The Hill of Venus

by Nathan Gallizier

  CHAPTER II

  THE FEAST AT THE CAPITOL

  When darkness had fallen on the Capitoline Hill, the old palace of theCaesars seemed to waken to a semblance of new life. In the gorgeousreception hall a splendid spectacle awaited the guests. The richlydressed crowds buzzed like swarms of bees. Their attires wereiridescent, gorgeous in the fashions borrowed from many lands. Theenslavement of Italy and the invasion of foreigners could be read inthe garbs of the Romans. The robes of the women, a slavish imitationof the Byzantine fashion, hung straight as tapestries, stiff with goldbrocades.

  Prince Enrico of Castile, the Senator of Rome, had arranged a festivalin honor of Conradino, such as the deserted halls of the imperialpalace on the Capitoline had not witnessed in centuries.

  It was a festival hitherto unequalled in Rome.

  The walls of the great reception hall were decorated with garlands andfestoons of flowers; the soft lustre of the candelabra was reflectedin tall Venetian mirrors, brought from Murano for this occasion.Niches filled with orange-trees, artificial grottoes adorned withshells, in the midst of which fountains sent their iridescent sprayinto the branches of tall cypress-trees and oleanders, met the gaze onevery turn.

  But the central part of the festival was the gigantic hall, over whichthe girandoles diffused a sea of light. Costly Oriental carpetscovered the mosaic floor, and the ceiling represented thethousand-starred arch of heaven. Here, too, as in the garden, nichesand grottoes were everywhere to be found, where one, in the midst ofthe constantly moving crowd, could enjoy quiet and repose.

  In the great hall there were assembled the first Ghibelline familiesin Rome, the Colonna, Cavalli, Gaetani, the Massimi and Stefaneschi;the Frangipani of Astura, the Pierleoni, the Savelli, and theAnnibaldi, whose chief had fallen side by side with Manfred in thefateful battle of Benevento.--

  A loud fanfare of trumpets and horns announced at last the arrival ofConradino, and his bearing, as he entered the ancient halls of theCaesars, was indeed that of one coming into his own.

  He was surrounded by Giordano and Galvano Lancia, Conrad and MarinoCapece, John de Pietro, John of Procida, who had come expressly fromPalermo to offer homage to the son of his emperor; Count Hirnsius,Gerhardt Donoratico of Pisa, Thomas Aquino, Count Meinhardt ofCastanea, Frederick of Austria, Prince Raymond of Montferrat,Frederick of Antioch and Dom Pietro Loria, Grand Admiral of King Peterof Aragon. The Viceroy of Apulia and the Apulian barons followedclosely in their wake.--

  Six senators, headed by Don Enrico of Castile, now advanced, carryingbetween them on a purple velvet cushion the keys of the city.

  In a kneeling position they presented them to Conradino, who in turngave them in charge of the commander-in-chief of his army, while loudacclaim shook the foundations of the rock, unmoved by the assaults ofcenturies.

  After the banquet had been served and the guests had arisen from thefestal board, Prince Enrico of Castile claimed the privilege ofconducting the exalted guest through the halls of the Capitolinepalace.

  They had not advanced very far when the quick eye of the Senator ofRome lighted upon an individual who had been watching their advancefrom his concealment among the shrubbery.

  It was a man, tall, lean, with prominent shoulders, glittering eyesand a thin, straight mouth. The black hair was cropped close to themassive head. The eyes were bead-like, bright as polished steel. Thebrows met in a straight black line over the nose.

  "My Lord Frangipani--"

  The Lord of Astura turned. Don Enrico presented him to the King of theGermans. Conradino extended his hand.

  "We are well pleased to count you among our loyal friends andadherents, my Lord Frangipani," Conradino said with warmth. "Ourillustrious grandsire himself has bestowed upon you the insignia ofknighthood; it is a tie which should bind us for aye and ever!"

  The Frangipani grasped the proffered hand, bending low as he replied:

  "I count it great honor that King Conradino acknowledges the bondswhich bind the house of Frangipani to the house of Swabia. May I beafforded the opportunity to prove my devotion towards the grandson ofmy glorious emperor!"

  While Conradino's gaze was resting upon the Lord of Astura, there cameto him a sensation, strange as it was fleeting.

  He felt singularly repelled by the voice and glance of the baron,notwithstanding the latter having received his schooling at thebrilliant court of Emperor Frederick at Castel Fiorentino.

  In order to overcome this sensation, Conradino turned to the Roman.

  "You are the Lord of Astura," he said. "I have been told your castellodefends the coast!"--

  "Some fifty leagues to southward, Astura rises sea-washed upon itsimpregnable rock!" Giovanni Frangipani replied, not withoutself-conscious pride. "Corsairs and Saracens have dashed themselves invain against its granite walls. The bulwark of Terra di Lavoro, I holdcastello and port as hereditary fief of Emperor Frederick!"

  "A port and castello near Rome!" Conradino said with a quick lift ofspeech. "My imperial grandsire did well to entrust them to so faithfula subject. Who knows but that at some day I too shall embark atAstura?"

  He spoke the fateful words and shivered.

  It was as if the cold air of a burial vault had fanned his cheeks.--

  Impelled hither by a force beyond his control, Francesco instinctivelyshrank from mingling with the festive crowds. The one desire of hislife fulfilled, to see face to face Conradino, the idol of hisyouthful dreams, he would take his weary feet away and continue uponhis journey towards an unknown destiny.

  Opposing thoughts were flying towards contrary poles of his horizon.

  On the one hand, the old longing for the world, a world of action, hadrisen strangely from forgotten depths. Was this perchance the goal towhich his present life was leading? In the midst of his ruminations heheard the silvery mirth of Ilaria from the depths of the gardens, andthe pain itself seemed to guide his steps towards her. He had alwaysthought her the most beautiful of all beautiful women, though withthem Italy blossomed as a garden.

  He again remembered the night he first saw her, how the exquisitepurity of her face distinguished her from the glittering throng amongwhich she moved. He even remembered now in what graceful folds herwhite robe fell from the square cut neck to her feet, how theover-sleeves hung open from the shoulders, revealing the snowywhiteness of her arms.

  He remembered how that night he had refused to go singing carnivalsongs with the youths of the court; how they, heated with wine, hadjeered and taunted him, asking if, perchance, he was turning into apious monk.

  Suddenly in his waking dream he found himself at Monte Cassino in thecell of the Prior. And the Prior talked and talked about the sins ofthe world, and the lust of the flesh, and of prayers and penances.How, as he sat there in grim silence, the Prior thought he waslistening, instead of thinking of a smile of divine sweetness, and afairer face than that of the Virgin looking out at him from the muralpainting of Masaccio. And how the Prior would have crossed himself andimplored protection from the snares of Satan, had he known thatFrancesco's thoughts were of a woman. How, when he went to his owncell that night, when he lay down on the bare hard boards, that servedfor bed and pillow, a swift revulsion of feeling had come over him.

  At that moment Francesco felt that, wherever he went, he would bearhis shadow with him none the less surely, because its presence mightbe hidden by the general negative of that sunlight, which soinexorably illumined every detail of the road that lay before him.

  The shadow!

  Was he indeed a living soul created in the image of his Maker, or anecho merely shouted by some fiend in derision, destined to wanderforever disconsolate among the waste places, seeking and findingnot?--

  Now he saw Ilaria come up the moonlit path.

  For a moment he wavered, trembling in every limb. Then the memory oftheir meeting at the fountain swept over him in a mighty wave. Hecalled to mind the sweet smile of long ago, the touch of her hands.

  No longer master of his feelings, he too
k a step forward, his eyes,straining into the night, riveted upon her. There was a hint ofmelancholy in the curve about the mouth and the farseeing eyes.

  Another moment and he found himself face to face with Ilaria Caselli.

  As she noted the shadow across her path, she paused sharply, then, astheir eyes met, he saw the flowing motion of her figure stiffeninginto curves that lent a suggestion of resistance. He caught themomentary impatience of her brow and the start of resentment in hereyes.

  His purpose vanquished, he stood mute in the face of the strikingchill of her pride.

  For a moment they regarded each other in silence, a silence thatresembled the settling waters after the plunging of a stone.

  Her face was very white, and her eyes, as they met his, shone with analmost supernatural lustre.

  Yet this silence was putting the two asunder, contrasting themvividly, balancing them one against the other.

  The repose and the self-confidence ran all towards the woman.

  Her face waited.

  She seemed to look down from above on Francesco the monk.

  A moment ago he had had so much to say, and now his own voicelessnessbegot anger and rebellion.

  Ilaria was looking at him, as if she saw something, and nothing, andFrancesco felt that her eyes called him a fool. Her air of aloofness,as of standing above some utterly impersonal matter, put the man underher feet.

  She could not have trampled upon him more victoriously than bydisplaying the utter indifference with which she seemed to rediscoverhis existence.

  For a moment, that seemed interminable, they stood at gaze, as if somehidden hand had been laid upon them, arresting every movement.

  Then her lips parted slightly.

  "Faithless!"

  Then she was gone.--

  How long Francesco remained rooted to the spot, he did not know.

  He felt as one who has walked into a place, where all the doors wereclosed, where calm, contemptuous faces were watching him from thewindows.

  His chief desire now was to get away from Rome as quickly as possible.The Pontiff was at Viterbo. Thither he would travel with the dawn. Hewas tired of humiliations. Restless and baffled though he felt in hiseffort to conform his thoughts to the life he was henceforth to lead,he resented even compassion.

  The moon had risen higher and the sky was sprinkled with myriads ofstars.

  Francesco stood leaning against the fountain, and heard the bells ondistant Aventine tolling through the night. Their music filled theair. He tried to hush the anxiety of his heart by prayer. It was invain.

  He felt the love for the friends of his youth turning slowly intohate. Once again he had proved himself, once again he had beencrucified on the altar of Duty!

  Let the stormy billows of life then sweep him onward to whateverdestiny a dark fate had consigned him! Since loyalty had proved hisundoing, why cling to outward show?--

  How perfect was the night!

  The distant hillsides were hushed. The very leaves were still. Theolive woods shone silvery in the moonlight!

  The splashing of the fountains came clear to him in the intensestillness. In the moonlight the roses were nodding to each other andthe perfume of magnolias permeated the balmy night air. Farther in theshade he could see the Lucciola, in whose heart were hidden thelove-words caught from lovers' lips,--what a mission for a flower! Onthe highroad he heard the tramp of horses' feet. They came nearer,stopped, then died away in the distance.

  Afraid even to move Francesco peered through the leaves.

  But the only sound he could hear was the beating of his own heart.

  He stood alone in the garden.

  Love seemed to have died out of the eyes of life, and the world seemedto shiver in disillusionment.

  A great weariness came to him, a weariness of the heart, spreadingwith the swiftness of poison in the blood. His head drooped, as if themoonlight had wilted the strong neck. His eyes lost their lustre ofhaughtiness and fell into a vague, brooding stare. He was dull andweary; but yesterday he had thought well of the world; there seemednor valor, nor pity, anywhere.--

  Yet Francesco felt that this state could not endure.

  Purposeless he had drifted on the waves of destiny, the blind victimof another's will. Prayers and penances had not availed to rouse himto the acceptance of his fate.

  There must be something to fill out his life, some great palpablepurpose to which he would devote himself, some high mission, in thefulfilment of which the consciousness of a false existence wouldbecome gradually blurred, and eventually wiped out.

  His whole nature craved for action; the still life of the cloister,far from extinguishing the smouldering fire, had kept it alive withthe fuel of dead hopes and broken ambitions.

  What mattered it in the end in whose cause he fought and bled, so hecame out from under the dreary cloud of passive endurance, a slowparalysis of all that was best of him?

  His love for Ilaria had remained with him, had haunted him all theselong and weary months. He felt it would remain with him forever, eventhough he banished her image from his heart. And banish it he must! Hemust shake off the dreamer, he must look life in the face. Boldly hemust enter the arena in the unequal fight.

  "Ave Domina, morituri te salutant!"--

  The thought seemed to give him back some of his former elasticity. Allwavering was at an end. The road seemed dark. Yet there must be a way.

  Could he but accomplish some great deed, could he but make a name forhimself, but prove himself worthy of the love she bore himonce,--that, at least, would be atonement!

  A higher light gleamed in Francesco's eyes, and he heaved a great sighas he was about to step into the clearing, when the sound ofapproaching footsteps caused him to pause and listen.

  They seemed to come in his direction.

  In the brilliant moonlight he recognized Conradino and Frederick ofAustria, Conrad Capece and the brothers Lancia. They had been makingthe rounds of the gardens and were returning to the palace. In thegaunt warrior who followed in their wake he recognized the CountPalatine.

  Where the glistening gravel paths branched off, leading into differentparts of the blossoming wilderness, they were joined by another group.Francesco recognized among them Raniero Frangipani, and the groundbegan to burn under his feet.

  A thousand invisible eyes seemed to peer at him in his concealment; athousand invisible fingers seemed to point towards him,--therenegade.

  They were coming nearer. Now he could hear the sound of their voices.There was no further doubt; they were coming in his direction.

  It was too late to retrace his steps. If he remained where he stood,they might pass him unheeded, unseen. At this moment Francesco dreadedeven the sound of a human voice, the sight of a human face. On thepinnacle of a high resolve he but craved to escape unnoticed, unseen,to be spared further humiliation.

  Following a strange, inexplicable impulse, or seized with a suddenirresistible panic, which mocked his intentions to scorn, he startedto retreat in an opposite direction, when a treacherous moonbeamrevealed him to the eye of Raniero Frangipani.

  Two mighty bounds brought him to his side, and ere Francesco knew whatwas happening, he found himself dragged over the greensward and stoodpale and trembling before the assembled company.

  Conradino had paused precipitately, as if some bird of evil omen hadcrossed his path. The others immediately surrounded Francesco, who waswrithing in the futile endeavor to release himself from the grip whichwas upon him. In the struggle the cowl had dropped back, revealingFrancesco's features, set and deadly pale, and the cry: "A monk!" wasnot for the cloth, but him it covered.

  Two men had uttered it as with one voice, the Viceroy of Apulia andthe Count Palatine, while in the faces of their companions Francescoread only loathing and hatred, such as any traitor would inspire.

  The Frangipani released his victim with a reluctant scowl.

  Conrad Capece seized Francesco by the shoulders and looked into hisface.

  He
felt moved despite himself by the expression of petrified griefwhich he read in the face of the youth, who, unable longer to endurethe glances of hatred which he instinctively felt resting upon him,had dropped his gaze.

  "What is your purpose here?" the Apulian queried sternly.

  Twice, in the thrall of conflicting emotions, Francesco started toreply, a hot wave of shame chasing the pallor from his cheeks.

  The words died on his lips.

  At last, with a supreme effort, throwing back his head as in mutedefiance, he replied:

  "My business is with the Pontiff!"

  "The business of a traitor,--a spy!"

  It was the voice of Raniero Frangipani that had fallen sharply on hisear.

  Francesco made no reply. Only he seemed to grow a shade more gray.

  In his stead spoke Don Enrico, the Senator of Rome, who had stepped tothe Viceroy's side.

  "It must have been known to you that the Pontiff has abandoned thecity and has fled to Viterbo. Do not try to deceive us! We shall findmeans to learn the truth!"

  The threatening tenor of the Spaniard's voice recalled Francesco tohimself. He turned to Capece who was regarding him gloomily.

  "My lord, I have never spoken a falsehood. I arrived in Rome butyesterday from Monte Cassino. Of the state of the city I knew nothing.My business is with the Pontiff."

  "Then why did you not depart on learning that Clement and theProvencals have fled?"

  A choking sensation came to Francesco. His hand went to his throat.

  The Viceroy saw and understood.

  With a sweep of the hand he bade the others stand aside.

  "Go!"--The command was tinged with scorn and contempt.

  "I vouch for this monk!" Francesco heard him address the Senator ofRome, as with head bowed down he walked slowly away. But with a sharppang another voice smote his unwittingly listening ear.

  "A renegade!"

  It was the voice of Raniero Frangipani.--

  On that night, when Francesco returned to the inn and had repaired tohis chamber, he lay on his bed without moving, without even thinking.

  He had passed into a strange, half-apathetic state, in which his ownmisery was hardly more to him than a dull and mechanical weight,pressing on some wooden thing that had forgotten to be a soul.

  In truth, it seemed of little consequence how all ended. The one thingthat mattered to any sentient being, was to be spared the unbearablepain.

  It seemed to him as if he had left some terrible shadow of himself,some ghostly trail of his personality, to haunt the room. He sattrembling and cowering, not daring to look up, lest he should see thephantom presence of his other self.

  At last the pain worked as its own anaesthetic.

  Francesco's eyelids drooped and he fell into a deep and dreamlesssleep.