It was dawn after that night of tragedy.
From sheer exhaustion of passion the turmoil in the streets had
subsided; the cries of indignant protest had ceased and the populace
accepted their fate in sullen acquiescence, knowing themselves not
strong enough to contest without aid those intriguing Councillors of the
Realm who were entrenched behind the impregnable fortress of Famagosta
where they held close captive the Sovereign they had sworn to defend and
obey.
The Piazza was deserted: the malcontents who had gathered to mutter at
the horror of the moat where the victims of the night had been tossed
unburied, had been dispersed by threat of arms; the sentinels nodded at
their posts--scarce knowing whose power they were upholding, nor by what
name men called their masters. Here and there throughout the city, a
little knot of the graver burghers might be found lingering to discuss
the situation in attitudes of helpless dejection, and scattering with
their problems all unsolved. They were too insignificant to dread, and
for the moment the triumphant conspirators were content to leave the
city without further imposition or molestation to such rest as a
merciful nature might vouchsafe.
They were content to yield this lull in the storm, because it gave them
needful quiet in which to mature fresh intrigues, to insure their
triumph. Those men of Venice of the Queen's household, who would most
strenuously have resisted them, had been quieted forever, it was true;
but, as dawn lightened over the ghastly faces upturned beneath the
windows of the poor young Queen, an unconfessed tremor stole into the
doughty breasts of Rizzo and Fabrici, in the place where most men wear
their hearts, and they got them together, in friendly converse, to
ponder what should come next.
For Venice was mightier than Naples--and the password they had so
successfully wielded for a night--"_a bas Venezia_"--might not suffice
to hold for the young Alfonso the dignity of _Prince of Galilee_, which
they had proclaimed for him throughout the protesting city; it might
even have a baneful ring, when news of the night's murders should reach
the Republic. A plausible reason for the death must be contrived and
sent forward with letters signed by the Queen's own hand, under the
Royal Seal of Cyprus, accompanied with decorous lamentations and
condolences on the part of her Councillors--such as one Government is
wont to offer to another at the death of any distinguished patrician.
For the Chief of Council, Rizzo di Marin and his Grace the Archbishop of
Nikosia, no rest was needful: the consciousness of triumph stirred the
blood in their veins like strong wine, and with a sense of exhilaration
sharpening all their intellectual faculties, they prepared, in a few
hours, work that might ordinarily have required the consideration of
days. When they closed their conference they had contrived a sheaf of
pretty documents which did more honor to their astuteness than to their
loyalty, and which, with the signature of the Queen, would put them in
possession of all the strongholds on the coast and many positions of
vantage throughout the island, including the splendid city of
Nikosia--which had shown much dangerous friendliness for Queen Caterina.
It was a marvellous bold scheme--a bloodless victory for Alfonso, Prince
of Naples; and Rizzo grew grimly merry as he discussed it with His
Grace.
His malignant eyes rested fondly on this order for the surrender of the
famous stronghold of Cerines to a nephew of General Saplana, the
treacherous Commander of Famagosta; with two such fortresses they should
command the coast, and their empire in Cyprus was assured. It was a work
of genius, this little parchment--he could scarcely bear to fold it out
of his sight in the pouch that he wore next to his heart of stone.
And this--to the magnificent Lord Admiral Mutio di Costanzo, Vice-Roy of
Nikosia and friend to Caterina, who had received her oath of allegiance
after the death of Janus--so high he stood among the nobles of
Cyprus--Rizzo's eyes fairly gleamed as he gloated over it--this order
commanding him to yield up the splendid city of Nikosia, with his
fortress of Costanza and the fleets of the island, to those who should
present this parchment with the little signature of _Caterina Regina_.
He, Rizzo, would take the governorship of this city of Nikosia--or,
perhaps, the command of the fleets--he knew not which--that was a trifle
to decide since all would be in his power: and of course he should
instantly re-man the galleys. He allowed himself a moment's vision of
this stately Knight Mutio de Costanzo, with his escort of
cavaliers--the forty of his noble house entitled to wear the Golden
Spurs--surrendering his holdings at the Queen's command, to those whom
Rizzo should elect--_Rizzo_, who had heard himself called "that parvenu
of Naples"--and the vision filled him with delight.
Then he folded the other orders without a glance, they touched upon
minor points of vantage and entered properly into his scheme--the cities
of Limisso and, perhaps, of Costanzo--but that might be requiring too
much of the noble Lord of Costanzo, this could wait; he crumpled it in
his hand. As for this _Castel Dio d'Amore_, it was well.
Still another paper he folded in his pouch. That one must go first
beneath her signature lest the pretty little Queen should rebel.--But
she should not rebel!--By all the saints and devils, it was a good
night's work!
And for that session he wrote no more.
When the pouch, compact and hard, lay closely over the place of his
heart, it stirred a thought, and he laughed a short wild laugh, with no
melody in it. He did not know his own laugh, and it startled him.
"Perhaps," he thought, "when he should have presided over the
investiture of these cities and strongholds of Cyprus in the interests
of Naples and Alfonso, 'Prince of Galilee'--installing his own creatures
in all those places of power--if Naples were not properly subservient
and grateful--he, _holding the key to the land_--perhaps----"
It was a vision that pleased him even better than that of the noble Lord
Mutio di Costanzo, surrounded by his escort of cavaliers,
golden-spurred, delivering the keys of the city of Nikosia. But he
forgot to confide this last tantalizing, supremest vision to His Grace
the Archbishop.
These documents had been prepared in the underground Chamber of
Conference of the Fortress, where secrets might be freely uttered
because of the double walls of massive masonry: where flaring torches
fastened high in the chamber, scattered the ghostly shadows, and ample
potations of the fine wine of the "Commanderie" sustained their courage.
* * * * *
Meanwhile, a slender figure with vizor down, showing a tunic of mail
between the folds of a dark mantle, came out from the Fortress, and
stepping forth into the gray of the dawn, crossed to the Palazzo Reale,
with slow, uncertain footsteps.
"Open!--In the name of the Queen's Council!"
The words came in muffled tones from behind the vizor--uncertain, like
the footsteps, yet impossible to disregard.
"The password for this night?" the guard demanded.