The traitor’s face grew long with simulated sorrow. “My lord,” he murmured dolefully, “to bid you build on that were not to love you. What ends could Fabio wish to serve? And Fabio loves you. And Fabio, who purloined those letters from madonna’s treasure casket, knew of their existence, else he had not sought them.”
“Enough!” cried the wretched Varano - a cry of anguish. Then with an oath he opened out another letter. “Oh, vile!” he groaned. “Oh, worse and worse,” and he read the signature - “Galeotto” - then knit his brows. “But who is this Galeotto?”
On the livid face of the satyr behind his chair a faint smile was smeared. He had a sense of humour, this Malipiero, and in the fiction of that name, in the equivoque it covered, it had found a sly expression. Aloud he parodied a line of Dante’s:
“Galeotto fu il nome, e chi lo scrisse!”
With a snort the lord of Camerino turned to a third letter. His hand clenched and unclenched as he read. Then he raised it, and smashed it down upon the table with a fearful oath. He came to his feet. “Oh, shameless!” he inveighed. “Adulteress! Trull! Oh, and yet — so fond to all seeming, and so foully false! God help me! Is it possible - is it -”
He checked, his blood-injected eyes fastened upon Malipiero, and Malipiero recoiled now in horror of the devil he had raised. He drew hastily aside, out of Varano’s way, as the latter, moved by a sudden resolve, strode to the entrance of the tent, beating his hands together and calling.
“Saddle me three horses on the instant,” he commanded, “and bid Gianpaolo make ready for a journey.” Then, striding back into the tent, “The third horse is for you, Malipiero.”
“For me?” clucked the traitor, in a greater fright than any that had yet touched him since embarking on this evil business.
“For thee,” said Varano sternly. Then towering above the shivering wretch, “Hast ever known torture, Malipiero?” he inquired. “Hast ever seen the hoist at work, or the rack disjointing bones and stretching sinews till they burst, till the patient screams for the mercy of a speedy death? If God in His great clemency should please that you have lied to me - as I pray He may - you shall make acquaintance with those horrors, Malipiero. Ah, it makes you faint to think on them,” he gloated, for he was, as Cesare had said a cruel, bloody man. Then suddenly, sternly, “Go make you ready for this journey,” he commanded, and Malipiero went.
Here was a tangle, a complication on which the astute Venetian — for this Malipiero hailed from Venice, the very home and source of craft - had failed to reckon. That Varano should still be suspicious amid all his passion of jealousy, and should wish to make sure of Malipiero against the chance of precisely some such situation as the existing one, was something that had never entered the traitor’s calculations.
What was he to do? Mother of God, what was he to do?
As he stood in his own tent a sickness took him, a sickness that was physical as well as spiritual. Then he rallied, played the man a moment, and drew his sword. He ran his thumb along the edge of it to test its keenness; he set the hilt against the ground, and paused. He had but to place himself with his heart over the point — so — and drop forward. A Roman death was here - swift and painless. Surely he had reached the end, and if he took not this easy means of egress there were the horrors Varano had promised him - the rack and the hoist.
Then he bethought him of his son. His son would hang at dawn unless Varano went. And if he killed himself now, Varano must guess the truth, and would remain. That and the reflection that between Imola and Camerino much might betide, restrained him. He took up his sword again, and restored it to its sheath. Steps sounded without; a soldier stood at the entrance, with a summons from Varano. The traitor braced himself to go.
As they reached Varano’s tent he bethought him of one thing there was yet to do, and turning to the mercenary who paced behind him, “Quench me that cresset,” he commanded shortly.
The fellow caught up a pail of water standing near, and flung the contents on the blaze, extinguishing it.
“Why, what is this?” asked Varano, stepping forth.
“There was too much light,” said Malipiero glibly. “They can see us from the castle.”
“What then, man?”
“Would you have Cesare Borgia know that you ride forth?” cried Malipiero, with a very obvious sneer for the thing the other overlooked.
“Ah, true! You are a thoughtful knave. Come now. To horse!”
As they mounted, and were ready to set out - Malipiero between Varano and Gianpaolo da Trani, his esquire - Schwarz, the captain of the mercenaries, came up. The rumour of Varano’s departure running round the camp had reached the Swiss, and, incredulous, he came for orders.
“Plague me not,” growled the Lord Venanzio in answer.
“But, Excellency,” the man protested, “shall you be absent long?”
“As long as my business needs.”
“Then from whom shall I take orders in the meantime?” cried the condottiero, out of patience.
“From the devil,” said Varano, and gave his horse the spur.
All night they rode, and so desperately that by dawn they were in San Arcangelo, and Malipiero bethought him with a pang that here, under this bridge, which gave back a hollow echo of their horses’ hoofs, flowed the ancient fateful Rubicon, which he was crossing figuratively as well as literally.
Varano, riding half a horse’s length in advance of his companions, pushed on, his face set, his eyes ahead. A mile or so beyond Arcangelo they were overtaken and passed by two riders going at a gallop, who thundered away towards Rimini in a cloud of dust. They were the men despatched by Corella, and they had taken fresh horses at Cesena in the Duke’s name, thus outstripping the weary cattle of the men of Camerino.
Varano watched their speed with eyes of furious envy, and cursed the spent condition of his own horse. So they pressed on towards Rimini, their pace slackening now with every mile and in spite of all their flogging. At last the town was reached, and at the “Three Kings” Varano bawled for fresh horses with never a thought for breakfast. But horses, the host regretfully informed them, there were none to be had that morning.
“Perhaps at Cattolica...” he suggested.
Varano never stayed to argue. He drank a cup of wine and ate a crust, then heaved himself back into the saddle and urged his companions on. He was to pay for this unreasoning haste; for it was a haste that did not make for speed in the end. It took them three hours to reach Cattolica - three weary men on three spent horses. And here again they were met by the same tale of no relays. There would be none until the evening.
“Until evening?” roared Varano hoarsely. “Why, ’tis not yet noon!”
Malipiero, utterly worn out, had sunk on to a stone bench in the inn-yard. “Horses or no horses,” he groaned, “I can go no farther.” His face was grey, his eyes encircled by black lines. Yet Varano observed nothing of this, as he turned upon the fellow in a fury of suspicion. Before he could speak, however, his esquire had come to Malipiero’s rescue.
“Nor I, body of God!” he swore. “Before I ride another mile I must eat and sleep. What odds, my lord?” he reasoned with the scowling Varano. “We’ll sleep by day, and ride by night. When all is said, it is the speediest travelling.”
“Sleep?” growled Varano. “I had not meant to sleep this side Camerino - perhaps, indeed, not then. But since I ride with women... Pshaw!”
Thus matters stood, then. They rested all that day in Cattolica, and what hopes of escaping Malipiero may have fostered were quenched entirely by the lack of means. They resumed their journey again at dusk, upon fresh horses then provided - indifferent beasts, however, and far from such as Varano’s hot impatience craved. Again they rode all night, going westward by Urbino, which was in the hands of Cesare’s revolted captains, then south to Pergola, where they came soon after daybreak on the morrow.
Thence to Camerino was little more than thirty miles, and Varano would have gone straight on, but that ag
ain the lack of fresh horses foiled his purpose. It was in vain he swore, besought or threatened. The country was all topsy-turvy, he was answered, infested with men-at-arms, and horses were scarce. He must wait until his own were rested. Until noon, then, they abode there, and now it was that Malipiero had the inspiration to feign illness, since flight was impossible.
“My head swims,” he had whimpered, “and my loins burn. I am an old man, my lord, unfit to ride as you have made me ride.”
Varano’s eyes, dull, aching and bloodshot from his sleeplessness, measured the other fiercely. “Shalt have a physician in Camerino,” said he.
“But, my lord, it is my fear that I may never get so far.”
“Dismiss the fear,” Varano enjoined him. “For you shall be there this evening - living or dead.” And he stalked out, leaving Malipiero cold with a great fear that already he was suspected. When the hour to resume the journey came, Malipiero renewed his protestations.
“Mount!” was all the answer Varano returned him, and Malipiero, resigning himself to the awful fate that awaited him, climbed painfully to the saddle. He was ill, indeed; between fear and saddle- weariness he was all but spent. Yet he sat his horse in a sort of desperation, and so came into Camerino at eventide between his companions.
The place was garrisoned by a small company of Borgia soldiers - nor were many needed, for had the Varani attempted to return, the whole state would have taken up arms to beat them off. Under cover of the dusk, Venanzio led his companions to a mean hostelry in the borgo. There he left Malipiero with Gianpaolo - the latter virtually gaoler to the former. Alone, Varano went forth to seek for himself the truth of this vile tale that had been told him.
Meanwhile, Malipiero, wrapped in his cloak, lay stretched on a settle shivering with horrid anticipation of the hoist and the rack. Soon, soon now, Varano would discover the treachery, and then - He groaned aloud, disturbing Gianpaolo, who sat at table eating.
“Do you suffer, sir?” quoth the esquire; not that he greatly cared, for he loved Malipiero little, but that it seemed an inquiry which courtesy demanded. Malipiero groaned again for only answer, and the esquire, moved to pity, brought the unhappy man a cup of wine.
Malipiero gulped it down. It warmed him, he protested, and begged for more. Then having drained a second, and after that a third goblet, he relapsed into his forlorn attitude. But the wine creeping through his veins inspired him with new courage. He had been too fearful of consequences, he now perceived. He should have made a dash for it before this. Even now it might not be too late. There were Borgia troops in the town. He would find refuge at the citadel. He had but to inform the captain or the governor, or whoever might be in command, of Varano’s whereabouts in the town, and he would find shelter and gratitude.
Fired by the notion, he flung off the cloak, and got briskly to his feet.
“I need air!” he cried.
“I’ll open the window,” said the too-obliging Gianpaolo.
“The window? Bah! This place is foul. I will take a turn outside.”
Gianpaolo, eyeing him curiously - and with good reason, for the man had lately sworn he could not move without pain - barred his way to the door.
“Best await my lord’s return,” said he.
“Why, I shall be back before then.”
But Gianpaolo had his orders - that Malipiero was not to be allowed out of his sight. Moreover there was this sudden vigour in one who so lately had been prostrate from exhaustion. Gianpaolo could not believe that wine alone had wrought a change so portentous.
“Why, if you will, you will,” said he. “But in that case I’ll with you,” and he reached for his cap.
Malipiero’s face fell at that. But his recovery was swift. Let the fool come, by all means, if he insisted. Malipiero would march him into a trap, and quickly. And then, even as he was on the point of consenting, the stairs groaned under a heavy step; the door was flung open so violently that it struck against the wall, and Venanzio Varano, with mad blazing eyes and a brow of thunder, strode into the room.
Malipiero backed away in terror, with an inward curse at his own tardiness in perceiving the obvious way of escape. Now it was too late. Varano had learnt the truth already and again Malipiero bethought him of the rack; already in imagination he felt his sinews cracking and the rude hands of the executioner upon him.
And then, marvel of marvels, Varano dropped into a chair, and took his great black head in his hands. A while he remained thus, Gianpaolo and Malipiero watching him - the traitor understanding nothing of this bearing, unable to think what could have happened?
Presently Varano sat up, composed himself, and looked sorrowfully at Malipiero.
“Malipiero,” said he, “I have prayed God ever since we left Imola that, for some reasons which the rack should tear from you, you had lied to me. But -” A sob cut his utterance. “Oh, there is no more pity in heaven than on earth. This thing is true, it seems - most vilely, hideously true.”
True! Malipiero’s senses reeled an instant under the shock of it. Then a great warmth thawed his terror-frozen veins; a great exultation sang within his vile soul; a great thankfulness welled up from his heart to heaven for this miraculous escape. His spirit capered and jested within him. He would set up for a diviner, a seer, after this.
Outwardly he remained a pale embodiment of sorrow. He licked his dry lips, his little eyes sought Varano’s and fell away before the awful glance that met them. So may the damned look.
He wanted to question Varano, to ask how he had discovered this thing, that he might satisfy himself of the incredible truth of it; and yet he dared not. Nor was there the need; for presently Varano gave him the information that he craved.
“I was recognised in the street as I quitted the inn. A man who saw me come forth followed me, overtook me, and called to me by name. He had been my servant once, he said, and had ever loved me, wherefore he had meant this very night to ride forth in quest of me to tell me of the things that were happening in my absence.
“When I had heard this story I would have gone at once to that accursed palace where by the Borgia clemency that vile adulteress is housed. But he stayed my impatience with his counsel. He bade me wait - wait until dead midnight, and so make certain. He himself - this good soul that loves me - will watch for me, and will be at hand when I arrive.”
He rose violently. His grief and shame dropped from him, and were replaced by an anger dreadful to behold. Imprecations rained from his mouth, which was twisted like that of a man in physical suffering. A mirror hanging from a wall of that poor chamber caught his eye. He strode to it and scanned himself, rubbing his brow the while. Then with his clenched fist he shivered the thing to atoms.
“It lied,” he roared, and laughed most terribly. “It showed a fair smooth brow - no horns - no horns! I that am antlered like a stag!” And his awful laugh shook the windows in their crazy frames.
At midnight the Lord Venanzio rose from his chair where he had been sitting motionless for upwards of an hour. His face was haggard, his eyes stern and his mouth hard.
“Come,” he said quietly, “it is the hour.”
Gianpaolo, with a deep sorrow in his heart, and Malipiero, with an unholy glee in his, followed their lord down the narrow stairs, and out into the scented autumn night. They went up the steep street to the palace that crowned the hill. But passing the main doors they struck down a narrow lane and so came to a wicket in a high wall. A man rose up before them, seeming to materialise out of the gloom.
“He is within,” he murmured to Varano. “He went the usual way, leaving the gate unlocked.”
“That was considerate in him,” said Varano heavily, and dropped a purse into the hands of the spy. Then he pushed the wicket till it opened, and beckoned his companions after him into a garden that was thick with shrubs. They came by an alley black as Erebus into a fair clearing under the stars; and here Varano checked, and gripped Malipiero’s wrist.
“Yonder,” he snarled. “That is
her chamber.” And with his other hand he pointed to a lighted window - the only window of the palace that still showed a light. “See with what a warmth it burns - a Vestal fire!” he sneered, and laughed softly. Next he sped swiftly forward across the yielding turf, his companions following. Under her balcony he paused.
“See,” he whispered back to them. “Is he not considerate, this gallant? Look!” And they saw dangling from the balcony a great ladder of silken rope.
Had Varano still hoped against hope, still set his trust in his wife against the things he had been told, the letters he had seen, then must his last hope have foundered here.
He swarmed the ladder with the ease and speed of an ape. They saw him fling one leg over the stone parapet and then the other; there followed a crash and ring of shivered glass, as with his shoulder the infuriate husband smashed a way into the room.
He found his quarry standing in mid-apartment, startled by this terrific entrance - a fair young man, tall and comely, decked like a bridegroom all in white and gold, his discarded doublet still hanging in his hand.
Varano swooped upon him ere he could utter a word, locked an arm about his neck, wrenched him backwards, and, dropping on one knee, caught him, as he fell, across the other. The wretch, half- strangled in that awful grip, saw a long dagger gleam above him, heard a terrific voice: “Hound of hell, I am Venanzio Varano. Look on me, and die!”
The dagger sank to the hilt; it was raised again, and yet again, to be replunged into the heart of this man who had dishonoured him. Then, by an arm, Varano dragged the warm, twitching body across the room towards the bed, leaving a great crimson smear in its wake along the mosaic floor.
“Shalt lie snug tonight,” he sneered, “snug and warm, snug and warm. And this wanton -” He dropped his hold of the dead arm and turned to the bed, his thoughts running now directly upon his wife. Clutching his dagger firmly in one hand he swung aside the heavy curtains with the other.
“Now, harlot...” He checked. The bed was empty, undisturbed.
The door behind him opened suddenly. He swung about, a horrid, blood-spattered sight.
Collected Works of Rafael Sabatini Page 412
