by Max Brand
“Giovanpaolo 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 towards 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 towards 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 towards 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 Giovanpaolo Baglione and promises that you shall have her hand in marriage 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; 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 slight 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 Niccolò 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 hai! 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 eye-witnesses 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, red-headed, 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.”
II. STATECRAFT EXTRAORDINARY.
CAPTAIN TIZZO, WHEN the summons from the duke came to him, was wal
king 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 wonder. 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 every one 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.”
“Wait, Bonfadini!” called Tizzo.
The poisoner halted, and turned slowly.
“My lord,” said Tizzo, “I see that I have been a dog to doubt you. But when Malatesta fell a little time ago, I was sure that it was because he had been murdered by your command. And when I looked on the floor for the letter to me which he had been reading, it was gone. But I see now that I have been a fool and that your intentions are kind and honorable to me. I cannot leave you until my time of service is completed.”
“You must and shall go, Tizzo,” said the duke. “Better to have one free friend than a thousand hired retainers. You must go. Take the Romagnols with you. They love you like a father. They are my parting gift, besides the money in this purse.”
“I cannot take it, my lord,” said Tizzo, overcome.
“You shall take it, however. It is yours. And that is not the end of the supply. What, man? Do you think I forget the towers of Urbino, and the rich plains around Forli? Tizzo, to the day of my death, my purse is yours. You have taught me what an honest man can be. Bonfadini, carry my order, and send word to the Lady Beatrice to prepare herself for travel in the morning. She is returning, to her family. Captain Tizzo and his father escort her. Good night, Tizzo.
“You will want this evening to make your preparations. Your company will be under arms and ready for you at dawn. A good voyage to you. I say farewell now, because you know that it’s hard for me to leave my bed in the morning.”
“My lord, there must be one last service that I can do for you,” said Tizzo.
“Nothing. Not a thing. Only give my compliments to Giovanpaolo Baglione and tell him he’ll be your brother-in-law before long — that I am sorry he listened to fools and cowards and turned against me. Tell the rest of them that if they wish to meet me in Sinigaglia in a few days, I shall be there with an entirely open mind. I can forget the past, Tizzo. Tell them that. God knows that I’ve been a cruel fellow in my time, and I suppose I can be cruel again. If war has to come, it will be war to the knife. They understand that already. But a bit of quiet conversation might make us all friends.”
“I remember every word,” said Tizzo, “and I’ll repeat it exactly. I believe you, and I hope I can make them believe in you, also.”
“I think you can, Tizzo,” said the duke, calmly. “Go to bed. Sleep well. And away with you in the morning. We’ll see each other often again. Two like you and me cannot live long in one country without meeting often.”
HE stood up and walked to the door with Tizzo, opening it with his own hand.
“The trouble with the generals,” he said, “is that they’re afraid of the size I’ve grown to — partly with your help. Well, tell them that the greater I grow, the bigger my friends will become, and the better I can crush my enemies. Farewell! Good fortune!”
And as he closed the door and turned around towards Machiavelli, he found the Florentine leaning forward in his chair, his chin resting on one hand, a faint smile on his face.
“Do you understand, now?” asked the duke.
“The Lady Beatrice, also?” said Machiavelli.
“You can’t understand that?”
“She’s a beautiful thing, my lord.”
“She is, Niccolò .”
“And beauty has a higher price in Italy than all the other v
irtues. I mean, beauty is a virtue in Italy.”
“Do you think I am surrendering her foolishly?”
“You might marry her off to some very great man, my lord. Or establish her as the mistress of some prince of importance.”
“I could. And I intend to.”
“Ah? Do you think that the Baglione will send her back into your hands?”
“They won’t send her. They will drop her into my hands, Niccolò.”
“There I fail to follow you,” said Machiavelli.
“Well, then — in the first place what will happen when Tizzo talks to the generals?”
“I think he may convince them that you mean well. Liars are always persuaded by a greater lie. But the most persuasive thing in the world is a lie honestly told by an honest man. Tizzo is honest.”
“If he were not so honest, he might become a great man in the world, my friend. Yes, I think that Tizzo will draw them all to Sinigaglia like birds into a limed net.”
“And there?”
“They must die, Niccolò. They know me too well, they suspect me too much, and already they’ve raised their hands against me. I am about to give Italy a final lesson in statecraft, the greatest it ever has seen.”
“And Lady Beatrice?”
“That girl is the only human being — except Machiavelli — who understands me. I can see the men being persuaded by Tizzo. I can see the girl vainly warning them like another Cassandra. I can see the generals riding off to Sinigaglia, and Tizzo along with them, to give them warrant that he meant what he said to me. And I can see Beatrice — she’s a girl all fire, Niccolò — slipping after them. She would follow Tizzo into fire as red as his own hair. And therefore, in Sinigaglia, I expect to hang the generals and take Lady Beatrice again.”
“And Tizzo?” said the Florentine.
“My dear Niccolò, why do you ask painful questions?”
“Of course — of course!” said Machiavelli. “It’s clearly logical that he must die.”
III. ARRIVAL OF TIZZO.
GIOVANPAOLO BAGLIONE, YOUNG, handsome, smiling, the grim Orsini, three of them, Oliverotto da Ferma, Vitellozzo Vitelli, all sat about a table at the tavern. Oliverotto was paring the rind from his slice of cheese and smiling at his thoughts; the Orsini drank their wine in silence, being silent men; Vitellozzo held his head high because his pride never left him, even at the table; and Giovanpaolo regarded the others with his own inimitable calm.