Collected Works of Rafael Sabatini

by Rafael Sabatini

  He set his finger-tips upon the edge of the table, and leaned across toward her.

  “I have sent for you, madonna,” he said, his tone the very gentlest, “to afford you an opportunity of rescuing your husband’s neck from the hands of the strangler.”

  “Oh, my God!” gasped the afflicted woman, and clutched her bosom with both hands.— “I knew it! My heart had told me!”

  “You alarm yourself without need,” he said, and no tone could have been more soothing and reassuring. “Prince Sinibaldi is a prisoner below, awaiting my pleasure. But my pleasure, madonna, is your pleasure. I place his life in your hands.”

  She looked at him — looked up into that beautiful, smiling young face, into those hazel eyes that looked so gentle now — and cowered a moment, abjectly, Then her spirit rallied. He saw her stiffen, and if her voice shook there was defiance in her glance.

  “My lord is the accredited envoy of the Most Serene,” she said. “His person is inviolate. A hurt to him were a hurt to the Republic whose representative he is, and the Republic is not slow to avenge herself. You dare not touch him! You dare not! You dare not!” Her voice, grew strident.

  Smiling still, he bowed. “I will leave you happy, then, in that conviction,” said he, with a note of mockery so sinister that it broke her new-found spirit into shards.

  She staggered to her feet, a hand to her heart, her eyes dilating.

  “My lord! My lord! A moment! Have pity!”

  He paused, his hand already upon the latch.

  “Pity, madonna, as I have told you, lies with you. Your husband has been taken in treason. If — as I seem to see — you love him, and would not have him strangled this very night, it is yours to rescue him.”

  Wildly she scanned his face for some clue to his meaning. Thus in silence for a dozen heart-beats. Then —

  “What — What do you require of me?”

  Slowly he retraced his steps until he stood before her again. “All that is known to you of this conspiracy in which he was taken.”

  She covered her face with her hands and moaned a little. She swayed a a moment. He steadied her with gentle hands, and gently pressed her back into her chair.

  “It is true,” he explained, “that I do not wish to embroil myself with the Most Serene. And so I seek to gain my ends by gentle measures. But by the saints! If my gentle measures do not prevail with you, Prince Sinibaldi shall be stretched taut on the rack, and what is left of him shall be strangled afterward — ay, though he were an envoy of the Empire itself. My name,” he ended, “is Cesare Borgia. You may have heard of me.”

  Of his determination his words left her no slightest doubt; and she had heard of his ways, as he suggested. She looked into his eyes again, and caught avidly now at the straw he held out to her.

  “You give me his life for this information?” she cried.

  “Tell me all you know of the treason that was plotting this night at Ranieri’s, and I swear to you by my honor and my hopes of heaven that neither I not man of mine shall hurt so much as a hair of Sinibaldi’s beard.”

  “He may blame me—” she began faltering.

  Cesare’s eyes gleamed.

  “He need never know,” said he insidiously. He was eager now. Reluctantly did he offer such a bargain. But it must be made. The matter was urgent. The blow — whatever its nature — was to be struck that very night; so that time pressed. He must learn at once, and at all costs, how to elude and parry it.

  “You pledge me your word—” she began again.

  “Already have I pledged it, madonna, and I do not forswear myself.”

  * * *

  AT LAST he drew from her the sum of her considerable knowledge. Last night the Lord Ranieri had visited her husband. Already had she suspected that Sinibaldi was plotting with this friend of the fallen Malatesta. So she had been spurred to listen; and she had overheard that it was against Cesare Borgia’s life that they conspired. Ranieri spoke of this banquet at the Communal. Cesare was to be escorted by torch-light back to the fortress of Sigismondo where he was lodged; and that should be their opportunity.

  At some point on the road two crossbow-men were to be posted, to shoot the Duke as he rode by. To make doubly sure of Cesare’s offering a fair mark, it was to be arranged that no mounted guards should hang upon his flank at this point; the halberdiers, being footmen, would not signify, as the crossbowmen could fire over their heads. To insure this Sinibaldi proposed to seduce Graziani, whom he had some cause to believe disaffected.

  “That was all I overheard, my lord,” she ended.

  “Enough, as I live!” snorted Cesare, his eyes blazing.

  His countenance flung her into fresh terror. She rose in her agitation, and appealed to him to remember his plighted word. He put aside his wrath, as a man puts off a mask, and smiled.

  “Have no doubt,” said he. “Neither I nor man of mine shall lay a finger upon your husband. And now, madonna, you were best away, I think. You arc overwrought.”

  She confessed it, and professed herself glad to depart.

  “The prince shall follow you,” said Cesare, as he hurried her to the door. “But first we shall endeavor to make our peace with him. Be content,” he added, noting the fresh terror that leaped to her eyes — for she bethought her of what manner of peace Cesare was wont to make with his enemies— “he shall be treated with all honor. I shall convert him by friendliness from these traitors who have seduced him.”

  “It is so! It is so!” she exclaimed eagerly.

  He bowed his agreement, and opened the door. He entrusted her to the President of the Council to conduct her thence and to her litter; then he stepped back to his place at the head of the board, and set a brave example of mirth, as if not a care or thought weighed upon his mind. Thus he restored a gay humor to the feast.

  But when the President had returned from his mission, Cesare raised a finger, and signed to the steel-clad Barbo, who stood waiting as he had been bidden.

  “Bring in Prince Sinibaldi,” he said, and with that laid constraint and silence anew upon the company.

  The Orator of Venice, the portly, slimy Capello, heaved himself to his feet, and, in the intensity of his perturbation, made so bold as to go round to Cesare’s chair, to whisper a protest in the ducal ear.

  “A little patience, sir,” was all that Cesare answered him; but the glance in the Duke’s eyes drove back the flabby ambassador like a blow.

  * * *

  THE double doors at the hall’s end were opened, and Barbo returned with Sinibaldi and an escort of four men of Graziani’s company. The prince’s wrists were still pinioned behind him; he was without hat or cloak and his clothes were in some disarray.

  The company’s amazement deepened; a murmur ran round the board. At a sign from Cesare the guards fell away from the Venetian, whilst Barbo parsed to remove, at last, the prisoner’s bonds.

  Sinibaldi, the very incarnation now of scornful dignity, held his head high and boldly fixed his eyes on Cesare’s impassive face. Then, without being bidden, he burst into angry speech.

  “Is it by your Potency’s commands that these indignities are put upon me — upon the sacred person of an envoy?” he cried. “The Most Serene, whose mouthpiece I have the honor to be, whose representative I am, is not one lightly to brook such treatment.”

  Cesare sniffed delicately at his pomander ball.

  “I trust I apprehend you amiss when I gather that you threaten. It is not well to threaten us, Excellency; not even for an Envoy of the Most Serene.” There was something terrible in the cold, level tones, something still more terrible in the eyes that smiled upon the Venetian, so that Sinibaldi quailed and lost much of his fine arrogance, as many another tall fellow had done when face to face with the young Duke of Valentinois.

  Capello in the background wrung his hands and suppressed a groan.

  “Let us hear, my lord, your own version of this night’s affair,” quoth Cesare.

  The Venetian had his tale prepar
ed, and out it came forthwith. It was the tale that might have been Graziani’s, and was cunningly adapted to Sinibaldi’s need.

  “I was bidden my lord, in secret to-night to the house of my lord Ranieri, urged by the statement that a matter of life and death was to be treated which concerned me closely. I found a small company assembled there; but ere they would tell me the purpose of that gathering, they desired me to make an irrevocable oath that whether or not I became a party to the matters that were to be disclosed to me, I would never divulge a single word of it, nor the name of any whom I had met there.

  “I am not a fool, Magnificent, and I scented treason, as they knew I must. I would have drawn back; but already had I gone too far in going there, and it was plain that they would never suffer me to depart again to spread the alarm. So in self-defense I took the oath imposed; and having taken it I announced that I desired to hear no more of any plot that might be theirs, and I begged them to let me depart now that they had sworn me to silence.

  “But men of their sort are easily fearful of betrayal. They refused to let me go; a fight ensued in which one of them fell to my sword. Then the noise of our brawling brought in a patrol. The conspirators flung themselves from a window into the river. But I — having nothing to fear since I was innocent of any evil — remained, and so, came to be taken.”

  There was a gasp of relief from Capello at that explanation.

  “You see, Magnificent, you see—” he was beginning.

  “Peace, man!” the Duke bade him impatiently. Then very courteously he turned to Sinibaldi.

  “My lord,” he said, “it grieves me that you should have been mishandled by my guards; but you will perceive that until you told your tale the appearances convicted you; and so, you will acquit us, I am sure, of any discourtesy to the representative of the Most Serene.

  “I may add that in the case of any one less accredited, I might be less ready to accept the explanation you have proffered, and I might press for the names of the men who, you are satisfied, were engaged in treason.”

  “Those names I should already have afforded your Magnificence but for the oath that binds me,” answered Sinibaldi.

  “That, too, I understand; and so, my lord, I do not ask a question which you might have a difficulty in answering. Let us forget this unhappy incident. A place for the Prince Sinibaldi — here at my side. Come, my lord, let me play host to you, and make you amends for the rude handling you have suffered in this my city. Here is a wine that in itself should be some recompense. A whole Tuscan Summer is in every flagon.”

  Scarcely believing himself so easily out of his terrible position, wondering whether he were not perhaps dreaming, Sinibaldi sank into the chair that was set for him at the Duke’s side. The men-at-arms clattered out, the mimes were summoned to perform their comedy, and the evening wore merrily on to its conclusion, what time Cesare Borgia played the host to the Venetian prince, leaving him overwhelmed, by the courtly charm in which no man of his day could surpass the Duke.

  And whilst he laughed and jested, Cesare’s mind was pondering the situation. He was wondering how far the Serene Republic herself might have a hand in this matter, how far Sinibaldi might be an agent sent expressly to do this work of murder. At every step, in every way, Venice had betrayed her hostility. By arms and money she had secretly reinforced his enemies against him. By intrigues and audacious slanders she had sought to embroil him, now with France and now with Spain. Was Sinibaldi the hand of the Republic in this affair?

  It behooved the Duke to walk with caution. He must respect the word he had pledged to Sinibaldi’s lady; yet he must punish Sinibaldi, and he must take the fellow’s confederates so that the treason be stamped out. And he must perform all this without giving Venice the least cause for grievance, remembering that Sinibaldi’s story was not to be refuted since Graziani — the only man who knew the truth besides Cesare — was insensible and not likely to live.

  Toward midnight, at last, Cesare rose to withdraw. But not yet would he part with his new-found friend Sinibaldi. The Venetian must ride with him to the citadel — ay, and the Venetian Orator, too, must be of the party.

  Arm in arm the Duke of Valentinois and Prince Sinibaldi went down the ball and along the gallery toward the great courtyard, where men were getting to horse and ladies into their litters, and where a hundred torches were already blazing.

  Near the guard-house a lackey in Cesare’s livery of black advanced, bearing the Duke’s cap and cloak.

  * * *

  NOW it happened that this cloak — which was of tiger-skin very richly laced with gold — was as costly as it was conspicuous. It was a present that Sultan Bajazet had sent to Borgia out of Turkey; and Cesare had worn it constantly since the cold weather had set in, not only out of his love of splendor, but also for the great warmth that it afforded.

  As the lackey now advanced with that noble garment, Cesare turned suddenly to his companion.

  “You have no cloak, my lord, and it is a bitter night. Since out of loyalty to me you lost your own, let me replace it and at the same time offer you this poor token of the esteem in which I hold you and the Serene Republic which you represent.”

  He took the cloak from the servant and held it for the Prince. Sinibaldi’s eye looked into Cesare’s. The Duke was smiling; ad yet, to the Venetian there was something terribly significant in that smile. Cesare knew. Sinibaldi realized it, and saw that he was trapped.

  What could he say? How, short of an open avowal, short of declaring that the wearing of that cloak would be a danger to him, should he decline the proffered honor? And in that moment the fat Capello shuffled up, rubbing his hands in satisfaction, for he had overheard the Duke’s gracious words.

  “A noble gift, Magnificent!” he purred. “And the honor to our Prince will be held by the Most Serene as an honor to herself.”

  “Nay,” laughed Cesare, “it is no more than the Prince’s due.”

  Sinibaldi alone caught the sinister second meaning of the words, and trembled in the heart of him, cursing Capello for a fool. Then he took courage. He bethought him that it would be more than likely after what had passed that the conspirators would hold their hands that night. If so, then all would be well. After all, Cesare could no more than suspect. With definite knowledge the Duke must have acted in a more definite manner.

  Reasoning thus, Sinibaldi recovered some of his assurance, murmured some words of gratitude and hints of his unworthiness, and submitted to have the cloak thrust upon him and even a scarlet velvet cap, which too, was Cesare’s own. Then he mounted the splendid charger that likewise — further to do him honor — Cesare placed at his disposal. And all the while Messer Capello stood by, licking his lips to see so much deference paid the envoy of his Government.

  “That is a lively horse, my lord,” said Cesare to the prince, at parting. “But my footmen will be about you in case it should grow restive.” And again Sinibaldi read the threat that underlay the words, and conceived their true meaning to be that it would be futile for him to attempt to escape the test to which he was being submitted.

  Thus they rode out through streets that were still thronged to see this magnificent cavalcade flanked by footmen bearing torches. And few perceived that the tall man on the splendidly caparisoned horse, in the scarlet bonnet and tiger-skin cloak, riding with the Venetian Orator for only companion, was not the Duke of Valentinois; few paid any heed to the man in the black cloak and heavy hat, who rode a little way behind, almost eclipsed by a group of gay cavaliers that surrounded him. And such was the clamor of the crowd that none heard the twice-repeated twang of an arbalest from a house at the corner of the Piazza della Cittadella. But the grooms sprang forward to seize the bridle of Sinibaldi’s charger, and a great uproar was raised when the man in the tiger-skin cloak rolled sideways from the saddle with an arbalest-bolt in his brain.

  First was heard the awful cry:

  “The Duke is dead!”

  And then, as if by magic, there, on horseba
ck, sat the duke himself, his brazen voice ringing above the din and confusion.

  “In there!” he shouted, flinging an arm toward the house. “In, I say; and see that not a man escapes you. It is the Envoy of Venice whom they have murdered, and they shall pay for it with their necks, whosoever they may be!”

  The house was already surrounded, and into Cesare’s net fell the four conspirators together with two sbirri who were of the household of Sinibaldi, as their liveries showed.

  They were dragged forward into the square, where a great circle had been formed by the torch-bearers, and at last the truth of the matter entered the sluggish brain of Capello, Sinibaldi had been mistaken for the Duke. Had the Duke, he wondered, so intended it? If so, heavy should be the reckoning with Venice. He swung round upon Cesare, a fury in his eyes. But ere he could speak Cesare had seized him by the shoulder and was pointing to the stricken Ranieri and his fellow-prisoners.

  “Look, Messer Capello!” he cried “Look — Ranieri, of all men, to have done this thing. And the others — all Sicibaldi’s friends; and two of them in his own livery — his own servants, as I live! And they have murdered him!”

  And Capello understood that to declare that Sinibaldi had been shot in Cesare’s stead was to declare that Sinibaldi had planned the shooting — to convict by a very simple inference the envoy of the Most Serene.

  Blankly, trembling, Capello looked into the Borgia’s eyes, and saw that the Borgia mocked him. And, bitterer still, he was forced to play the dupe; forced to pretend that he saw in this no more than Cesare intended that the world should see. He stifled his rage and chagrin, and stood there with bowed head. He must play the part imposed upon him.

  “My lord,” he cried, “I appeal to you for justice against these murderers in the name of Venice!”

  “It shall be done, sir. Trust me to avenge a servant of the Most Serene.”

  Next morning six bodies dangled from the balcony of the house whence the bolts had been shot — Cesare Borgia’s justice upon the murderers of Prince Sinibaldi.