“My lord was afraid to come, Magnificent.”
Cesare laughed shortly. “I nothing doubt it. But you - you, Malipiero?” And he leant forward, his tone of a sudden invested with a deadly menace. “Were you not afraid to take his place?”
Malipiero started, his natural pallor deepened, and the corners of his mouth were perceived by Agabito to quiver slightly. But before he could answer, the Duke had sunk back into his chair again, and asked in normal tones: “Why have you come?”
“To treat in my lord’s name.”
Cesare considered him a moment in silence. “For that and nothing else?” he inquired.
“What else, indeed, Highness?”
“’Tis what I asked thee,” said Cesare shortly.
“My lord,” the other cried in quaking protest, “I come as an ambassador.”
“Why, true. I was forgetting. Discharge your embassy. You know the thing that I would buy. Tell me the price this trader of Camerino asks.”
Malipiero the elder drew himself erect, and formally performed his errand. As he spoke his eyes strayed to the broken dagger lying almost at his feet, the gold hilt gleaming in a shaft of sunlight; but the weapon told him nothing, it was plain, for he never checked or faltered in the delivery of his message.
“My lord of Camerino,” he announced, “will raise this siege and withdraw his army in return for your signed undertaking to recall your troops from Camerino, reinstating him in his lordship and leaving him to enjoy it unmolested.”
Cesare stared in amazement at the effrontery of the demand. “Was he drunk, this lout of Camerino, when he sent that message?” Malipiero quailed under the scorn of the Duke’s eyes. “Magnificent,” he said, “it may be that my Lord Venanzio seems arrogant to you. But you will find him firm in his resolve. He has you, he swears, in the hollow of his hand.”
“Has he so? Body of God! Then he shall find that I am made of gunpowder, and when I burst that same hand of his shall be blown to rags. Go tell him so.”
“You’ll not accept his terms?”
“Sooner will I sit in Imola until the Resurrection of the Flesh.” Malipiero paused a moment like a man undecided. His glance shifted to the shaven, humorous face of Agabito Gherardi; but he saw nothing there to embolden him. Nevertheless like a good ambassador, he said what else he had been bidden say.
“Vitellozzo, the Orsini and the Baglioni are coalescing.”
“Do you give me news? And how shall that serve Varano? His subjects of Camerino loathe him for a bloody tyrant, and being once rid of him they’ll never suffer his return.”
“I am not sure...” began Malipiero.
“I know thou’rt not. But I, who am, tell thee.” He pushed back his chair on that, and rose. “Agabito, let this ambassador of Varano be reconducted, and with courteous treatment.”
And with that, as if dismissing the entire matter from his mind, he sauntered across the room, past Malipiero, towards the window; and as he went he drew from his pocket a little comfit-box in gold and blue enamel.
Agabito experienced a pang of disappointment. Not so, by much, had he pictured the conclusion of this interview. And yet, perhaps Cesare in his cunning and unfailing calculation counted upon something more. Even as he thought of it he saw in Malipiero’s attitude that it was so, indeed. For the ambassador made no shift to go. He stood there shuffling uneasily, his foxy old eyes roaming from the secretary to the young duke, and betraying the labour of his mind.
“Highness,” he said at last, “may I speak with you alone?”
“We are alone,” said Cesare over his shoulder. “What else have you to add?”
“Something that will make for the advancement of your interests.”
Cesare turned his back to the window, and his beautiful eyes grew very narrow as they surveyed the bowing Malipiero. Then a faint smile hovered round his lips. He made a sign to the men-at-arms standing by the door. They turned and clattered out.
“Agabito remains. I have no secrets from my secretary. Speak out.”
“Highness...” began the ambassador, and halted there. Then, under Cesare’s impatient eye, “My Lord Varano is in earnest,” he concluded lamely.
Cesare shrugged and raised the lid of his comfit-box. “So I had understood from you already. Is there nothing more?”
“You were pleased to correct me, Highness, when upon entering here I announced myself your servant.”
“By what tortuous ways do you travel to your goal? Well, well! You were my servant once; now you are his. Would you be mine again? Is that your meaning?”
Malipiero bowed eloquently. The Duke considered him, shot a glance at Agabito, then with deliberation picked a coriander-seed.
“The lord of Camerino’s fortunes, then, do not wear so very prosperous a look?” said he, between question and conclusion, and thereby set Malipiero infernally ill at ease.
The ambassador had looked for some eagerness on Cesare’s part. This calm, half-mocking indifference chilled him. At last he took his courage in both hands. “It was I,” he announced, “who made Varano afraid to come - to the end that he might send me.”
The lid of the comfit-box snapped down. His Magnificence of Valentinois was interested at last, it seemed. Encouraged, Malipiero went on, “I did this that I might lay my poor services at your disposal; for at heart, Highness, I have ever been your most devoted. My only son is in your service.”
“You lie, you foul, infernal traitor. You lie!” And Cesare advanced upon him as if to strike him into dust. Gone now was the impassive calm on his face; gone the inscrutable softness of his eyes; their glance enveloped Malipiero as in a flame - a flame that swept about his heart and left it ashes.
“My lord! My lord!” he babbled foolishly.
Cesare halted in his approach, and resumed his quiet manner as abruptly as he had cast it off.
“Look at that dagger at your feet,” he said, and Malipiero obeyed him stupidly. “It was broken an hour ago against my breast. Can you guess whose the hand that wielded it? Your son’s - this precious only son of yours, who is in my service.”
Malipiero recoiled, bearing a hand to his throat as if something choked him.
“You came hither for such scraps of knowledge as that spy might have gleaned. My invitation to Varano was your opportunity. Without it you would still have come, bearing as spontaneous the offer that you brought as answer. The object of your spying you best know - you that never yet kept faith with any man. Oh, there is no doubt, Malipiero, that at heart you have ever been my devoted servants - you and your son.”
“O God!” groaned the unhappy wretch.
“Your only son is to be hanged at daybreak tomorrow. It shall be from this window here, in sight of this Varano whom he served, in sight of you who have ever been my most devoted.”
Malipiero cast himself upon his knees; he flung out his arms wildly. “My lord, I swear to you that I knew naught of any plot to - to hurt you.”
“Why, I believe you for once. There may have been no such plot. But I caught your son in the act of spying, and so he took, perhaps, what seemed to him the only course. It makes no difference. He would have hanged without that.”
Malipiero, on his knees, raised a livid face, his brow glistening with the sweat of the agony that racked him.
“Highness,” he cried, in a quavering voice, “I have it in my power to make amends for my son’s folly. I can rid you of this bankrupt of Camerino. Shall it - shall it be a bargain between us? My son’s life for the raising of this siege?”
Cesare smiled. “It was to make me some such proposal, I think, that you desired to speak with me alone. Nothing is altered but the price - for not a doubt but that you intended some other profit from the treachery you had conceived.”
Malipiero flung dissimulation to the winds. What, indeed, could it avail him against one who looked so deep and unerringly into motives? The greed of gold which had made him a constant traitor to any whom he served had been his only stimulus in this f
resh treachery. But now, the life of his boy was all the recompense he asked. He frankly said as much.
“I will not bargain with you,” was Cesare’s contemptuous answer.
Tears welled to the eyes of the distraught man and coursed down the furrows of the livid cheeks. Wildly he implored clemency and urged upon the Duke’s attention the gain he stood to make.
“There is not in all Italy a knave with whom I would so scorn to deal as you, Malipiero. Man, you have steeped yourself in the filth of treachery until you stink of it. The very sight of you offends me.”
“My lord,” the wretch clamoured, “I can raise this siege as could no other man. Grant me Gustavo’s life, and it shall be done to-morrow. I will draw Varano away - back to Camerino. What are his men without him? You know their worth, Highness - a parcel of hirelings with no heart in the business, who would never stay to oppose a sally if Varano were not at hand to urge them.”
Cesare measured the man with a calculating eye. “What means have you to perform so much?”
At that suggestion that the Duke was inclined to treat with him, Malipiero rose. He shuffled a step nearer, licking his lips. “Varano loves his throne of Camerino dearly. But there is one thing he loves still more - his honour. Let it be whispered to him that the lady, his wife -” He leered horribly. “You understand, Magnificent? He would leave his camp out yonder and dash back to Camerino, where she bides, as fast as horse could bear him.”
Cesare felt his soul revolt. The thing was vile, the fruit of a vile mind, uttered by a vile mouth; and as he looked at the leering creature before him, a sense of nausea took him. But his face showed no sign of this; his beautiful passionless eyes betrayed none of the loathing with which this arch-traitor inspired him. Presently his lips parted in a smile; but what that smile portended Malipiero could not guess until he spoke.
“Possibly there is in Italy a viler thing than thou; probably there is not. Still, it is for me to use thee, not convert thee. Do this thing, then, since you are assured it may be done.”
Malipiero drew a deep breath of relief. Insults were of no account to him. “Grant me my son’s life, and I undertake that by tonight Varano shall be in the saddle.”
“I’ll make no bargains with you,” Cesare answered him.
“But if I do this thing you will be clement, you will be merciful, Highness?”
“Rest content. You shall not fail to find me just.”
“I am content,” said Malipiero. “I count upon that. And yet - and yet... Reassure me, Highness! I am a father. Promise me that, if I serve you in this, Gustavo shall not hang.”
Cesare eyed him a moment and shrugged contemptuously. “He shall not hang. I have said that you shall find me just. And now to details.” Cesare crossed briskly to the writing-table. “Have you power in Varano’s name to grant a safe-conduct?”
“I have, Highness.”
“Here is what you will need. Write, then - for twenty men from Imola.”
Malipiero snatched a quill, and in a hand that shook, for all his efforts to steady it, he wrote and signed the order Cesare demanded. The Duke took the paper and sat down.
“How shall I have knowledge that Varano has departed?” he inquired.
Malipiero considered a moment. Then, “As soon as he goes tonight I will extinguish the cresset that burns outside his tent. You can see it from here.”
Cesare nodded shortly, and blew upon his silver whistle. To the men-at-arms, re-entering in answer to that summons, he consigned the person of the ambassador, bidding them reconduct him to the gates.
When the door had closed again, Cesare turned to Agabito with a smile of grim contempt. “I had best served the world had I violated the sacredness of that ambassador’s person, and held a family hanging in the morning. The toad! Madonna! The foul, crapulous toad! But there! Summon Corella, and bid them have young Malipiero at hand.”
When, presently, Cesare’s Venetian captain, whom so many supposed to be a Spaniard, stalked into the room - a tall, stately man, all steel and leather - the Duke tossed Malipiero’s safe-conduct across to him, and gave his orders.
“You will watch tonight the cresset that burns outside Varano’s tent. Ten minutes after it has been quenched you will ride out with the twenty men you choose, and make for Camerino.” Cesare unrolled a map and beckoned Corella to his side. “But not this way, Michele - not by Faenza and Forli. You shall take to the hills and thus outstrip another party going by the main road. Contrive that you reach Camerino in advance of it by at least six hours, and remember that those others will ride desperately. Agabito will instruct you later in what else you have to do. The manner of it shall be in your own hands.”
Michele da Corella gasped. “They will set out before me,” he said. “They will take the shorter road, and they will ride desperately. Yet I am to be in Camerino at least six hours ahead of them. In short, I am to work a miracle, and I am just Michele da Corella, a captain of horse.”
Cesare looked up quietly. “Chucklehead!” said he. “You will detach the two best-mounted men of your company, and send them after the other party by the Rimini road. Let them pass and precede them, and so contrive with the relays to delay them upon the road sufficiently to enable you to do as I command.”
Corella flushed out of shame of wits that must appear so dull.
“Now, go, Michele,” the Duke bade him, “and make ready.”
As Corella was withdrawing the Duke recalled him. “I said twenty men. I should have said nineteen - counting yourself; the twentieth will be Messer Gustavo Malipiero, who is to ride with you. Bid them bring him in now.”
Corella saluted and withdrew. Cesare sat back in his great leathern chair and glanced at Agabito. “Well?” he inquired. “Do you perceive what a web of justice I am weaving?”
“Not yet, my lord,” confessed Agabito.
“Not? I sometimes think you are as dull-witted as Michele.”
And Agabito kept it to himself that he sometimes thought his master possessed all the guile and craft of Satan.
As Malipiero the older had undertaken, so did he perform; though in the performance he went near to being strangled by the powerful hands of Venanzio Varano.
He repaired at nightfall to Venanzio’s tent with his foul invention, and at the first hint of his meaning the passionate lord of Camerino flung into a fury. He caught Malipiero by his scraggy throat, swung him off his feet, and went over with him in a dark corner of the tent.
There he pinned him to the ground under a knee that seemed to be crushing every bone in the old traitor’s breast.
“Dog!” he snarled, and Malipiero writhed and squirmed, halfdead from shock and fright, expecting to feel the other’s teeth close on his windpipe, so brutal was Varano become in his great rage. “Do you proclaim my wife a trull?” he roared. “Say that you lied! Confound yourself, you rogue, or, by the Host I’ll wring your carrion neck.”
Then Malipiero, coward though he was at heart, was fired with the courage of despair. “Fool!” he panted, struggling for breath. “Fool, I spoke out of love for you, and I can prove the thing I say.”
“Prove it?” roared the infuriated Varano, and he heaved the wretch up to dash him down again. “Prove it? Can lies be proved?”
“No,” said Malipiero. “But truth can.”
It was a simple and very obvious retort. Yet it produced its effect upon Varano, and Malipiero was able to breathe more freely at last. Varano had released him; he had risen and was bawling for lights. Malipiero sat up, nursing his bruises, making sure that no bones were broken, and breathing a prayer of thanksgiving to Our Lady of Loreto - who had ever been the object of a special devotion on his part - that he had had the wit to forge proofs betimes that should lend countenance to the foul charges he made against a pure lady’s honour. He comforted himself, too, with the reflection that those same proofs would avenge the mishandling he had suffered, and that for the bruises Varano had dealt his body he would presently deal such bruises to Varano’s s
oul as should go some way to make them quits.
Lights came, revealing the shrivelled, yellow-faced man sitting there upon the floor, with tumbled hair and rent garments and a very evil glimmer in his rat’s eyes, and the other - the great lumbering Varano - standing over him, no less pale and evil to behold.
“Now, dog, the proofs.”
This was Malipiero’s hour of vengeance. Slowly he loosed the points of his purple doublet; slowly he groped within the breast of it, and slowly he drew forth a package tied with an orange ribbon.
Slowly he was proceeding to unfasten it, when Varano, with an oath of impatience, stooped, snatched the package, and tore away the ribbon. Then he strode to the table, unfolded a letter, and spread it under his great hand.
Malipiero, watching him with fearful, unblinking eyes, saw the great head slowly sink forward on to his breast. But Varano rallied quickly. His faith in his wife was no mere thistledown to be so lightly scattered. He sank to a chair, and turned to Malipiero, who had now risen.
“Tell me,” he said, “tell me again, how came these into your hands?” There was now no anger in his voice. He spoke like a man who is struggling between dark unconsciousness and painful consciousness.
“Madonna’s chamberlain Fabio brought them an hour ago during your absence. He dared not come while you were here. Love of you made him traitor to your lady. Fear of you kept him from delivering the letters to you himself. And no sooner had he said so much to me than he was gone again, leaving the cursed package in my hands.”
“If - if they were false!” cried Varano, wrestling with that fierce natural jealousy of his upon which the cunning Malipiero had built his schemes.
Collected Works of Rafael Sabatini Page 411
