by Max Brand
That was why Tizzo led a compact body of a hundred men rushing through the town of Urbino toward the Porta del Monte, shouting “Duca! Duca!” all the way.
As he came near the gate, he saw a whirl of armored horsemen galloping furiously away. His own task was to break into the north tower. And when he reached the armory he found there his father, three times wounded surrounded by dead and wounded men, but with his helmet off and a leathern bottle of wine in his hand.
“Hai, Tizzo!” he said. “I thought you were gone and would never come again. Here, taste this wine with me. I drink to you, my lad. I drink to all true companions and the devil take traitors. Help me to my feet. I’ve had such a good bit of fighting that I don’t care whether or not I get a penny of the loot of the town.”
Duke Guidobaldo had fled from the Porta del Monte the instant that he heard the shouting of “Duca!” as Tizzo led his cavalry across the city. With him he had taken the greater part of his jewels. The rest of Urbino fell intact into the hands of the Borgia.
But it was not money that he regarded. It was power that he wanted. And the winning of Urbino made him one of the leading princes of all Italy. That was why he cried out to Tizzo, as they sat late that night in the rooms of the vanished Guidobaldo, “Tizzo, we have made Guidobaldo run like a coward; the people are all cheering you and me in the street; the Countess Sforza was captured again as she was trying to slip out of the town; and there is nothing my heart can desire except to reward you, Tizzo. What will you have? Name ten requests!”
“I have only one,” said Tizzo. “Let an old woman called Agnes be found. Dress her in the finest clothes that can be found and let her sit at your right hand during supper tonight.”
They found old Agnes. They dressed her in crimson satin and brocade of gold. They placed her at the right hand of the duke himself. And Tizzo sat beside her. She was very gay, and laughed continually.
“Redheaded men,” she said, “are always unfaithful rascals. But women cannot help loving them. Thank God that I thought at first that you were a sacred ghost. If I had screeched like a fool you would be a dead man, and I would not be sitting beside the Duke Valentinois.”
It was a wild, gay party in the palace of Urbino that night. But not a man at the table was as light-hearted as Tizzo, because he had old Agnes beside him and, across the table, the long, terrible, wounded face of the hunchback.
Through the casements stormed the unwearying shout of the people as they roared, “Duca! Duca!”
“If I had known that they wanted me so badly,” said the Borgia, “I would have come here long ago! Tell me, Niccolo, what the least shadow there can be on this happy occasion?”
“How did you win Urbino?” asked Machiavelli.
“Through Tizzo. You know how it happened.”
“Is he worth more than the city he captured?”
“I think he is,” said the Borgia.
“Ask him this moment what he is thinking about.”
“Tizzo,” called the Borgia, “what are you thinking of this moment?
“I was thinking,” said Tizzo, “about a poor fool of a fellow who was used as a living bait in order to catch some big fish.”
“What do you mean by that?” asked the duke.
“I mean only that a fish that once has been singed always hates the frying pan.”
And Machiavelli murmured, “Do you see? You have won Urbino, but you have lost Tizzo. Was the exchange worth while? He never will serve you again.”
The Borgia sank his chin on the palm of his hand and shrugged his shoulders. He made no answer. Machiavelli began to smile at him with bright, cold eyes, like the eyes of a cat.
XXII. A STRANGE POISON
CESARE BORGIA, ALL in black, except for the white ruff of collar about his neck, black-masked also, across the upper part of his face, lolled in a big chair that had the dimensions and gave the effect of a throne. Always one who loved shadows, he had the room lighted by a few candles only and they cast on the wall wavering shadows of the men who stood near the chair of the Duke of Romagna. Only Bonfadini’s face could be seen clearly, so bone-white that it seemed to be illumined from within. The poisoner’s expression was always one of still attention.
Before the duke stood Giovanni Malatesta, the sooty smoke of the candles in his face, a captain in the employ of Oliverotto, the hired soldier. He was completely in plate armor. His helmet was plumed. His raised visor exposed a stern young face, fearless of the great man whom he was to address.
The Borgia said, “We’ve had enough compliments, Malatesta. Now let’s have the letter.”
Malatesta bowed, unrolled a scroll of paper, and read aloud: “‘To the most noble Cesare Borgia, Duke of Vanentinois and the Romagna, we who are signed below send greetings, set forth certain complaints, and declare the action which we are about to take.
“‘Among our complaints the first is that no man’s life is safe when he comes near the noble duke, whether he be an enemy or too great a friend.
“‘Second, the money which the noble dukes promises for services is paid in full, always, but his other promises are neglected.
“‘Third, his ambition is so great that presently there would be room for only one man in Italy.
‘For these reasons we have determined to serve him no longer but to stand together against him. For this purpose we sign our names:
‘Giovan Paolo Baglione, Paolo Orsini, Fabio Orsini, Francesco Orsini, Oliverotto da Ferma, Vitellozzo Vitelli.’”
The duke did not lift his head; there was a slight rustling sound as his men turned toward him. The pale hand of Alessandro Bonfadini, secretary and poisoner, drooping over the top of Borgia’s chair, touched his shoulder as though by accident, but received no sign.
“You have another paper there in your hand,” said the Borgia. “What is that?”
“It is for Captain Tizzo,” said the messenger.
“Is it as pleasant as the other? Read it!” said the duke.
“Aloud?” asked Malatesta.
“Aloud, if that pleases Captain Tizzo, also,” said the duke.
Tizzo of Melrose advanced a step and nodded, the candlelight glimmering on the red of his hair. Most of the men about him were not of middle age, and yet he seemed a youth among the youngest.
“Read it aloud, certainly,” said Tizzo.
“Very well,” said Malatesta. And unfurling the paper he read: “‘To the noble Captain Tizzo of Melrose:
“‘We send you greetings as to a brave and wise officer by whom almost alone the towns of Forli and Urbino were won over to the possession of the Duke of Romagna.
‘Tizzo, we know your honesty and your quality as a soldier and as a man. With you at his side, we fear the duke. Without you, we care less for him than for an apple paring....’”
The hand of Bonfadini again touched the shoulder of the Borgia, and this time that shoulder shrugged slightly up and down. Bonfadini glided instantly toward the candles, stepping between them and the open window. He leaned as though to trim the wicks, and each one that he touched gave, instantly a slightly brighter flame, a single puff of pale smoke, as was natural. And the smoke was blowing toward Malatesta.
The Malatesta was reading on: “‘We wish all men to know that we desire to have you among us, a wise, trusted, and well-rewarded commander. Leave him and we will make your career famous. Stay with him and you will be praised and paid until you are dangerously strong, and then you will be stabbed and thrown in a gutter, as he has thrown other men.’”
“This is rather strong talk,” said the Borgia calmly. “But continue, Malatesta.”
The captain hesitated, shrugged his shoulders, and then struggled with a yawn; which was strange, because it was hardly a time or a place to feel sleepy.
“‘We wish to point out to you,’” continued the captain, reading, “‘that although the duke holds the Lady Beatrice merely as a hostage for the good behavior of Giovan Paolo Baglione and promises that you shall have her hand in marri
age as soon as—’”
Captain Malatesta hesitated, yawned openly, rubbed his eyes and fell suddenly to the ground.
There was a general exclamation. Several of the men rushed forward to the fallen captain. And one of them cried out, “Dead! Dead as a stone!”
The voice of the Borgia, usually muffled and low, now was heard saying loudly, “A proper reward for traitors, my friends! Let all of you bear witness that no hand of mine touched this man; the finger of God was laid on him for his treachery. May all that he spoke for die like dogs in the same way. Bear witness, all of you!”
He gave instant order that the body should be carried out; Tizzo and all except two of those who were about the duke left his presence at once. They had noticed nothing strange in the air of the room, except perhaps a light fragrance almost like that of violets; also, a few of them were just a trifle dizzy. But the open air soon put that right.
Cesare Borgia remained alone with Alessandro Bonfadini and bright-eyed, cat-faced Niccolô Machiavelli. The duke went to the couch and stretched himself upon it. He yawned — in his turn.
“That is very precious stuff, Bonfadini,” he said. “How much of it remains to you?”
“About six men, my lord,” said the poisoner.
Machiavelli laughed. “That is a new measurement,” he said.
“Can you make more of it, Bonfadini?” asked the duke.
“I am making more, my lord,” said the poisoner.
“When will it be ready?”
“In about two years,” said Bonfadini.
“Ah hail Two years to make a few pinches of fragrant white powder that burns so well in a candle flame?” asked the Borgia.
“My lord,” said Bonfadini, “must understand that I am not often at the cattle farm; I usually must be at the side of my lord.”
“Of course you must be at my side,” said the Borgia. “You are the brightest dagger in my armory and you are kept shining by continual use. But what have your visits to the cattle farm to do with your poisons?”
“I am more at ease in the country air, my lord,” said Bonfadini. “My mind works more precisely.”
“Be frank,” said the duke. “Come, come! Do you think I would question you before my wise friend Machiavelli except that he is free to hear everything I know? No, Bonfadini; you help me to some very considerable deeds, and he has the pen that may make them famous. What is all this about poisons and the cattle farm, and two years to make half an ounce of white powder?”
“I must find healthy young cattle, my lord,” said Bonfadini, “and inject a certain poison into the body of one. Several injections. At the end of a month the beef sickens and dies. When the body is corrupt, after a certain number of days, the liquids are drawn off and distilled. They have not the strength of the original poison; they are far more terrible. Death itself has helped to strengthen them. This fine juice I inject into another beef, which dies, and the distilled product is introduced to a third, and so on, the virulence of the poison steadily growing, until at last I have only a certain process to crystallize a sediment in the quart of liquid which two years of labor will have given to me. There remains a few pinches of powder to which I add a certain perfume of my invention. The rest my lord knows better than any man.”
“Beautiful, eh, Machiavelli?” asked the duke.
“So in all art,” said the Florentine, “patience makes the perfect thing. No one but Bonfadini has raised murder to a fine art.”
“And still,” said the duke, “you notice that he says nothing. ‘A certain poison...’ and ‘a certain number of days.. and ‘a certain perfume...’ It’s plain that you will not entrust your secrets to me, Bonfadini.”
“My lord, I merely remove temptation from your hands.”
“Like a good priest, eh?” The Borgia laughed. “Now tell me what I have gained from all of this?”
“No matter what the eyewitnesses testify,” said Machiavelli, “the generals will not believe that it was the hand of God which struck down their messenger. No one in Italy will believe it.”
“I don’t care what they believe, so long as they don’t understand. Always to be successful and never to be understood is the secret of greatness. So long as Italy fears me, it will follow me. Is that true?”
“Very true,” said Machiavelli. He began to peel an apple, cutting the paring translucently thin, using a very sharp pen-knife. He said as he peeled the fruit, “You have convinced the generals that their messenger was murdered. They will make a strong head against you.”
“On the contrary,” said the Borgia, “out of all of this, I shall make a net in which I shall catch every one of the generals.”
“In what manner?” asked Machiavelli.
“Who is the most honest man about me — barring my faithful Bonfadini?” asked the duke.
“Why, redheaded, fire-eating Tizzo, I suppose,” said the Florentine.
“He is the net I will use to catch the traitors, one and all.”
“But Tizzo is not a fool.”
“Certainly not. He is as suspicious as a cat. But I shall make his suspicions the lever through which I work on him. Once I satisfy his doubts, he will be my devoted servant again.”
XXIII. STATECRAFT EXTRAORDINARY
CAPTAIN TIZZO, WHEN the summons from the duke came to him, was walking rapidly up and down his room, snapping questions at his father who, like the rough old soldier that he was, sat cross-legged on a cushion on the floor and whittled a stick of wood into a monk’s head, using his dagger for a knife.
“Was it a natural death?” asked Tizzo.
“I never saw a heartier lad than that Malatesta,” said Baron Melrose.
“But no hand touched him; he tasted nothing.”
“Perhaps he tasted something when he was first brought to the town, and it only worked on him as he stood before the duke.”
“It was strange,” said Tizzo. “At the very moment when Beatrice was named — then like an invisible sword he was struck down.”
“It is easier to understand the devil than to know the Borgia,” said Melrose.
And here came the message from the duke that Tizzo was wanted. He followed to the door, turned back to buckle on his sword, and then straightened his coat of blue velvet, slashed with silver.
“You look fine enough for a marriage or a murder,” said his father. “Run along, Tizzo.”
He went at once into the presence of the Borgia.
“Sit down, my captain,” said the Borgia cheerfully.
“I have things to say that I can speak better standing,” said Tizzo.
“Your hair is such flame that it keeps your brain seething,” said the duke. “What’s the trouble now?”
Bonfadini came behind the duke’s chair and leaned on it.
“The trouble, for one thing, is the rat-faced poisoner who keeps at your elbow,” said Tizzo.
“Go into the corner of the room,” said the duke to Bonfadini.
Bonfadini turned on Tizzo a smile of exquisite malice and obeyed the order with his whispering step.
“Now what’s the matter, Tizzo?”
“My lord, I was bound to your service for three months. That time is almost up.”
“It is ended now, if you wish.”
“Ended now?” exclaimed Tizzo, bewildered.
“Come, come!” smiled the Borgia, lolling on the pillows of the couch, to which he had gone from his chair. “Did you think that I was saving you till the last moment, to throw you away on one final, desperate exploit? Is that what you think of me?”
“I don’t know what to think of you, my lord,” said Tizzo.
“If you want your freedom, you have it now. And whatever else you ask.” —
“Whatever else?”
“Yes. Do you think that I forget I owe Urbino and Forli to you? I would be more a beast than a man if that were the case. Tizzo, ask and I grant it.”
Here the duke cast a side glance at Machiavelli and saw the Florentine staring with won
der. It was not the sort of statecraft that the philosopher expected from his hero.
“Lady Beatrice—” said Tizzo, and then stopped, choked by the expectation of refusal.
“She loves you; she is promised to you by her brother; and though she is in my hands as a hostage — and though, mark you, her brother is in arms against me — I give her to you freely, Tizzo.”
Tizzo drew himself up with a great breath. His face turned almost as red as his hair. He bowed profoundly.
“My lord,” said he, “you are kind. By heaven,” he broke out, “I can’t help believing that most of the things said against you are lies!”
“Most of the things that are said against everyone are lies,” answered the Borgia. “Do you hear me?”
“I hear you and mark you, my lord.”
“And whoever has told you that you are not like my right hand has told a very poisonous lie, Tizzo. What else do you wish?”
“My father to ride with me?”
“Certainly. He is free to go as he pleases. He came to me merely because of you, and he has fought like a hundred men for your sake. Take this to him and my kindest greeting.”
He took from his neck a golden chain which supported as a pendant a single ruby of great size and beauty, with a candle flame burning in the heart of it. This he dropped into the hand of Tizzo and, to the side, noted the amazement of Machiavelli again.
“What else, Tizzo?” he demanded.
“I am ashamed to ask. But it is possible to take back gifts. I would like to have the escort of my company of the Romagnols for a few miles out of the camp.”
“Asked like a sensible man of the world — a thing I thought you never would become, Tizzo. Bonfadini, go at once and order Tizzo’s company to be mustered under arms. Take them with you wherever you please, my friend, unless the cost of them will be too heavy for your purse. Take them to my revolting generals and they’ll be delighted to have such a fine unit of infantry. You have made them a company of heroes, Tizzo.”