by Max Brand
The cloth glittered. The pattern was exquisite. It seemed all a mass of jewels and precious metal, and a shout of admiration and of envy went up when the servants bore the little treasure to Vitellozzo.
The man was so greedy that he choked and could not swallow when he saw the gift. His hands trembled as he ran the tips of his fingers over the tracery. Then he began to laugh. His face became a violent red.
“I could be a Pope — I could be a king — I could be an emperor on a throne, if I wore a robe made of this!” he shouted. “Ah ha!, Cesare, you know my tastes.”
“Of course,” said the Borgia. “Every one of us would like to sit on a throne.”
He waved his hand again and two men carried in a fifty-pound salver of solid silver and put it down in front of Paolo Orsini. The general weighted the thing and then shouted aloud. He began to catch up quantities of fruit from the center of the table where it was piled and make a bright mountain to top the silver tray. And still he was shouting.
All that shouting ended when on a little blue cushion a page, on one knee, presented to Oliverotto a single pearl.
He picked it up with a bewildered air. Then he rushed to the window and held the jewel in the cup of both hands. The sunlight, streaming through, made the pearl a mass of milky fire. The sheen of it seemed to strike Oliverotto to the soul, and the radiance poured again out at his eyes. He began to do an impromptu dance. Everyone left the table and rushed around him. Their eyes and teeth flashed as they saw the shining of the gem; but into the midst of his tumult more presents were carried, as varied as the taste, as rich as the magnificence of the Borgia could afford. And before and after every gift was presented, there was another round of wine.
And who was there to notice the pale face and the slender, dark form of Bonfadini, the poisoner, in the corner of the room?
To crown all, in came a pair of magnificent war horses, each the purest white, in complete harness, with magnificent suits of armor tied to the saddles. The wooden floor shook and thundered under the striding of those great animals. Every man at the board felt himself three times an emperor. The Orsini who received that regal gift leaped up and made a speech.
He said: “Glorious Cesare! You are the last of the Romans and the first of the Italians. Who were the fools who told me to fear you? I shall take Italy for myself — from Torino to Palermo. Let Oliverotto have France. Vitellozzo can take Spain. And you, my lord, shall have the world.
“We will conquer it for you. You will have an army to send against Asia. You will trample the Turks to dust on the way and free Constantinople, liberate Jerusalem on the way. What way? The way to India and China. The way to forests of gold that bloom with jewels.
“You shall have a hundred thousand fierce French cavalry in your arm, a hundred thousand English axes and bows, a hundred thousand German and Flemish pikes, a hundred thousand Swiss and Italian arquebuses, and light cavalry.
“That is the way for my lord Cesare to conquer the world, while we lead on the divisions of the army. Life is beginning. The world is beginning. Rivers of gold are about to pour. Joy is the only air that we breathe!”
He seized a great two-handled cup, lifted it, started to drink, found mere drinking too slow, and poured a red flood over himself from neck to foot. Then, staggering with drunkenness and joy, he began to laugh and wave the cup. It clipped a page in the head and knocked the lad senseless. The Orsini kicked the fallen body.
“Stand up, dog!” he shouted. “Do you lie down in the presence of the King of Italy?”
The whole crowd began to roar with laughter.
And Cesare Borgia whispered to cat-faced Machiavelli: “Do you see the token, Niccolô?”
“The token is red, my lord,” answered Machiavelli. “I see it clearly. A flood of red!”
The Borgia smiled and passed on, always striding about the room.
That entertainment had been rapidly improvised but it was complete. There were not the gifts only, but there were musicians to fill up the interludes of happiness. There was a flock of slim dancing girls with wings of gauze fluttering behind them. There was a Negro who ate fire, a juggler who filled the air with swords that never reached the floor.
And so the day wore on toward its conclusion, and as the evening approached wine and too much happiness began to overcome the feasters.
The Borgia made a speech to close the occasion. He said: “My friends, I have been at a little expense to show you how my heart stands toward you. If there ever was trouble in your minds, like yellow mud in a clear river, I hope it is all washed away to sea now. Clean rivers and a clean sky. Clean eyes and clean hopes. And our hands linked together will be a force to crack the back of all opposition. Go to bed, my friends, Sleep. Have happy dreams, and tomorrow we will start turning those dreams of yours into bright reality.”
They began to troop out. As they passed, the Borgia called to Tizzo. He was left alone in the big room, littered with scraps of food, overturned chairs, broken wine cups, the floor wet with the spilled wine, the air sour with the smell of it. A fire began to crackle cheerfully on the hearth and there was now no other light. In the midst of that confusion, Tizzo was left alone with Bonfadini the poisoner, with Machiavelli, and with Cesare Borgia.
“You have been thoughtful, Tizzo,” said the duke.
“My lord,” said Tizzo, “I am always thoughtful when I see that the host does not drink with his guests.”
“I was waiting for you to commence with your wine,” said the Borgia.
Tizzo looked at him narrowly and the duke covered a bit of confusion with an apparently happy laughter.
“Your father was as free with his wine as the rest,” pointed out the Borgia.
“He is a man who never thinks except when he has a sword in his hand,” answered Tizzo.
“A foolish time for thinking,” said the Borgia. “But now, Tizzo, I am going to tell you why you have been so sour and sad.”
“Tell me, then, my lord.”
“It is because when all the gifts went round the table, there was nothing given to Tizzo.”
But Tizzo smiled and shrugged his shoulders. “What gift do I need?” he asked. “I have an ax, a sword, and the loveliest woman in the world. My lord knew of these things and therefore he would not waste himself and his money trying to find new gifts for me. Besides, I am under contract to serve you.”
“No longer, Tizzo. I have set you free from the contract.”
“However that may be, I am happy enough about myself, but I am not happy about the others. I watched you lift your cup many times, but the wine never passed your lips.”
“Do you think so? Well, Tizzo, I’ll drink alone with you, now,” said the duke.
“Will Bonfadini be the wine bearer?” asked Tizzo.
“Ah, Tizzo, do you still suspect me?” Will you always suspect me?”
“If these men who are in your hands should die tonight, the whole of Romagna would be in your hands,” said Tizzo.
“Of course it would. A thing I have thought about,” said the duke. “But if I did such a thing, all honest men would shrink from me, and the first one to shrink would be Tizzo.”
“My lord, if there were such a murder, I would not shrink from you,” said Tizzo.
“You would come hunting for me with your sword, I think,” said the duke, curiously.
Tizzo smiled and said no more. “Am I free to leave you, my lord?” he asked.
“Free,” said the duke. “Unless you wish to stay and hear how I intend to reward you not with brocade or pearls but with real honor and power.”
“I shall leave that till tomorrow,” said Tizzo. “My lord is too weary with all his hospitality.”
And that was the way he left the Borgia and retreated from the hall.
Afterward, the remaining three looked silently at one another for a moment.
“Did you hear?” asked the Borgia, at last.
“He suspects everything,” said Bonfadini.
“If I sp
are him, can I possibly win him back after he knows that I have betrayed the others?”
“My lord,” said Machiavelli, “in Tizzo, honesty is an incurable disease.”
“It is true,” said the duke. “Therefore — Bonfadini, make account of him first of all. I leave him in your perfect hands.”
“My lord,” said the white-faced poisoner, “this is the greatest honor and pleasure you ever have done me. I have hated him with all my heart!”
XXVIII. A CAT IN A TREE
BETWEEN THE SOUTHWARD branch of the River Misa and the southern gate of Sinigaglia lay the Borgo, where the poorest houses stood. And not a shack in the entire quarter equaled in wretchedness the little shed where the trader, Baltassarre by name, kept his stock of clothes old and new. His new clothes cost less than old clothes would cost inside the gate.
He was a long, lean, cadaver of a man with a tuft of beard that jutted straight forward. Always, by night and day, he seemed to be standing against a high wind, his eyes forever squinted almost shut and water winking out of them. He was a dirty old man whose hands were never softened by water, his mouth never cleansed by wine. And he stood now, toward the close of the day, at the rack where his secondhand clothes were hung, probing among them, making his selling talk according to one of his many lines of chatter; except that now he was making such a sale as he never had made before.
He would have sold that entire stock of clothing for a ducat and rubbed his hands over the bargain. But now he was asking in his whining voice a ducat for a single outfit.
The reason was that a girl was making the purchase. All the wrapping of her big cloak would not have been able to disguise her femininity in spite of the erect fearlessness of her carriage.
The trader had looked through her at the first glance.
He said, “Here is a doublet better than new, because it was noble wine that stained it. Here is a pair of hose that will go with it. Do you see how one leg is yellow and the other plum-colored? You would look like a brave young sprig in that outfit. You can see the shoes, yonder. I throw them in without a price, because I am sorry when a girls wants to go dressed like a man. There’s no honesty in that. But be of bright cheer. The night will cover you. Shame has no eyes in the dark. But look — this will fit you perfectly. Will you try it?”
Lady Beatrice took the garment with a careless hand.
“Here is your money beforehand,” she said. “A ducat for the clothes and another ducat if you will stand at the entrance to your shops and keep everyone out.”
He took the money, carried it to the dull glimmer of the lamp, bit the good silver, and suddenly pouched it with a shudder of avaricious joy. Then he went to the door, muttering, and stood there as wan and meager as a scarecrow.
The girl tossed aside her clothes hastily. She pulled on the second-hand clothes with an indescribable loathing. Her cloak she swung over her shoulders again and pulled on the pair of chipped and battered gloves. At her belt there was a small dagger.
This was her one security against prying danger.
When she came to the door of the shed, the old trader was muttering: “Two ducats, two ducats, two ducats! Oh, God, how much wealth comes to unworthy hands, and how little into mine who would cherish it!”
Then he added to the girl, “Think again, my child. The soldiers of the Borgia are inside the gate of the city. They have eyes sharper than gimlets. They have hands as cruel as the teeth of wolves. Even if your lover wears velvet, do not go into the city tonight. I once had a daughter.”
“Have you heard whispers of murder from Sinigaglia?” she asked.
“A thousand whispers; and I have seen some of the dead,” said Baltassarre.
“Ah, my God!” breathed the girl. “Have you seen dead men? Today?”
“Not today. Night is a better time for murder,” he answered. “Why do you ask about today? Is it some young page who waits on one of the generals? Murder will not come the way of the very young, except by accident or by jealousy. Has he made his master jealous? Yes, if the general should see your pretty face. If you wish to do good to your lover, let no other man see him in your company.”
“Farewell!” said the girl, and went hastily on toward the gate of the city, where the big lanterns already were lighted.
She went into a wineshop where soldiers were drinking, and bought a round for them all. They looked at her with bleared eyes.
“Your father will beat you when you get home,” said one of them. “How do you come by so much money, lad?”
“My father is dead and I sold his house yesterday,” said the girl. “That is why I have a little money left in my purse tonight.”
“What will you do when the last of the money is gone?” asked a burly fellow in the gaudy uniform of the Borgia’s Romagnol companies.
“I’ll become a soldier,” she said.
“Will you? Let me see your hand!”
She pulled out her dagger and showed him her hand gripping it. At this, all the wine drinkers began to laugh.
“A hand for a bodkin, not for a sword,” said a halberdier.
“Whose soldier are you?” asked the girl “I serve the famous Oliverotto,” said the halberdier.
“Ah, he is a great name,” said the girl.
“Yes, and a great brain, too,” answered the halberdier.
“And you?” she asked of a pikeman.
“Vitellozzo is my captain.”
“That is a famous man, too. Who is your leader?” she repeated to the Romagnol peasant.
“Tizzo,” he answered, and grinned, sitting up straighter.
“Tizzo?” she echoed. “Tizzo? Who is it that they call Tizzo? I never heard of him.”
“Open your ears, you young fool,” said the peasant, “and you will hear plenty about him! He is the man who won Forli and Urbino for the great duke!”
“I never heard of him,” she replied. “I suppose he is one of the lesser officers?”
“Lesser?” shouted the Romagnol, angrily. “Lesser, do you say? Ask this man what would happen if Tizzo stood at sword’s length from Oliverotto or Vitellozzo, with weapons in their hands!”
The halberdier answered, “Well, a general is something more than a duellist or a jouster. Tizzo does very well with his ax and his sword. But I’m talking about generalship. I’d rather follow a brain than a swordsman.”
“What brain opened Forli and took the Rocca? What brain captured Urbino?” asked the peasant, growing hot with anger.
“Oh, I’m tired of hearing of that,” said the halberdier.
“I’m not tired of telling about it, though,” said the Romagnol.
Lady Beatrice asked, casually, “He may have had good fortune and a sharp sword. But he’s not one to be kept with the famous leaders like the Orsini and the rest, is he?”
“Is he not?” demanded the Romagnol. “Does he not sleep in the same palace that shelters the duke himself? It is the house of Messer Bernardino of Parma. The finest in the city, of course. And there in the left-hand range of rooms sleeps Tizzo in the chamber next to that of his father. My captain himself was called to Tizzo this evening, and talked with him there. I myself led his white horse into the stable in the next court. Only the duke himself is better lodged than Tizzo, if it comes to that.”
At the chief portal of the house of Messer Bernardino of Parma two lights burned and half a dozen soldiers stood on guard. Beatrice Baglione walked carelessly past them. She turned the corner, saw an unshuttered window and an empty street, and instantly was through the casement.
Inside there was the odor of a stable. The light came through the huge room only from a single lamp that hung from a beam near the farther door. The horses had not yet lain down. They were stamping, crunching their fodder, snorting out the dust of the hay.
Beatrice picked up a dung fork and walked calmly down the aisle between the stalls.
A voice bawled out at her: “Who goes there?”
“A dung fork,” said she. “Do you want it?”
“Go to the devil with it,” answered the groom.
She went outside the stable into the court and closed the door behind her. She could remember one figure in all that gloom — a form of dim silver in the fourth stall from the door. That was Falcone, a horse hardly less famous than Tizzo, his master, among the troops of the Borgian army. Perhaps the knowledge of his whereabouts would tell a tale later on in the night.
She stood now in a big court and looked up at the tiers of windows that framed the three sides of the open space.
The left wing contained the room in which Tizzo slept — with danger already creeping toward him from the Borgia; unless Lorenzo Ridi had lied. But dying men are not apt to lie. Tizzo, before the morning, would die unless the warning reached him.
How should she reach him?
Armed men patrolled the court. The torchlight flickered pale over the big heads of the halberds as the men paraded. Their swords made a harsh shivering sound inside the scabards.
A big tree offered her a ladder of a sort, as it grew at the end of the left wing of the building, the only hint of foliage in that mass of naked stone. She went quickly toward the tree and got behind the trunk of it as the soldiers turned their backs and went in the opposite direction along their beat.
They had to come back before she could venture to climb. Leaning close to the tree trunk, she heard them humming to themselves.
One of them said, “Do we march on Ancona?”
The other answered: “Why should I care? Ancona has worse wine than this part of the world.”
“What fools the generals have been!” said the first sentry. “Aye, fools!” said the other.
They turned at the end of their walk and proceeded back. They passed so close that she could have reached out and touched the shoulder of the nearest man. And when they were halfway down the court, she climbed the tree, managing to reach the first branch by a run and a jump.
The coarse bark bit into her hands. She smiled at that pain. Through the branches, she could see the soldiers turn and come toward her again. As they came under the tree one of them said, “Why should a tree rustle when there is no wind?”