When on the morrow, towards the twenty-second hour, the High and Mighty
Gian Maria Sforza rode into his capital at Babbiano, he found the city
in violent turmoil, occasioned, as he rightly guessed, by the ominous
presence of Caesar Borgia's envoy.
A dense and sullen crowd met him at the Porta Romana, and preserved a
profound silence as he rode into the city, accompanied by Alvari and
Santi, and surrounded by his escort of twenty spears in full armour.
There was a threat in that silence more ominous than any vociferations,
and very white was the Duke's face as he darted scowls of impotent anger
this way and that. But there was worse to come. As they rode up the
Borgo dell' Annunziata the crowd thickened, and the silence was now
replaced by a storm of hooting and angry cries. The people became
menacing, and by Armstadt's orders--the Duke was by now too paralysed
with fear to issue any--the men-at-arms lowered their pikes in order to
open a way, whilst one or two of the populace, who were thrust too near
the cavalcade by the surging human tide, went down and were trampled
under foot.
Satirical voices asked the Duke derisively was he wed, and where might
be his uncle-in-law's spears that were to protect them against the
Borgia. Some demanded to know whither the last outrageous levy of taxes
was gone, and where was the army it should have served to raise. To
this, others replied for the Duke, suggesting a score of vile uses to
which the money had been put.
Then, of a sudden, a cry of “Murderer!” arose, followed by angry demands
that he should restore life to the valiant Ferrabraccio, to Amerini, the
people's friend, and to those others whom he had lately butchered, or
else follow them in death. Lastly the name of the Count of Aquila rang
wildly in his ears, provoking a storm of “Evviva! Live Francesco del
Falco!” and one persistent voice, sounding loudly above the others,
styled him already “il Duca Francesco.” At that the blood mounted to
Gian Maria's brain, and a wave of anger beat back the fear from his
heart. He rose in his stirrups, his eyes ablaze with the jealous wrath
that possessed him.
“Ser Martino!” he roared hoarsely to his captain. “Couch lances and go
through them at the gallop!”
The burly Swiss hesitated, brave man though he was. Alvaro de' Alvari
and Gismondo Santi looked at each other in alarm, and the intrepid
old statesman, in whose heart no pang of fear had been awakened by the
rabble's threatening bay, changed colour as he heard that order given.
“Highness,” he implored the Duke, “You cannot mean this.”
“Not mean it?” flashed back Gian Maria, his eye travelling from Santi to
the hesitating captain. “Fool!” he blazed at the latter. “Brute beast,
for what do you wait? Did you not hear me?”
Without a second's delay the captain now raised his sword, and his deep,
guttural voice barked an order to his men which brought their lances
below the horizontal. The mob, too, had heard that fierce command, and
awakening to their peril, those nearest the cavalcade would have fallen
back but that the others, pressing tightly from behind, held them in the
death-tide that now swept by with clattering arms and hoarse cries.
Shrieks filled the air where lately threats had been loudly tossed. But
some there were in that crowd that would be no passive witnesses of this
butchery. Half the stones of the borgo went after that cavalcade, and
fell in a persistent shower upon them, rattling like giant hail upon
their armour, dinting many a steel-cap to its wearer's sore discomfort.
The Duke himself was struck twice, and on Santi's unprotected scalp an
ugly wound was opened from which the blood flowed in profusion to dye
his snowy locks.
In this undignified manner they reached, at last, the Palazzo Ducale,
leaving a trail of dead and maimed to mark the way by which they had
come.
In a white heat of passion Gian Maria sought his apartments, and came
not forth again until, some two hours later, the presence was announced
him of the emissary from Caesar Borgia, Duke of Valentinois, who sought
an audience.
Still beside himself, and boiling with wrath at the indignities he
had received, Gian Maria--in no mood for an interview that would
have demanded coolness and presence of mind from a keener brain than
his--received the envoy, a gloomy, priestly-faced Spaniard, in the
throne-room of the Palace. The Duke was attended by Alvari, Santi, and
Fabrizio da Lodi, whilst his mother, Caterina Colonna, occupied a chair
of crimson velvet on which the Sforza lion was wrought in gold.
The interview was brief, and marked by a rudeness at its close that
contrasted sharply with the ceremoniousness of its inception. It soon
became clear that the ambassador's true mission was to pick a quarrel
with Babbiano on his master's behalf, to the end that the Borgia might
be afforded a sound pretext for invading the Duchy. He demanded,
at first politely and calmly, and later--when denied--with arrogant
insistance, that Gian Maria should provide the Duke of Valentinois with
a hundred lances--equivalent to five hundred men--as some contribution
on his part towards the stand which Caesar Borgia meant to make against
the impending French invasion.
Gian Maria never heeded the restraining words which Lodi whispered in
his ear, urging him to temporise, and to put off this messenger until
the alliance with the house of Urbino should be complete and their
position strengthened sufficiently to permit them to brave the anger of
Caesar Borgia. But neither this nor the wrathful, meaning glances which
his cunning mother bent upon him served to curb him. He obeyed only the
voice of his headstrong mood, never dreaming of the consequences with
which he might be visited.
“You will bear to the Duca Valentino this message from me,” he said,
in conclusion. “You will tell him that what lances I have in Babbiano I
intend to keep, that with them I may defend my own frontiers against his
briganding advances. Messer da Lodi,” he added, turning to Fabrizio and
without so much as waiting to see if the envoy had anything further to
say, “let this gentleman be reconducted to his quarters, and see that he
has safe conduct hence until he is out of our Duchy.”
When the envoy, crimson of face and threatening of eye, had withdrawn
under Lodi's escort, Monna Caterina rose, the very incarnation of
outraged patience, and poured her bitter invective upon her rash son's
head.
“Fool!” she stormed at him. “There goes your Duchy--in the hollow of
that man's hand.” Then she laughed in bitterness. “After all, in casting
it from you, perhaps you have chosen the wiser course, for, as truly as
there is a God in Heaven, you are utterly unfitted to retain it.”
“My lady mother,” he answered her, with such dignity as he could muster
from the wretched heap in which his wits now seemed to lie, “you will
be well advised to devote yourself to your woman's tasks, and not to
interfere in a man's work.”
“Man's work!” she sneered. “And you perform it like a petulant boy or a
peevish woman.”
“I perform it, Madonna, as best seems to me, for it happens that I am
Duke of Babbiano,” he answered sullenly. “I do not fear any Pope's son
that ever stepped. The alliance with Urbino is all but completed. Let
that be established, and if Valentino shows his teeth--by God we'll show
ours.”
“Aye, but with this difference, that his are a wolf's teeth, and yours a
lamb's. Besides, this alliance with Urbino is all incomplete as yet. You
had been better advised to have sent away the envoy with some indefinite
promise that would have afforded you respite enough in which to seal
matters with the house of Montefeltro. As it is, your days are numbered.
Upon that message you have sent him Caesar will act at once. For my own
part, I have no mind to fall a prey to the invader, and I shall leave
Babbiano, and seek refuge in Naples. And if a last word of advice I may
offer you, it is that you do the same.”
Gian Maria rose and came down from the dais, eyeing her in a sort of
dull amazement. Then he looked, as if for help, to Alvari, to Santi,
and lastly to Lodi, who had returned while Caterina was speaking. But no
word said any of them, and grave were the eyes of all.
“Poor-spirited are you all!” he sneered. Then his face grew dark and his
tone concentrated. “Not so am I,” he assured them, “if in the past I may
have seemed it sometimes. I am aroused at length, sirs. I heard a voice
in the streets of Babbiano to-day, and I saw a sight that has put a
fire into my veins. This good-tempered, soft, indulgent Duke you knew
is gone. The lion is awake at last, and you shall see such things as you
had not dreamt of.”
They regarded him now with eyes in which the gravity was increased by a
light of fearsome wonder and inquiry. Was his mind giving way under the
prodigious strain that had been set upon it that day? If not madness,
what else did that wild boasting argue?
“Are you all dumb?” he asked them, his eyes feverish. “Or do you deem
that I promise more than is mine to fulfil. You shall judge, and soon.
To-morrow, my lady mother, whilst you journey south, as you have told
us, I go north again, back to Urbino. Not a day will I now waste. Within
the week, sirs, by God's grace, I shall be wed. That will give us Urbino
for a buckler, and with Urbino comes Perugia and Camerino. But more than
that. There is a princely dowry comes to us with the Lady Valentina. How
think you will I spend it? To the last florin it shall go to the arming
of men. I will hire me every free condotta in Italy. I will raise me
such an army as has never before been seen at any one time, and with
this I shall seek out the Duca Valentino. I'll not sit here at home
awaiting the pleasure of his coming, but I'll out to meet him, and with
that army I shall descend upon him as a thunderbolt out of Heaven. Aye,
my lady mother,” he laughed in his madness, “the lamb shall hunt the
wolf, and rend it so that it shall never stand again to prey on other
lambs. This will I do, my friends, and there shall be such fighting as
has not been seen since the long-dead days of Castracani.”
They stared at him, scarce believing now that he was sane, and
marvelling deeply whence had sprung this sudden martial fervour in one
whose nature was more indolent than active, more timid than warlike.
And yet the reason was not far to seek, had they but cared to follow the
line of thought to which he, himself, had given them the clue when he
referred to the voice he had heard, and the sights he had seen in the
streets of Babbiano. The voice was the voice that had acclaimed his
cousin Francesco Duke. That it was through that a fierce jealousy had
fired him. This man had robbed him at once of the love of his people
and of Valentina, and thereby had set in his heart the burning desire
to outdo him and to prove wrong in their preference both his people and
Valentina. He was like a gamer who risks all on a single throw, and his
stake was to be the dowry of his bride, the game a tilt with the forces
of the Borgia. If he won he came out covered with glory, and not only
the saviour of his people and the champion of their liberty, but a
glorious figure that all Italy--or, at least, that part of it that
had known the iron heel of Valentino--should revere. Thus would he
set himself right, and thus crush from their minds the memory of his
rebellious cousin with whom he was about to deal.
His mother turned to him now, and her words were words of caution,
prayers that he should adventure on naught so vast and appalling to her
woman's mind, without due thought and argument in council. A servant
entered at that moment, and approached the Duke.
“Madonna,” Gian Maria announced, breaking in upon her earnest words,
“I am fully resolved upon my course. If you will but delay a moment and
resume your seat, you shall witness the first scene of this great
drama that I am preparing.” Then turning to the waiting servant: “Your
message?” he demanded.
“Captain Armstadt has returned, Highness, and has brought his
Excellency.”
“Fetch lights and then admit them,” he commanded briefly. “To your
places, sirs, and you, my mother. I am about to sit in judgment.”
Amazed and uncomprehending, they obeyed his wild gestures, and resumed
their places by the throne even as he walked back to the dais and sat
himself upon the ducal chair. Servants entered, bearing great candelabra
of beaten gold which they set on table and overmantel. They withdrew,
and when the doors opened again, a clank of mail, reaching them from
without, increased the astonishment of the company.
This rose yet higher, and left them cold and speechless, when into the
chamber stepped the Count of Aquila with a man-at-arms on either side
of him, marking him a prisoner. With a swift, comprehensive glance that
took in the entire group about the throne--and without manifesting the
slightest surprise at Lodi's presence--Francesco stood still and awaited
his cousin's words.
He was elegantly dressed, but without lavishness, and if he had the air
of a great lord, it was rather derived from the distinction of his face
and carriage. He was without arms, and bareheaded save for the gold coif
he always wore, which seemed to accentuate the lustrous blackness of
his hair. His face was impassive, and the glance as that of a man rather
weary of the entertainment provided him.
There was an oppressive silence of some moments, during which his cousin
regarded him with an eye that glittered oddly. At last Gian Maria broke
into speech, his voice shrill with excitement.
“Know you of any reason,” he demanded, “why your head should not be
flaunted on a spear among those others on the Gate of San Bacolo?”
Francesco's eyebrows shot up in justifiable astonishment.
“I know of many,” he answered, with a smile, an answer which by its
simplicity seemed to nonplus the Duke.
“Let us hear some of them,” he challenged presently.
“Nay, let us hear, rather, some reason why my poor head should be so
harshly dealt with. When a man is rudely taken, as I have been, it is
a custom, which perhaps your Highness will follow, to afford him some
reason for the outrage.”
“You smooth-tongued traitor,” quoth the Duke, with infinite malice, made
angrier by his cousin's dignity. “You choicely-spoken villain! You would
learn why you have been taken? Tell me, sir, what did you at Acquasparta
on the morning of the Wednesday before Easter?”
The Count's impassive face remained inscrutable, a mask of patient
wonder. By the sudden clenching of his hands alone did he betray how
that thrust had smitten him, and his hands none there remarked. Fabrizio
da Lodi, standing behind the Duke, went pale to the lips.
“I do not recall that I did anything there of much account,” he
answered. “I breathed the good spring air in the woods.”
“And nothing else?” sneered Gian Maria.
“I can bethink me of little else that signifies. I met a lady there with
whom I had some talk, a friar, a fool, a popinjay, and some soldiers.
But,”--he shifted abruptly, his tone growing haughty--“whatever I did,
I did as best seemed to me, and I have yet to learn that the Count of
Aquila must give account of what he does and where he does it. You
have not told me yet, sir, by what right, or fancied right, you hold me
prisoner.”
“Have I not, indeed? See you no link between your offence and your
presence near Sant' Angelo on that day?”
“If I am to apprehend that you have had me brought here with this
indignity to set me riddles for your amusement, I am enlightened and yet
amazed. I am no court buffoon.”
“Words, words,” snapped the Duke. “Do not think to beguile me with
them.” With a short laugh he turned from Francesco to those upon the
dais. “You will be marvelling, sirs, and you, my lady mother, upon what
grounds I have had this traitor seized. You shall learn. On the night of
the Tuesday before Easter seven traitors met at Sant' Angelo to plot
my overthrow. Of those, the heads of four may be seen on the walls
of Babbiano now; the other three made off, but there stands one of
them--the one that was to have occupied this throne after they had
unseated me.”
The eyes of all were now upon the young Count, whilst his own glance
strayed to the face of Lodi, on which there was written a consternation
so great that it must have betrayed him had the Duke but chanced to look
his way. A pause ensued which none present dared to break. Gian
Maria seemed to await an answer from Francesco; but Francesco stood
impassively regarding him, and made no sign that he would speak. At
length, unable longer to endure the silence:
“E dunque?” cried the Duke. “Have you no answer?”
“I would submit,” returned Francesco, “that I have heard no question.
I heard a wild statement, extravagant and mad, the accusation of one
demented, a charge of which no proofs can be forthcoming, else I take
it you had not withheld them. I ask you, sirs, and you, Madonna,” he
continued, turning to the others, “has his Highness said anything to
which an answer can by any means be necessary?”
“Is it proofs you lack?” cried Gian Maria, but less confidently than
hitherto, and, so, less fiercely. A doubt had arisen in his mind born of
this strange calm on the part of Francesco--a calm that to Gian Maria's
perceptions seemed hardly the garb of guilt, but belonged rather to one
who is assured that no peril threatens him. “Is it proofs you lack?”
quoth the Duke again, and then with the air of a man launching an
unanswerable question: “How came you by the wound you had that day in
the woods?”
A smile quivered on Francesco's face, and was gone.
“I asked for proofs, not questions,” he protested wearily. “What shall
it prove if I had a hundred wounds?”
“Prove?” echoed the Duke, less and less confident of his ground, fearing
already that he had perhaps gone too fast and too far upon the road of
his suspicions. “It proves to me, when coupled with your presence there,
that you were in the fight the night before.”
Francesco stirred at that. He sighed and smiled at once. Then assuming a
tone of brisk command:
“Bid these men begone,” he said, pointing to his guards. “Then hear me
scatter your foul suspicions as the hurricane scatters the leaves in
autumn.”
Gian Maria stared at him in stupefaction. That overwhelming assurance,
that lofty, dignified bearing which made such a noble contrast with
his own coarse hectoring, were gradually undermining more and more
his confidence. With a wave of his hand he motioned the soldiers to
withdraw, obeying almost unconsciously the master-mind of his cousin by
which he was as unconsciously being swayed.
“Now, Highness,” said Francesco, as soon as the men were gone, “before
I refute the charge you make, let me clearly understand it. From the
expressions you have used I gather it to be this: A conspiracy was laid
a little time ago at Sant' Angelo which had for object to supplant you
on the throne of Babbiano and set me in your place. You charge me with
having had in that conspiracy a part--the part assigned to me. It is so,
is it not?”
Gian Maria nodded.
“You have put it very clearly,” he sneered. “If you can make out your
innocence as clearly, I shall be satisfied that I have wronged you.”
“That this conspiracy took place we will accept as proven, although to
the people of Babbiano the proof may have seemed scant. A man, since
dead, had told your Highness that such a plot was being hatched. Hardly,
perhaps, in itself, evidence enough to warrant setting the heads of four
very valiant gentlemen on spears, but no doubt your Highness had other
proofs to which the rest of us had no access.”
Gian Maria shivered at the words. He recalled what Francesco had said
on the occasion of their last talk upon this very subject; he remembered
the manner of his own reception that day in Babbiano.
“We must be content that it is so,” calmly pursued Francesco. “Indeed,
your Highness's action in the matter leaves no doubt. We will accept,
then, that such a plot was laid, but that I had a part in it, that I was
the man chosen to take your place--need I prove the idleness of such a
charge?”
“You need, in truth. By God! you need, if you would save your head.”
The Count stood in an easy posture, his hands clasped behind his back,
and smiled up at his cousin's pale face and scowling brow.
“How mysterious are the ways of your justice, Cousin,” he murmured, with
infinite relish; “what a wondrous equity invests your methods! You have
me dragged here by force, and sitting there, you say to me: 'Prove that
you have not conspired against me, or the headsman shall have you!' By
my faith! Soloman was a foolish prattler when compared with you.”
Gian Maria smote the gilded arm of his chair a blow for which he was to
find his hand blackened on the morrow.
“Prove it!” he screamed, like a child in a pet. “Prove it, prove it,
prove it!”
“And have my words not already proven it?” quoth the Count, in a voice
of such mild wonder and gentle protest that it left Gian Maria gasping.
Then the Duke made a hasty gesture of impatience.
“Messer Alvari,” he said, in a voice of concentrated rage, “I think you
had best recall the guard.”
“Wait!” the Count compelled him, raising his hand. And now it was
seen that the easy insouciance was gone from his face: the smile had
vanished, and in its place there was a look of lofty and contemptuous
wrath. “I will repeat my words. You have dragged me here before you by
force, and, sitting there on the throne of Babbiano, you say: 'Prove
that you have not conspired against me if you would save your head.'”
A second he paused, and noted the puzzled look with which all regarded
him.
“Is this a parable?” sneered the uncomprehending Duke.
“You have said it,” flashed back Francesco. “A parable it is. And if you
consider it, does it not afford you proof enough?” he asked, a note of
triumph in his voice. “Do not our relative positions irrefutably show
the baselessness of this your charge? Should I stand here and you
sit there if what you allege against me were true?” He laughed almost
savagely, and his eyes flashed scornfully upon the Duke. “If more
plainly still you need it, Gian Maria, I tell you that had I plotted to
occupy your tottering throne, I should be on it now, not standing here
defending myself against a foolish charge. But can you doubt it? Did you
learn no lesson as you rode into Babbiano to-day? Did you not hear them
acclaim me and groan at you. And yet,” he ended, with a lofty pity,
“you tell me that I plotted. Why, if I desired your throne, my only need
would be to unfurl my banner in the streets of your capital, and within
the hour Gian Maria would be Duke no more. Have I proved my innocence,
Highness?” he ended quietly, sadly almost. “Are you convinced how little
is my need for plots?”
But the Duke had no answer for him. Speechless, and in a sort of dazed
horror, he sat and scowled before him at his cousin's handsome face,
what time the others watched him furtively, in silence, trembling for
the young man who, here, in his grasp, had dared say such things to him.
Presently he covered his face with his hands, and sat so, as one
deeply in thought, a little while. At last he withdrew them slowly and
presented a countenance that passion and chagrin had strangely ravaged
in so little time. He turned to Santi, who stood nearest.
“The guard,” he said hoarsely, with a wave of the hand, and Santi went,
none daring to utter a word. They waited thus an odd group, all very
grave save one, and he the one that had most cause for gravity. Then the
captain re-entered, followed by his two men, and Gian Maria waved a hand
towards the prisoner.
“Take him away,” he muttered harshly, his face ghastly, and passion
shaking him like an aspen. “Take him away, and await my orders in the
ante-chamber.”
“If it is farewell, Cousin,” said Francesco, “may I hope that you will
send a priest to me? I have lived a faithful Christian.”
Gian Maria returned him no answer, but his baleful eye was upon Martino.
Reading the significance of that glance, the captain touched Francesco
lightly on the arm. A moment the Count stood, looking from the Duke to
the soldiers; a second his glance rested on those assembled there; then,
with a light raising of his shoulders, he turned on his heel, and with
his head high passed out of the ducal chamber.
And silence continued after he was gone until Caterina Colonna broke it
with a laugh that grated on Gian Maria's now very tender nerves.
“You promised bravely,” she mocked him, “to play the lion. But so far,
we have only heard the braying of an ass.”