by Max Brand
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, palm 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 IX.
DRUNK WITH PRIDE.
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 of 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.
He could see that he was only faintly trusted by della Penna. The obscure warnings of the magician had not been enough to make the treacherous Baglioni give up his project of using that brilliant young swordsman in the striking of some blow. But he had not opened his mind in the least to Tizzo, who was to ask a question which could be answered in one word; and the word was then to be repeated to a chosen agent in the tavern at Perugia. This was his sole duty so far as he knew it at the present moment.
“People, when we come to Perugia,” said Tizzo, “will ask you what has become of your former master. You will tell them that he left while owing you money, that you have taken new service, and only wish for a chance to bury a knife in my back. You understand?”
Elia Bigi laughed.
“Where is the pleasure of stabbing a man in the back?” he asked.
“Why not?” said his master, smiling.
“Because you cannot see his face as the steel slides home,” said Elia, making a slight grimace.
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 turned 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 towards 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 towards the stars, fencing a narrow, crooked way through heaven.
Elia Bigi said at the ear of his master: “Here a
re 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.
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 on 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 axe 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 towards 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 the breast of Tizzo.
The axe of Taddeo 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 semi-circle the head of the axe went up and met the deadly lunge which was aimed at his heart. As he parried, Tizzo laughed, and as he laughed the axe head 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 axe.
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 axe met the long steel and snapped it. But the shock turned the blade of the axe so that it glanced flat-ling 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 axe, which was perfect for the dealing of a single stroke, was less valuable in such a mêlée as this. Tizzo, hooking the heavy weapon beside his saddle, instantly caught 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 axe. 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 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 X.
“FLIRT AND ANGEL.”
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. When he had first entered Perugia, unknown, in peril of his life, he had come to that same hostelry. Now he was back again with his skin stained dark, with a black wig on his head. But, on the other hand, no matter how good his disguise might be, there were men and women of this town who knew his voice as well as they might know the faces of others. All his brawling, his battling, had not been in vain, and an intimate follower of the great Giovanpaolo, now with a price on his head, was a man so deeply marked that the mere changing of his complexion was not a sure s
afeguard against detection.
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.”
“A woman again?” groaned Elia. “There never was a day in heaven that one woman could not turn into a hell. They rob us of our sleep first and of our money afterwards. On account of women we go early to the grave and fail to rise to any reward afterwards. When the Last Judgment comes, it is women who will draw the best men downwards; because the loveliest of them will all be bound for the nether regions.”
He went out still growling these words 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 back-stroke of his axe, 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 reentered 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.”