Montreal was sitting at the head of a table, surrounded by men, some
military, some civil, whom he called his councillors, and with whom
he apparently debated all his projects. These men, drawn from various
cities, were intimately acquainted with the internal affairs of the
several states to which they belonged. They could tell to a fraction
the force of a signor, the wealth of a merchant, the power of a mob. And
thus, in his lawless camp, Montreal presided, not more as a general than
a statesman. Such knowledge was invaluable to the chief of the Great
Company. It enabled him to calculate exactly the time to attack a foe,
and the sum to demand for a suppression of hostilities. He knew what
parties to deal with--where to importune--where to forbear. And it
usually happened that, by some secret intrigue, the appearance of
Montreal’s banner before the walls of a city was the signal for some
sedition or some broil within. It may be that he thus also promoted an
ulterior, as well as his present, policy.
The divan were in full consultation when an officer entered, and
whispered a few words in Montreal’s ear. His eyes brightened. “Admit
him,” he said hastily. “Messires,” he added to his councillors, rubbing
his hands, “I think our net has caught our bird. Let us see.”
At this moment the drapery was lifted and the Knight admitted.
“How!” muttered Montreal, changing colour, and in evident
disappointment. “Am I to be ever thus balked?”
“Sir Walter de Montreal,” said the prisoner, “I am once more your guest.
In these altered features you perhaps scarcely recognise Adrian di
Castello.”
“Pardon me, noble Signor,” said Montreal, rising with great courtesy;
“the mistake of my varlets disturbed my recollection for a moment.--I
rejoice once more to press a hand that has won so many laurels since
last we parted. Your renown has been grateful to my ears. Ho!” continued
the chieftain, clapping his hands, “see to the refreshment and repose
of this noble Cavalier and his attendants. Lord Adrian, I will join you
presently.”
Adrian withdrew. Montreal, forgetful of his councillors, traversed his
tent with hasty strides; then summoning the officer who had admitted
Adrian, he said, “Count Landau still keeps the pass?”
“Yes, General!”
“Hie thee fast back, then--the ambuscade must tarry till nightfall. We
have trapped the wrong fox.”
The officer departed, and shortly afterwards Montreal broke up the
divan. He sought Adrian, who was lodged in a tent beside his own.
“My Lord,” said Montreal, “it is true that my men had orders to stop
every one on the roads towards Florence. I am at war with that city. Yet
I expected a very different prisoner from you. Need I add, that you and
your men are free?”
“I accept the courtesy, noble Montreal, as frankly as it is rendered.
May I hope hereafter to repay it? Meanwhile permit me, without any
disrespect, to say that had I learned the Grand Company was in this
direction, I should have altered my course. I had heard that your arms
were bent (somewhat to my mind more nobly) against Malatesta, the tyrant
of Rimini!”
“They were so. He was my foe; he is my tributary. We conquered him. He
paid us the price of his liberty. We marched by Asciano upon Sienna.
For sixteen thousand florins we spared that city; and we now hang like
a thunderbolt over Florence, which dared to send her puny aid to the
defence of Rimini. Our marches are forced and rapid and our camp in this
plain but just pitched.”
“I hear that the Grand Company is allied with Albornoz, and that its
General is secretly the soldier of the Church. Is it so?”
“Ay--Albornoz and I understand one another,” replied Montreal,
carelessly; “and not the less so that we have a mutual foe; whom both
are sworn to crush, in Visconti, the archbishop of Milan.”
“Visconti! the most potent of the Italian princes. That he has justly
incurred the wrath of the Church I know--and I can readily understand
that Innocent has revoked the pardon which the intrigues of the
Archbishop purchased from Clement VI. But I do not see clearly why
Montreal should willingly provoke so dark and terrible a foe.”
Montreal smiled sternly. “Know you not,” he said, “the vast ambition of
that Visconti? By the Holy Sepulchre, he is precisely the enemy my soul
leaps to meet! He has a genius worthy to cope with Montreal’s. I have
made myself master of his secret plans--they are gigantic! In a word,
the Archbishop designs the conquest of all Italy. His enormous wealth
purchases the corrupt--his dark sagacity ensnares the credulous--his
daring valour awes the weak. Every enemy he humbles--every ally he
enslaves. This is precisely the Prince whose progress Walter de Montreal
must arrest. For this (he said in a whisper as to himself) is precisely
the Prince who, if suffered to extend his power, will frustrate the
plans and break the force of Walter de Montreal.”
Adrian was silent, and for the first time a suspicion of the real nature
of the Provencal’s designs crossed his breast.
“But, noble Montreal,” resumed the Colonna, “give me, if your knowledge
serves, as no doubt it does,--give me the latest tidings of my native
city. I am Roman, and Rome is ever in my thoughts.”
“And well she may,” replied Montreal, quickly. “Thou knowest that
Albornoz, as Legate of the Pontiff, led the army of the Church into the
Papal Territories. He took with him Cola di Rienzi. Arrived at Monte
Fiascone, crowds of Romans of all ranks hastened thither to render
homage to the Tribune. The Legate was forgotten in the popularity of
his companion. Whether or not Albornoz grew jealous--for he is proud as
Lucifer--of the respect paid to the Tribune, or whether he feared the
restoration of his power, I cannot tell. But he detained him in his
camp, and refused to yield him to all the solicitations and all the
deputations of the Romans. Artfully, however, he fulfilled one of the
real objects of Rienzi’s release. Through his means he formally regained
the allegiance of Rome to the Church, and by the attraction of his
presence swelled his camp with Roman recruits. Marching to Viterbo,
Rienzi distinguished himself greatly in deeds of arms against the tyrant
(“Vita di Cola di Rienzi”.) John di Vico. Nay, he fought as one worthy
of belonging to the Grand Company. This increased the zeal of the
Romans; and the city disgorged half its inhabitants to attend the person
of the bold Tribune. To the entreaties of these worthy citizens (perhaps
the very men who had before shut up their darling in St. Angelo) the
crafty Legate merely replied, ‘Arm against John di Vico--conquer the
tyrants of the Territory--re-establish the patrimony of St. Peter, and
Rienzi shall then be proclaimed Senator, and return to Rome.’
“These words inspired the Romans with so great a zeal, that they
willingly lent their aid to the Legate. Aquapendente, Bolzena yielded,
John di Vico was half reduced and half terrified into submission, and
Gabrielli, the tyrant of Agobbio, has since succumbed. The glory is to
the Cardinal, but the merit with Rienzi.”
“And now?”
“Albornoz continued to entertain the Senator-Tribune with great
splendour and fair words, but not a word about restoring him to Rome.
Wearied with this suspense, I have learned by secret intelligence that
Rienzi has left the camp, and betaken himself with few attendants to
Florence, where he has friends, who will provide him with arms and money
to enter Rome.”
“Ah then! now I guess,” said Adrian, with a half smile, “for whom I was
mistaken!”
Montreal blushed slightly. “Fairly conjectured!” said he.
“Meanwhile, at Rome,” continued the Provencal--“at Rome, your worthy
House, and that of the Orsini, being elected to the supreme power,
quarrelled among themselves, and could not keep the authority they had
won. Francesco Baroncelli, (This Baroncelli, who has been introduced to
the reader in a former portion of this work, is called by Matteo Villani
“a man of vile birth and little learning--he had been a Notary of the
Capitol.” In the midst of the armed dissensions between the Barons,
which followed the expulsion of Rienzi, Baroncelli contrived to make
himself Master of the Capitol, and of what was considered an auxiliary
of no common importance--viz. the Great Bell, by whose alarum Rienzi
had so often summoned to arms the Roman people. Baroncelli was crowned
Tribune, clothed in a robe of gold brocade, and invested with the
crozier-sceptre of Rienzi. At first, his cruelty against the great took
the appearance of protection to the humble; but the excesses of his sons
(not exaggerated in the text), and his own brutal but bold ferocity,
soon made him execrated by the people, to whom he owed his elevation. He
had the folly to declare against the Pope; and this it really was that
mainly induced Innocent to restore, and oppose to their New Demagogue,
the former and more illustrious Tribune. Baroncelli, like Rienzi, was
excommunicated; and in his instance, also, the curse of the Church
was the immediate cause of his downfall. In attempting flight he was
massacred by the mob, December, 1353. Some, however, have maintained
that he was slain in combat with Rienzi; and others, by a confusion
of dates, have made him succeed to Rienzi on the death of the
latter.--Matteo Villani, lib. iii. cap. 78. Osservaz. Stor. di Zefirino
Re. MS. Vat. Rip. dal Bzovio, ann. 1353. N. 2.) a new demagogue, a
humble imitator of Rienzi, rose upon the ruins of the peace broken by
the nobles, obtained the title of Tribune, and carried about the very
insignia used by his predecessor. But less wise than Rienzi, he took
the antipapal party. And the Legate was thus enabled to play the papal
demagogue against the usurper. Baroncelli was a weak man, his sons
committed every excess in mimicry of the highborn tyrants of Padua and
Milan. Virgins violated and matrons dishonoured, somewhat contrasted the
solemn and majestic decorum of Rienzi’s rule;--in fine, Baroncelli fell
massacred by the people. And now, if you ask what rules Rome, I answer,
‘It is the hope of Rienzi.’”
“A strange man, and various fortunes. What will be the end of both!”
“Swift murder to the first, and eternal fame to the last,” answered
Montreal, calmly. “Rienzi will be restored; that brave phoenix will wing
its way through storm and cloud to its own funereal pyre: I foresee, I
compassionate, I admire.--And then,” added Montreal, “I look beyond!”
“But wherefore feel you so certain that, if restored, Rienzi must fall?”
“Is it not clear to every eye, save his, whom ambition blinds? How can
mortal genius, however great, rule that most depraved people by popular
means? The Barons--(you know their indomitable ferocity)--wedded to
abuse, and loathing every semblance to law; the Barons, humbled for
a moment, will watch their occasion, and rise. The people will again
desert. Or else, grown wise in one respect by experience, the new
Senator will see that popular favour has a loud voice, but a recreant
arm. He will, like the Barons, surround himself by foreign swords. A
detachment from the Grand Company will be his courtiers; they will be
his masters! To pay them the people must be taxed. Then the idol is
execrated. No Italian hand can govern these hardy demons of the north;
they will mutiny and fall away. A new demagogue will lead on the people,
and Rienzi will be the victim. Mark my prophecy!”
“And then the ‘beyond’ to which you look?”
“Utter prostration of Rome, for new and long ages; God makes not two
Rienzis; or,” said Montreal, proudly, “the infusion of a new life into
the worn-out and diseased frame,--the foundation of a new dynasty.
Verily, when I look around me, I believe that the Ruler of nations
designs the restoration of the South by the irruptions of the North; and
that out of the old Franc and Germanic race will be built up the thrones
of the future world!”
As Montreal thus spoke, leaning on his great war-sword, with his fair
and heroic features--so different, in their frank, bold, fearless
expression, from the dark and wily intellect that characterises
the lineaments of the South--eloquent at once with enthusiasm and
thought--he might have seemed no unfitting representative of the genius
of that northern chivalry of which he spake. And Adrian half fancied
that he saw before him one of the old Gothic scourges of the Western
World.
Their conversation was here interrupted by the sound of a trumpet, and
presently an officer entering, announced the arrival of ambassadors from
Florence.
“Again you must pardon me, noble Adrian,” said Montreal, “and let me
claim you as my guest at least for tonight. Here you may rest secure,
and on parting, my men shall attend you to the frontiers of whatsoever
territory you design to visit.”
Adrian, not sorry to see more of a man so celebrated, accepted the
invitation.
Left alone, he leaned his head upon his hand, and soon became lost in
his reflections.