"Let us pass quickly and on tiptoe that mass of corruption and slaughter
called the Papacy," says Guerrazzi; or, to quote his own indignant
Italian: "_Passiamo presto, e sulla punta dei piedi, quel macchio di
fimo e di sangue che si chiama Papato_."
The Popes, who call themselves the vicegerents of Christ, slaughter men
with chassepots, play the executioner upon their political enemies, and
instruct the world in the science of tortures, Inquisitions, _autos-da
fe_, and murder. In former days many unhappy nations had the misfortune
to suffer therefrom. Spain, for example, who has recently thrown off
the yoke, for centuries groaned under the tortures of Rome. Even now
the priest of Christ in the Vatican satiates his sanguinary vengeance
in various ways, having recourse to the dagger, poison, brigandage, and
murders of all kinds and degrees.
In the Roman tribunal the sentence of death had been long pronounced
against Prince T------, the brother of our Irene; and Cencio, with eight
cut-throats of the Holy See under his command, was under orders to take
advantage of the tumult arising upon the arrival of Garibaldi in Venice
to execute the atrocious decree. The eight accomplices of the spy had
been posted in the immediate neighborhood of the Hotel Victoria, in all
the ways by which he could possibly arrive. Four were to hire a gondola
and ply at the steps, with secret instructions to dispatch the
gondoliers if necessary, that there might be no witness to lay the
charge against them.
Cencio had not undertaken to perform the actual deed, but simply the
task of following the Prince's movements. Fortunately for the Roman
noble the spy failed in his scent, and was now not only in the clutches
of our three friends who had captured him, but in those of a fourth
personage, who was still more formidable to him--no other, in fact, than
our old acquaintance Gasparo.
Gasparo, after the events narrated in the preceding chapters, had
accompanied his new friends to territory that was not Papal, and had
offered his services as attendant to Prince T------. He had therefore
accompanied him to Venice. Whilst his master roamed through the saloons
of the Zecchini Palace, the watchful follower, who had remained on the
threshold to enjoy the sight of that brilliant scene, saw the three
Romans whom he loved as sons penetrate into the crowd. He determined to
keep near them, and found himself shortly after in the tavern of Vicola
dei Schiavoni, at the heels of Cencio.
It would be no easy matter to describe the terror and confusion of
the clerical Sinon surrounded by our four friends. They led him to an
out-of-the-way room on the upper story, and desired the waiter to bring
them something to drink, and then leave them, as they had some business
to transact.
When the waiter had obeyed them, and departed, they locked the door, and
ordering the agent to sit against the wall, they moved to the end of the
table, and, seating themselves upon a bench, placed their elbows on the
table and fixed a look upon the knavish wretch which made him tremble.
Under any other circumstances the wretch would have inspired compassion,
and might have been forgiven for his treachery, in consideration of his
present agony of fear.
The four friends, cold, impassive, and relentless, satisfied themselves
for some time with fixing their eyes upon the traitor, while he, quite
beside himself, with wide-opened mouth and eyes, was doing
his best to articulate something; but all he could mutter was,
"Signore--I--am--not," and other less intelligible monosyllables.
The calmness of the four Romans was somewhat savage, but for their deep
cause of hatred; and if any one could have contemplated the scene he
would have been reminded forcibly of the fable of the rat under the
inexorable gaze of the terrier-dog, which watches every movement, and
then pounces out upon it, crunching all the vermin's bones between its
teeth. Or could a painter have witnessed that silent assembly, he would
have found a subject for a splendid picture of deep-seated wrath and
terror.
We have already described the persons of the three friends--true types
of the ancient Roman--with fine and artistic forms. Gasparo was even
more striking--one of those heads which a French photographist would
have delighted to "take" as the model of an Italian brigand--and
the picture would have been more profitable than the likeness of any
European sovereign. He was indeed, in his old age, a superb type of a
brigand, but a brigand of the nobler sort. One of those who hate with a
deadly hatred the cutthroat rabble; one who never stained himself with
any covetous or infamous action, as the paid miscreants of the priests
do, who commit acts that would fill even a panther's heart with horror.
Even the successor of Gianni would have made a valuable appearance in
a _quadro caratteristico_, for certainly no subject could have served
better to display panic in all its disgusting repulsiveness. Glued to
the wall behind him, he would, if his strength had equalled his wish,
have knocked it down, or bored his way through it to get farther
from those four terrible countenances, which stared impassively and
mercilessly at him, meditating upon his ruin, perhaps upon his death.
The austere voice of Muzio, already described as the chief of the Roman
contropolizia, was the first to break that painful silence.
"Well, then, Cencio," he began, "I will tell you a story which, as you
are a Roman, you may perhaps know, but, at all events, you shall know
it now. One day our forefathers, tired of the rule of the first king of
Rome--who, amongst other amiable things, had killed his brother Remus
with a blow because he amused himself with jumping over the walls he had
erected around Rome--our fathers, I repeat, by a _senattis consultant_,
decided to get rid of their king, who was rather too meddlesome and
despotic. _Detto-fatto!_ they rushed upon him with their daggers, and,
although he struggled valorously, Romulus fell under their blows. But,
now the deed was done, it was necessary to invent a stratagem, for
the Roman people were somewhat partial to their warlike king. They
accordingly accepted the advice of an old senator, who said, 'We will
tell the people that Mars (the father of Romulus) has descended amongst
us, and, after reproaching us for thieving a little too much, and being
indignant to see the son of a god at our head, has carried him off to
heaven.'
"'But what are we to do with the body?' asked several of the senators.
"'With the body?' repeated the old man; 'nothing is easier.' And drawing
forth his dagger, he commenced cutting the corpse in pieces. When this
dissection was finished, he said, 'Let each of you take one of these
pieces, hide it under your robe, and then go and throw it into the
Tiber. It is evening now, and by to-morrow morning the sea-monsters will
have given a decent burial to the founder of Rome.'
"Now, Cencio, don't you think that, as regards your own end, and
not being king of Rome, or son of a god, such a death would be very
honorable to you who are nothing more than a miserable traitor?"
"For God's sake," screamed the terrified agent, trembling like a child,
"I will do whatever you demand of me; but, for the love you bear your
friends, your wives, your mothers, do not put me to such a cruel death."
"Do you talk of a cruel death? Can there be a death too cruel for
a spy--a traitor?" asked Muzio. "Have you already forgotten," he
continued, "vile reptile, selling the Roman youths to the priests at the
Baths of Caracalla; and that they narrowly escaped being slaughtered by
your infamy?"
Tears continued to roll from the coward's eyes, as Muzio continued:
"What about your arrival in Venice? What does it mean? Who sent you?
What did you come here for, dog?"
"I will tell all," was the wretched man's reply-
"You had better tell all," repeated Muzio, "or we shall see with edge
of knife whether you have concealed any thing in that malicious and
treacherous carcass of yours."
"All, all!" cried Cencio like a maniac; and, as if forgetful of what he
had to relate or overpowered by great fright, he appeared not to know
how or where to begin.
"You are doubtless more prompt in your narration to the Holy Office,
stammerer," grumbled Gasparo.
"Begin!" shouted Orazio; and Attilio, in a stem voice, also cried
"Begin!" not having spoken until then.
A moment of death-like silence followed before Cencio commenced thus:-
"If the life of Prince T------is dear to you--"
"Prince T------, the brother of Irene," exclaimed Orazio, clearing the
table at one bound, and grasping the traitor by the throat.
Had Cencio been clutched in the claws of a tiger, he would not have felt
more helpless than he did now, held by the fingers of the "Prince of the
Roman campagna."
Attilio said gently, "Brother, have patience--let him speak; if you
choke him we shall gain no information."
The suggestion made by the chief of the Three Hundred seemed reasonable
to Orazio, and he withdrew his impatient grip from Cencio's throat.
"If the life of Prince T------ is dear to you," again recommenced the
knave, "let us go all together in search of him, and inform him
that eight emissaries of the Holy Office are lurking about the Hotel
Victoria, where he is lodging, in order to assassinate him."