By the time the thinning mist warned Ferrante that he should make an end, the Cardinal-Count computed that ten thousand men at least composed the army that was come against him, and drew from this the only possible conclusion - that the very thing he had deemed unlikely had come to pass, and that Cesare Borgia had turned aside and come with his entire army to compel Reggio to surrender.
It was a sour draught for the Cardinal-Count; a force of a thousand, of two thousand or even of five thousand, he would defiantly have withstood, setting his faith in time. But with such an army as this marching against his gates, the Tyrant of Reggio realised in bitterness that the time was come for other measures. He must consider, and to consider he withdrew, calling his council to attend him.
His council was panic-stricken. With one voice its members urged him to surrender - to make betimes a becoming show of humility, and save the city from the fire and sword that must wait upon the defiance of such a host as lay encamped below. For Ferrante had encamped, meanwhile, in the valley; and in this matter he was effectively assisted by the forest to pursue the comedy of his pageant.
When the curtain of mist was rolled aside, Reggio had beheld on the wood’s edge no more than a matter of a thousand men. But there was such constant coming and going, into and out of the forest, that it was clear the Duke had bivouacked his countless legions under the shelter of the trees, and that this matter of a thousand men or so was but an overflow - a supposition confirmed by the fact that there were no horses to be seen.
The Cardinal-Count sat listening to the appeal of his counsellors - a long, lean, majestic man, whose haughty countenance was livid now. He gnawed his heavy lip awhile, considering; and presently there came an usher to announce a herald from the Lord Cesare Borgia, Duke of Romagna and Valentinois.
The herald was admitted to the council-chamber - a very pretty fellow in a surcoat of scarlet and gold with the pontifical arms embroidered upon his breast, with stockings that were one red and the other yellow.
He bowed profoundly to the assembled company, unnecessarily proclaimed his office, and still more unnecessarily the many titles of the Duke of Valentinois, in whose name he spoke. Thereafter he did his errand very courteously, and it was a more courteous errand than the Cardinal-Count had looked for. It summoned him to surrender. Just that, and no more. It was backed by no threat of hideous alternatives, and in that lay the most deadly threat of all. Cesare Borgia was so sure of Reggio that he did not even deign to threaten.
It was over. Nothing remained them but surrender. The Duke held them in the hollow of his hand. He gave Messer Guancia until sunset to determine. The Cardinal bowed his head.
“Upon what conditions does his Highness bid me yield?” he asked, in a dull voice.
“He offers you safe-conduct for yourself and your garrison,” said the herald.
A bitter smile crossed the lips of the rebellious prelate.
“I thank his Highness for so much forbearance,” said he. “I will take counsel, and determine. My ambassadors shall wait upon him later.”
The herald bowed and took his leave.
The Cardinal-Count sat on, in a brooding silence that none dared disturb. He suffered horribly from the wound his pride had taken, and he cast about him for a salve that should assuage the pain of it. And then, suddenly, his counsellors, sitting mutely expectant, observed his dark eyes to harden and glitter evilly.
“Be it as you wish,” he said, in a level voice. “Surrender shall be made today. You have leave to go, sirs.” And he motioned them away.
Alone he sat there, clutching the arms of his chair, and smiling softly and cruelly to himself. Reggio must fall. But Cesare Borgia and his captains should not outlive their victory.
He rose, and went to strike a gong; then bade a servant summon his secretary, his seneschal and the captain of his garrison.
In the plain below, by the wood’s edge, some tents had been pitched, Ferrante’s amongst others, and in this sat Ferrante and his officers that afternoon to receive the ambassadors of the Cardinal-Count. The condottiero had gone far towards redeeming his character in the eyes of his lieutenants by the morning’s manoeuvres; yet Ramires, whilst lavishing praise of its astuteness, still wanted to know what Ferrante would have done had there been no fog, and Taddeo, whilst admitting and similarly praising that shrewd piece of humbug, was sceptical of its having the full effect that Ferrante looked for, and he wanted to know what was to happen if Messer Guancia still resisted.
Ferrante’s good humour, however, was nothing damped. Things had sped so miraculously well for him that he could not but believe that his luck was flowing strongly; that he was right was proved presently when the ambassadors arrived.
They were three: Messer Annibale Guancia - generally reputed to be the Cardinal-Count’s nephew, though scandalmongers alleged the kinship to be a nearer one - the captain of the garrison and the president of the council.
A crowd of men had surrounded them on their approach, and so hemmed them about that they had feared for their very lives and had been in no case to look round and take notice of the real extent of the Borgia forces. Thus they were hustled into Ferrante’s presence.
Messer Annibale, the spokesman, looked from one to the other of the occupants of the tent, and blinked. Ferrante was seated, with Taddeo standing on one hand and Ramires on the other, both the lieutenants being armed at all points. At a small table to one side and rather behind them sat Fabio Orsini, quill in hand, a sheet of parchment unrolled before him.
“My errand,” Annibale announced, “is to the Duke of Valentinois’ Excellency.”
“I am his Excellency’s lieutenant, deputed by him to receive your errand,” answered Ferrante, very haughty. “His Excellency was expecting the Cardinal-Count in person, and would have conferred with him had he come. But to meet a deputy he sends a deputy. So say on, sir.”
Annibale hesitated a moment; but the point raised by Ferrante was a just one, and being moreover impressed by the calm assurance of these officers, he formally made offer of surrender in the lord of Reggio’s name, subject to safe-conduct being granted to Reggio’s defenders, one and all.
“That is to say, you accept the offer made you by the Duke’s Highness. It is well.” He turned to Orsini. “Set it down,” he commanded. Then to the ambassadors: “Is there aught else?” he asked.
“A prayer, sir,” said Annibale.
“Prefer it.”
“My lord implores the Duke’s Magnificence to spare the city occupation by so vast an army, or indeed by more than just such troops as it may be his good purpose to place in garrison. My lord having the well-being of this poor city at heart, and fearing for its inhabitants dire consequences of such an occupation...”
“Enough!” broke in Ferrante. “So much I have power to grant. Set it down, Fabio, that saving two hundred men of Messer della Volpe’s foot, who are to garrison the city, Reggio di Monte’s hospitality shall not be taxed by his Highness’ troops.” Then to the envoy, “That, sir, I think, is all. It but remains to sign the articles of capitulation, and for his Highness or his deputy to receive the oath of fealty of the council.”
“The one and the other may be done in Reggio this night, and to that end my lord dares hope that the Duke’s Excellency and the officers in his train will sup with him at the palace, when all may be amicably concluded.”
Ferrante’s eyebrows went up in some astonishment at the request, and the envoy made haste to explain.
“It is my lord’s most earnest wish to make his peace with the Holy Father and with the Duke; and he trusts that this his ready submission will weigh with them, and that, in earnest of forgiveness for his past resistance, his Magnificence will deign to accept my lord’s hospitality.”
Ferrante considered a moment. “The Duke’s Highness desires to show no harshness where he is not constrained to it,” he answered deliberately. “And, provided the citadel is in our hands by then, I can accept in his name the invitation of the Cardinal-Coun
t.”
The envoy bowed. “You may proceed to occupy the citadel at once,” said he. “The captain of the garrison is here to tell you so.”
On that and some valedictory compliments the interview came to an end, and the ambassadors of Reggio were reconducted. An hour later Taddeo della Volpe marched two hundred of his foot into Reggio, and took possession of the citadel, whence he sent word to Ferrante that all had run a smooth course and that the Cardinal- Count’s garrison - and it was a scant one - had disarmed.
Towards sunset Ferrante, accompanied by Ramires and Orsini, and escorted by a guard of honour of a hundred men-at-arms, rode into Reggio to sign the articles, receive the oath of fealty, and sup with the Cardinal-Count.
Under the deep archway of the gate he was met by Taddeo, the veteran’s scarred face agrin now with satisfaction. He felt that he had his share in this amazingly easy victory, and that he would have his place in the brave tale that was to be told to Cesare Borgia. He came attended by a score of pikemen, and with these he now joined Ferrante’s party. Together they proceeded towards the palace through streets that were lined with silent, timid, anxious townsfolk.
On the steps of the cloistered staircase that ascended from the vast courtyard of the old palace they found the majestic scarlet figure of the Cardinal-Count awaiting them. The fierce eagerness in his eyes was changed to disappointment when he learned that Cesare Borgia was not with them. It was Ferrante who explained his master’s absence.
Now Ferrante loved a jest so well that he was ever loth to keep one to himself. Indeed he found that the revelation of it to the person who had been the unconscious victim added an epilogue almost as humorous as the jest itself. The element of cruelty that was inherent in the man took pleasure in gloating over discomfiture and the humiliation of the arrogant, and he desired to see it savoured to the bitter full.
So now he must stand there, very debonair and smiling, and inform the Cardinal-Count, with the pleasantest manner in the world, not only that the Duke was absent, not only that he had never been present, but, further, the precise manner in which, by the help of the morning’s mist, he had befooled the Cardinal-Count into surrendering an impregnable city to a mere detachment of a thousand men.
And he related it all with the gay and easy manner of one who expects his listener to laugh with him.
But no responsive laughter was there from the Cardinal-Count. Whiter and yet whiter grew his face as he realised the trick by which he had been cozened into opening his gates. Sterner and sterner grew his glance as he appraised that tall, graceful figure in pearl-grey silk with here and there a touch of violet to match the sweeping plumes in his grey hat, and in a voice harsh and quivering with rage he desired to be informed what gentlemen he was to have the honour of welcoming to his table.
“I am Ferrante da Isola,” said the condottiero, with conscious pride, and on that he presented one by one his three companions.
Messer Guancia smiled now; but his smile was not nice to see. “It remains for me,” he said, “to pay with the best grace I can command.”
“Why here,” cried Ferrante gaily, “is the spirit in which I love to see a jest accepted.”
But his officers felt chilled under the lord of Reggio’s glance as he bade them welcome.
So great was the rage within the prelate, so overmastering his desire to be avenged upon these men who put this trick upon him, and upon this glib fellow who laughed of it to his face, that he forgot his disappointment at the absence of the Duke. He turned, with Ferrante at his side, and led the way up that grey staircase of carved stone and into the palace.
He had said that it remained for him to pay with the best grace he could command, and Ferrante had cried gaily that here was such a spirit as he loved. Well, well! He should love that spirit less when he knew more of it - when he discovered precisely what payment was intended. So ran the prelate’s thoughts. They steadied him, and comforted him for the loss he had sustained.
With great deference and ceremony were Ferrante and his lieutenants led to table, and to keep them company and do them fitting honour there were a score or so of gentlemen and officers of Messer Guancia’s following. Ferrante looked about him, and smiled. He knew no fear. Under his court finery he wore a mesh of steel, as did his comrades, and in the yard below his hundred men and Taddeo’s twenty were under arms and within call.
They got to the superbly appointed table. At its head sat the Cardinal-Count, enthroned in a great gilded chair that was slightly raised above the level of the others. The rest disposed themselves with a careless disregard of precedence that Ferrante looked upon as odd. He found himself midway down the board - instead of on the Cardinal’s right hand as was his due as the honoured guest, the representative of the Duke of Valentinois. Their host, he saw, was hemmed about by men of his own household, and none of the Borgia officers was within six men of him. Again he observed that he and his comrades had been effectively separated, so that on either hand of each were at least two of the gentlemen of Reggio. On his own left hand he had Messer Annibale - that nephew of the Cardinal-Count who had earlier come to him as an ambassador; on his right was a gentleman of lesser eminence.
Suspicion awoke then in the bosom of Messer Ferrante. Here all was not as it should be. What if he had walked into a trap? What if the prelate proposed to murder them, and then ring the bells and lead forth what force he could muster against a little army without officers? He and his fellows wore their swords, it was true, whilst the vanquished came ostentatiously without weapons. But in their robes they might have daggers hidden, and they were twenty men opposed to four. It had ever been a maxim of Ferrante’s that who despises an enemy reinforces him; and he wondered, with an angry misgiving, could he have been guilty here of that dangerous error. He wondered, too, upon what pretext he might bring in a party of his guards. That pretext he had soon enough - of his own making. It was not for nothing that he was accounted the very prince of strategists.
He had been engaging his left-hand neighbour, Messer Annibale, in a trivial conversation, when a lackey approached to serve him, bearing a great silver platter of brodetto of fish. In turning - as if by chance - Ferrante drove his elbow sharply into the fellow’s side. Over went the platter of brodetto, and full half its contents were strewn upon the condottiero’s delicate pearl-grey silk. Ferrante came to his feet in a magnificently simulated passion, and caught the lackey a blow that sent him hurtling against the tapestried wall of the apartment.
“By the Passion!” he roared. “Are you no better served than this in Reggio?”
From the head of the table came the prelate’s voice, apologetic and conciliatory; Messer Annibale, too, had risen, and was seeking to pacify the infuriated captain. His own companions - Taddeo, Ramires and Orsini - sought also to calm him and to recall him to some sense of good behaviour. But Ferrante waved all wrathfully aside, pushed back his chair, and strode doorwards, a mess of fish and savoury ingredients dripping from his ruined finery as he went. He tore aside the door-curtain with an angry hand, and in an angry voice he shouted for the men of Taddeo’s foot.
The entire company had risen now, the Cardinal-Count among the rest, dismay and vexation overspreading his white face. “What would you do, my lord?” he asked. “This man has done no more than -”
“I have no concern with him.” Ferrante broke in rudely, facing the table again, and towering there, the very incarnation of wrath. “But if I am to sup with your Magnificence I’ll not be served by swineherds and bathed in fish-stews. I’ll have my soldiers to wait upon me and teach your lackeys their trade.”
A dull flush was tinting the Cardinal-Count’s cheekbones. “It shall be as you will, Most Excellent,” said he.
“I mean it so to be,” said Ferrante, snorting, and he turned to his men - a score of them - who thronged the threshold. “Lay aside your pikes,” he commanded, “and attend us here at table. So, my lord of Reggio, you shall see what service means.” And he came back to his place at the board
.
His comrades began to understand, and so, too, did the Cardinal- Count - gathering understanding from the number Ferrante had bidden to attend them. He smiled a trifle scornfully. “You gentlemen of Rome have much to teach us,” said he, by way of restoring good humour in their ranks, and Ferrante laughed, and this object being achieved, made haste to remove the constraint which his burst of anger had left upon the company. He had partly succeeded when the wine was brought. From the hands of the seneschal one of his men received a great jug of beaten gold on which was choicely figured the story of Bacchus and the Nymphs of Nysa.
With a clumsiness that made a mock of Ferrante’s boast, the half- armoured man-at-arms clattered to the Cardinal-Count with his great jug. He was about to pour, when the prelate stayed him, covering his goblet with his hand.
“First to my guests,” said he, with a courtly smile; and good- humouredly he twitted Ferrante on the manners of his Ganymede. Ferrante took it in excellent part. Indeed, it was his design, now that he had gained his ends, to promote good feeling, or, at least, the outward seeming of it.
His own glass was filled and those of his three lieutenants, and upon that the seneschal snatched the jug from the soldier to replenish it - for all that there was not the need. Nor did he return it to him, for already a man-at-arms with a similar vessel, directed by the seneschal, was serving now the gentlemen of Reggio. No doubt the thing would have been less noticeably accomplished had the servants of the Cardinal-Count had the performing of it, as had been intended. Yet clumsily as it was done, and although half-consciously noticed by Ferrante at the time, he saw nothing unnatural in it, certainly nothing to arouse suspicion.
Collected Works of Rafael Sabatini Page 418
