Delphi Collected Works of Max Brand US

by Max Brand

  “Not the whip! Not the whip!” said the Borgia. “You will not make soldiers with the whip. Lead them and they’ll follow — lead them as Tizzo leads them. Oh, my brave Romagnols!”

  The very last of the peasant ranks had by this time passed in front of the flag-bearer at the head of the Swiss column.

  “Ah, they are tired!” cried out Beatrice Baglioni. “See how their poor heads flop from side to side, I wish I were out there carrying a pike for one of them!”

  She began to wave a scarf from the window, and she shouted with a far-heard piercing voice: “A Baglioni! Baglioni! Tizzo and Baglioni! Tizzo!”

  The two big men, standing behind her at the window, looked at one another with faint smiles. And Baron Melrose murmured: “I heard that same voice in the streets of Perugia when the cross-bow bolts and the bullets were flying, and the spears were crashing, and the swords were crack-ling like wood on every side.”

  “Do you mean that she rode in the attack?” demanded the Borgia, startled.

  “She did — in armor — and laughing and singing — no man can be a coward when there is such a girl to set an example.”

  The Borgia, instead of answering, looked long and fixedly at the slender girl. She, with her hands clasped against the sides of her face, was swaying a bit from side to side, as though this effort of hers might lend a little strength to the exhausted peasants.

  But the race was won. That slow dog-trot the men of the Romagna maintained until they had poured into the court of the tavern, and the moment they were inside, they fell in heaps and lay on their backs. The Swiss followed, staggering in an even greater exhaustion, for defeat adds a leaden weight to every man.

  FROM the tower window, the three watchers saw the captain of the Swiss cursing violently, raging up and down with a brandished sword, until suddenly he took himself off into the inn.

  “Shall we go down?” asked Henry of Melrose.

  “No — but watch him a moment from here!” cried the girl. “You will see him — every moment he shows himself, no matter what he’s employed at. There — there — do you see? He’s having wine served to his own men — not those on their feet cheering him, but to those that are down, first!”

  Perhaps a third of the peasants were on their feet, and these, crowding about Tizzo, cheered and yelled, staggering as they were, till he broke from them to hurry the servants from the tavern, who were carrying out whole buckets of wine and giving dripping cups of it, right and left; others followed with bread and cheese.

  Suddenly Cesare Borgia flung up an arm: “Ha! There! There! There is the master-stroke — there is the man revealed in full! There is the leader of armies, not of companies!”

  For Tizzo was passing among the Swiss, with a wine-bucket in his own hands, ladling out the red liquor right and left while those big men from the north gaped and stared in bewilderment before they accepted the charity.

  Beatrice almost wept with happiness. She caught the arm of the baron and pointed. “That’s his way!” she exclaimed. “He ties up the wounds he makes. Between Romagnols and Swiss there’ll be no dissension after this. Do you see the peasants sharing their bread and cheese with the Swiss now that the example is set? Ah, Tizzo, what a heart you have, you mad-head!”

  Cesare Borgia, his face strangely lighted by thought, was striding up and down with only occasional glances out of the window. He stopped suddenly and laid a big hand on the shoulder of the baron.

  “I owe a certain share of gratitude to you for giving such a son to Italy,” he said.

  “No thanks to me,” said Melrose, honestly. “If I had my way with him, we’d both be out of Italy and on our way to green England as fast as horses or ships could take us.”

  “Ah?” said the Borgia. “Ah?”

  And a cloud ran suddenly over his face. But the pale, bright blue eyes of Melrose dwelt unflinchingly on the Duke until Cesare Borgia turned suddenly away, saying: “I shall send word to him that you are here.”

  He went quickly down the stairs from the tower and the girl, sobered in a moment, murmured to the baron: “Is he angry? What have you done to him?”

  “I touched him in the wrong place, and the snake hissed at me. That’s all,” said Henry of Melrose. “I told you — I told Giovanpaolo — what the Borgia is, no matter what he seems. But you, like a little wild-head, you would come whether your brother wanted you to or not. Perhaps you’re safe enough, but for my part, I’ll have to guard every breath I draw from this time forward.”

  CHAPTER VII.— “I SMELL RATS!”

  THE BORGIA, RECLINING in his room, said gloomily: “Did you see them meet?”

  “I saw them,” said Alessandro Bonfadini.

  “And the girl?” asked Cesare Borgia.

  “Ran to him and took him in her arms, all dusty as he was, and kissed him, and then broke away and did a whirling dance step or two, and came back and kissed him again.”

  “If women meant much to me either by day or night,” said the Borgia, “I would put something in the wine of Tizzo and take the girl for myself. As it is, he is safe. And the baron?”

  “Sat in a chair and stretched his legs and called for wine. And sunned himself with looking at them and chuckled a little, as the English do.”

  “Did you see his eye?”

  “I did, my lord. It is the flame-blue of the eye of Tizzo.”

  “He is my enemy, Bonfadini.”

  “My lord?”

  “I say what I mean. He is my enemy, Alessandro. That blue eye of his burned straight into my brain. Neither talk nor money will ever clear away the impression he has of me. He stared into me as though he were seeing murder. Perhaps I was a mirror to him. Perhaps he was seeing his own death. Do you understand?”

  Alessandro Bonfadini ran the tip of his tongue across the dryness of his lips.

  “Quickly, or slowly?” he asked.

  “Too quickly for him to have a chance to think before he dies.”

  “Like a sword thrust?”

  “Yes, like the thrust of a sword. But something that will not leave his face contorted, if possible. Something that will kill him in his bed, or in his chair, and in the morning people may look at his placid face and say: ‘His heart simply stopped in the night! What a pity!’”

  “I understand,” said Bonfadini. “I only ask: Is it necessary? Is it really necessary to put the baron to sleep forever? If a hint of a whisper, if a dream of the truth comes to Tizzo, you will have to kill him, also.”

  “In three days,” said the Borgia, “the baron will have poisoned the mind of Tizzo against me. In the talk of a single day, he will put doubts in the mind that underlies that red hair. And that would be a disaster. Did you do as I said? Did you send a man into the Swiss cantonment? Did you hear what they were saying about the marching, today?”

  “They say that the peasants are men, and that Tizzo is a noble leader. They would poison their own general with a pint of wine if they could be sure of having Tizzo to take care of them afterward.”

  “Do you understand why he is valuable to me?”

  “I do,” said the poisoner.

  “Listen!” said the Borgia, and lifted a finger. Laughter came faintly from across the garden court, with one heavy, booming note in it.

  “That’s from the throat of the baron,” said the Borgia. “I want him silenced before tomorrow. In the meantime, find out what the talk is about.”

  “I shall, at once,” agreed Bonfadini.

  “Alessandro, what should I do without you?” asked the duke.

  “You would kill even more, but with the knife, my lord.”

  “And thereby lose half my mystery? No, Alessandro, without you I am only a common man. Now, go to find out what underlies all that laughter.”

  ON one side, the windows of the room looked into the garden court; on the other they opened on the stable yard, where a groom was leading the gray horse up and down to cool him off after his hard work of the day. He neighed, and Tizzo started up from the table
where he sat at wine with his father, crossed the room from the garden side, and stood looking down on the stallion. The big baron, following his son, leaned on his shoulder and looked on the same scene.

  “He could carry my weight, even,” said Melrose.

  “For the last six miles,” said Tizzo, “the peasants were hanging onto the stirrups by turns. When one set of them had caught their wind again, another lot caught on. A dozen of them never would have finished the march except ‘for him.”

  “And what of you, Tizzo, with the weight of the flag-staff to carry?”

  “I had worse than that. I had the weight of the whole company on my mind, and when I called out for them to double-quick, and set them the example, my knees turned to water. I thought I would fall on my face, but a moment later I heard the whole crew of them swinging along behind me, and all the weariness went out of my legs. I could have run miles. And after that, there was you, and Beatrice, and now it’s as though I had rested for a whole night. Ah hail Falcone!”

  The stallion stopped so short that the lead-strap was jerked out of the hand of the groom. The gray horse lifted his head and whinnied a soft inquiry.

  “Falcone!” said Tizzo again. The horse trotted to the foot of the wall, reared, seemed to look for a ladder by which to climb, and then cantered back and forth. The groom, laughing, caught the lead-strap, but Falcone refused to move until Tizzo had waved him away.

  “There has been little time. How have you managed to do it?” asked Melrose.

  “I slept for three nights in the end of his manger, and for three days I never left him. When I was drilling the Romagnols, I led him every step, until he began to follow me. I did the feeding of him, groomed him, watered him, fed him bunches of wheat-heads and apples. He has a tooth for grapes, too, and before long he began to know me, then to look for me, then to wait for me. And so you see him now. What a richness to have a horse as true to one’s hand as a good sword! What a wealth of joy there is in this world, father! When I think of you, for instance, and of Beatrice, I feel that my hands are full, my arms are full, my heart is full!”

  The horse had disappeared into the stable, and as they turned from the window, Henry of Melrose said: “Well, my lad, you’re in a place where your heart can be emptied again, quickly enough.”

  “How?” asked Tizzo.

  “By a taste of meat or a sip of wine at any meal.”

  “Ah, you’ve heard the tales of the Borgia?”

  “I have.”

  “And believe them?”

  “I do.”

  “When you know the duke better,” said Tizzo, “you’ll forget the whisperings. He’s a bold man, capable of anything, but nothing against the good of Italy. When I came here — think! I had wounded a parcel of his men, killed another in his own chapel, and then broke out into his own room, with a sword in my hand. He could have had me killed like mutton. But instead, he set me free, gave me Falcone, and called me a friend. When I talked, he opened his mind like a book. I could read where I pleased. And I found the truth at once. What he wants is the freedom of Italy, one Italy, one great Italy, like the one great England, the one France.”

  “There’s a good deal of your mother in you, Tizzo.”

  “Enough to make me love the land I was born in.”

  “Enough to make you believe what every man says. Tizzo, listen to me! Sit here at the table again. Lean close — there are ears around us to hear whispers, even—”

  “Stuff!” said Tizzo. “The Duke loves me, father. What I wish is what he wills. A man to die for, I tell you!”

  “A good many have died for him. Let me say what’s in my instinct. If I could have my way, I’d take horse and leave this tavern as far behind me as a day of galloping could take me, and yet the rest of my life I’d feel eyes looking at me from behind.”

  “Superstition,” said Tizzo. “Nothing but superstition and gossip, I swear. You are as safe here—”

  “As I would be in a battle, with horses trampling over me, with a knife at my throat. I tell you, I saw the poison gather in his eyes when he looked at me. He found an enemy and was wise enough to recognize the fact. Tizzo, in the name of God, get away from the man and take Beatrice with you!”

  “So? So?” said Tizzo, smiling. He smoothed the green silk of his doublet sleeves and continued smiling.

  “Don’t treat me like a child!” exclaimed the father.

  “I shall not,” said Tizzo. “I only know that Beatrice is as safe here as though she were in heaven. So am I. So are you!”

  The baron started to make an answer, but finally he frowned instead and shrugged his shoulders.

  “I see how it is,” he said. “You’ve been touched with the fire again, and nothing will put out the flames except your own blood — but what—”

  He started up from the table, raising a hand for attention, and whispered: “Did you hear anything?”

  “No, nothing,” smiled Tizzo.

  The baron sprang to the door and wrenched it open. The hallway was empty.

  “You see?” said Tizzo. “Dreams, my father; nervous dreams, and no reality. There’s nothing in this place to fear.”

  The baron remained with the edge of the door in his grip, scowling up and down the corridor. At last he dropped to one knee and stared at the floor of the hall. His gesture waved Tizzo towards him and so, staring over the shoulder of Melrose, Tizzo saw a dim imprint of a man’s foot, a small foot, the soft leather of the shoe apparently pointed towards the toe.

  “Do you see now?” said the baron.

  “I see a footprint on the floor of the hall — well, what if one of the servants wanted to clean up this room and paused here for a moment to listen, and make sure that there was no one inside?”

  Melrose stood up again.

  “I can show you the truth, but I can’t write it on your brain,” he said. “Tizzo, we are spied on. We are watched and overheard. And where the Borgia is, that is, to have one foot in the grave. Will you saddle now, and ride with me?”

  “Give up my Romagnols? Give up my chance to fight for the united Italy? And all because of a footprint on the floor? I would not leave the Borgia for a handful of diamonds!”

  “I see it and I know it,” said the baron. “Very well — but tomorrow sees me gone, and gone forever from the neighborhood of that murderer. Faugh! I have gooseflesh; there are chills in my back; I smell rats!”

  CHAPTER VIII. DEADLY PERFUME

  THE BORGIA, SITTING at his window, looked at the stars and spoke softly. The slender shadow that leaned at his shoulder said nothing.

  “Go to the Romagnols of Tizzo’s company,” said Cesare Borgia. “Let a suggestion run among them — a suggestion that some of them come to the window of their captain and ask him out to drink wine with his men. It’s the sort of a thing that the stupid peasants would never think of, but would be happy about it if their brains could reach the idea. And Tizzo could never refuse them. In that way he’ll be drawn out of the room where he sleeps with his father. And when he is gone — when he is gone, Alessandro.”

  Bonfadini drew in his breath. “I am prepared,” he said. “But if Tizzo lives, will he doubt that we have done the thing to his father?”

  “I will swear on a stack of crosses that I had no hand in it,” said the Borgia, “and the fellow is so simple, in spite of his good wits, that he won’t be able to doubt me. Do as I say, and let me take the consequences with Tizzo. What of the girl?”

  “She spent half an hour standing in the hall, saying good-night to Tizzo, she laughing, he singing snatches of songs to her. Finally she went to bed, tired from the day.”

  “She has metal in her, though,” commented the Borgia. “If she were cut into thin strips, every strip would make a sword.”

  He waved his hand. “Now go, Alessandro. It is time to reach the soldiers. Whisper the idea, here and there.”

  “I am gone,” said Bonfadini, and slipped from the room.

  Bonfadini wore a battered gray cloak with
a hood, almost like that of a monk, except that he kept a flap of the cloak flung over one shoulder. The hood cast a deep shadow under which the pallor of his face was partially lost, and so he was able to glide about among the campfires of Tizzo’s little company of peasants. Even though it was night, even though they had done much on this day, they were still talking of war and marches. Here was a pair disputing loudly; there was another working furiously with wooden swords, trying certain strokes and parries which that uncanny ghost of a swordsman, Tizzo, had taught them. And Alessandro, from the rearmost of a group, let his voice be heard, not overloudly: “We should ask the captain to be with us. We should ask him to drink a little wine with us. Let us see if he loves us as he seems to do. Let us see if he would come out to carouse with common men!”

  He was gone before men had a chance to turn their heads, but the thought was planted, and it worked in the minds of the peasants. A huge man with a long and heavy face said: “Why should he come with us? He would rather eat with an ox at a manger. He is a gentleman and the son of a great baron.”

  “He slipped out of his saddle and put Roberto into it,” said a bystander. “He took the standard of the company out of your hand when you were staggering like a great hulk, and he carried it all the rest of the way. Was that like the son of a great baron?”

  “I did not stagger. I stumbled in a rut. That was all.”

  “You lie! Sweat ran down your face like water.”

  “I’ll make you eat those words and like them!”

  “Will you? I’ll rip your great guts across and let them roll down around your feet.”

  “Come, brothers. We’ll try the captain. Half a dozen of us go and call under his window, and then see what you will see!”

  The word went swiftly through the company; the determination was quickly made; the rumor of it passed into the adjoining tents of the Swiss who had contested in the march and three or four of those hulking fellows, the pikemen par excellence of all Europe, came striding to ask that the festival be one that would include them. And so ten men went hurrying towards the inn through the moonlight and stood in the stable yard under the windows of Tizzo’s room.