With the following twilight, Rome was summoned to the commencement of
the most magnificent spectacle the Imperial City had witnessed since the
fall of the Caesars. It had been a singular privilege, arrogated by the
people of Rome, to confer upon their citizens the order of knighthood.
Twenty years before, a Colonna and an Orsini had received this popular
honour. Rienzi, who designed it as the prelude to a more important
ceremony, claimed from the Romans a similar distinction. From the
Capitol to the Lateran swept, in long procession, all that Rome boasted
of noble, of fair, and brave. First went horsemen without number, and
from all the neighbouring parts of Italy, in apparel that well befitted
the occasion. Trumpeters, and musicians of all kinds, followed, and
the trumpets were of silver; youths bearing the harness of the knightly
war-steed, wrought with gold, preceded the march of the loftiest
matronage of Rome, whose love for show, and it may be whose admiration
for triumphant fame, (which to women sanctions many offences,) made them
forget the humbled greatness of their lords: amidst them Nina and Irene,
outshining all the rest; then came the Tribune and the Pontiff’s Vicar,
surrounded by all the great Signors of the city, smothering alike
resentment, revenge, and scorn, and struggling who should approach
nearest to the monarch of the day. The high-hearted old Colonna alone
remained aloof, following at a little distance, and in a garb studiously
plain. But his age, his rank, his former renown in war and state, did
not suffice to draw to his grey locks and highborn mien a single one
of the shouts that attended the meanest lord on whom the great Tribune
smiled. Savelli followed nearest to Rienzi, the most obsequious of the
courtly band; immediately before the Tribune came two men; the one bore
a drawn sword, the other the pendone, or standard usually assigned to
royalty. The tribune himself was clothed in a long robe of white
satin, whose snowy dazzle (miri candoris) is peculiarly dwelt on by the
historian, richly decorated with gold; while on his breast were many
of those mystic symbols I have before alluded to, the exact meaning of
which was perhaps known only to the wearer. In his dark eye, and on
that large tranquil brow, in which thought seemed to sleep, as sleeps a
storm, there might be detected a mind abstracted from the pomp around;
but ever and anon he roused himself, and conversed partially with
Raimond or Savelli.
“This is a quaint game,” said the Orsini, falling back to the old
Colonna: “but it may end tragically.”
“Methinks it may,” said the old man, “if the Tribune overhear thee.”
Orsini grew pale. “How--nay--nay, even if he did, he never resents
words, but professes to laugh at our spoken rage. It was but the
other day that some knave told him what one of the Annibaldi said of
him--words for which a true cavalier would have drawn the speaker’s
life’s blood; and he sent for the Annibaldi, and said, ‘My friend,
receive this purse of gold,--court wits should be paid.’”
“Did Annibaldi take the gold?”
“Why, no; the Tribune was pleased with his spirit, and made him sup with
him; and Annibaldi says he never spent a merrier evening, and no longer
wonders that his kinsman, Riccardo, loves the buffoon so.”
Arrived now at the Lateran, Luca di Savelli fell also back, and
whispered to Orsini; the Frangipani, and some other of the nobles,
exchanged meaning looks; Rienzi, entering the sacred edifice in which,
according to custom, he was to pass the night watching his armour, bade
the crowd farewell, and summoned them the next morning, “To hear things
that might, he trusted, be acceptable to heaven and earth.”
The immense multitude received this intimation with curiosity and
gladness, while those who had been in some measure prepared by Cecco del
Vecchio, hailed it as an omen of their Tribune’s unflagging resolution.
The concourse dispersed with singular order and quietness; it was
recorded as a remarkable fact, that in so great a crowd, composed of men
of all parties, none exhibited licence or indulged in quarrel. Some of
the barons and cavaliers, among whom was Luca di Savelli, whose sleek
urbanity and sarcastic humour found favour with the Tribune, and a few
subordinate pages and attendants, alone remained; and, save a single
sentinel at the porch, that broad space before the Palace, the Basilica
and Fount of Constantine, soon presented a silent and desolate void to
the melancholy moonlight. Within the church, according to the usage of
the time and rite, the descendant of the Teuton kings received the order
of the Santo Spirito. His pride, or some superstition equally weak,
though more excusable, led him to bathe in the porphyry vase which
an absurd legend consecrated to Constantine; and this, as Savelli
predicted, cost him dear. These appointed ceremonies concluded, his arms
were placed in that part of the church, within the columns of St. John.
And here his state bed was prepared. (In a more northern country, the
eve of knighthood would have been spent without sleeping. In Italy, the
ceremony of watching the armour does not appear to have been so rigidly
observed.)
The attendant barons, pages, and chamberlains, retired out of sight to
a small side chapel in the edifice; and Rienzi was left alone. A single
lamp, placed beside his bed, contended with the mournful rays of the
moon, that cast through the long casements, over aisle and pillar, its
“dim religious light.” The sanctity of the place, the solemnity of the
hour, and the solitary silence round, were well calculated to deepen
the high-wrought and earnest mood of that son of fortune. Many and high
fancies swept over his mind--now of worldly aspirations, now of more
august but visionary belief, till at length, wearied with his own
reflections, he cast himself on the bed. It was an omen which graver
history has not neglected to record, that the moment he pressed the bed,
new prepared for the occasion, part of it sank under him: he himself was
affected by the accident, and sprung forth, turning pale and muttering;
but, as if ashamed of his weakness, after a moment’s pause, again
composed himself to rest, and drew the drapery round him.
The moonbeams grew fainter and more faint as the time proceeded, and
the sharp distinction between light and shade faded fast from the marble
floor; when from behind a column at the furthest verge of the building,
a strange shadow suddenly crossed the sickly light--it crept on--it
moved, but without an echo,--from pillar to pillar it flitted--it rested
at last behind the column nearest to the Tribune’s bed--it remained
stationary.
The shades gathered darker and darker round; the stillness seemed to
deepen; the moon was gone; and, save from the struggling ray of the lamp
beside Rienzi, the blackness of night closed over the solemn and ghostly
scene.
In one of the side chapels, as I have before said, which, in the many
alterations the church has undergone, is probably long since destroyed,
were Savelli and the few attendants retained by the Tribune. Savelli
alone slept not; he remained sitting erect, breathless and listening,
while the tall lights in the chapel rendered yet more impressive the
rapid changes of his countenance.
“Now pray Heaven,” said he, “the knave miscarry not! Such an occasion
may never again occur! He has a strong arm and a dexterous hand,
doubtless; but the other is a powerful man. The deed once done, I care
not whether the doer escape or not; if not, why we must stab him! Dead
men tell no tales. At the worst, who can avenge Rienzi? There is no
other Rienzi! Ourselves and the Frangipani seize the Aventine, the
Colonna and the Orsini the other quarters of the city; and without the
master-spirit, we may laugh at the mad populace. But if discovered;--”
and Savelli, who, fortunately for his foes, had not nerves equal to his
will, covered his face and shuddered;--“I think I hear a noise!--no--is
it the wind?--tush, it must be old Vico de Scotto, turning in his shell
of mail!--silent--I like not that silence! No cry--no sound! Can the
ruffian have played us false? or could he not scale the casement? It is
but a child’s effort;--or did the sentry spy him?”
Time passed on: the first ray of daylight slowly gleamed, when he
thought he heard the door of the church close. Savelli’s suspense
became intolerable: he stole from the chapel, and came in sight of the
Tribune’s bed--all was silent.
“Perhaps the silence of death,” said Savelli, as he crept back.
Meanwhile the Tribune, vainly endeavouring to close his eyes, was
rendered yet more watchful by the uneasy position he was obliged to
assume--for the part of the bed towards the pillow having given way,
while the rest remained solid, he had inverted the legitimate order
of lying, and drawn himself up as he might best accommodate his limbs,
towards the foot of the bed. The light of the lamp, though shaded by the
draperies, was thus opposite to him. Impatient of his wakefulness, he at
last thought it was this dull and flickering light which scared away the
slumber, and was about to rise, to remove it further from him, when he
saw the curtain at the other end of the bed gently lifted: he remained
quiet and alarmed;--ere he could draw a second breath, a dark figure
interposed between the light and the bed; and he felt that a stroke was
aimed against that part of the couch, which, but for the accident that
had seemed to him ominous, would have given his breast to the knife.
Rienzi waited not a second and better-directed blow; as the assassin yet
stooped, groping in the uncertain light, he threw on him all the weight
and power of his large and muscular frame, wrenched the stiletto from
the bravo’s hand, and dashing him on the bed, placed his knee on his
breast.--The stiletto rose--gleamed--descended--the murtherer swerved
aside, and it pierced only his right arm. The Tribune raised, for a
deadlier blow, the revengeful blade.
The assassin thus foiled was a man used to all form and shape of danger,
and he did not now lose his presence of mind.
“Hold!” said he; “if you kill me, you will die yourself. Spare me, and I
will save you.”
“Miscreant!”
“Hush--not so loud, or you will disturb your attendants, and some of
them may do what I have failed to execute. Spare me, I say, and I will
reveal that which were worth more than my life; but call not--speak not
aloud, I warn you!”
The Tribune felt his heart stand still: in that lonely place, afar from
his idolizing people--his devoted guards--with but loathing barons,
or, it might be, faithless menials, within call, might not the baffled
murtherer give a wholesome warning?--and those words and that doubt
seemed suddenly to reverse their respective positions, and leave the
conqueror still in the assassin’s power.
“Thou thinkest to deceive me,” said he, but in a voice whispered and
uncertain, which shewed the ruffian the advantage he had gained: “thou
wouldst that I might release thee without summoning my attendants, that
thou mightst a second time attempt my life.”
“Thou hast disabled my right arm, and disarmed me of my only weapon.”
“How camest thou hither?”
“By connivance.”
“Whence this attempt?”
“The dictation of others.”
“If I pardon thee--”
“Thou shalt know all!”
“Rise,” said the Tribune, releasing his prisoner, but with great
caution, and still grasping his shoulder with one hand, while the other
pointed the dagger at his throat.
“Did my sentry admit thee? There is but one entrance to the church,
methinks.”
“He did not; follow me, and I will tell thee more.”
“Dog! thou hast accomplices?”
“If I have, thou hast the knife at my throat.”
“Wouldst thou escape?”
“I cannot, or I would.”
Rienzi looked hard, by the dull light of the lamp, at the assassin. His
rugged and coarse countenance, rude garb, and barbarian speech, seemed
to him proof sufficient that he was but the hireling of others; and it
might be wise to brave one danger present and certain, to prevent much
danger future and unforeseen. Rienzi, too, was armed, strong, active, in
the prime of life;--and at the worst, there was no part of the building
whence his voice would not reach those within the chapel,--if they could
be depended upon.
“Shew me then thy place and means of entrance,” said he; “and if I but
suspect thee as we move--thou diest. Take up the lamp.”
The ruffian nodded; with his left hand took up the lamp as he was
ordered; and with Rienzi’s grasp on his shoulder, while the wound from
his right arm dropped gore as he passed, he moved noiselessly along the
church--gained the altar--to the left of which was a small room for the
use or retirement of the priest. To this he made his way. Rienzi’s heart
misgave him a moment.
“Beware,” he whispered, “the least sign of fraud, and thou art the first
victim!”
The assassin nodded again, and proceeded. They entered the room; and
then the Tribune’s strange guide pointed to an open casement. “Behold my
entrance,” said he; “and, if you permit me, my egress--”
“The frog gets not out of the well so easily as he came in, friend,”
returned Rienzi, smiling. “And now, if I am not to call my guards, what
am I to do with thee!”
“Let me go, and I will seek thee tomorrow; and if thou payest me
handsomely, and promisest not to harm limb or life, I will put thine
enemies and my employers in thy power.”
Rienzi could not refrain from a slight laugh at the proposition, but
composing himself, replied--“And what if I call my attendants, and give
thee to their charge?”
“Thou givest me to those very enemies and employers; and in despair lest
I betray them, ere the day dawn they cut my throat--or thine.”
“Methinks knave, I have seen thee before.”
“Thou hast. I blush not for name or country. I am Rodolf of Saxony!”
“I remember me:--servitor of Walter de Montreal. He, then, is thy
instigator!”
“Roman, no! That noble Knight scorns other weapon than the open sword,
and his own hand slays his own foes. Your pitiful, miserable, dastard
Italians, alone employ the courage, and hire the arm, of others.”
Rienzi remained silent. He had released hold of his prisoner, and stood
facing him; every now and then regarding his countenance, and again
relapsing into thought. At length, casting his eyes round the small
chamber thus singularly tenanted, he observed a kind of closet, in which
the priests’ robes, and some articles used in the sacred service, were
contained. It suggested at once an escape from his dilemma: he pointed
to it--
“There, Rodolf of Saxony, shalt thou pass some part of this night--a
small penance for thy meditated crime; and tomorrow, as thou lookest for
life, thou wilt reveal all.”
“Hark, ye, Tribune,” returned the Saxon, doggedly; “my liberty is in
your power, but neither my tongue nor my life. If I consent to be caged
in that hole, you must swear on the crossed hilt of the dagger that you
now hold, that, on confession of all I know, you pardon and set me free.
My employers are enough to glut your rage an’ you were a tiger. If you
do not swear this--”
“Ah, my modest friend!--the alternative?”
“I brain myself against the stone wall! Better such a death than the
rack!”
“Fool, I want not revenge against such as thou. Be honest, and I swear
that, twelve hours after thy confession, thou shalt stand safe and
unscathed without the walls of Rome. So help me our Lord and his
saints.”
“I am content!--Donner und Hagel, I have lived long enough to care only
for my own life, and the great captain’s next to it;--for the rest, I
reck not if ye southerns cut each other’s throats, and make all Italy
one grave.”
With this benevolent speech, Rodolf entered the closet; but ere Rienzi
could close the door, he stepped forth again--
“Hold,” said he: “this blood flows fast. Help me to bandage it, or I
shall bleed to death ere my confession.”
“Per fede,” said the Tribune, his strange humour enjoying the man’s cool
audacity; “but, considering the service thou wouldst have rendered me,
thou art the most pleasant, forbearing, unabashed, good fellow, I have
seen this many a year. Give us thine own belt. I little thought my first
eve of knighthood would have been so charitably spent!”
“Methinks these robes would make a better bandage,” said Rodolf,
pointing to the priests’ gear suspended from the wall.
“Silence, knave,” said the Tribune, frowning; “no sacrilege! Yet, as
thou takest such dainty care of thyself, thou shalt have mine own scarf
to accommodate thee.”
With that the Tribune, placing his dagger on the ground, while he
cautiously guarded it with his foot, bound up the wounded limb, for
which condescension Rodolf gave him short thanks; resumed his weapon and
lamp; closed the door; drew over it the long, heavy bolt without, and
returned to his couch, deeply and indignantly musing over the treason he
had so fortunately escaped.
At the first grey streak of dawn he went out of the great door of the
church, called the sentry, who was one of his own guard, and bade him
privately, and now ere the world was astir, convey the prisoner to one
of the private dungeons of the Capitol. “Be silent,” said he: “utter not
a word of this to any one; be obedient, and thou shalt be promoted. This
done, find out the councillor, Pandulfo di Guido, and bid him seek me
here ere the crowd assemble.”
He then, making the sentinel doff his heavy shoes of iron, led him
across the church, resigned Rodolf to his care, saw them depart, and
in a few minutes afterwards his voice was heard by the inmates of the
neighbouring chapel; and he was soon surrounded by his train.
He was already standing on the floor, wrapped in a large gown lined with
furs; and his piercing eye scanned carefully the face of each man that
approached. Two of the Barons of the Frangipani family exhibited
some tokens of confusion and embarrassment, from which they speedily
recovered at the frank salutation of the Tribune.
But all the art of Savelli could not prevent his features from betraying
to the most indifferent eye the terror of his soul;--and, when he felt
the penetrating gaze of Rienzi upon him, he trembled in every joint.
Rienzi alone did not, however, seem to notice his disorder; and when
Vico di Scotto, an old knight, from whose hands he received his sword,
asked him how he had passed the night, he replied, cheerfully--
“Well, well--my brave friend! Over a maiden knight some good angel
always watches. Signor Luca di Savelli, I fear you have slept but ill:
you seem pale. No matter!--our banquet today will soon brighten the
current of your gay blood.”
“Blood, Tribune!” said di Scotto, who was innocent of the plot: “Thou
sayest blood, and lo! on the floor are large gouts of it not yet dry.”
“Now, out on thee, old hero, for betraying my awkwardness! I pricked
myself with my own dagger in unrobing. Thank Heaven it hath no poison in
its blade!”
The Frangipani exchanged looks,--Luca di Savelli clung to a column for
support,--and the rest of the attendants seemed grave and surprised.
“Think not of it, my masters,” said Rienzi: “it is a good omen,
and a true prophecy. It implies that he who girds on his sword
for the good of the state, must be ready to spill his blood for it:
that am I. No more of this--a mere scratch: it gave more
blood than I recked of from so slight a puncture, and saves
the leech the trouble of the lancet. How brightly breaks the day!
We must prepare to meet our fellow-citizens--they will be here anon.
Ha, my Pandulfo--welcome!--thou, my old friend, shalt buckle on this
mantle!”
And while Pandulfo was engaged in the task, the Tribune whispered a few
words in his ear, which, by the smile on his countenance, seemed to the
attendants one of the familiar jests with which Rienzi distinguished his
intercourse with his more confidential intimates.