was most burningly aware. For the blue flame of his eyes showed him one who was enjoying the full savor of life to the very roots of his palate. He was this evening dressing with care, helped busily by Elia Bigi. He had drawn on long purple hose, a green doublet heavily embroidered with crimson, green shoes of soft leather that came half way up the calf of his leg; he had belted on his sword which was balanced at the right hip by a dagger. Scabbard of both sword and dagger were enhanced by rich golden chasings. Over his neck he hung a chain of massive gold, each link variously and curiously worked by a Florentine goldsmith, and supporting an intaglio which showed the noble profile of the famous Giovanpaolo, that Achilles of the condottieri of Italy. He was now swinging over his shoulders a black cloak which shone with an elaborate arabesqueing in silver when a messenger came to the door with a letter.

  When Elia gave him the letter, he was about to throw it aside, but his eye saw the arms of the Bardi stamped into the seal and therefore he knew that it was a missive from his dearest friend in the entire city. So he opened the letter and read:

  “To my brother Tizzo, given in haste from my house; greetings, life, happiness, honor.

  “Tizzo, go not where you have willed to go on this night. Let your heart sleep. Do not follow it.

  “Ask me no more for my meaning or for the source of my information.

  “If I were free to come to you, I would be with you now and beg you on my bended knees to stay at home.

  “If ever you entered my house like a brave angel from heaven; if ever you saved me from a foul death beyond the holy hand of the church, alone, desperate, hateful to men; if ever I have sworn to you the eternal love of a brother for a brother, believe me now, ask me nothing, and lie quietly in your chamber tonight. It is your time of danger. If it passes, tomorrow will dawn brightly and the rest of your life may be spent in peace.

  “Farewell. My heart burns with anxiety. Be wise. Be prudent.

  “With all the blood of my body, thine,— “Antonio.”

  When Tizzo had finished the reading, he was so overwhelmed that he threw himself into a chair and bowed his head.

  Elia, that hardy brigand, muttered: “You have lost a good legacy, at least. But take a glass of wine and lift your head again. There are still throats to be cut and purses to be taken in this jolly old world.”

  As he spoke, he poured from a silvered pitcher a goblet of the rich, thick red wine of Tuscany and held out the glass to Tizzo, who took it, tasted it, and pushed it back into the hand of his servant.

  “Or if it is merely a woman,” said Elia, “I can swear that there are others who—”

  “Be silent!” commanded Tizzo.

  He rose and paced the room, thinking aloud.

  “He begs me as he loves me. — True, Antonio loves me. ‘Go not where you have willed to go on this night.’ — How should he know where I am to go this night? Beatrice, my beautiful, noble, glorious, generous, brave, gracious, most perfect Beatrice! — Let my heart sleep? How can I let it sleep when it strides like a lion through my body? — Ask not for his source of information, which means that he has it from a high and dangerous authority. — This is my time of danger? No, by God, it is my time of love! — If this night passes in safety — by the Lord, poor Antonio has been visiting an astrologer. Elia!”

  “Messer Tizzo?”

  “Do you believe in astrology?”

  “Well,” said Elia, “the sky is a large, clean page, and it would be a pity if God had not put some good writing on it, for wise men to read.”

  “True!” said Tizzo.

  HE went to the window and thrust it open to look up past the nearest battlemented heights and into the brightness of the heavens. A wind which never touched the earth made the stars tremble like leaves. Awe fell upon the irreverent soul of Tizzo.

  He murmured: “But how could God waste his time to arrange symbols in the high heavens concerning the life of Tizzo?”

  “Sparks in heaven to speak of a spark on earth,” said Elia. “How could the stars be better employed than to speak to you, master?”

  “I shall remain at home.”

  “The will of God be done,” said Elia, grinning behind his master’s back, because he was sure that this safe impulse would not be followed.

  It happened that, at this moment, a sound of music turned a
distant corner, the tremor of strings, singing, and the mingled laughter of women. Tizzo threw up his hands.

  “I am called!” he said. “And I must go. ‘Is my horse ready?”

  “It is, Messer Tizzo.”

  “Not the mule-headed bay for carrying an armored man, but the chestnut Barb that flies?”

  “The Barb is saddled. The silver bridle is on him and the yellow housings with the bells.”

  “Bells?” said Tizzo. “Well, if they are waiting for me, let them hear me come! But give me that hat with the steel lining.”

  “And the breastplate of Spanish mail?” queried Elia.

  “Yes. Let me have it. — No, I shall not take it. — What manner of man would I be, Elia, if I feared to die?

  Love of her is my armor. Arrows will turn from me tonight.”

  “I would put my money on a good cross-bow bolt,” said Elia, “or more still on a knife-thrust aimed at the back, or perhaps a little in a few dozen tiles, dropped from an overhanging roof.”

  Tizzo, staring for a moment at his servant, suddenly broke out of the room and ran hastily down the stairs. In the courtyard he found the slender chestnut Barb standing, a gift from the richest of all the Baglioni, that Gridone who was the most fortunate of men, married to the loveliest of ladies, with the whole world of happiness already in his hands, as it seemed. The occasion of the gift hung now beside the saddle in a case of embossed leather, a common woodsman’s axe. The deceptively slender frame of Tizzo had seemed incapable of great efforts and yet with that axe he had cloven the massive jousting helmet, the finest product of the Milanese armorers. It had been put on a horse-post and he had split it from top to bottom with that deft, quick swing which he had learned from Falcone’s foresters in his boyhood. The reward had been a loud exclamation that ran all the rounds of Perugia — and this beautiful Barb mare which now put out her lovely head and whinnied for her new master.

  Once in the saddle, he flew the mare down the crooked, winding, paved streets of Perugia until the dark and massive arch of a city gate appeared before him.