We rode again upon the morrow as he had said, and with us went Falcone
and the same goodly company of twenty lances that had escorted me from
Monte Orsaro. But I took little thought for them or pride in such an
escort now. My heart was leaden. I had not seen Bianca again ere I
departed, and Heaven knew when we should return to Pagliano. Thus at
least was I answered by Galeotto when I made bold to ask the question.
Two days we rode, going by easy stages, and came at last upon that
wondrously fair and imposing city of Milan, in the very heart of the
vast plain of Lombardy with the distant Alps for background and northern
rampart.
Our destination was the castle; and in a splendid ante-chamber, packed
with rustling, silken courtiers and clanking captains in steel, a
sprinkling of prelates and handsome, insolent-eyed women, more than one
of whom reminded me of Giuliana, and every one of whom I disparaged by
comparing her with Bianca, Galeotto and I stood waiting.
To many there he seemed known, and several came to greet him and some to
whisper in his ear. At last a pert boy in a satin suit that was striped
in the Imperial livery of black and yellow, pushed his way through the
throng.
“Messer Galeotto,” his shrill voice announced, “his excellency awaits
you.”
Galeotto took my arm, and drew me forward with him. Thus we went through
a lane that opened out before us in that courtly throng, and came to a
curtained door. An usher raised the curtain for us at a sign from the
page, who, opening, announced us to the personage within.
We stood in a small closet, whose tall, slender windows overlooked
the courtyard, and from the table, on which there was a wealth of
parchments, rose a very courtly gentleman to receive us out of a
gilded chair, the arms of which were curiously carved into the shape of
serpents' heads.
He was a well-nourished, florid man of middle height, with a resolute
mouth, high cheek-bones, and crafty, prominent eyes that reminded
me vaguely of the eyes of the taverner of Pojetta. He was splendidly
dressed in a long gown of crimson damask edged with lynx fur, and
the fingers of his fat hands and one of his thumbs were burdened with
jewels.
This was Ferrante Gonzaga, Prince of Molfetta, Duke of Ariano, the
Emperor's Lieutenant and Governor of the State of Milan.
The smile with which he had been ready to greet Galeotto froze slightly
at sight of me. But before he could voice the question obviously in his
mind my companion had presented me.
“Here, my lord, is one upon whom I trust that we may count when the time
comes. This is Agostino d'Anguissola, of Mondolfo and Carmina.”
Surprise overspread Gonzaga's face. He seemed about to speak, and
checked, and his eyes were very searchingly bent upon Galeotto's face,
which remained inscrutable as stone. Then the Governor looked at me, and
from me back again at Galeotto. At last he smiled, whilst I bowed before
him, but very vaguely conscious of what might impend.
“The time,” he said, “seems to be none too distant. The Duke of
Castro--this Pier Luigi Farnese--is so confident of ultimate success
that already he has taken up his residence in Piacenza, and already, I
am informed, is being spoken of as Duke of Parma and Piacenza.”
“He has cause,” said Galeotto. “Who is to withstand his election since
the Emperor, like Pilate, has washed his hands of the affair?”
A smile overspread Gonzaga's crafty face. “Do not assume too much
concerning the Emperor's wishes in the matter. His answer to the Pope
was that if Parma and Piacenza are Imperial fiefs--integral parts of the
State of Milan--it would ill become the Emperor to alienate them from
an empire which he holds merely in trust; whereas if they can be shown
rightly to belong to the Holy See, why then the matter concerns him not,
and the Holy See may settle it.”
Galeotto shrugged and his face grew dark. “It amounts to an assent,” he
said.
“Not so,” purred Gonzaga, seating himself once more. “It amounts to
nothing. It is a Sibylline answer which nowise prejudices what he may do
in future. We still hope,” he added, “that the Sacred College may refuse
the investiture. Pier Luigi Farnese is not in good odour in the Curia.”
“The Sacred College cannot withstand the Pope's desires. He has bribed
it with the undertaking to restore Nepi and Camerino to the States of
the Church in exchange for Parma and Piacenza, which are to form a State
for his son. How long, my lord, do you think the College will resist
him?”
“The Spanish Cardinals all have the Emperor's desires at heart.”
“The Spanish Cardinals may oppose the measure until they choke
themselves with their vehemence,” was the ready answer. “There are
enough of the Pope's creatures to carry the election, and if there were
not it would be his to create more until there should be sufficient for
his purpose. It is an old subterfuge.”
“Well, then,” said Gonzaga, smiling, “since you are so assured, it
is for you and the nobles of Piacenza to be up and doing. The Emperor
depends upon you; and you may depend upon him.”
Galeotto looked at the Governor out of his scarred face, and his eyes
were very grave.
“I had hoped otherwise,” he said. “That is why I have been slow to move.
That is why I have waited, why I have even committed the treachery
of permitting Pier Luigi to suppose me ready at need to engage in his
service.”
“Ah, there you play a dangerous game,” said Gonzaga frankly.
“I'll play a more dangerous still ere I have done,” he answered stoutly.
“Neither Pope nor Devil shall dismay me. I have great wrongs to right,
as none knows better than your excellency, and if my life should go in
the course of it, why”--he shrugged and sneered--“it is all that is left
me; and life is a little thing when a man has lost all else.”
“I know, I know,” said the sly Governor, wagging his big head, “else I
had not warned you. For we need you, Messer Galeotto.”
“Ay, you need me; you'll make a tool of me--you and your Emperor. You'll
use me as a cat's-paw to pull down this inconvenient duke.”
Gonzaga rose, frowning. “You go a little far, Messer Galeotto,” he said.
“I go no farther than you urge me,” answered the other.
“But patience, patience!” the Lieutenant soothed him, growing sleek
again in tone and manner. “Consider now the position. What the Emperor
has answered the Pope is no more than the bare and precise truth. It is
not clear whether the States of Parma and Piacenza belong to the
Empire or the Holy See. But let the people rise and show themselves
ill-governed, let them revolt against Farnese once he has been created
their duke and when thus the State shall have been alienated from the
Holy See, and then you may count upon the Emperor to step in as your
liberator and to buttress up your revolt.”
“Do you promise us so much?” asked Galeotto.
“Explicitly,” was the ready answer, “upon my most sacred honour. Send
me word that you are in arms, that the first blow has been struck, and
I shall be with you with all the force that I can raise in the Emperor's
name.”
“Your excellency has warrant for this?” demanded Galeotto.
“Should I promise it else? About it, sir. You may work with confidence.”
“With confidence, yes,” replied Galeotto gloomily, “but with no great
hope. The Pontifical government has ground the spirit out of half
the nobles of the Val di Taro. They have suffered so much and so
repeatedly--in property, in liberty, in life itself--that they are grown
rabbit-hearted, and would sooner cling to the little liberty that is
still theirs than strike a blow to gain what belongs to them by every
right. Oh, I know them of old! What man can do, I shall do; but...” He
shrugged, and shook his head sorrowfully.
“Can you count on none?” asked Gonzaga, very serious, stroking his
smooth, fat chin.
“I can count upon one,” answered Galeotto. “The Lord of Pagliano; he is
ghibelline to the very marrow, and he belongs to me. At my bidding there
is nothing he will not do. There is an old debt between us, and he is
a noble soul who will not leave his debts unpaid. Upon him I can count;
and he is rich and powerful. But then, he is not really a Piacentino
himself. He holds his fief direct from the Emperor. Pagliano is part of
the State of Milan, and Cavalcanti is no subject of Farnese. His case,
therefore, is exceptional and he has less than the usual cause for
timidity. But the others...” Again he shrugged. “What man can do to stir
them, that will I do. You shall hear from me soon again, my lord.”
Gonzaga looked at me. “Did you not say that here was another?”
Galeotto smiled sadly. “Ay--just one arm and one sword. That is all.
Unless this emprise succeeds he is never like to rule in Mondolfo. He
may be counted upon; but he brings no lances with him.”
“I see,” said Gonzaga, his lip between thumb and forefinger. “But his
name...”
“That and his wrongs shall be used, depend upon it, my lord--the wrongs
which are his by inheritance.”
I said no word. A certain resentment filled me to hear myself so
disposed of without being consulted; and yet it was tempered by a
certain trust in Galeotto, a faith that he would lead me into nothing
unworthy.
Gonzaga conducted us to the door of the closet. “I shall look to hear
from you, Ser Galeotto,” he said. “And if at first the nobles of the
Val di Taro are not to be moved, perhaps after they have had a taste
of Messer Pier Luigi's ways they will gather courage out of despair.
I think we may be hopeful if patient. Meanwhile, my master the Emperor
shall be informed.”
Another moment and we were out of that florid, crafty, well-nourished
presence. The curtains had dropped behind us, and we were thrusting our
way through the press in the ante-chamber, Galeotto muttering to himself
things which as we gained the open air I gathered to be curses directed
against the Emperor and his Milanese Lieutenant.
In the inn of the sign of the Sun, by the gigantic Duomo of Visconti's
building, he opened the gates to his anger and let it freely forth.
“It is a world of cravens,” he said, “a world of slothful, self-seeking,
supine cowards, Agostino. In the Emperor, at least, I conceived that we
should have found a man who would not be averse to acting boldly where
his interests must be served. More I had not expected of him; but that,
at least. And even in that he fails me. Oh, this Charles V!” he cried.
“This prince upon whose dominions the sun never sets! Fortune has
bestowed upon him all the favours in her gift, yet for himself he can do
nothing.
“He is crafty, cruel, irresolute, and mistrustful of all. He is without
greatness of any sort, and he is all but Emperor of the World! Others
must do his work for him; others must compass the conquests which he is
to enjoy.
“Ah, well!” he ended, with a sneer, “perhaps as the world views these
things there is a certain greatness in that--the greatness of the fox.”
Naturally there was much in this upon which I needed explanation, and I
made bold to intrude upon his anger to crave it. And it was then that I
learnt the true position of affairs.
Between France and the Empire, the State of Milan had been in contention
until quite lately, when Henri II had abandoned it to Charles V. And
in the State of Milan were the States of Parma and Piacenza, which Pope
Julius II had wrested from it and incorporated in the domain of the
Church. The act, however, was unlawful, and although these States
had ever since been under Pontifical rule, it was to Milan that they
belonged, though Milan never yet had had the power to enforce her
rights. She had that power at last, now that the Emperor's rule there
was a thing determined, and it was in this moment that papal nepotism
was to make a further alienation of them by constituting them into
a duchy for the Farnese bastard, Pier Luigi, who was already Duke of
Castro.
Under papal rule the nobles--more particularly the ghibellines--and
the lesser tyrants of the Val di Taro had suffered rudely, plundered by
Pontifical brigandage, enduring confiscations and extortions until they
were reduced to a miserable condition. It was against the beginnings of
this that my father had raised his standard, to be crushed thorough the
supineness of his peers, who would not support him to save themselves
from being consumed in the capacious maw of Rome.
But what they had suffered hitherto would be as nothing to what they
must suffer if the Pope now had his way and if Pier Luigi Farnese were
to become their duke--an independent prince. He would break the nobles
utterly, to remain undisputed master of the territory. That was a
conclusion foregone. And yet our princelings saw the evil approaching
them, and cowered irresolute to await and suffer it.
They had depended, perhaps, upon the Emperor, who, it was known, did
not favour the investiture, nor would confirm it. It was remembered that
Ottavio Farnese--Pier Luigi's son--was married to Margaret of Austria,
the Emperor's daughter, and that if a Farnese dominion there was to be
in Parma and Piacenza, the Emperor would prefer that it should be that
of his own son-in-law, who would hold the duchy as a fief of the Empire.
Further was it known that Ottavio was intriguing with Pope and Emperor
to gain the investiture in his own father's stead.
“The unnatural son!” I exclaimed upon learning that.
Galeotto looked at me, and smiled darkly, stroking his great beard.
“Say, rather, the unnatural father,” he replied. “More honour to Ottavio
Farnese in that he has chosen to forget that he is Pier Luigi's son.
It is not a parentage in which any man--be he the most abandoned--could
take pride.”
“How so?” quoth I.
“You have, indeed, lived out of the world if you know nothing of Pier
Luigi Farnese. I should have imagined that some echo of his turpitudes
must have penetrated even to a hermitage--that they would be written
upon the very face of Nature, which he outrages at every step of his
infamous life. He is a monster, a sort of antichrist; the most ruthless,
bloody, vicious man that ever drew the breath of life. Indeed, there are
not wanting those who call him a warlock, a dealer in black magic who
has sold his soul to the Devil. Though, for that matter, they say the
same of the Pope his father, and I doubt not that his magic is just the
magic of a wickedness that is scarcely human.
“There is a fellow named Paolo Giovio, Bishop of Nocera, a charlatan and
a wretched dabbler in necromancy and something of an alchemist, who has
lately written the life of another Pope's son--Cesare Borgia, who
lived nigh upon half a century ago, and who did more than any man to
consolidate the States of the Church, though his true aim, like Pier
Luigi's, was to found a State for himself. I am given to think that for
his model of a Pope's bastard this Giovio has taken the wretched Farnese
rogue, and attributed to the son of Alexander VI the vices and infamies
of this son of Paul III.
“Even to attempt to draw a parallel is to insult the memory of the
Borgia; for he, at least, was a great captain and a great ruler, and he
knew how to endear to himself the fold that he governed; so that when I
was a lad--thirty years ago--there were still those in the Romagna who
awaited the Borgia's return, and prayed for it as earnestly as pray the
faithful for the second coming of the Messiah, refusing to believe that
he was dead. But this Pier Luigi!” He thrust out a lip contemptuously.
“He is no better than a thief, a murderer, a defiler, a bestial,
lecherous dog!”
And with that he began to relate some of the deeds of this man; and his
life, it seemed, was written in blood and filth--a tale of murders
and rapes and worse. And when as a climax he told me of the horrible,
inhuman outrage done to Cosimo Gheri, the young Bishop of Fano, I begged
him to cease, for my horror turned me almost physically sick.1
1 The incident to which Agostino here alludes is fully set forth by
Benedetto Varchi at the end of Book XVI of his Storia Fiorentina.
“That bishop was a holy man, of very saintly life,” Galeotto insisted,
“and the deed permitted the German Lutherans to say that here was a new
form of martyrdom for saints invented by the Pope's son. And his father
pardoned him the deed, and others as bad, by a secret bull, absolving
him from all pains and penalties that he might have incurred through
youthful frailty or human incontinence!”
It was the relation of those horrors, I think, which, stirring my
indignation, spurred me even more than the thought of redressing the
wrongs which the Pontifical or Farnesian government would permit my
mother to do me.
I held out my hand to Galeotto. “To the utmost of my little might,”
said I, “you may depend upon me in this good cause in which you have
engaged.”
“There speaks the son of the house of Anguissola,” said he, a light
of affection in his steel-coloured eyes. “And there are your father's
wrongs to right as well as the wrongs of humanity, remember. By this
Pier Luigi was he crushed; whilst those who bore arms with him at
Perugia and were taken alive...” He paused and turned livid, great beads
of perspiration standing upon his brow. “I cannot,” he faltered, “I
cannot even now, after all these years, bear to think upon those horrors
perpetrated by that monster.”
I was strangely moved at the sight of emotion in one who seemed
emotionless as iron.
“I left the hermitage,” said I, “in the hope that I might the better be
able to serve God in the world. I think you are showing me the way, Ser
Galeotto.”