But at that the antient, who loved Graziani as faithful hound its master, was unable longer to contain himself. Was the Duke mad, to accept so preposterous a tale — to swallow this lying fabrication as smoothly and easily as if it were a sugared egg.
‘My lord,’ he broke in, ‘if what he says is true...’
‘If?’ cried Cesare. ‘Who dares to doubt it? Is he not Prince Sinibaldi and the envoy of the Most Serene? Who will cast a doubt upon his word?’
‘I will, my lord,’ answered the soldier stoutly.
‘By the Host! now here’s audacity.’
‘My lord, if what he says is true then it follows that Messer Graziani was a traitor — for it was Messer Graziani who was wounded in that brawl, and he would have us believe that the man he wounded was one of those that plotted with his innocence.’
‘That, quite clearly, is what he has said,’ Cesare replied.
‘Why then,’ said Barbo, and he plucked the rude buffalo gauntlet from his left hand, ‘I say that who says that is a liar, whether he be a prince of Venice or a prince of hell.’ And he raised the glove he had plucked from his hand, clearly intending to fling it in Sinibaldi’s face.
But the Duke’s voice checked the intention.
‘Hold!’ it bade him sharply; and instantly he paused. The Duke looked at him with narrowing eyes. ‘You all but did a thing that might have cost you very dear,’ he said. ‘Get out of my sight, and take your men with you. But hold yourself at my commands outside. We will talk of this again, perhaps tonight, perhaps tomorrow, Messer Barbo. Go!’
Chilled by tone and glance, Barbo stiffened, saluted, then with a malignant scowl at Sinibaldi, clanked down the hall and out, counting himself as good as hanged, yet more concerned with the foul slander uttered against his captain than with any fate that might lie in store for himself.
Cesare looked at Sinibaldi, and smiled. ‘Forgive the lout,’ he said. ‘Honesty, and fidelity to his captain prompted him. Tomorrow he shall be taught his manners. Meanwhile, of your graciousness forget it with the rest. A place for the Prince Sinibaldi here at my side. Come, my lord, let me play host to you, and make you some amends for the rude handling you have suffered. Never blame the master for the stupidity of his lackeys. The Council whose guest I am have spread a noble entertainment. Here is a wine that is a very unguent for wounded souls — a whole Tuscan summer has been imprisoned in every flagon of it. And there is to be a comedy — delayed too long by these untoward happenings. Sir President, what of these players sent from Mantua? The Prince Sinibaldi is to be amused, that he may forget how he has been vexed.’
You see Prince Sinibaldi, then, limp with amazement, shaken by relief from his long tension, scarcely believing himself out of his terrible position, wondering whether perhaps all this were not a dream. He sank into the chair that was placed for him at the Duke’s side, he drank of the wine that at the Duke’s bidding was poured for him by one of the scarlet lackeys. And then, even as he drank, he almost choked upon the sudden fresh fear that assailed him with the memory of certain stories of Capello’s concerning Cesare’s craft in the uses of poisons.
But even as in haste he set down his cup and half-turned, he beheld the lackey pouring wine from the same beaker for the venom-taster who stood behind the Duke’s chair, and so he was reassured.
The players followed, and soon the company’s attention was engrossed entirely by the plot of the more or less lewd comedy they performed. But Sinibaldi’s thoughts were anywhere but with the play. He was considering all that had happened, and most of all his present condition and the honour done him by the Duke as a measure of amends for the indignities he had endured. He was a man of sanguine temperament, and gradually his mistrust was dissipated by the increasing conviction that the Duke behaved thus towards him out of dread of the powerful Republic whose representative he was. Hence was he gradually heartened to the extent of conceiving a certain measure of contempt for this Valentinois of such terrible repute, and a certain assurance even that Ranieri and the others would yet carry out the business that had been concerted.
And meanwhile Cesare, beside him, sitting hunched in his chair, his chin in his hand, his eyes intent upon the players, was conscious of as little of the comedy as was Sinibaldi. Had the company been less engrossed its members might have observed how set remained the Duke’s countenance, and how vacant. Like Sinibaldi he, too, was concerned, to the exclusion of all else, with the thing that was to be done that night. He was wondering, too, how far the Most Serene itself might have a hand in this murderous affair, how far Sinibaldi might be an agent sent to do this assassin’s work. He bethought him of how at every step in his career, and in every way within her power, Venice had betrayed her implacable hostility; he remembered how she had gone to work with the insidious weapons of intrigue and slander to embroil him now with France, now with Spain, and how by arms and money she had secretly reinforced his enemies against him.
Was Sinibaldi, then, but the hand of the Republic in this matter? Plainly it must be so, since Sinibaldi personally could have no cause to seek his life. Sinibaldi then had all the resources of the Republic behind him. He was a tool that must be broken, both because he had lent himself to this infamous treachery, and because in breaking him would lie Cesare’s best answer to the Venetian trader-princes.
Yet although he saw plainly what was to do, the means of doing it were none so plain. He must pick his way carefully through this tangle, lest it should enmesh him and bring him down. Firstly he had pledged his princely word that he would do no hurt to Sinibaldi. If possible he would observe the letter of that promise; as for the spirit of it, it were surely unreasonable to expect him to respect that also. Secondly to destroy Sinibaldi without destroying with him his confederates were to leave the treachery not only alive but quickened into activity by the spur of revenge; in such a case his own danger would persist, and if the arbalest bolt were not loosed at him tonight it might come tomorrow or the next day. Thirdly, in dealing with this pack of Venetian murderers he must so go to work as to leave Venice no case for grievance at the result.
So far as Sinibaldi himself was concerned, it must be remembered that the tale he had told so publicly and circumstantially was impossible of refutation save by Graziani — and Graziani was insensible and might not live to refute it, whilst even if he did, it would be but the word of Graziani — a captain of fortune, one of a class never deemed over scrupulous — against the word of Sinibaldi — a patrician and a prince of Venice.
There you have the nice problem by which Cesare found himself confronted and which he considered whilst with unseeing eyes he watched the antics of the players; and you will agree that the solution of it was matter enough to justify his absorption and to call for all the ingegno which Macchiavelli, a connoisseur in the matter, so profoundly admired in the Duke.
Light came to him towards the comedy’s conclusion. The grim mask of concentration that he had worn was suddenly relaxed, and for a moment his eyes sparkled with almost wicked humour. He flung himself back in his chair, and listened now to the epilogue spoken by the leader of the company. At its close he led the applause by detaching from his girdle a heavy purse, and flinging it down to the players to mark his own appreciation of their efforts. Then he turned to Sinibaldi to discuss with him a comedy of which neither had much knowledge. He laughed and jested with the Venetian as with an equal, overwhelming him by the courtly charm in which no man of his day could surpass the Duke.
V
Came midnight at last — the hour at which it had been arranged that the torchlight procession should set out from the Palazzo Pubblico to escort the Duke back to the famous Rocca of Sigismondo Malatesta, where he was housed. Valentinois gave the signal for departure by rising, and instantly a regiment of grooms and pages hung about him in attendance.
Sinibaldi, facing him, bowed low to take his leave, to go seek his lady whose withdrawal from the banquet had been occasioned, as he had been informed, by his own adventure. But C
esare would not hear of parting from him yet awhile. He thanked Heaven in his most gracious manner for the new friend it had that night vouchsafed him.
‘But for this mischance of yours, excellency, we might never have come to such desirable knowledge of each other. Forgive me, therefore, if I cannot altogether deplore it.’
Overwhelmed by so much honour, Sinibaldi could but bow again, in such humility that you might almost hear him murmuring ‘Domine non sum dignus!’ almost fancy him beating his secretly armoured breast in self-abasement. And, meanwhile, the oily Capello hovering ever nigh, like some tutelary deity, purred and smirked and rubbed his gross white hands that anon should pen more obscenities in defamation of this gracious Valentinois.
‘Come, then, excellency,’ the Duke continued. ‘You shall ride with me to the citadel, and there pledge our next meeting, which may the gods please shall be soon. And Messer Capello here shall be of the party. I take no denial. I shall account your refusal as the expression of a lingering resentment at what has befallen you through no fault of my own, and to my deep mortification. Come, prince. They are waiting for us. Messer Capello, follow us.’
On the word he thrust an arm, lithe and supple as a thing of steel, through that of Sinibaldi, and in this fashion the twain stepped down the hall together, and along the gallery between the files of courtiers gathered there to acclaim the Duke. It almost seemed as if Cesare desired that Sinibaldi should share this honour with him, and Capello following immediately upon their heels puffed himself out with pride and satisfaction to see Valentinois doing homage to the Most Serene Republic in so marked a manner through the person of her envoy-extraordinary.
Thus they came out upon the courtyard into the ruddy glare of a hundred flaming torches that turned to orange the yellowing old walls of the Palazzo. Here was great press and bustle of grooms about the cavaliers who were getting to horse and still more about the ladies who were climbing to their litters.
It was here that Cesare and Sinibaldi were met by a pair of the Duke’s vermilion pages bearing his cloak and cap.
Now it happened that the cloak, which was fashioned from the skin of a tiger, heavily laced with gold and reversed with yellow satin, was as conspicuous as it was rare and costly. It was a present that the Sultan Bajazet had sent the Borgia out of Turkey, and Cesare had affected it since the cold weather had set in, not only out of his inherent love of splendour, but also for the sake of the great warmth which it afforded.
As the stripling stood before him now presenting that very gorgeous mantle, the Duke swung suddenly upon Sinibaldi, standing at his elbow.
‘You have no cloak, my lord!’ he cried in deep concern. ‘No cloak, and it is a bitter night.’
‘A groom shall find me one, Magnificent: the Venetian answered, and half turned aside to desire Capello give the order for him.
‘Ah, wait,’ said Cesare. He took the lovely tiger skin from the hands of his page. ‘Since not only in these my new dominions, but actually out of loyalty to myself it was that you lost your cloak, suffer me to replace it with this, and at the same time offer you an all unworthy token of the esteem in which I hold your excellency and the Serene Republic which you represent.’
Sinibaldi fell back a single step, and one of the pages told afterwards that on his face was stamped the look of one in sudden fear. He looked deep into the Duke’s smiling eyes and perhaps he saw there some faint trace of the mockery which he had fancied that he detected in his smooth words.
Now Sinibaldi, as you will have seen by the promptitude and thoroughness with which he adapted to himself the story of Graziani’s misadventure, was a crafty subtle-witted gentleman, quick to draw inferences where once a clue was afforded him.
As he met now that so faintly significant smile of Cesare’s, as he pondered the faintly significant tone in which the Duke had spoken, and as he considered the noble gift that was being proffered him, understanding came to him swift, sudden and startling as a flash of lightning in the night.
The Duke had never been deceived by his specious story; the Duke knew the truth; the Duke’s almost fawning friendliness — which he, like a fool, had for a while fancied to be due to the Duke’s fear of Venice — had been so much make-believe, so much mockery, the play of cat with mouse, the prelude to destruction.
All this he understood now, and saw that he was trapped — and trapped, moreover, with a cunning and a subtlety that made it impossible for him so much as to utter a single word to defend his life. For what could he say? How, short of an open avowal which would be equally destructive to himself, short of declaring that the wearing of that cloak would place him in mortal peril, could he decline the proffered honour?
It came to him in his despair to refuse the gift peremptorily. But then gifts from princes such as the Duke of Valentinois and Romagna are not refused by ambassadors-extraordinary without putting an affront upon the donor, and that not only in their own personal quality but also in a sense, on behalf of the State they represent.
Whichever way he turned there was no outlet. And the Duke smiling ever stood before him, holding out the cloak which to Sinibaldi was the very mantle of death.
And as if this had not been enough, the ineffable Capello must shuffle forward, smirking and rubbing his hands in satisfaction at this supremely gratifying subjection of the Duke to a proper respect for the Most Serene Republic.
‘A noble gift, highness!’ he purred, ‘a noble gift; worthy of your potency’s munificence.’ Then, with a shaft of malice, he added, that the Duke might know how fully his ulterior motives were perceived and no doubt despised: ‘And the honour to Prince Sinibaldi will be held by the Most Serene as an honour to herself.’
‘It is my desire to honour both in the exact measure of their due,’ laughed Cesare, and Sinibaldi alone, his senses rendered superacute by fear, caught the faintly sinister note in that laugh, read the sinister meaning of those amiable words.
He trembled in the heart of him, cursing Capello for a fool. Then, since he must submit, he took heart of grace. He found courage in hope. He bethought him that after all that had happened that night, it would be more than likely that the conspirators would hold their hands at present, that they would postpone to a more opportune season the thing that was to be done. If so, then all would be well, and Cesare should be confounded yet.
Upon that hope he fastened tenaciously, desperately He assured himself that he had gone too fast in his conclusions. After all, Cesare could have no positive knowledge; with positive knowledge the Duke would unhesitatingly have proceeded to more definite measures. It was impossible that he should harbour more than suspicions, and all his present intent would be to put those suspicions to the test. If, as Sinibaldi now hoped, Ranieri and his friends held their hands that night, Cesare must conclude that those suspicions had been unfounded.
With such reasonings did the Prince Sinibaldi hearten himself, knowing little of Borgia ways and nothing of Cesare’s sworn promise to the princess. He recovered quickly his assurance. Indeed, his vacillation had been but momentary. Meeting dissimulation with dissimulation, he murmured some graceful words of deep gratification, submitted to have the cloak thrust upon him, and even the velvet cap with its bordure of miniver that was also Cesare’s own, and which was pressed upon him on the same pretext that had served for the cloak.
Thereafter he allowed himself to drift with the tide of things, like a swimmer who, realizing that the current is too strong for him, ceases to torture himself by the effort of stemming it, and abandons himself, hoping that in its course that current will bring him safe to shore. In this spirit he mounted the splendid Barbary charger with its sweeping velvet trappings which also was Cesare’s own, and which became now a further token of his princely munificence.
Yet that fool Capello, looking on, perceived nothing but what was put before his eyes. He licked his faintly sneering lips over this further proof of Cesare’s servility to the Republic, and began in his mind to shape the phrases in which he would r
ejoice the hearts of the Ten with a description of it all.
The prince was mounted, and by his stirrup stood the Duke like any equerry He looked up at the Venetian.
‘That is a lively horse, my lord,’ he said at parting, ‘a fiery and impulsive child of the desert. But I will bid my footmen hang close upon your flanks, so that they will be at hand in case it should grow restive.’ And again Sinibaldi understood the true meaning of those solicitous words, and conceived that he was meant to realize how futile it would be in him to attempt to escape the test to which he was to be submitted.
He bowed his acknowledgement of the warning and the provision, and the Duke stepped back, took a plain black cloak and a black hat from a page who had fetched them in answer to his bidding, and mounted a very simply equipped horse which a groom surrendered to him.
Thus that splendid company rode out into the streets of the town, which were still thronged, for the people of Rimini had waited for the spectacle of this torchlight procession that was to escort the Duke’s potency back to the Rocca of Sigismondo. To gratify the people, the cavalcade went forward at a walking pace, flanked on either side by a file of footmen bearing torches.
Acclamations greeted them, ringing and sincere, for the conquest of Rimini by Cesare Borgia held for the people the promise of liberation from the cruel yoke under which the tyrant Pandolfaccio Malatesta had oppressed them. They knew the wisdom and liberality of his rule elsewhere, and they hailed him now as their deliverer.
‘Duca! Duca! Valentino!’ rang the cry, and Sinibaldi was perhaps the only one in the cavalcade who remarked that the cry arose in a measure as he himself came into view, that it was at himself — travestied in Cesare’s barbaric splendour — that the people looked as they shouted and waved their caps. And so it was, for there were few indeed in those lines of sightseers who perceived that the tall man in the tiger-skin mantle and scarlet and miniver bonnet riding that sumptuously caparisoned horse — the most splendid figure in all that splendid cavalcade — was not the Duke of Valentinois whom they acclaimed; fewer still were there to pay much heed to the man in the black cloak and heavy hat who came next, a few paces behind, riding beside the Orator of Venice, who bestrode a white mule.
Collected Works of Rafael Sabatini Page 453
