by Max Brand
CHAPTER XIV.
MAROZZO’s ACCUSATION.
AFTERWARDS, SLOWLY, BY glimpses, other faces were identified by the stunned eyes of Tizzo. Grifone was not the only traitor of the name of Baglioni. There was Carlo Barciglia, poorest and proudest and most spendthrift of the Baglioni, but a famous fighter. He was a nephew of the lord of Camerino, and instantly showed the link by which that powerful man had been drawn to the support of the conspiracy. There was Filippo de Braccio, descended from the High and Mighty family by the left hand. There was that other Jeronimo, della Staffa, young, foolish, but a devil in daring, and Berardo da Corgnie and his brothers, Pietro Giacomo and Ottaviano hardly past twenty years of age. Others among the noblest in the city were in that hall, and hardly a one of them but had been supported and favored by the great leaders, Giovanpaolo and the great Astorre. But the face to which the eyes of Tizzo repeatedly turned was that of handsome Grifone, who still was housing in his own great palace the heads of his family.
It seemed to Tizzo that he could see the future of the thing at once. After a life of victory, in the very moment of his reward and his splendor, the blow was to fall on the hero. And only one power in the world could prevent that stroke of evil — and that power was the life of Tizzo himself!
He trembled under the greatness of the burden.
And then he remembered, with a fresh onfalling of horror like a cold nightwind, that the Lady Beatrice also was lodged in the house of Grifone.
Henry of Melrose, whose very life was lived for the sake of danger, plot and counter-plot, came striding to Tizzo and grasped his hand.
“Well met in the hornets’ nest, my fine bird,” he said.
“My friends,” said della Penna, “there is handsome news for you. It is brought to us by a confessed enemy of the Baglioni, by a man with a great price of two thousand florins on his head. Tizzo has ridden to the lord of Camerino. He will tell you himself how many men-at-arms Camerino will send to our help.”
Tizzo, so appealed to, said in a clear voice:— “Two hundred and fifty is the number that he named, without fail.”
There was a faint shout — it sounded rather like the growling of a great beast with a single throat. On all sides the number was repeated. “Two hundred and fifty!”
Not that the number was large, but for the execution of a secret plot, in the narrow streets of such a city as Perugia, a well-armed band of two or three hundred could do almost more than a large army. Besides, they would come in a unit, under a strong command. They could be even more trusted that the nearest members and originators of the plot.
Another man stepped up to Tizzo from the shadows in the corner of the room. It was young Antonio Bardi who clasped his hand in turn. The fine, intellectual face of Bardi was flushed with emotion and happiness.
“Tizzo,” he said, “my hands have never felt quite clean in this enterprise before to-night. But now that I see you, I am sure that the cause is just!”
“Still I am amazed, Antonio,” said Tizzo. “Because I thought that you and your family have been for generations great friends of the Baglioni.”
“So the world has thought; and so I thought until my father opened his heart to me when he died. He told me of many slights and brutalities to which the Bardi had had to submit. He made me swear to use the first opportunity of striking for the lost honor of my house. But more than all else, if I had known that you were joined to this plan, I should have been happy to come into it. In fact, my dear Tizzo, when I heard you had been driven from the city with a price upon your head, at that moment I determined to join myself with della Penna and the rest.”
Tizzo, hearing this speech, groaned inwardly. When he had five minutes for quiet he would show to Bardi the true nature of his connection with Giovanpaolo, and how they had become as blood brothers to one another.
But here there came an interruption that made a great stir, for the door of the big chamber opened, and Mateo Marozzo entered with a plume burned from his helmet, his cloak scorched, and half his moustaches singed from his face. Soot of the oil smoke was still streaked over him.
“SEIZE that man!” called out Grifone Baglioni.
Baron Henry of Melrose went up to Marozzo with his hand on his dagger.
“You are my prisoner, Marozzo,” he said.
“Am I?” said Marozzo, and laughed cheerfully.
“I’ll change that laughter; I’ll widen the stretch of your mouth for you,” said Melrose, in one of his quick tempers.
Jeronimo della Penna strode to Marozzo and lowered upon him.
“Mateo,” he said, “you received great news for us this long time ago. Why have we not heard from you about it? What does it mean that you gratify a private spite by attaching one of the best men in our enterprise?”
“Best?” said Marozzo, still laughing scornfully. “You call him best? This fellow — this man without a name — this firebrand, this Tizzo! Bah! He is a spy in the midst of you!”
The blood congealed in the body of Tizzo and the nerves ran tingling shocks through his brain.
The Englishman, Melrose, with a sudden shout of rage raised his hand to strike Marozzo, but della Penna intervened just in time.
“Mateo has something to say. I, also, remember a voice that was not of any fleshly throat, saying ambiguous words — to trust Tizzo today but not tomorrow! Mateo, what is it you know?”
“What is ‘it you guess, rather — you singed cat!” said Melrose, in such a passion that Tizzo, even with all the fear in his heart, was struck with wonder.
“I tell you,” said Marozzo, “that this fine Tizzo, this stray dog in Perugia, this red head and blue eye that never came from Italian honest blood — this same Tizzo is hand in glove with the men who still own the city.”
“Talk! Talk! Empty talk!” exclaimed Melrose. “We want proofs, not words.”
“Shall I give them to you?” asked Marozzo.
“Or die for the lack of them!” cried Tizzo, warming himself into a pretended anger.
“I shall not die for the lack of them,” said Marozzo, calmly. “But first I ask you — what sort of proof will do? How much proof do you need, my friends, to show you that you are on the brink of a precipice and about to fall? How much proof do you need? What should its nature be?”
“Any proof,” said Grifone, “that Tizzo is playing false with us.”
“Look first at the cunning of the trick!” said Marozzo. “A pretended quarrel between Giovanpaolo and this Tizzo sends Tizzo out of the town as a fugitive. Where does he fly? To Jeronimo della Penna. Naturally, you will say, because the world knows that della Penna for a long time has been no friend of Giovanpaolo, who thinks himself the master of the world!”
“He did not come directly to me. I sent for him,” said della Penna.
“You found him conveniently in a neighbor’s house. He showed himself to you as a man who hated Giovanpaolo in the hope that then you might invite him into any scheme that might be on foot.”
“Do you think that Giovanpaolo dreams of our plans?” demanded della Penna. “No, we should long ago have been minus our heads if he had had the least suspicion.”
THERE has been talk for a long time, and even whispers come finally to the ears of the rulers of the city,” answered Marozzo. “But it was not a certain knowledge. That is, it was not certain before tonight. Now, however, it is sure in the mind of Giovanpaolo; or almost sure.”
“We have had Tizzo watched. He has not been near Giovanpaolo since he came into the city,” said della Penna.
“Are you sure that Giovanpaolo has not been near him, however?” asked Marozzo.
“How can Giovanpaolo move, in these days, without having a crowd around him?” asked Grifone Baglioni.
“Not he himself, but his own flesh and blood!” exclaimed Marozzo. “What do you say when I tell you that the Lady Beatrice herself went to the tavern to speak with Tizzo this night.”
“Liar! Liar and dog!” shouted Tizzo, and drew his sword.
But della Pe
nna held him back from running at Marozzo. The last words of that man had made a great stir through the hall. He continued now, forcefully: “She was there. She was seen to leave the Golden Stag after spending a long time in the room of Tizzo.”
“I give you the lie!” panted Tizzo. “She is a lady pure as snow and higher than heaven is above your head!”
“You hear him?” said Marozzo. “This is the language he uses about a woman whose brothers we intend to put to death, and he assisting. Come, come! The thing is patent, and the man is a spy.”
Della Penna exclaimed:— “I begin to smell a rat, it is true. But how could the great beauty, the famous Lady Beatrice enter a tavern and visit the room of an unknown man? It is not possible, Mateo!”
“Not for her in the dress of a woman; but in the dress of a boy — what do you say to that? I tell you, the poniard she had worn was found in the room where Tizzo had stayed. It was her own weapon. An emerald which Giovanpaolo had given to her was set in its hilt.
“Not a thing from which she would be parted lightly. A delicate little dagger such as most of these ladies of Perugia have about them. And — here it is!”
He held it out suddenly in his hand. And in the silence that followed Tizzo felt his heart thundering. It was a damning proof.
“How are we to know,” said Henry of Melrose, “that this Marozzo, who has been shamed by Tizzo and hates him, as all men know, has not stolen the poniard on purpose?”
ARGOSY
“Who was the pretty boy who went to the room of Tizzo in the tavern, then?” demanded Marozzo. “Who was the boy so important to him that he sent his own servant to carry the lad away to safety while he, like a brave fool, remained behind to cover the retreat? Yes, remained there until he would surely have fallen into our hands except that a touch of the devil and black magic got him away in the midst of flames?”
“It is true!” exclaimed della Penna. “The scoundrel has betrayed us — the hand of Giovanpaolo is about to close over our throats!”
He added, with a shout: “Seize him!”
“Kill! Kill!” cried Marozzo.
The baron of Melrose was suddenly in front of Tizzo, sword in hand.
“Justice, here, and a little common sense,” he roared.
The Italians in a semicircle that glittered with naked steel faced the baron; and then Antonio Bardi, throwing away his scabbard, took his place at the side of the Englishman, calling out: “I shall lose my faith in God sooner than in this man!”
These three with resolved faces confronted a score of fighters, as Melrose said: “My wild-headed friends, are you turning a boy’s love affair into treason? This same Lady Beatrice — when I was serving the Oddi and taking her stealthily away through the hills — did he not steal her from me and give her liberty? Is it a wonder, then, that the silly wild hawk of a girl should come running to his arms when he shows himself in Perugia? Bah! Young blood is hot and it will have its way. But the lad has served us all, and he will serve us again. Della Penna, you are not a child. Be reasonable.”
“You take a strong position with a drawn sword, Melrose,” said della Penna. “But the fact is that I’m not altogether convinced that Tizzo is a traitor.”
“He is, by heaven!” insisted Marozzo.
“Be quiet, young man,” answered della Penna.
Melrose broke in:— “There has been time. If Giovanpaolo had news of this gathering, do you not think that his men-at-arms would have surrounded the house long before this? We would all be dead men, and the house would be running blood.”
This was a remark so convincing that Grifone Baglioni cried out: “That is true. Up swords and have an end of this argument.
“We need, all our weapons tonight for the work before us.”
“God above us!” cried Marozzo. “Are we to turn the villain loose? Are you all mad?”
“No,” said della Penna. “Let him remain here with Marozzo to guard him while we do our night’s work.”
“Agreed,” said Grifon Baglioni. “So it must be.”
CHAPTER XV.
MAROZZO’S SCHEME.
ANTONIO BARDI, AFTER this scene, remained standing at the side of Tizzo, who had been tied firmly with silken cord and then bound into a chair to keep him from moving too freely. And Bardi, resting a hand on the shoulder of his friend, said over and over:— “I am your surety that you shall come to no harm. Trust in that, Tizzo.”
But Tizzo, though he was much moved, kept his glance fixed on the gray head and the flame-blue eyes of the Englishman, who paid not the slightest attention to the prisoner after his life had been assured. It was very strange, to Tizzo, that Melrose should have risked his life once more to secure the safety of a man who was not of his race and who, more than once, had actually crossed him in his plans. It was a mystery which could not be explained by the dangers which they had endured together.
And how one explanation began to form, suddenly, in the mind of Tizzo, taking his breath; but before the idea could grow clear, the words that were being spoken in this room drove from his mind all else.
For he was hearing the details of the plot by which the Baglioni were to meet their death on this night.
Each was assigned his part.
Henry of Melrose, saying simply: “This damned business smells more of murder than of fighting!” promptly refused to undertake any of the midnight work, and therefore to him was assigned the guarding the gate of San Ercolano, through which the men of Camerino were to be admitted.
Balks of wood heavy enough to dash in the doors of the bed chambers were prepared and in readiness. To each of the leaders was assigned fifteen men and a definite mission.
Carlo Barciglia was to attack the room of Semonetto, that fearless blade; Filippo de Braccio and Ottaviano da Corgnie would attack Astorre; to Jeronimo della Penna, by special request, was assigned the slaughter of Gismondo; Bernardinello, son of Messer Gregorio, would slay His Highness, Guido, the old brain of the family. Grifone in person, chief traitor that he was, would attend to the murder of Giovanpaolo. And Grifone it was who would give the signal for the united attack by dropping a huge stone from his balcony into the street.
So Tizzo listened, his eyes on the floor for fear lest he might lift them and the horror be seen that worked in his mind.
Jeronimo della Penna made the last speech. He said: “My friends, we hope to give to ourselves power and wealth, to Perugia a new rule. Let us be true to one another. And remember that if either Astorre or Giovanpaolo escape, we have not killed the snake — we have only scotched it. Midnight is the hour. Be prepared. All must go well!”
So they went out from the room. Henry of Melrose, before he left, dropped a hand on the shoulder of Marozzo and said, sternly:— “If harm comes to Tizzo while you are his guardian, I shall call you to an accounting afterwards, Marozzo!”
Then he strode from the room and left Tizzo alone with his enemy.
The latter sat down in a tall chair upholstered in red velvet and stared for a long time at his captive. Then he began to smile.
“What is the taste in your throat, Tizzo?” he asked at last.
“It is a little cold, Mateo,” answered Tizzo. “Why do you ask?”
“Because I wish to know how death seems in its coming, what weight is on the heart, and what taste in the throat.”
“It is a taste you’ll enjoy in the morning,” said Tizzo, “when Baron Melrose finds that you have murdered me.”
“I? Murdered you?” laughed Marozzo. “Ah, Tizzo, what a simple fellow you must think I am! No, the truth is that you yourself tonight showed me exactly how the thing should be done. With fire, Tizzo. Here, do you see, I place a small table with a lamp on it. It seems that I have left the room. When I return, I find Tizzo has overturned his chair in a vain effort to escape — traitor that he is! — and not only is the chair overturned but the small table beside it has fallen. Besides, with the fall of the lamp, the flaming oil has spilled over the clothes of Tizzo, and he is burned horr
ibly — too horribly! Death is a mercy to him. My wild cries have brought the servants, and they carry the dead body away. They fight to put out the fire, which luckily is quite harmless on this tiled floor.
“And if Melrose won’t believe that lie,” said Marozzo, “a few drops of poison in his wine will do the trick perfectly well. They will put an end to his doubtings!”
“What is the hour?” said Tizzo.
“It lacks a few minutes of midnight.” Tizzo groaned.
“Ah,” said Marozzo, “does the fear begin to gnaw in you, Tizzo?”
He drew close, gloating.
“LET me die as you please, Mateo,” I said Tizzo. “But the truth is that there is still time for you to do one great and noble thing. Burn me, stab me — that does not matter. But when you have done that, run to the house of the traitor Grifone. Fly to the room of Giovanpaolo. Rouse him. Tell him his life is in danger. Believe me, he will reward you more for the saving of his life than all the scoundrels of tonight will ever reward you for the taking of it. Think, Marozzo! Jeronimo della Penna will have all the power in Perugia in his own hands after the Great Betrayal has taken place. And you will again be one of the lesser citizens, undistinguished, as weak as ever you were. But go to the Baglioni now and you will become a giant in Perugia!”
Marozzo, who had started to sneer, finished by scowling in a serious fashion out the window towards the night.
“True,” he muttered— “true—” And then he groaned: “But it is too late. If I try to give the warning, the trap which is about to close over Giovanpaolo will close over me, also. It is too late to repent. Much too late! And besides — I’d rather have these five minutes alone with my dear friend Tizzo, than to possess all the wealth in the world and be king of France besides!”
“Aye,” said Tizzo, looking curiously at him. “You hate me as much as one man may hate another, I believe.”
“From the moment I looked into the blue of your eyes, like the blue tremor of flame before the yellow of it begins — from that moment I have hated you, Tizzo. But to-day came the crown of thorns for me. Not that you escape from me. No, that was bitter poison to swallow, but that you should have been visited in your room by my Lady Beatrice!”