It was at this stage that Count Guido turned again to the Perugian, and, profiting by a momentary silence following a vigorous plea for resistance from Santafiora, invited him to speak.
“It may be that I can help you,” said Gianpaolo slowly, “for it happens that my proposal supports neither one side nor the other of the discussion to which I have listened. My suggestion concerns a middle course; and since something of the sort seems to be needed here if you are not to spend your days in talk, perhaps your courtesy will give attention to what I have to say.”
The company stirred expectantly, and settled into an attentive silence. Panthasilea’s eyes turned with the others upon the grim face of the speaker, and never left it whilst he was delivering his message.
“Sirs,” he said, “here has been talk of resistance and of surrender. Of attack, of assuming the offensive, it seems not one of you has thought.”
“To what purpose?” quoth Santafiora, scowling. “We have a bare five hundred men.”
But Baglioni imperiously waved the condottiero into silence. “Hear me out before you judge me, and do not outrun me by conclusions of your own. You may know - or you may not, for Italy is full of lies upon the subject - of the business in which those gallant gentlemen, who were my friends, came by their deaths in Sinigaglia - a death which I, myself, have very narrowly escaped by the infinite mercy of God.” And he crossed himself piously. “It had been planned, sirs, to take this Duke, and make an end of him. An arbalister was to have shot him as he rode into the town. But he is the fiend - the incarnate fiend. He came forewarned. Praemonitus et praemunitus. He turned the trap about, and took in it those who had plotted to take him. The rest you know.” He leaned forward, and his blood-injected eyes ran over the assembled company. “Sirs,” he concluded in a thick, concentrated voice, “that which failed at Sinigaglia might succeed in Assisi.”
There was a stir, breaking the rapt silence in which he had been heard. He looked at them with challenge in his glance. “Needs more be said?” he asked.
“Ay,” cried Paviano, “the how and the when, the ways and the means.”
“Why that, of course. But first-” He turned to Count Guido. “Have you a mind to follow such a course; to rid Italy of this scourge at a single stroke; to save your dominions and the dominions of others from being ravished by this insatiable devourer? Destroy Cesare Borgia, and you will have destroyed the head and brain of the Pontifical forces; thus there will be an end to this conquest of the Romagna, which presently will spread into a conquest of middle Italy; for if he lives he will not rest until he is king of Tuscany. He is not easy of access, and since Sinigaglia he uses all precautions. Yet while he is resting in Assisi should be your opportunity if you have a mind to seize it.”
Count Guido sat thoughtful and frowning, whilst eagerness glowed on several faces, positive fierceness of concurrence on one or two. But one dissentient there was in old del Campo.
“It is murder you are proposing,” he said in tones of chill reproof.
“And what then? Shall a mere word set up a barrier for grown men?” demanded the fierce Baglioni.
“It would not for one woman that I know of,” said the clear boyish voice of Madonna Panthasilea, and so drew upon herself, with those first words she had ventured to utter in that council, the gaze of all. There was a feverish light in her dark eyes, a feverish glow in her fair cheeks. Meeting their glances she addressed them: “What my Lord Gianpaolo has said is true. While Cesare Borgia lives there is no peace for middle Italy. And there is one thing, and one thing only that can save Solignola - the death of Cesare Borgia.”
A roar of acclamation was the answer to those words - words uttered already by Baglioni - now that they fell from her red lips. It was her beauty and her glorious womanhood that swayed them - as men ever will be swayed even against reason, against honour and against knowledge.
But old del Campo remained untouched by the subtle magnetism of sex. He rose as the acclamations died down. He turned a calm, impassive face upon Count Guido.
“My lord,” he asked, his voice ice-cold, “does this receive your countenance?”
The white face of the old Count was set and hard, as his voice was hard when, after a moment’s thought, he spoke. “Upon what grounds, Messer del Campo, would you urge that it should not? for that is clearly what you would urge.”
The President of the Anziani steadily met the Count’s steely glance. He bowed a thought ironically. “I am answered,” he said. He thrust back his chair, and stepped from the table. “Permit, my lord, and you, sirs, that I withdraw before you go further in a matter in which I will have no part.”
He bowed again to all, drew his furred robes about him, and proudly left the chamber in the ensuing silence, leaving a chill behind him.
Scarce had the door closed after him than Gianpaolo was on his feet, his face pale with excitement.
“Sir Count,” he cried, “that man must not leave the citadel. Our lives may hang upon it. Too many such schemes have miscarried through less than this. Cesare Borgia’s spies are everywhere. They will be in Solignola now, and should del Campo utter a word of what has passed here, the Duke may hear of it tomorrow.”
There was a moment’s silence. Count Guido’s eyes seemed to ask Gianpaolo a question.
“There is no dungeon in your castle too deep for Messer del Campo until this thing is done,” said he; and he added almost under his breath: “Indeed, I doubt if there be any deep enough.”
The Count turned to Santanora. “See to it,” he said in a low voice, and Santanora rose and departed on his errand.
Madonna Panthasilea’s face grew very white; her eyes dilated. She feared the worst for old del Campo, who had been her own and her father’s faithful friend for many a year. Yet she saw the necessity for the measure, and so crushed down the womanly weakness that arose in her, and spoke no word of intercession for him.
Presently the Count solemnly addressed the company.
“Sirs,” he said, “you have plainly signified your agreement with the proposal made by Messer Gianpaolo.”
“A thought occurs to me,” put in Francesco d’Aldi, and at once he claimed their attention. He was a scholar, a patron of the arts, a man of natural shrewdness and much worldly experience, who had dwelt much in courts and for a season had been the Orator of Solignola at the Vatican. “A doubt occurs to me as to the wisdom of my Lord Baglioni’s proposal as it stands.”
Angry glances, a snort or two of impatience, and a short contemptuous laugh from Baglioni, were his answers. But he fronted the disapproval calmly, and in that moment of his pause Santafiora re-entered the chamber.
“Give me your patience, sirs,” said Messer Francesco, and he almost smiled. “I do not wish to bear del Campo company in his dungeon.”
Santafiora smiled grimly as he resumed his seat. That and his silence told the company all that it could have asked the condottiero.
“Say on,” the Count bade the Lord of Aldi. “We all know your worth, Francesco.”
Messer Francesco bowed, and cleared his throat. “Messer Gianpaolo has told us what would result from the death of Cesare Borgia - enough to justify the slaying of him so far as the ultimate consequences are at issue. But we, here in Solignola, have also to consider the immediate consequences of this act; for those immediate consequences would touch ourselves.”
“Sacrifice for the State’s weal is the duty of the individual,” said Gianpaolo harshly.
“Since Messer Gianpaolo proposes to seek safety for himself in Siena, it is easy for him to utter these beautiful sentiments,” said Aldi tartly.
Some laughed, Baglioni spluttered an angry oath, and Count Guido intervened to sooth him.
“Myself,” proceeded Francesco d’Aldi, “I oppose the sacrifice of the individual where it is not necessary, and in this case I hold that it is not. We are to consider that with Cesare Borgia are several condottieri who are devoted to him. Such men as Corella, Scipione, della Volpe and others wo
uld never allow his death to go unavenged. And the measure of revenge they would exact is such as no man may calmly contemplate. Solignola would cease to exist; not a town, not a hamlet would be left standing - no man, woman or child would they spare in their devastating fury. Can you envisage that, sirs?” he inquired, and was answered by gloomy looks and silence. “But I have an alternative proposal,” he continued, “which should more effectively meet our needs, and lead to the same result for us - for Solignola, Assisi and Perugia.
“It is that we take the Duke of Valentinois alive, and hold him as a hostage, threatening to hang him if we are beset. That should keep his condottieri in check, and meanwhile we send our envoys to the Pope. We offer his Holiness his son’s life and liberty in exchange for our own lives and our own liberties, in exchange for a Bull of perpetual franchisement from the States of the Church; and to quicken his Holiness’ penmanship we add a threat that if the Bull is not in our hands within a given term we will proceed to hang the Lord Cesare Borgia.”
“Most shrewd!” Baglioni cried, and others echoed the applause.
“But there is a difficulty,” said Francesco. “It lies in the Duke’s capture.”
“Indeed, yes,” agreed Paviano gloomily.
“But surely by guile,” urged Count Guido, “he might be lured into some - some trap.”
“We should need such guile as Cesare Borgia’s own,” said Santafiora.
And now for a while they talked to no purpose, and first one offered a suggestion, then another; but these suggestions were all as obvious to propose as they were impossible to execute. That a half- hour was spent, and they were no nearer a solution; some indeed were beginning to despair, when Madonna Panthasilea rose slowly to her feet.
She stood at the table’s end, her bands resting lightly upon the board, her tall, lithe body in its russet gown, inclining slightly forward, her bosom rising and falling, and the pallor of excitement on her face, the sparkle of excitement in her liquid eyes.
“It is most fitting,” she said slowly, her voice steady and composed, “that Solignola’s future mistress should be Solignola’s saviour in this hour. Thus shall I prove my right to rule here when the time comes - and please God it may he very distant yet.”
The silence of utter amazement that followed her words was broken at length by her father.
“You, Panthasilea? What can you do?”
“What no man of you all could do. For here is a matter that may best be fought with woman’s weapons.”
Against this they protested clamorously, some in horror, some in anger, all excited, save only Baglioni, who cared not how the thing were done so that it was done.
She raised a hand for silence and obtained it.
“There is between the Borgia and me this matter of saving Solignola. That alone were matter enough to spur me. But there is more.” She grew deathly white and swayed a moment with closed eyes. Then, recovering herself, continued: “Pietro Varano and I were to have wed this spring. And Pietro Varano was strangled three months ago in the market-place of Pesaro by Borgia justice. That too lies between me and the Duke of Valentinois; and vengeance should give me strength in this enterprise, which must be approached by such ways as only a woman’s feet may tread.”
“But the danger of it!” cried Count Guido.
“Think not of that. What danger shall I run? I am not known in Assisi, where I have not been since I was a little child. I am scarce known in Solignola itself, where I have been seen but little since my return from Mantua. And I shall be careful how I show myself in Assisi. Sirs, you must not gainsay me in this. I set my hand to the task to preserve our State’s independence, to save thousands of lives. As Messer Gianpaolo has said, sacrifice for the State’s weal is the duty of the individual. Yet here so much can scarcely be required.”
Men muttered, and looked at her father. It was for him to speak. The Count took his head in his hands and sat in thought.
“What - what is your plan?” quoth Gianluca della Pieve thickly. Her ready answer showed how fully already she had considered the matter. “I shall go down to Assisi, taking with me a dozen men of Santafiora’s condotta, disguised as peasants and lackeys. And while Solignola defies Cesare Borgia, and so detains him in Assisi, I shall find ways to lure him into a snare, bind him hand and foot and bear him off to Siena, where Messer Gianpaolo will await me. For my purpose, Messer della Pieve, your house in Assisi will be necessary to me. You will lend it me.”
“Lend it you?” quoth he in horror. “Lend it to be a mouse-trap in which you - your matchless womanhood - shall be the cheese? Is that your meaning?”
She lowered her eyes; a crimson flush overspread her face.
“Solignola,” she replied, “is in danger of being conquered. In the valley thousands of women and little children are in danger of homelessness, of death and worse than death. Shall one woman hesitate” - and now she raised her eyes again and flashed them defiantly upon the company - “shall one woman hesitate to endure a little insult when at the price of it she can buy so much?”
It was her father who returned the answer that none other dared return. He uncovered a face that had become grey and haggard.
“She is right,” he said, and - odd argument for an Italian of the cinquecento - “it is her sacred duty to the people she was born to rule,” he informed them. “Since there offers no way by which a man’s strength may prevail against Valentinois, della Pieve you will lend your house; you, Santafiora, the men that she requires.”
Assisi, conquered without bloodshed, all trace of conquest sedulously removed as was the way of Cesare Borgia, was settling down to its workaday aspect which the Duke’s occupation had scarcely ruffled.
Though princes perish, thrones crumble in min, and dynasties be supplanted, citizens must eat and live and go about their business. Thus, whilst some remained in Assisi who scowled as Cesare Borgia, Duke of Valentinois, went abroad, the greater portion bared their heads and bowed their duty to the conqueror, the great captain who had made it his life’s task to reconsolidate into one powerful state these petty tyrannies of the Romagna.
The half of Cesare’s army was encamped in the surrounding country. The other half, under Michele da Corella, had advanced to lay siege to Solignola, which had returned a defiant answer to Cesare’s envoys when these had gone to invite Count Guido to surrender.
It was a difficult place to take, and Cesare was too wise a captain to be in haste where haste must prove expensive. Assisi afforded him pleasant quarters, and was a convenient centre for the transaction of such business as he had with Florence and Siena, and so he sat down very patiently to await the result of certain operations which he had indicated to Corella.
The chief feature of these was the preparation of a mine under the walls on the southern side of the city, almost under the very citadel itself at the point where it was flanked by the hill. Between the difficulties of access to the place, and the vigilance and continual sorties of the defenders, it became apparent at the end of a week that at the present rate of operations it would take Corella a month to effect a breach. Cesare began to consider the wisdom of opening a bombardment, deterred, however, by the difficulty there would be in effectively mounting a park of artillery upon those rocky slopes.
The matter of this obstinate but futile resistance offered by Solignola, intrigued his Highness of Valentinois, and he was assured that some explanation for it must exist that was not obvious. That explanation he sought on every hand, for the Sinigaglia affair had rendered him doubly wary and alert.
One fair morning in early February, on which the deeper golden of the sunlight told of approaching spring, Cesare rode down the steep borgo from the market-place, the centre of a brilliant group of horsemen - captains in steel, courtiers in silk, and, beside him, upon a snow-white mule, the handsome scarlet figure of Cardinal Remolino, the Papal legate a latere.
It was a joyous cavalcade, most of its members being as young as the young Duke himself; and gay talk and la
ughter leaped from them as they rode forward to visit Corella’s camp under Solignola.
In the open space before the Convent of Santa Chiara their progress was arrested for a moment by a mule litter that struck across their course towards one of the streets that led to San Rufino. It was attended by two footmen, and a very elegant cavalier on a big roan horse who rode on the litter’s farther side.
The Cardinal-legate was speaking to Cesare, and Cesare was allowing his eyes to stray, as do the eyes of a man not over-interested in what he is being told. They chanced to fall upon the litter, and what he saw there caught his roving glance, and held it.
The curtain had been drawn aside, and at the very moment that he looked, the cavalier was - or so it seemed to him - stooping to point him out to the lady who sat within. It was this lady’s splendid beauty that now engrossed his gaze; and in that instant her eyes, large and solemn as a child’s, were raised to his.
Their glances met across the little intervening space, and Cesare saw her lips part as in surprise, saw the colour perish in her cheeks, leaving them ivory white. In homage - not to the woman, but to the beauty that was hers, for like all of his race he accounted beauty the most cardinal of all the virtues - the conqueror doffed his hat, and bowed to the very withers of his horse.
The Cardinal, checked in full flow of argument, scowled at this proof of inattention, and scowled more darkly still when to reveal the full extent of it, Cesare asked him softly: “Who is that lady, do you know?”
The prelate, who had a famous eye for feminine beauty, followed Cesare’s indication promptly. But in that moment the curtain fell again, thus baffling his eager glance.
Cesare, a smile on his lips, uttered a slight sigh, and then fell very pensive, intrigued by the element of abnormality, slight as it was, that the incident had offered. He had been pointed out to her, and at sight of him she had turned pale. What was the reason? He could not recollect that he had ever seen her before; and had he seen her, hers was not a face he had forgot. Why, then, did the sight of him affect her in so odd a manner? Men enough had turned pale before him, ay, and women too. But there had ever been a reason. What was the reason here?
Collected Works of Rafael Sabatini Page 428
