by Max Brand
The countess pulled from her girdle a dagger with a seven-inch blade, the fight dripping from its keenness like water from a melting icicle. “This is enough company for me,” she said. “See the girl safely locked up before you come back.”
When Giovanni was gone, she turned to Melrose again. The last of her passion was falling away from her, though she still breathed deep.
“My lord,” she said to Melrose, “what was the mother of Tizzo?”
“An angel out of the bluest part of heaven,” he answered.
“Is the thief’s blood in you, then?”
“He would no more steal from a woman than he would lie to the face of the Almighty,” said the Baron.
“But the jewels are gone,” said the countess, “and he has gone with them — and behind him he leaves in my grip his father and his lady. You, my lord, are a brave man; but your son is a dog. I prove it to you by the things he has done. Can you make an answer?”
The face of the baron grew very pale. He said: “Madame, what you say seems to be true. He was here — and now he is gone. I tell you my answer. You see my right hand. Well, this hand is not such a true servant to me, or so close to my blood, as my son is. That is all I can say.”
“So?” said the countess. “Well — perhaps you are right. Perhaps you are right. But your face is a little too white, my lord. I think that strange things are happening in the Rocca and that you know something about them. And the executioner will ask you questions on the rack. I am sorry to say it. You have an old head and a young eye. I am very sorry for you. But — your blood in your own son condemns you.... If I could put hands on him, I would eat his heart — raw! And I shall have my hands on him. You’ve heard me shouting and raging like a fool. But I can be quiet, also. You will see that I keep to my promise, letter by letter.”
“Madame,” said Melrose, “I am young enough to be afraid of you; but I am old enough not to be afraid of death.”
She looked at him with a smile that was almost pleasant.
“I like that,” she said. “There’s something neat in what you say. Will you speak as well when you’re on the rack?”
“I hope so,” he answered.
“Go before me down the stairs, then,” said the lady. “For once be discourteous to a lady and walk before her. Thank you. I’m sorry that the irons make your step so short.... Take care, my lord, and don’t let yourself fall on the stairway.... What a pity if such a wise and elderly gentleman should be hurt by a fall, in my house!”
She began to laugh, and the sweet echoes of her laughter ran before them down the steep stairs and came softly back from below.
V. TIZZO’S OFFER
CESARE BORGIA, THE Duke of Valentinois, lay on his back in the sun with a mask over the slightly swollen deformity of his upper face, his eyes closed, his attention fixed on nothing but the stir of the wind in the grass about him, and the clean fragrance of moist earth and flowers, and the weight of the sun’s heat pressing down upon him, soaking through his clothes, through his body.
Beside him, always standing erect, was Alessandro Bonfadini, the pallor of whose face would never be altered by all the sunshine that pours out oceans of gold over Italy every summer. Men said that his body was so filled with the poisons which he took as preventatives in the service of his dangerous master that neither sun nor air could work upon him as it worked upon other men. It was even said that, when he sat in a perfectly dark room, a dim halo was visible creeping out of his skin — a thin, phosphorescent glimmering which could be just noted. So that he seemed, in the darkness, like a ghost of a ghost.
And even in the broad daylight, one could not look at his cadaverous face without thinking of death.
The door to the walled garden of the tavern opened. An armored soldier called, “Bonfadini! Bonfadini!”
Bonfadini turned and waved a hand to command silence. But the soldier persisted: “A message from Captain Tizzo...”
The Borgia leaped suddenly to his feet.
“From Captain Tizzo?” he exclaimed. “Bring the man to me instantly.”
He went striding off with great steps, a huge man startlingly powerful the moment he was in motion. Through the silk of his hose, the big calf muscle slipped or bulged like a fist being flexed and relaxed.
Before him, voices called orders that were repeated far away. And Bonfadini ran to keep close to his master.
They were halfway through the garden before Luigi Costabili appeared, with the dust of his hurried ride still white on his uniform. He was busily trying to dust off that white when he saw the duke and fell on his knees.
“Get up and don’t be a fool,” said the Borgia. “Soldiers kneel to their king or their god; but in the Romagna my men in armor kneel to nothing but a bullet or a sword-stroke. Stand up, and remember that you are a man. Have you seen Captain Tizzo?”
“I have here a letter from him. I met him on the high road,” said Luigi.
“Why didn’t you arrest the traitor and bring him here?” asked the Borgia.
His voice was not angry, but the peasant turned a greenish white.
“My lord, I tried to arrest him — but I was prevented—”
“You had bad luck with him and his sword,” said the Borgia. “Well, other people have had bad luck with that will-o’-the-wisp. Bonfadini, read the letter to me.... Was Captain Tizzo alone? On the white horse, Falcone? Was he well?”
“Alone, my lord — there was no one with him — he seemed — I don’t know, my lord. He doesn’t seem like other men.”
“He is not like other men,” agreed the Borgia. “Because you brought me a letter from him, here is five ducats....”
“My lord, I thank you from my heart; you are very kind.”
“... and because you failed to bring the man himself — holla! Lieutenant! Catch this fellow and give him a sound flogging!”
Poor Luigi was led off.
“Read! Read!” said the Borgia, and began to walk up and down in a great excitement.
The white face of Bonfadini, unalterable as stone, slowly pronounced the words of the letter.
“‘My noble lord: I left you the other night in such a hurry that I hardly had time to tell you why I was going. And certainly I did not know where. The only thing that was obvious was that my father was fighting for his life, and then running for his life. Since then, I’ve heard something about a moonlight night, a dead cat, and poison in the air. It seems that my father, not knowing as I do the excellent heart of your highness, grew a little excited—’”
“Good!” said the Borgia. “Not knowing as he does, eh? Ah, Bonfadini, there is a red devil on the head and in the heart of that Tizzo that pleases me. I wish I might have him back with me again.”
“Would it be wise, my lord, since he knows that his own father was almost poisoned in your house?”
“But not by my orders, perhaps. Who can tell?”
“Yes,” said Alessandro Bonfadini, “who can tell?”
“Continue the reading.”
Bonfadini went on: “‘First he warned Lady Beatrice to leave the tavern. His mind was half bewildered by the effects of the poison. He looked for me, failed to find me, and then went on with the next part of his program, blindly. You, my lord, were to die. He went straight to your room, broke into it, and, at the moment when I heard you call for help, was about to cut the head of your serene highness from your noble neck. You may recall the moment when I got to the spot. It was one thing to realize—’”
“True!” said the duke. “Very true, Alessandro. When he ran in, I was on one knee, desperate. The big Englishman fenced like a fiend. But when Tizzo flashed in between us, and took up the fight — even Tizzo could not win quickly, however. Have I showed you how they leaped at one another? Until by the flashing of their own swords, I suppose, they recognized one another — otherwise it would have been a sweet bit of family murder in my room that night!”
The duke began to laugh.
“Shall I continue, my lord?”
asked the cold voice of the poisoner.
“Get on! Get on!” said the Borgia. “It warms my heart even to think of that cat-footed, wild-headed, fire-brained Tizzo. Was there ever a name so apt? The spark — the spark of fire — the spark that sets a world on fire — that’s what he is!”
The poisoner read: “‘However, the three of us managed, as you know, to escape from the hands of your men; we rode like the devil across country and found ourselves in the morning of the next day surrounded by the men-at-arms of the Lady of Forli. You know her, of course. She’s a big creature, handsome, with a good, swinging step, and a hearty laugh and an eye that brightens wherever it touches. But a twist of strange circumstances made her decide that I would be better under ground than above it. Unlike your tactful self, she used three murderers instead of a whiff of poisoned fragrance on a moonlight night. However, the moon helped me. I danced with the three of them till two fell down and the third was willing to talk. He told me a story that leaves my blood cold and my skin crawling.
“‘My lord, I am safely out of Forli. But inside of it remain the two people I love — my father and my lady. To ride to Perugia is a long journey; and it would take them a long time to attack Forli from that distance.
“‘But your highness is within arm’s stretch of Forli. You easily can find the will to attack the place. It is just the sort of a morsel that would slip most easily down your throat. The Rocca, if you haven’t seen it, is an excellently fortified place, but your cannon will breach its walls. However, what I hope is that a night march, a night attack might sweep all clean. And God will give me the claws of a cat to climb those walls and come to the help of my lady.
“‘Do you need to be persuaded further? Is not my lord’s heart already twice its usual size? Is not your mouth watering and your brain on fire?
“‘Well, I can offer nothing of great value, because I have spent my fortune as fast as it was showered on me. I hate to use pockets or hang purses around my neck, and therefore I have no place to carry money.
“‘However, my lord, I have one thing remaining, and it shall be yours. Will you have it? Two hands, two feet, and a heart that will never weaken in your service.
“‘For how long shall I serve you? That, my lord, is a bargaining point. The devil might demand my service for life. But the Borgia, perhaps, will let me off with three months. For three months, my lord, I am at your beck and call, but there are certain slight conditions that I would like to make and certain little Borgian duties which I would avoid as, for instance,
item... stabbing in the back
item... poison in wine or elsewhere
item... midnight murder in the dark.
but otherwise, I am completely yours.
“‘If my lord chooses me and my service on these terms, he may ride out of the tavern and take the road toward Forli. I shall be waiting to meet him if he is accompanied by not more than two men-at-arms.
“‘Ever my lord’s faithful servant and obedient friend — Tizzo.’”
The Borgia began to laugh again. “Where is the Florentine secretary?” he asked. “Where is Machiavelli? Call him down to me here and let me have his advice on this letter and its writer. This Machiavelli has a young brain but a good one.”
Accordingly, a young man dressed all in black entered the garden a moment later. He was of a middle size, and when he took off his hat to the duke, he showed a head of rather small dimensions, covered with glistening black hair. His lips were thin and secret. Perhaps it was they that gave a slight touch of the cat to his face. His eyes were very restless, very bright.
“Niccolô,” said the duke, “here is a letter. Read it and tell me what to think of the writer.”
Machiavelli read the letter half through, raised his head to give one bright, grave look to the duke, and then continued to the end.
After that he said, without hesitation, “If this is an elderly adventurer, I’d have him put out of the way as soon as possible; if it is a low-born man, have him thoroughly flogged where ten thousand men may hear him howl; but if he is young and well-born, I would attach him to me at any price.”
“Good!” said the Borgia. “Machiavelli, you have a brain that the world will hear from one day. There is something about you that pleases me beyond expression.... Do you notice that he is willing to meet me if I don’t bring with me more than two men-at-arms? That’s characteristic of this Tizzo. If the odds are only three to one, he feels at home.... Horses! Horses! Machiavelli, you and Bonfadini alone shall ride out with me to meet this redheaded fellow!”
VI. A BARGAIN IS STRUCK
THEY RODE STRAIGHTAWAY from the tavern, the duke giving orders for the company of Tizzo’s Romagnol infantry to be gathered at once. And with that word the Borgia rode on behind, between Machiavelli and Alessandro Bonfadini. In his hand, Cesare Borgia carried a naked ax that looked like the common ax of a woodsman, except that the color of the steel was a delicate blue. They had not gone down the road for a mile when something white flashed behind them from a tuft of willows and a rider on a white stallion was in the way to their rear.
The Borgia called out, and waved the ax over his head. “That’s Tizzo,” he said. “As wary as a cat, and as dangerous as a hungry tiger. I tell you, Machiavelli, that if he thought any great purpose would be served by it, he would ride at us and put his single hand against the three of us.”
“He may be a very sharp tool,” said Machiavelli, “but he will be in the hand of a very great artisan.”
At this, the Borgia smiled. He rode out ahead of the other pair, and Tizzo came to meet him, doffing his hat, then closing to take the hand of the Duke of Valentinois. The duke kept that hand in a great grasp.
“Now, Tizzo,” he said, “I have you. I accept your own terms. Three months of service. And this evening I start with my army for Forli. It is, as you suggest, a morsel of exactly the right size to fit my throat. But what if that hard-hearted devil of a Caterina Sforza murders her prisoners before we can storm the walls of the castle?”
“Aye,” said Tizzo, “I had thought about that, too. What other chance can I take, though?”
“Here is Bonfadini whom you remember well,” said the duke.
“My father remembers him better, however,” said Tizzo, looking grimly at the stone-white face of the poisoner.
“And here is my friend and adviser, good Niccolô Machiavelli. He has come from Florence to look into our ways.”
“He will find many wonderful things,” said Tizzo, dryly.
But the Borgia merely laughed, for his spirits seemed high from the moment he had read the letter of Tizzo. “Ride on ahead of us,” he said to Tizzo. “There are your Romagnol peasants that you were forming into good soldiers. They haven’t forgotten you. Go on to them. They’re good fellows and they love you.”
A swarm of the peasants, bright in the red and yellow quarterings of the Borgia, had poured across the road from the tavern. Tizzo galloped his white horse toward them and was greeted by a loud shouting of “Duca! Duca!” in honor of the duke, followed by a thundering roar for Tizzo, the captain.
“Now that you’ve seen him,” said the duke to Machiavelli, “what do you think of him?”
The young statesman said, “That is the sort of a sword that I would leave in the scabbard until there was straightforward work to do.”
“Perhaps. His men love him. Do you see them swarming, and throwing up their hands in his honor? Now they have him off his horse and carry him on their shoulders.... He has taught them to shoot straight, fence and obey orders. They love him because he has made them stronger men. I tell you, Niccolo, the day may come when every Italian will love me because I have made Italy a strong nation.”
“The virtues of age,” said Machiavelli, “outweigh the sins of youth, always. Today is greater than all the yesterdays.”
“They still shout themselves hoarse. I knew they were fond of him, but this is devotion. Such a man could be a dangerous force in an army, Niccolô.”
The Borgia glanced aside at him, and then, slowly, smiled. Bonfadini was smiling also.
That blue-headed ax of steel which the Borgia had carried to the meeting on the road by Faenza was once more in the hands of Tizzo. His sword was at his side. The white horse stepped lightly beneath him. He was not cased from head to foot in complete steel, as most mounted soldiers were, but wore merely an open helmet, or steel cap, with a breastplate and shoulder-pieces. Equipped in this light manner, he was a lighter burden for his horse when he rode and, on the ground, those quick-thinking feet of his would be able to dance more swiftly.
The dance itself would not be long in starting.
The dawn had not yet commenced but it would not be long delayed; and Tizzo’s peasant soldiery, armed with arquebuses and pikes and short swords, moved behind him with a steady thrumming of feet.
He had been given the vanguard; a mile back of him came the French soldiers with the famous Swiss pikemen behind them; and last of all, at such a distance that the rumbling of its wheels could not be heard, moved the clumsy artillery which might have to batter down the gates of the town if Tizzo could not take them with the first rush.
Another rumbling, a growing thunder, was beginning to come down the road at a walking pace toward Forli, and Tizzo reined back his horse to ask what the noise might be.
“The carts of the farmers bringing in produce for the markets,” said one of the peasant soldiers. “They load their carts in the evening, and they start in the darkness so as to get to Forli just before daybreak. The market must be opened at sunrise, you see.”
“Carts — sunrise — produce. Perhaps those carts will carry something more than vegetables when they get through the gates of Forli. Down in that ditch, every man of you. Do you hear? If one of you stirs, if one of you coughs or sneezes, if one of you allows the head of a single pike to shine in the moonlight, I’ll have that man’s head on the ground at my feet.”