Some few days after the date of the last chapter, Rienzi received
news from Rome, which seemed to produce in him a joyous and elated
excitement. His troops still lay before Palestrina, and still the
banners of the Barons waved over its unconquered walls. In truth, the
Italians employed half their time in brawls amongst themselves; the
Velletritrani had feuds with the people of Tivoli, and the Romans were
still afraid of conquering the Barons;--“The hornet,” said they, “stings
worse after he is dead; and neither an Orsini, a Savelli, nor a Colonna,
was ever known to forgive.”
Again and again had the captains of his army assured the indignant
Senator that the fortress was impregnable, and that time and money were
idly wasted upon the siege. Rienzi knew better, but he concealed his
thoughts.
He now summoned to his tent the brothers of Provence, and announced
to them his intention of returning instantly to Rome. “The mercenaries
shall continue the siege under our Lieutenant, and you, with my Roman
Legion, shall accompany me. Your brother, Sir Walter, and I, both want
your presence; we have affairs to arrange between us. After a few days I
shall raise recruits in the city, and return.”
This was what the brothers desired; they approved, with evident joy, the
Senator’s proposition.
Rienzi next sent for the lieutenant of his bodyguard, the same Riccardo
Annibaldi whom the reader will remember in the earlier part of this
work, as the antagonist of Montreal’s lance. This young man--one of
the few nobles who espoused the cause of the Senator--had evinced great
courage and military ability, and promised fair (should Fate spare his
life (It appears that this was the same Annibaldi who was afterwards
slain in an affray:--Petrarch lauds his valour and laments his fate.))
to become one of the best Captains of his time.
“Dear Annibaldi,” said Rienzi; “at length I can fulfil the project
on which we have privately conferred. I take with me to Rome the two
Provencal Captains--I leave you chief of the army. Palestrina will yield
now--eh!--ha, ha, ha!--Palestrina will yield now!”
“By my right hand, I think so, Senator,” replied Annibaldi. “These
foreigners have hitherto only stirred up quarrels amongst ourselves, and
if not cowards are certainly traitors!”
“Hush, hush, hush! Traitors! The learned Arimbaldo, the brave Brettone,
traitors! Fie on it! No, no; they are very excellent, honourable men,
but not lucky in the camp;--not lucky in the camp;--better speed to them
in the city! And now to business.”
The Senator then detailed to Annibaldi the plan he himself had formed
for taking the town, and the military skill of Annibaldi at once
recognised its feasibility.
With his Roman troop, and Montreal’s brothers, one at either hand,
Rienzi then departed to Rome.
That night Montreal gave a banquet to Pandulfo di Guido, and to certain
of the principal citizens, whom one by one he had already sounded, and
found hollow at heart to the cause of the Senator.
Pandulfo sate at the right hand of the Knight of St. John, and Montreal
lavished upon him the most courteous attentions.
“Pledge me in this--it is from the Vale of Chiana, near Monte Pulciano,”
said Montreal. “I think I have heard bookmen say (you know, Signor
Pandulfo, we ought all to be bookmen now!) that the site was renowned of
old. In truth, the wine hath a racy flavour.”
“I hear,” said Bruttini, one of the lesser Barons, (a stanch friend
to the Colonna,) “that in this respect the innkeeper’s son has put his
book-learning to some use: he knows every place where the wine grows
richest.”
“What! the Senator is turned wine-bibber!” said Montreal, quaffing a
vast goblet full; “that must unfit him for business--‘tis a pity.”
“Verily, yes,” said Pandulfo; “a man at the head of a state should be
temperate--I never drink wine unmixed.”
“Ah,” whispered Montreal, “if your calm good sense ruled Rome,
then, indeed, the metropolis of Italy might taste of peace. Signor
Vivaldi,”--and the host turned towards a wealthy draper,--“these
disturbances are bad for trade.”
“Very, very!” groaned the draper.
“The Barons are your best customers,” quoth the minor noble.
“Much, much!” said the draper.
“‘Tis a pity that they are thus roughly expelled,” said Montreal, in a
melancholy tone. “Would it not be possible, if the Senator (I drink
his health) were less rash--less zealous, rather,--to unite free
institutions with the return of the Barons?--such should be the task of
a truly wise statesman!”
“It surely might be possible,” returned Vivaldi; “the Savelli alone
spend more with me than all the rest of Rome.”
“I know not if it be possible,” said Bruttini; “but I do know that it is
an outrage to all decorum that an innkeeper’s son should be enabled to
make a solitude of the palaces of Rome.”
“It certainly seems to indicate too vulgar a desire of mob favour,” said
Montreal. “However, I trust we shall harmonize all these differences.
Rienzi, perhaps,--nay, doubtless, means well!”
“I would,” said Vivaldi, who had received his cue, “that we might form
a mixed constitution--Plebeians and Patricians, each in their separate
order.”
“But,” said Montreal, gravely, “so new an experiment would demand great
physical force.”
“Why, true; but we might call in an umpire--a foreigner who had no
interest in either faction--who might protect the new Buono Stato; a
Podesta, as we have done before--Brancaleone, for instance. How well
and wisely he ruled! that was a golden age for Rome. A Podesta for
ever!--that’s my theory.”
“You need not seek far for the president of your council,” said
Montreal, smiling at Pandulfo; “a citizen at once popular, well-born,
and wealthy, may be found at my right hand.”
Pandulfo hemmed, and coloured.
Montreal proceeded. “A committee of trades might furnish an honourable
employment to Signor Vivaldi; and the treatment of all foreign
affairs--the employment of armies, &c., might be left to the Barons,
with a more open competition, Signor di Bruttini, to the Barons of
the second order than has hitherto been conceded to their birth and
importance. Sirs, will you taste the Malvoisie?”
“Still,” said Vivaldi, after a pause--(Vivaldi anticipated at least the
supplying with cloth the whole of the Grand Company)--“still, such a
moderate and well-digested constitution would never be acceded to by
Rienzi.”
“Why should it? what need of Rienzi?” exclaimed Bruttini. “Rienzi may
take another trip to Bohemia.”
“Gently, gently,” said Montreal; “I do not despair. All open violence
against the Senator would strengthen his power. No, no, humble
him--admit the Barons, and then insist on your own terms. Between the
two factions you might then establish a fitting balance. And in order
to keep your new constitution from the encroachment of either extreme,
there are warriors and knights, too, who for a certain rank in the
great city of Rome would maintain horse and foot at its service.
We Ultra-Montanes are often harshly judged; we are wanderers and
Ishmaelites, solely because we have no honourable place of rest. Now, if
I--”
“Ay, if you, noble Montreal!” said Vivaldi.
The company remained hushed in breathless attention, when suddenly there
was heard--deep, solemn, muffled,--the great bell of the Capitol!
“Hark!” said Vivaldi, the bell: “It tolls for execution: an unwonted
hour!”
“Sure, the Senator has not returned!” exclaimed Pandulfo di Guido,
turning pale.
“No, no,” quoth Bruttini, “it is but a robber, caught two nights ago in
Romagna. I heard that he was to die tonight.”
At the word “robber,” Montreal changed countenance slightly. The wine
circulated--the bell continued to toll--its suddenness over, it ceased
to alarm. Conversation flowed again.
“What were you saying, Sir Knight?” said Vivaldi.
“Why, let me think on’t;--oh, speaking of the necessity of supporting a
new state by force, I said that if I--”
“Ah, that was it!” quoth Bruttini, thumping the table.
“If I were summoned to your aid--summoned, mind ye, and absolved by the
Pope’s Legate of my former sins--(they weigh heavily on me, gentles)--I
would myself guard your city from foreign foe and civil disturbance,
with my gallant swordsmen. Not a Roman citizen should contribute a
‘danaro’ to the cost.”
“Viva Fra Moreale!” cried Bruttini; and the shout was echoed by all the
boon companions.
“Enough for me,” continued Montreal, “to expiate my offences. Ye know,
gentlemen, my order is vowed to God and the Church--a warrior-monk am I!
Enough for me to expiate my offences, I say, in the defence of the Holy
City. Yet I, too, have my private and more earthly views,--who is above
them? I--the bell changes its note!”
“It is but the change that preludes execution--the poor robber is about
to die!”
Montreal crossed himself, and resumed:--“I am a knight and a noble,”
said he, proudly; “the profession I have followed is that of arms;
but--I will not disguise it--mine equals have regarded me as one who has
stained his scutcheon by too reckless a pursuit of glory and of gain.
I wish to reconcile myself with my order--to purchase a new name--to
vindicate myself to the Grand Master and the Pontiff. I have had hints,
gentles,--hints, that I might best promote my interest by restoring
order to the Papal metropolis. The Legate Albornoz (here is his letter)
recommends me to keep watch upon the Senator.”
“Surely,” interrupted Pandulfo, “I hear steps below.”
“The mob going to the robber’s execution,” said Bruttini; “proceed, Sir
Knight!”
“And,” continued Montreal, surveying his audience before he proceeded
farther, “what think ye--(I do but ask your opinion, wiser than
mine)--what think ye, as a fitting precaution against too arbitrary a
power in the Senator--what think ye of the return of the Colonna, and
the bold Barons of Palestrina?”
“Here’s to their health!” cried Vivaldi, rising.
As by a sudden impulse, the company rose. “To the health of the besieged
Barons!” was shouted aloud.
“Next, what if--(I do but humbly suggest)--what if you gave the Senator
a colleague?--it is no affront to him. It was but as yesterday that
one of the Colonna, who was Senator, received a colleague in Bertoldo
Orsini.”
“A most wise precaution,” cried Vivaldi. “And where a colleague like
Pandulfo di Guido?”
“Viva Pandulfo di Guido!” cried the guests, and again their goblets were
drained to the bottom.
“And if in this I can assist ye by fair words with the Senator, (ye
know he owes me monies--my brothers have served him), command Walter de
Montreal.”
“And if fair words fail?” said Vivaldi.
“The Grand Company--(heed me, ye are the counsellors)--the Grand Company
is accustomed to forced marches!”
“Viva Fra Moreale!” cried Bruttini and Vivaldi, simultaneously. “A
health to all, my friends;” continued Bruttini; “a health to the Barons,
Rome’s old friends; to Pandulfo di Guido, the Senator’s new colleague,
and to Fra Moreale, Rome’s new Podesta.”
“The bell has ceased,” said Vivaldi, putting down his goblet.
“Heaven have mercy on the robber!” added Bruttini.
Scarce had he spoken, ere three taps were heard at the door--the guests
looked at each other in dumb amaze.
“New guests!” said Montreal. “I asked some trusty friends to join us
this evening. By my faith they are welcome! Enter!”
The door opened slowly; three by three entered, in complete armour, the
guards of the Senator. On they marched, regular and speechless. They
surrounded the festive board--they filled the spacious hall, and the
lights of the banquet were reflected upon their corselets as on a wall
of steel.
Not a syllable was uttered by the feasters, they were as if turned to
stone. Presently the guards gave way, and Rienzi himself appeared. He
approached the table, and folding his arms, turned his gaze deliberately
from guest to guest, till at last, his eyes rested on Montreal, who had
also risen, and who alone of the party had recovered the amaze of the
moment.
And there, as these two men, each so celebrated, so proud, able, and
ambitious, stood, front to front--it was literally as if the rival
Spirits of Force and Intellect, Order and Strife, of the Falchion and
the Fasces--the Antagonist Principles by which empires are ruled and
empires overthrown, had met together, incarnate and opposed. They
stood, both silent,--as if fascinated by each other’s gaze,--loftier in
stature, and nobler in presence than all around.
Montreal spoke first, and with a forced smile.
“Senator of Rome!--dare I believe that my poor banquet tempts thee, and
may I trust that these armed men are a graceful compliment to one to
whom arms have been a pastime?”
Rienzi answered not, but waved his hand to his guards. Montreal was
seized on the instant. Again he surveyed the guests--as a bird from the
rattle-snake,--shrunk Pandulfo di Guido, trembling, motionless, aghast,
from the glittering eye of the Senator. Slowly Rienzi raised his
fatal hand towards the unhappy citizen--Pandulfo saw,--felt his
doom,--shrieked,--and fell senseless in the arms of the soldiers.
One other and rapid glance cast the Senator round the board, and then,
with a disdainful smile, as if anxious for no meaner prey, turned away.
Not a breath had hitherto passed his lips--all had been dumb
show--and his grim silence had imparted a more freezing terror to his
unguessed-for apparition. Only, when he reached the door, he turned
back, gazed upon the Knight of St. John’s bold and undaunted face,
and said, almost in a whisper, “Walter de Montreal!--you heard the
death-knell!”