The court was deserted, save for two sentries - one pacing at the foot of a stone staircase that led up to a gallery on the first floor; the other guarding a deep archway that led to an inner court. Thence came a murmur of voices, and as Benvenuto peered in that direction he saw that it was thronged with people.
The sentries paid no heed to him; but he considered them attentively. The man guarding the staircase was a sturdy, swarthy fellow of forbidding countenance; the other, a tall, fair-bearded knave, looked benign and friendly. Benvenuto’s choice was made. He advanced with simulated resoluteness towards the archway and the yellow-bearded guard.
“I seek the Lord Duke of Valentinois,” he announced, dissembling as best he might his tremors. “Where shall I find him?”
The guard looked at him. If the livid, pock-marked face was villainous, the clothes were noble; and whilst to a courtier Messer Benvenuto must have looked a lackey, to a lackey he looked a courtier. So without hesitation the guard stood aside before him, and pointed with his pike into the inner courtyard.
“His Highness is in there.”
Benvenuto passed on, and, as he went, the sounds from the inner court he was approaching died suddenly away. The crowd had fallen into silence. It greatly intrigued him to know what might be taking place. On the far side of the archway he tapped the arm of a sentry, who stood on a horse block, gazing over the heads of the people assembled there - a motley gathering of perhaps a hundred men of all conditions, in which, however, the soldier and the courtier predominated. The man-at-arms looked down impatiently, and Benvenuto repeated that he sought the Lord Duke of Valentinois.
“He is yonder,” said the guard, pointing into the heart of the throng.
Benvenuto was intrigued. What was taking place? He stood on tip-toe; but being short of stature he gained nothing by it. Suddenly the crowd broke into cheers and hand-clappings. Again Benvenuto plucked the sentry’s sleeve.
“My business with his Highness presses,” he urged. “It is of the first importance. I must see him instantly.”
The guard considered him. “I doubt you’ll have to wait,” said he. He pointed to a page in scarlet and yellow, who, astride a cannon by the wall, was shouting and clapping his hands. “Best tell him,” said the soldier. “He’ll take your message for you as soon as may be.”
Benvenuto thanked him and went on, pressing unceremoniously past one or two who blocked his way. He spoke to the page politely; he shouted to him; finally he shook him by the leg, and thus gained at last his attention.
“I seek the Lord Duke of Valentinois,” he said for the fourth time since his arrival in that fortress. “It is a very pressing matter - a matter of life and death.”
The page looked him over superciliously, and grinned. “You’ll have to wait,” he answered. “His Highness is busy over there.”
“Over there?” echoed Benvenuto. But the page took no further heed of him. Whereupon, determined to see what might be taking place, Benvenuto climbed on to the gun, behind the boy. Thence he could see over the heads of the throng, and what he saw surprised him.
These spectators formed a ring, from which all snow had been swept. In the centre of this two men faced each other, alert, and with hands held slightly forward. Both were naked to the waist, and they contrasted oddly. One was tall, big-limbed and heavy - a very giant - swarthy, black-bearded, and hairy as a goat about the trunk and limbs; the other, tall also, yet not quite so tall, was of a slenderness that looked delicate by comparison; his long hair and crisp beard were of an auburn fairness, and his naked torso was smooth, and of a gleaming, alabaster whiteness. They were wrestlers about to come to grips, and Benvenuto pitied the comely, white-fleshed fellow, with a contemptuous pity, and looked forward with interest to the mauling he must receive in the embrace of that great bear of a man to whom he was opposed.
Then Benvenuto scanned the foremost ranks of the spectators, looking for one whose regal presence must proclaim the Duke. He beheld several very noble-looking gentlemen; but he was left in doubt as to which of them might be Cesare Borgia, and meanwhile the wrestlers were locked in combat, swaying this way and that, as first one heaved and then the other. The only sound in the courtyard was the sharp hiss of their breath, the quick patter of their shifting feet, and the smack of their hands upon each other’s body.
Benvenuto watched, amazed at the fair man’s ability to resist so long. He had his fingers locked now about the giant’s neck, and was exerting his might and weight to pull the fellow forward and throw him off his balance. And as he put forth his strength, Benvenuto was surprised by the sudden ripple of muscle and sinew upon the smooth, alabaster back. Protuberances as large as apples appeared suddenly under the wrestler’s shoulder-blades, whilst from either side of his spine leaped tight ropes of unsuspected power. Clearly the fellow was none so soft as he might seem at a first glance. Yet here his efforts were all vain. As well might he have sought to move a bull. The giant stood with legs wide and feet firmly planted, resisting the exertions of the other.
Then in a flash he moved; wrenched his neck free; seized his opponent about the waist, and swung him from the ground. And then, before he could use his unquestionable advantage, his opponent’s two hands had caught him by the chin, and were forcing his head back with such harsh violence that he was compelled to abandon his hold.
They fell apart, breathing hard, very wary of each other.
The page turned a white excited face to Benvenuto. “Madonna!” swore the stripling. “He all but had him then!”
“Who is the fellow?” asked Benvenuto.
“A blacksmith from Cattolica,” answered the boy. “They say he has not his match for strength in the Romagna.”
“Ay; but the other - the white-fleshed cockerel?”
The lad stared at him. “Why - whence are you? From the Indies or the new world of Messer Colombo? That is his Highness the Duke of Valentinois.”
Benvenuto stared back at the page, and frowned. “Look you, young sir,” said he, “do you seek to make a fool of me?”
“Diavolo!” said the pert boy. “Who am I to improve upon God’s work?”
And then a shout from the crowd drew the attention of both back to the ring.
The fair wrestler had stooped, evaded the blacksmith’s long arms, and seizing him by the legs had hoisted him from the ground. But the smith’s great hands had closed about the other’s neck, and so neutralised the hold, making a throw impossible - for by their rules a throw was no throw in which the thrower went down with the thrown. The shout had been raised while the matter was in doubt, and when it seemed that the blacksmith must suffer defeat, and the word that Benvenuto caught from a hundred throats was “Duca! Duca!”
It informed him that the page had spoken truth; but the surprise of it almost stunned him. Was that, indeed the Duke? That Cesare Borgia? That the demigod whose presence he had approached with such overwhelming awe?
Why, he was no better than another. A duke who wrestled with blacksmiths in the courtyard of his own castle! Faugh! Was that a duke to be feared?
Now that he had seen this pope’s bastard, Benvenuto felt himself every inch his equal. What false attributes - he reflected - are bestowed by man’s imaginings upon the great! Cesare Borgia was a man like any other - and he wrestled with blacksmiths! He should pay Benvenuto handsomely for the information Benvenuto brought him. No longer would Benvenuto be afraid to demand full value for his wares.
Meanwhile the combat assumed a greater interest in his eyes, and he watched it, marvelling at the folly of this duke. To be a duke and to permit himself to be rudely handled in this fashion! Like enough there would be broken bones under that white skin of his before all was done. It was not thus that Benvenuto understood the trade of dukes; not thus that he had conceived them. Rich wines, a well- spread table, a soft couch, abundance of minstrels to soothe him with their music, and the brightness of female eyes to gladden him. These, Benvenuto had ever conceived to be the natural attributes of dukeship
. This rough-and-tumble with blacksmiths in a courtyard on a winter day held no place in his conception.
The page was giving him information. “His Highness has promised fifty ducats to any man who can throw him.”
Lackaday! Fifty ducats for such a service! Oh, the Duke was a queer fellow - but most ducally open-handed, as people said; and Benvenuto smiled to think of the tax he should presently levy upon that open-handedness.
Meanwhile, the wrestlers were at grips again, more vigorously than ever; and, as he watched them, Benvenuto was lost in wonder of the Duke’s amazing agility. He seemed compact of springs of steel, so lithe and swift were all his movements, so pantherine his step, his crouch, his leap. The end seemed now to Benvenuto less a foregone conclusion than at first. For the brute might of the Colossus appeared to spend itself against the supple strength of the young Duke.
The end came suddenly. Before men realised it, all was done. The blacksmith made a sudden rush to grapple his opponent. The Duke, to avoid him, swung aside from the hips, leaving his feet firmly planted; as the giant missed his grip and hurtled forward, suddenly off his balance, Cesare’s arms coiled themselves sideways about his waist. His hands locked and his grip tightened so that the smith could not turn in that embrace to face his antagonist.
Again Benvenuto saw that ripple and rise of muscle under the fair white skin of the Duke’s back. Men held their breaths. Here was a well-seized grip. Could the Duke hold it - hold that gigantic mass of writhing muscle?
Hold it he did. He crouched a little, gathered his right leg under him, and thrust out his left hip. It was like the stretching of an archer’s bow. And then it was as if the quarrel had been loosed, and the quarrel was the blacksmith. There had been a sudden heave; the protruded hip came straight again, and the blacksmith, swung an instant to the horizontal, crashed down upon his shoulder, and lay there, groaning. But his groans were lost in the deafening cheer that went up from the ring of spectators in the yard and others who had watched the contest from the windows of the quadrangle.
“Duca! Duca!” was the shout. Caps flew aloft; men clapped, and laughed, and bellowed at each other the niceties of the throw.
The Duke meanwhile had gone down upon one knee beside the prostrate wrestler, and was holding up his hand for silence. The man had been hurt. His shoulder was dislocated or his collar-bone broken from the force of the impact with which he fell.
Men-at-arms came forward to help him, half-stunned and suffering, to his feet.
“Let Torella see to his shoulder,” said the Duke, adding to the man himself. “You are the stoutest rogue I was ever matched against, and you made me tremble for my reputation.” He had his hand on the man’s sound shoulder, very friendly as he spoke.
Hearing and seeing so much, Benvenuto’s contempt for his Highness steadily increased. He caught the look of dog-like gratitude in the smith’s eye, and sneered at both of them.
“You shall have twenty ducats to comfort you,” were the Duke’s last words to the man. At least, thought Benvenuto, there was no doubt that he was free with his ducats; and that was the main thing now.
An attendant fetched the Duke a silken vest and a fur-lined surcoat, and he donned the garments with the quick grace peculiar to all his actions.
Benvenuto begged the page to announce him to his Highness, urging the importance of the matter upon which he came, which already had been too long delayed. The page obligingly departed on that errand. Benvenuto saw him hover a moment about the Duke, then make a profound obeisance and deliver his message.
Cesare was settling the surcoat upon his shoulders. He inclined his head to listen to the boy; then he looked up, and his eyes fell upon Benvenuto, standing there full now of arrogance and assurance. And that same arrogance went out of Benvenuto when Cesare’s eyes fell upon him, as a candle goes out in a gust of wind.
What there might be in the glance of those matchless eyes he could not have attempted to tell you. But something sped upon it to his brain, and partly numbed it. It was as if his body were of glass, and those eyes were looking through it into the dirty little soul within.
Then, abruptly, the Duke beckoned him. He got down from his eminence, and went forward without swagger, his breathing quickened, his skin cold. Soldiers, courtiers and others fell away before him, opening a lane, through which he passed into the immediate presence of that auburn-haired young man.
“You have something to tell me,” said the Duke, his voice gentle enough, and yet the coldest that Benvenuto had ever known; his eyes so level and penetrating that Benvenuto could not support their glance.
“Something - something of great moment, Magnificent,” faltered the thief.
Cesare was silent an instant, still considering him; and in that instant the wretched Benvenuto felt that he had no secrets from the Duke; that all that there was to know of him was known to this man whose equal he had so lately accounted himself.
“Come with me, then,” said the Duke in his gentle voice - a voice rich in melody - and turned away.
Preceded by the page he crossed the courtyard, and mounted six steps to an oaken door studded with great iron nails, which a man- at-arms flung open for him at his approach. Benvenuto followed meekly, uncomfortable under the many eyes that conned him and detected - he was convinced - his true station and quality under his brave stolen raiment.
From the bright, clear sunshine of the courtyard he passed into a large and somewhat gloomy hall, cheered by the ruddy play of light on the floor and walls and ceiling from a great fire that burned in the vast cowled fireplace. The floor was strewn with fresh rushes; there were tapestries on two of the walls, and a staircase ascended to a gallery on the right. Near the fire stood a large arm-chair in red velvet with an escutcheon in gold which glowed and faded as the firelight caught it. By this was a massive table, elaborately carved, and yonder a buffet upon which stood goblets and a tall golden beaker. From this latter a faint steam was rising, and Benvenuto’s nostrils caught and were set a-quiver by the sweet perfume of spiced wine.
Cesare flung himself into the chair by the fire. The page fetched the beaker and a goblet - a single goblet, Benvenuto noted - and poured wine for his master, thereafter setting the beaker on the table.
The Duke waved the stripling away into the background, and turned at last to Benvenuto, who stood there in mid-apartment, foolish and ill at ease.
“Now, sir,” said he, “your errand?”
The question fell abruptly. It was by no means the question Benvenuto had expected to begin with. But he must answer it.
“I am in possession, my lord,” he said, “of particulars of a plot which aims at your life.”
He had counted upon making a profound impression. But this was a day of surprises for him, of incredible revelations into the ways and habits of dukes. Not a muscle moved in Cesare’s calm face; unblinking those haunting eyes continued to regard him. There fell a pause, terminated at last by the Duke, whose slender fingers impatiently tapped the table.
“Well, sir, well?” he cried sharply. “What else?”
“What else?” stammered Benvenuto. “Why - that is all.”
“All?” the Duke frowned. “But these particulars?”
“I - I have them here. They are contained in these letters, of which I became possessed today, and - and I have ridden at all speed to bring them to you.” He was fumbling in his doublet.
“You have ridden? Whence?”
“Eh - from Forli.”
He produced the letters. He had, as you know, entertained bold thoughts of the price he would ask, the bargain he would drive before surrendering them. But all notion of that had gone from him with his courage. He had beheld an instance of the Duke’s proverbial liberality in the case of the wrestler. He had no doubt the Duke would be no less liberal with him. He would depend upon that. He advanced timidly to the table, and set the letters before the Duke.
Cesare scanned them rapidly. Midway through the first his brows became knit. He gave a s
harp order to the page.
“Beppo, summon me Messer Gherardi.”
The page went up the stairs, along the gallery, and through a doorway at the end. Cesare resumed his reading. Benvenuto waited, wondering.
At last the Duke set down the letters on the table. Benvenuto had expected outbursts, transports of rage, ferocious satisfaction, then protestations of gratitude to him - the Duke’s saviour - and, lastly, a golden recompense. From the beginning nothing fell out as he expected. There was no outburst, no trace of anger even. The Duke’s handsome lofty face remained as calm as though such matters were of daily occurrence in his life; his words, when he spoke, did not seem even remotely to bear upon the matter of this conspiracy.
“What is your name, sir?”
Under the play of those awful, beautiful eyes Benvenuto answered truthfully, feeling that he dared not lie - that to lie were idle: “I am Benvenuto Gismondi, your Highness’ servant.”
“Of Forli?”
“Of Forli, Magnificent.”
“And your trade?”
Benvenuto’s uneasiness welled up. “I -I am a poor man, Highness. I - I live as I can.”
He saw Cesare’s eyes pondering his garments - the gold chain on his breast, the jewel in the cap he held - with the faintest yet most sinister of smiles. Too late he perceived how he had blundered; too late he cursed himself for not having come with a tale prepared. But how should he have expected such questions? What manner of man was this who could turn aside from such a matter as Benvenuto had set before him, to make inquiries so alien to the subject.
Collected Works of Rafael Sabatini Page 421
