Delphi Collected Works of Max Brand US

by Max Brand

  “By God,” cried Tizzo, “you are a great and good man, my lord. Let me serve behind you, beneath you, under your feet!”

  CHAPTER V. CALLED BACK FROM THE DEAD

  WHITE-FACED ALESSANDRO BONFADINI, coming again into his master’s room, found him alone, slumped forward in his chair.

  “I am tired, Alessandro,” said the duke. “Help me to my bed. I’ve had a fire burning in my brain.”

  Bonfadini drew one of the long, heavy, muscular arms over his shoulders and helped his master strongly to his feet. Leaning on him, the Borgia shambled to the bed and slumped down on it. With his face half buried, he said: “Did you hear?”

  “Naturally, my lord.”

  “I never was better,” said the Borgia.

  “It was very convincing,” said Bonfadini. “But is he worth the horse — and the expense of my lord’s spirit as well?”

  “He is worth something for himself,” said the Borgia, “but he is worth still more because he has in his hand Giovanpaolo of Perugia. I need the Baglioni brain fighting for me and five hundred or a thousand of those tough Perugia soldiers.”

  “Can this Tizzo bring you all that?”

  “He is betrothed to that famous beauty, Beatrice, the sister of Giovanpaolo. And Giovanpaolo himself is the sworn brother in arms of Tizzo. He has written me a letter to the Baglioni endorsing my character. I send the letter and ten thousand florins to Perugia and — you will see that Giovanpaolo will not refuse. But get the letter which this red-headed firebrand has written. You will find the whole man in what he writes.”

  Alessandro Bonfadini picked up the letter. “This is addressed to the Lady Beatrice, not to Giovanpaolo Baglioni,” he said.

  “I have already opened it,” said the Borgia. “You may have the trouble of closing it again.”

  Bonfadini smiled a little. He never smiled very much. Then he read aloud, distilling the words with a voice of infinite precision:

  “My beautiful Beatrice,

  “How shall I prefer to think of you? Scampering on horseback in men’s clothes, or walking through the night from Perugia with the Great Betrayal behind us, or in my Lady Atalanta’s tower, or sitting in a crimson velvet chair with your hands folded on the blue velvet of your dress? When I dwell on your hands, my mind stops there. I see them again; I feel them as though they were clasped in mine; they are gesturing and making laughter in the air; the little polished nails are ten points of fire in my soul.

  “Why am I here in the Romagna when I should be south, far south in happy Perugia, high in one of those towers that lance the sky, on my knees before your chair, kissing the hands of my lovely lady? No, we would now be galloping over the hills, or walking the walls and planning a foray as far as Arezzo, or making the music play in the hall while we dance, you and I alone, whirling or slowly, you in my arms, and happiness under our feet.

  “My God, if I were a bird I would fly till my wing were hot with speed, and hurl myself suddenly out of the air before you. If I could catch a lightning flash by the haft, I would have it fling me this instant at your feet. What happiness!

  “Why am I here? Not for long. Soon we shall be together. Raise your head and listen. My love is all around you. It is in the silence behind your chair. It is the dazzle of sunlight falling through the casement.

  “Farewell. Be true not to me but to our love, which is from heaven. When I think of you, I could be a priest or anything. I curse the mountains that lie between us. When I look up from this writing, they may lie flat!

  “Farewell. Love me. Close me inside your eyelids when you fall asleep at night.

  “Thine, forever, and ever, and ever and ever, and ever.

  “Tizzo..

  “P.S. I forgot to say that I have the gray horse. He is mine. It is like owning the wind. His rider is dead and the horse was given to me by the noblest soul, the greatest heart in Italy. I name him. Forget all you have heard of him. He is Cesare Borgia. Believe in him, trust him. The messenger who carries this to you will present ten thousand florins to Giovanpaolo. The duke wants your brother and a thousand good soldiers in the Romagna. He pays for part of his service in this open-handed way and asks as a sure hostage for Giovanpaolo’s truth of hand and heart — what? Why, my beautiful, he makes a jest of it, a happiness to me, his newest and humblest follower — he asks only that you should come to the Romagna. Therefore, conclude everything instantly with Giovanpaolo and let my father bring you north to me and to the duke while Giovanpaolo raises the army we need.

  “Tizzo.”.

  WHEN Bonfadini had finished the letter, he folded it once more with the greatest care, his pale, thin fingers moving with wonderful surety as he reformed the seal of the letter over a lamp.

  “Well?” demanded the Borgia, suddenly. “Why don’t you speak?”

  “I was finding words for my thought,” said Bonfadini. “This Tizzo, this firebrand as he is aptly named, you may pick from the fire and use to cast a great light down your path. But on the other hand, he may be a coal that will burn your flesh to the bone.”

  “You find him too honest?” asked the Borgia.

  “A little too honest, my lord.”

  “He is on fire with the dream of a free, united, powerful Italy,” said the Borgia. “He is ready to die for the cause.”

  “It would be better if he were ready to die for Cesare Borgia.”

  “The cause of Italy and the cause of Borgia are one and the same thing,” said the duke.

  “As long as you can make him believe that, it is well.”

  “Perhaps, Alessandro, it is true.”

  “Perhaps,” said Bonfadini.

  “Is Sanudo dead?” asked the Borgia.

  “Almost. His eyes are fixed, his flesh is cold, his heart makes a stroke now and then, like the wings of a soaring hawk. He will die within the hour.”

  “Try on him the new elixir,” said the Borgia.

  “It should be tried first on dogs and cats,” said Bonfadini.

  “Sanudo is a dog, and there is something of the cat in him, also. An honest fellow like Tizzo — yes, that is one thing to possess. But a poisonous cat-clawed creature like Sanudo has his uses, also. Try the elixir on him.”

  “It probably will kill him instantly.”

  “The world will lose nothing.”

  “No, it will gain another story linking the Borgia and strange death together.”

  “Let the stories be told,” said the duke. “Even if there is only a little truth in them, they make men feel that I am omniscient.”

  “Yes,” said Bonfadini, “omniscient like the devil.”

  “If I can make them fear me first, I’ll take care of getting their affections later on. That is a small matter. First master the house. Afterward, put it in order. Have Sanudo brought here.”

  Four men carried Sanudo into the room and left him stretched on a couch. His armor had been removed and he was left merely in a flowing undergarment of finely woven steel, bright as water. This hauberk and the shirt beneath it, Bonfadini opened and laid his hand over the heart of Sanudo. He shook his head. And the Borgia, now turned on his side, regarded the wounded man with a lack-luster eye. Death already seemed to be working in the body of Sanudo.

  “A beautiful stroke, my lord,” said Bonfadini. “It cut through the heavy steel plate of the helmet like tin. Who would think that a man of Tizzo’s inches could deliver such a blow?”

  “The brain, Alessandro,” said the Borgia. “It is the brain that does all things, even the handwork in this life of ours. The brain, even in the tips of the fingers! Now try the elixir if there is any chance at all.”

  “If the edge of the ax touched the brain—”

  “Even so — tell me, Alessandro, if it is impossible to call back the dead? I mean, those who have taken only the first brief step over the threshold away from life.”

  Bonfadini raised his head, slowly. Color ran up through his starved face. “I have a hope,” he said.

  “If you can do it,” sa
id the Borgia, “then we have the power of God himself. You know, now, how to kill with a wisp of candle-smoke, the fragrance of roses, a pair of silken gloves, a drop or two in the glass of wine to deepen its flavor; if you can do the other thing — if you can call back the dead to life—”

  He had raised himself to one elbow, his eyes on fire. But Bonfadini suddenly crossed himself. “God forgive me!” he said.

  “Come, come,” said the Borgia. “Leave God to women and children. Set about your work.”

  Bonfadini, accordingly, took a tall goblet of crystal and poured into it, first, several powders, all white. Then he uncorked a phial that let a clear, amber liquid run into the cup. At once the whole frothed up like smoke with Bonfadini dropping into the bubbles and froth drop after drop of oily liquid from another little flask. He stopped these drops, at length, and the fuming stuff mounted at once to the brim of the cup, swelling above it with snapping bubbles that cast up thin, sparkling showers of spray.

  The hand of Bonfadini that held the cup was shaking a little. Such anxiety was in his face that it seemed a light was cast upon it by the frothing mixture.

  This now settled down into a trembling liquid of a clear red, like wine, but with a constant glitter of bubbles that sprang from an invisible presence at the bottom of the cup.

  “Now!” said Bonfadini.

  The Borgia watched with eyes of fire and said not a word. Something made him pull off his mask, which showed the slight red corrugations over the top of his face like an erupting fever.

  Alessandro Bonfadini, going to the couch, placed his hand over the heart of the wounded.

  “Ah, well,” he said, “it is plainly too late. I feel no heartbeat whatever. You see that his jaws are locked, now, in rigor mortis, or in the last spasm.”

  “Pry open his jaws! Pry open his jaws!” shouted Borgia, as if in a rage.

  He leaped from the bed, ran with that sudden activity of his to Sanudo, and with his own hands wrenched at the stubborn jaws until they were forced open. Bonfadini lifted the head of Sanudo, and poured the drink gradually into the throat that swallowed it with occasional laborings. After that, they stood back.

  “Nothing!” said Bonfadini. “Nothing at all. Nothing will happen.”

  “Be silent,” said the Borgia. “The greatest fool is the one who despairs at the last moment. Ah-hah! Look! Look!”

  Dino Sanudo had sat up, with his-head fallen far back on his shoulders and his hand groping blindly before him. The Borgia caught those hands.

  “Come safely back from hell!” said Cesare Borgia. “Come back, Sanudo!”

  Here the soldier staggered to his feet and began to look around him.

  “My lord!” he gasped. “My lord!” And stared down at the powerful hands of Cesare Borgia which held his own. “I was in hell — and a voice called me safely back from it. Was it yours, my lord?”

  “It was mine,” said the Borgia. “Take him away, Alessandro. Now that he has a new life, let us see what he’ll do with it. Take him away and have the wound dressed.”

  Dino Sanudo put his hand over the wound at the side of his skull. That wound, the Borgia noticed with the most interest of all, had commenced to bleed again, and strongly.

  “I pour my life out at your feet, my lord,” said Sanudo. “What you have given, you may take again when you will.”

  “What was the last you knew?” asked Borgia, overcome with curiosity.

  “The last I knew, I was driving my sword through the twisting, dodging body of Tizzo; and the flash of his ax leaped in at me suddenly, and then I was dropping a thousand leagues into swift darkness — and then pains of fire caught me by the head — I still feel them as though the fingers of the master devil had seized me with fingers like talons along the cheek and jaw to tear open my mouth and pour molten lead down my gullet. And while the lead was still pouring — I heard your voice calling me back from hell — my lord, I heard your voice!”

  Self-pity, or gratitude, made Dino Sanudo fall at the knees of the Borgia, who smiled above him toward Alessandro Bonfadini.

  “Take him,” said Cesare Borgia. And Sanudo was led out of the room.

  CHAPTER VI. THE SNAKE HISSED

  THE LADY BEATRICE Baglioni, having come that very day as hostage and surety that her brother Giovanpaolo would duly fulfill his contract with the Borgia, stood at a window high in the tower room of the tavern near Faenza with the Borgia and Henry, Baron of Melrose, behind her. She had been waiting there for some time in expectation that a cloud of dust might emerge from the mouth of the valley into the plain; for Tizzo had not been on hand to welcome her. He, the Borgia had explained, had taken that day his newly-raised company of a hundred Romagnol peasants, and with them had challenged an equal number of veteran Swiss, also in the employ of Cesare Borgia, to a twenty-mile march into the mountains and back. At any time the two little columns might approach.

  “But the big, long-legged Swiss,” complained the Lady Beatrice, “have done nothing but march and fight with their pikes and long swords all these years! And how can the poor peasants match them?”

  “That,” said Cesare Borgia, “I pointed out to Tizzo. But you know that he is like his name — always setting fire to a new idea. He no sooner saw his men in their new uniforms than he began to feel that they were perfect soldiers. There come the two columns — there you can see the dusty clouds blowing, and they are close together. It will be a race!”

  “I’ll ride to meet him!” exclaimed the girl.

  “Stay here with us,” said the father of Tizzo.

  She looked up at his gray head, his robust, slightly wine-reddened features.

  “Because,” he explained, “if you keep out of the picture you may see something interesting. When Tizzo is left alone, he usually manages to keep both hands busy with some sort of deviltry. These peasants of the Romagna, my lord,” he added to the Duke of Valentinois, “do you hope to make them into serious soldiers?”

  “That is my hope,” said the Borgia.

  “It never has been done in Italy,” said Henry of Melrose, “since the days of the old cities when the Milanese had their citizen levies of pikemen who were like a hedgehog — hard to handle, but easy to walk around. The Hohenstaufens would rush at the long front of the pikes and so go down with all their chivalry; but since those days, the citizens and the peasants never have been worth mustering. Am I wrong?”

  “You are not wrong. But new things must be tried,” said the duke. “And fire-new ideas are what pleases Tizzo the most.”

  “I see the white horse!” cried the girl— “and it is at the head of the second column! Tizzo is losing!”

  “What of it?” said the baron. “It’s only a little friendly wager.”

  “But he never loses,” answered the girl.

  “You’ve been saying, yourself, that the Swiss are the finest marchers in the world,” answered the baron.

  “No matter what I said — they won’t beat him,” she declared.

  “Aye, but you see they are doing it!” remarked the Borgia.

  “The white horse is gaining, though,” she pointed out. “Do you see that it is creeping up the flank of the leading column?”

  The two bodies of men had come close enough for all the soldiers to be seen in spite of the dust they were raising. In fact, the second body was gaining on the first, the white horse moving at the head.

  “Twenty miles,” said the Borgia, “and only seven hours for the doing of it, in spite of marching in helmets and body armor, the Swiss with their pikes, the Romagnols with their pikes for half the men and heavy arquebuses for the other half. Twenty miles in seven hours! We’ll have a tired lot of fellows at the end. Such marching hasn’t been seen in Italy for a good many days. If they had horses under them, they would hardly do better!”

  He was in a great enthusiasm, striding up and down, looking now and again out the window at the approaching soldiers, and exclaiming again and again in that peculiarly deep, resonant voice: “It is the same
as victory for the peasants, even if they are beaten a step or two. See how the Swiss are straggling! If you see the Swiss march out of formation, it’s a sure sign that they’re nearly done for. But notice the Romagnols — all closed up well and marching in fours neatly enough. Well done, Tizzo! Done like a captain!”

  “Who is that on the white horse?” demanded the girl. “That is not Tizzo — it’s a poor lout who lets his head fall and holds onto the pommel with both hands!”

  THEY could see now that the white horse carried in the saddle a fellow who reeled from side to side a little, as though he were drunk; and he was in the red and black uniform of the Borgian infantry. Moreover, a man clung to each stirrup of the white horse, and still another actually held by the tail of the stallion.

  “The spent men! The weak and the exhausted — he’s given up his place in the saddle and let his peasants use the horse,” said Cesare Borgia, softly and slowly. “Now, a man who will go on foot like that will go farther in the world than a thousand of the haughty cavaliers.”

  “He has hung his helmet and his cuirass on either side of the pommel,” said the big Englishman, “Do you see them like a pair of drums? Aye, and his leg armor is there, too. Where is that red head of his?”

  “There!” cried the girl. “There he is! I see the flame of his hair by the flag. He’s carrying the flag of the company, and that’s the greatest weight of all. Look, look! They are gaining, my lord, are they not?”

  “They are not,” said the Borgia, grimly, staring with fixed eyes.

  “Where does the race end?” asked the girl.

  “Here, in front of the tavern — ah ha! Do you see?”

  The whole length of Tizzo’s column of peasants, laden though all of them were with heavy weights of armor and of weapons, broke into a slow and dragging trot. Slow as it was, it pushed them straight past the head of the Swiss column. The Swiss raised a broken shout that was audible even as far as the tavern. They responded with a double-quick, but a number of their men were incapable of increasing past a walk, though their officer could be seen riding his horse down the long, straggling line, and striking at the laggards with the flat of his sword.