by Max Brand
“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 war-horse. 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.”
“TELL me now, Elia,” said Tizzo, “why you did not bargain with him at once for half the reward? I know about that cross-eyed Flemish girl you wish to marry. You could have set up with her in the sort of an inn you have always promised yourself as the better end of life.”
“The face of a woman,” said Elia, “should not be like the pretty sign of a popular tavern. The sternest dragon makes the truest wife. That was why I chose a woman with crossed eyes. As for not betraying you, my only reason is a certain queer devil of curiosity which continually eats me. I know that you are to die soon, but I cannot help wishing to see the manner of it.”
Tizzo laughed. “But why 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.”
“Have you found her nest?” cried Tizzo. “Elia, by God when I look at you I understand that your one eye sees more than the ten eyes of a harem. My noble Elia, my heart of gold, I shall reward you!”
“With giving me work that will turn me bald ten years before my time,” answered Elia, dryly.
“Wait till I have written a letter,” said Tizzo.
And instantly he was drinking wine with his left hand and scribbling with his right:
Adored and most beautiful, queen of the world and of Tizzo, spit-fire 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. But if you wish to make a tidy fortune of two thousand florins, you have only to take this letter to that same lieutenant of infantry and the money will be yours.”
Elia looked at the letter fixedly.
“Spit-fire and nightingale, flirt and angel!” he quoted, dreamily.
“Did you dare to look over my shoulder?” exclaimed Tizzo.
“You ought to be more surprised that I’m able to read,” said Elia. “But I am gaining from you more than my pay, if I learn how to talk to women, particularly to those that are cross-eyed. Adios!”
With this, he 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 ex-chanted 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 XI.
FESTIVITY IN PERUGIA.
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.
In the great Piazza and in his own ward of San Pietro he had brought in big trees and brush at a prodigious labor and expense; from the ward of San Pietro, he had removed all the tradesmen’s booths.
TO BE CONCLUDED NEXT WEEK.
LEADING UP TO THIS CONCLUDING INSTALLMENT
AS he rode through the streets of old Perugia, young Tizzo, of daring, adventurous heart, did not realize that he was headed straight for danger. The powerful ruling House
of the Baglioni knew that he was on his way to visit the fair lady of the House, the beautiful and charming Beatrice Baglioni. Tizzo encounters her brother, Giovanpaolo, and their swords clash — the outcome being that Tizzo vanquishes his opponent. Giovanpaolo pledges eternal friendship with him, and asks Tizzo to help the Baglioni rid itself of its insidious enemies — especially the treacherous Jeronimo della Penna. Tizzo agrees to lend aid, knowing that if successful he will have the hand of his beloved Beatrice.
Tizzo manages to ingratiate himself with della Penna, who takes him to a wise old magician, Messer Baldassare, for a prophecy of Tizzo’s intentions. Baldassare’s revelation is slightly ambiguous, but della Penna accepts the best meaning, and receives Tizzo into his confidence, telling him of the plans to overthrow the Baglioni.
Tizzo rides back to the city of Perugia and gets into a street fight with Semonetto Baglioni’s horsemen, who of course do not know Tizzo is an ally.
CHAPTER XI (Continued).
FESTIVITY IN PERUGIA.
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 the letter of Beatrice was heavy on the heart of Tizzo, but in this time of public rejoicing, he could not help but rejoice, also.
Everywhere preparations and ceremonies went forward. The wards of the city contended with one another to give the newly married couple the most sumptuous reception.
For the supper of the wedded pair, the Piazza between the house of Grifone and Santa Maria degli Servi was covered with a cloth embroidered with their cognizances and set out with tables. Every street was decorated with arches; every street turned green with pots of box and with climbing ivy.
The great Piazza was covered over with fine woolen cloth from one side to the other! What a spectacle it was!
And Tizzo laughed at the delightful extravagance, when he walked under this canopy and saw the softly filtered light that fell through the cloth.
THE members of the guild of the Ward Sole were dressed in silk and in velvet, all white; there were thirty ladies dressed in fine cloth of gold and thirty in cloth of silver. In the middle of the Piazza the Ward San Sanne had built a great pavilion covered with branches and with tapestry work. On the tables was a banquet of fruit fashioned out of sugar, confections, cooked crabs and frogs and birds of every kind. Men came with wallets and filled them from the superfluity.
Here His Highness, Semonetto, drove through the crowd in a chariot heaped full with confections, which he tossed out to the people with a spade. Sixty thousand florins, it was said, were spent on that festival.
And Tizzo, coming home in the afternoon, was weary from laughing and staring.
Elia Bigi said: “Now, master, the finest bed that I ever enjoyed was a hammock after a hard march; but will the Lady Lavinia sleep better because she is laid away under velvets?
“They say her counterpane on the bed is made of scarlet silk and thread of gold and the silk fringes are intertangled with pearls.
“I wonder if she will sleep the better for all that?”
“Look, Elia,” said Tizzo, “it is not for the sake of sleep that men do such things, but for the sake of glory; and to fill the eye with another man’s greatness is the same, or better, than to fill the hand with his wealth.
“But every man who wears a sword wants, this evening, to become as great as Messer Astorre. I myself have that hunger. I could now fight giants!”
“I’d rather fight them in my sleep,” said Elia.
“They have a good spiced wine at the Golden Stag that I’m thinking more about, just now, than about glory and swords. I’d rather use a sword now to carve a chicken,” he continued.
They were coming into the yard of the tavern 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 the 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?”
“That was last night,” she answered, “and this is a new day.”
He took her in his arms.
“Don’t kiss me, Tizzo,” she said, her brown eyes looking straight into his.
‘ He released her with a great effort.
“I do as you will,” said he.
“So much as a touch,” she told him, “and I leave my home forever, and follow you through the world. Oh, in the name of my good father, why are there not other men like you? Not in looks, Tizzo, because I loathe red hair. Not in fortune, because I hate poverty. Not in dimensions, because you are half a head shorter than the hero I would like to have. But why are not other men, like you, compounded of equal parts of madness, laughter, extravagance, and sword-play
? If I could find one, I would never look at you again, never think of you, never dream of you, but until I can find another, I have to love Tizzo until my heart aches and my head spins.”
CHAPTER XII.
MAROZZO’S TREACHERY.
HE WAS LIKE a man who sees a jewel but dares not touch it. He could not move without stretching his hands towards her. He could not speak without a rush of emotion that threatened to destroy his words.
“Whatever you think of me, tell me what you have done this afternoon,” he insisted.
“Put on boy’s clothes and left the house of Grifone.”
“You have been living there?”
“Yes. I’ve been living there.”
“How could you leave unnoticed?”
“By a rope. I slid out of a back window.”
“And left the rope hanging?”
“No, it was a double length, so when I got down, I pulled it all after me.”
“How long before you’ll be missed?”
“I gave word that I had gone to visit a lady who is a dear friend of mine. They won’t miss me before dark.”
“And then?”
“Then they’ll perhaps rip the pavements off the streets of Perugia to find me.”
“My dear, beautiful, insane Beatrice, go home at once.”
“If I try to get inside the house before dark, I’ll be seen and halted and examined — and then the truth will be known — that I’ve been masquerading as a man.”
“As a boy, Beatrice.”
“I look as much like a man as another, lacking a beard. You lack one yourself.”
“Beatrice, there is no one in the world like you; and it would take a world to show such another. The slim, smooth, smiling, damned, impertinent look of you — how did you escape being slapped when you walked down the street.”
“I had to draw my sword on one drunken blusterer,” said she.
“Great God, you mean that you are able to fence?”
“Most fights don’t get as far as fencing,” she said. “The first drawn sword and high manner end the thing. See how it was when you came in. You drew your sword but you did not have the courage to use it.”