Under the Witches' Moon: A Romantic Tale of Mediaeval Rome

by Nathan Gallizier

  CHAPTER VI

  THE COUP

  Tristan spent the greater part of the day visiting the churches andsanctuaries, offering up prayers for oblivion and peace. His heartwas heavy within him. Like the stray leaf that has been torn fromits native branch and flutters resistlessly, aimlessly hither andthither, at the mercy of the chance breeze, nevermore to return toits sheltering bough, so the lone wanderer felt himself tossed aboutby the waves of destiny, a human derelict without a haven where hemight escape the storms of life. Guiltless in his own conscience ofan imputed sin, in that his love for Hellayne had been pure and holy,Tristan could find little comfort in the enforced penance, while hishungry heart cried out for her who had so willed it. And, as with wearyfeet he dragged himself through the streets of the pontifical city, hevaguely wondered, if his would ever be the peace of the goal. In thedarkness in which he walked, in the perturbation of his mind, he longedmore than ever to open his heart to some one who would understand andcounsel and guide his steps.

  The Pontiff being a prisoner in the Lateran, Tristan's ardent wish toconfide in the successor of St. Peter had suffered a sudden and a keendisappointment. There were but Odo of Cluny, Benedict of Soracte orthe Grand Penitentiary, holding forth in the subterranean chapel atSt. Peter's, to whom he might turn for ease of mind, and a naturalreluctance to lay bare the holiest thoughts man may give to woman,restrained him for the nonce from seeking these channels.

  Thus three days had sped, yet naught had happened to indicate thatevents would shape the course so ardently desired by Tristan.

  It was there, on one of the terraces crowning the splendid heightsof immortal Rome, with a view of the distant Sabine and Alban hills,fading into the evening dusk, that the memory of the golden days ofAvalon returned to him in waves of anguish that almost mastered hisresolve to begin life anew under conditions that seemed insupportable.

  Again Hellayne was by his side, as in dream-forgotten Avalon. Againside by side they wandered where the shattered columns of old greytemples, all that remained of a sunny Greek civilization of which theyknew nothing, crowned the heights above the lazy lapping waves of thetideless Tyrrhenian sea. There, for whole hours would they sit, the airfull of the scent of orange and myrtle; under almond trees, coveredwith blossoms that sprinkled the emerald ground like rosy snowflakes,and watch the white sails of the far feluccas that trailed the wavesin monotonous rhythm to or from the sunlit shores of Africa. Thedistant headlands looked faint and dreamy, and the sparkling sea broke,gurgling, foaming among the rocks at their feet, as it had broken atthe feet of other lovers who had sat there centuries ago, when thoseshattered columns had been white in their freshness and the temples hadbeen wreathed with the garlands of youth. And the eternal waves said tothem what they had said to the dead and forgotten; and the fickle windssang to them what they had sung to the fair and the nameless, and theystretched forth their hands, and saw but the sea and the sun.

  And they knew not the deity to whom those temple columns had beenraised, just as he knew not to whose worship those fallen columns hadbeen erected, nor guessed they who had knelt at the holy shrines.And as they sat there, the man and the woman, their eyes probing thedepths of living sapphire, they would watch the restless sea-weed thatseemed to coil and uncoil like innumerable blue snakes upon a bed ofbright blue flames, and the luminous mosses that trembled like bluestars ceaselessly towards the surface that they never, never reached.And down there in the crystal palaces they would fancy that they sawfaces as of glancing mermen, even as the lovers of older days had seenpassing Tritons and the scaly children of Poseidon.

  And again she would croon those sad melancholy songs that came fromher lips like faint echoes of Aeolian harps. Now she flung them uponthe air in bursts of weird music, to the accompaniment of a breakingwave, songs so passionate and elemental that they seemed the cry ofthese same radiant waters when churned by the storm into fury. Or theymight have been such wailings as spirits imprisoned in old sea caveswould utter to the hollow walls, or which the ghosts of ship-wreckedcrews might send forth from the rocks where they had perished. Or againthey might suggest some earthly passion, love, jealousy, the cry of alonging heart, till the dirge seemed to wear itself out and the soul ofthe listener seemed to sail out of the tempest into bright and peacefulwaters like those that skirted dream-lost Avalon, scarcely rippled bythe faint breeze of summer, breaking in long unfurling waves among therocks at their feet. Thus they used to sit long hours, heart listeningto heart, soul clinging to soul, while she bared her throat to thescent-laden breezes that fanned her and looked out on the dazzlinghorizon--till a lightning flash from the clear azure splintered thedream and broke two lives.

  For a long time Tristan gazed about, vainly trying to order histhoughts. Could he but forget! Would but the present engulf the past!--

  His adventure at the Church of Santa Maria of the Aventine and hischance meeting with Theodora recurred to him at intervals throughoutthe day, and he could not but admit that the reports of the woman'sbeauty were far from exaggerated. Perchance, if the memory of Hellaynehad been less firmly rooted in his soul, he, too, might, like manyanother, have sought solace at the forbidden fount. However, he wasresolved to avoid her, for he had seen something in the swift glanceshe had bestowed upon him that discoursed of matters it behooved him tobeware of. And yet he wondered how she had received his denial, she,whom no man had denied before. Then this memory also faded before theexigencies of the hour.

  The sun had sunk to rest in a sky of turquoise, crimson and gold, whenTristan found himself standing on the eminence where seven decadeslater Crescentius, the Senator of Rome, was to build the Church ofSanta Maria in Ara Coeli.

  Leaning on a broken pillar, Tristan watched the evening light as itspread a veil of ethereal splendor over the Seven Hills and there cameto him a strange feeling of remoteness as to one standing upon somehill-set shrine.

  Far beneath him lay the Forum. White columns shone roseate in the dyinglight of day.

  Wrapt in deep thoughts and meditations, Tristan descended the stairsleading from the summit whence in after time the name of Santa Maria inAra Coeli--Holy Mother at the Altar of Heaven--was to ring in the earsof thousands like a beautiful rhythmic chant, and after a time he foundhimself in the Piazza fronting the Lateran.

  Seized with a sudden impulse he entered the church.

  Slowly the worshippers began to assemble. Their numbers increased toalmost a hundred, though they seemed but as so many shadows in the vastnave. There was something in their faces, touched by the uncertainglimmer of the tapers and lamps, that filled him with awe, as if hewere standing among the ghosts of the past.

  At last the holy office commenced.

  A very old priest, whose features Tristan could not distinguish, beganto chant the Introitus, in deep long drawn notes. Through the narrowwindows filtered the light of the rising moon. It did little morethan stain the dusk. Over the sombre high altar hung the white ivoryfigure of the Christ, bowed, sagged, in the last agony. A few blood-redpoppies were the only flowers upon the altar. The fumes of incense rosein spiral columns to the vaulted ceiling.

  The Kyrie had been chanted, the Gloria in Excelsis Deo. Later the Hostwas consecrated and the cup before the kneeling worshippers, and thepriest was turning to those near him who, as was still the custom inthose days, were present to communicate in both kinds.

  To each came from his lips the solemn words:

  "Corpus Domini Nostri Jesu Christi custodiat animam tuam ad Vitamaeternam!"

  He dipped his fingers in the cup, cleansing them with a little wine. Heconsumed the cleansings and turned to read the antiphony with resonantvoice.

  "I saw the heavens opened and Jesus at the right hand of God. LordJesus receive their spirit and lay not this sin to their charge!"

  Then, with hands folded over his breast, he moved towards the altar inthe centre, touched it with his lips, and, turning once more to thepeople, said:

  "Dominus Vobiscum!"

  "Et cum spiritu
tuo," was not answered.

  For at that moment rough shouts were heard and through a side door,near a chapel, a body of ruffians rushed into the Basilica, their facesvizored and masked.

  With shouts and oaths they made their way towards the altar. Theworshippers scattered, the mail-clad ruffians smiting their waythrough their kneeling ranks up to the altar where stood the form of ayouth clad in pontifical vestments, pale but calm in the face of theimpending storm.

  It was Pope John XI., held prisoner in the Lateran by Alberic, theSenator of Rome. Tristan had not noted his presence during theceremony. Now, like a revelation, the import of the scene flashed uponhis mind.

  Bearing Tristan down by the sheer weight of their numbers, they rushedupon the Pontiff, stripped him of his pallium and chasuble, leaving himbut one sacred vestment, the white albe.

  Unable to reach the Pontiff's side, unable to aid him, Tristan stoodrooted to the spot, an impotent witness of the most heinous sacrilegehis mind could picture, almost turned to stone.

  Before Tristan's very eyes, before the eyes of the worshippers, whooutnumbered the ruffians ten to one, an outrage was being committed atwhich the fiends themselves would shudder. Violence was being done tothe Father of Christendom in his own city, and the craven cowards hadbut their own safety in mind.

  Just what happened Tristan could not immediately remember. For, as herushed towards the spot where he saw the Pontiff struggling helplesslyagainst his assailants, he was violently thrust back and the ruffiansmade their way towards a side chapel with their captive. Thus he foundhimself helplessly borne along in the darkness, and thrust out into thenight. Tristan fell beneath their feet and was for a moment so utterlystunned that he could not rise.

  As in a dream he heard the leader of the band give a command to hisfollowers. They mounted their steeds which were tethered outside andtramped away into the night.

  The sudden appearance of an armed band in the sacred precincts of theLateran had so terrified and cowed the crowd of worshippers that evenwhen the doors of the Basilica were left unguarded, not one ventured togive assistance. Like shadows they fled into the night.

  When Tristan regained some sort of consciousness he looked about invain for aid.

  Dimly he remembered that the ruffians were mounted, and by the time hesummoned succor they would have stowed their captive safely away in oneof their castellated fortresses, where one might search for him in vainforever more.

  The Piazza in front of the Lateran was deserted. Not a human being wasto be seen. Tristan pursued his way through waste spaces that offeredno clue. He rushed through narrow and deserted streets, abandoned ofthe living. He felt like shouting at the top of his voice: "Romansawake! They have abducted the Pontiff." But, stranger as he was, anddreading lest he might share John's fate or worse, he withstood theimpulse and at last found himself upon the Bridge of San Angelo beforethe fortress tomb of the former master of the world, dreaming in thesurrounding desolation. Before the massive bronze gate cowered aman-at-arms, drowsing over his pike.

  Without a moment's hesitation, Tristan shook the drowsy guardian of theAngel's Castle into blaspheming alertness.

  "They have abducted the Pontiff!" he shouted, without releasing hisclutch on the gaping Burgundian. "Sound the alarums! Even now it may betoo late!"

  The man in the brown leather jerkin and steel casque staredopen-mouthed at the speaker.

  "The Lord Alberic is within--" he stammered at last, with an effort toshake off the drowsiness that held his senses captive.

  "Then rouse him in the devil's name," shouted Tristan.

  The last words had their effect upon the stolid Northman. After theelapse of some precious moments Alberic himself emerged from theEmperor's Tomb and Tristan repeated his account of the outrage, littleguessing the rank of him with whom he was standing face to face.

  But now they were confronted with a dilemma which it seemed would putall Tristan's efforts to naught.

  Who were the leaders of the party that had abducted the Pontiff? Forthereon hinged their success of intercepting the outlaws.

  Tristan's description of the leader did not seem to make any markedimpression on the Senator of Rome.

  He questioned Tristan with regard to their coat-of-arms or otherheraldic emblems. But the author of the outrage had shown sufficientforesight to avoid a hazardous display. There seemed but onealternative; to scour the city of Rome in the uncertain hope ofintercepting the outlaws, if they were still within the walls.

  Tristan attached himself to the senatorial party, joining in thepursuit. At first their task seemed hopeless indeed. Those theymet and questioned had seen no armed band, or, if they had, deniedall knowledge thereof. The frowning masonry of the Cenci, Savelli,Frangipani, and Odescalchi, which they passed in turn, returned but aninscrutable reply to their questioning glances.

  For a time they continued their fruitless quest. But as if an outrageso horrible had ignited the very air about them, they soon found peoplestirring, shutters opening and shadowy figures issuing from darkdoorways, while folk were running and shouting to one another:

  "The Pontiff has been abducted!"

  Between cries of rage and shouts of command and indecision on the partof the leader, who knew not in which direction to pursue, an hour hadelapsed, when they suddenly heard the clatter of hoofs. A company ofhorsemen came galloping down the street. Alberic's suspicions that theruffians would prefer carrying their victim by devious byways to oneor the other of their Roman lairs, rather than attempt to leave thecity in the teeth of the Senator's guard, seemed realized. Oaths andsharp orders broke the silence of the night.

  It was amongst a gigantic pile of ruins, apart from all habitationsof the living, that they came to a halt. To a gaunt brick-built towerthey drew close, knocking against the iron-studded door, but ere thosewithin could open, they were surrounded, outnumbered ten to one.

  Tristan was the first to bound in amongst them.

  His eyes quivered upon the steel-clad form of the leader of the band.

  At the next moment a blow from Tristan's fist struck him down and, erehe could recover himself, he had been bound, hand and foot, and turnedover to the Senator's guards.

  His followers, despairing of success, made a sudden dash through theranks of the people who had been attracted by the melee, riding down anumber, injuring and maiming many.

  The Senator of Rome ranged his men, now re-inforced by the Prefect'sguard, round the drooping form of John, while a howling and shoutingmob, ready to wreak vengeance on the first object it encountered in itspath, followed in their wake as they made their way towards the Lateran.

  An hour later, in a high vaulted, dimly lighted chamber of theArchangel's Castle, Tristan, the pilgrim, and Alberic, the Senator ofRome, faced each other for the second time.

  In the course of the pursuit of the ruffians in which he participated,Tristan had been casually informed of the rank of him who led theSenatorial guard in person and when, their object accomplished, hestarted to detach himself from the men-at-arms, Alberic had foiled hisintention by commanding him to accompany him to the fortress-tomb wherehe himself held forth.

  Seated opposite each other, each seemed to scan the other'scountenance before a word was spoken between them.

  Alberic's regard of the man who seemed utterly unconscious of theimportance of the service he had rendered the Senator betokenedapproval, and his eyes dwelt for some moments on the frank and opencountenance of this stranger, perchance contrasting it inwardly withthe complex nature of those about his person in whom he could trust butso long as he could tempt them with earthly dross, and who would turnagainst him should a higher bidder for their favor appear.

  Tristan's first impression of the son of Marozia was that of one bornto command. Dark piercing eyes were set in a face, stern, haughty, yetstrangely beautiful. Alberic's tall, slender figure, dressed in blackvelvet, relieved by slashes of red satin, added to the impressivenessof his personality. Upon closer scrutiny Tristan could discover amarked
resemblance between the man before him and his half-brother, theill-fated Pontiff, whom, for political reasons, or considerations ofhis personal safety, he kept prisoner in the pontifical palace.

  But there was yet another present, who apparently took little heedof the stranger, engaged as he seemed in the perusal of a parchment,spread out upon a table before him,--Basil, the Grand Chamberlain.

  A whispered conversation had taken place between the Senator andhis confidential adviser, for this was Basil's true station in thesenatorial household. In the evil days of Marozia's regime he hadoccupied the same favored position at the Roman court, and, whenAlberic's revolt had swept the regime of Ugo of Tuscany and Maroziafrom Roman soil, the son had attached to himself the man who had showna marked sagacity and ability in the days that had come to a close.

  Basil's complex countenance proved somewhat more of an enigma to thesilent on-looker than did the Senator's stern, though frank face.

  He was garbed in black, a color to which he seemed partial. A flat capof black velvet with a feather curled round the brim, above a doubletof black velvet, close fitting, the sleeves slashed, to show thecrimson tunic underneath. The trunk hose round the muscular legs wereof black silk and gold thread, woven together and lined with sarsenet.His feet were encased in black buskins with silver buckles, and puffedsilk inserted in the slashings of the leather.

  The whole suggestion of the dark, sable figure was odd. It was exotic,and the absence of a beard greatly intensified the impression.The face, as Tristan saw it by the light of the taper, wasexpressionless--a physical mask.

  At last Alberic broke the silence, turning his eyes full upon the manwho met his gaze without flinching.

  "You have--at your own risk--saved Rome and Holy Church from a calamitythe whole extent of which we may not even surmise, had the Pontiffbeen carried away by the lawless band of Tebaldo Savello. We owe youthanks--and we shall not shirk our duty. You are a stranger. Who areyou and why are you here?"

  To the same questions that another had put to him on the memorableeve of his arrival, in the Piazza Navona, Tristan replied with equalfrankness. His words bore the stamp of truth, and Alberic listened to atale passing strange to Roman ears.

  And, unseen by Tristan, something began to stir in the dark,unfathomable eyes of Basil, as some unknown thing stirs in deep waters,and the hidden thing therein, to him who saw, was hidden no longer.Some nameless being was looking out of these windows of the soul. Onelooking at him now would have shrank away, cold fear gripping his heart.

  For a moment, after Tristan had finished his tale, there was silence.Alberic had risen and, seemingly unconscious of the presences in hischamber, was perambulating its narrow confines until, of a sudden, hestopped directly before Tristan.

  "These penances completed, whereof you speak--do you intend returningto the land of your birth?"

  A blank dismay shone in Tristan's eyes. Not having referred to thenature of the transgression, for which he was to do penance, and obtainabsolution, he found it somewhat difficult to answer Alberic's question.

  "This is a matter I had not considered," he replied with somehesitancy, which remained not unremarked by the Senator.

  Alberic was a man of few words, and he possessed a discernment farbeyond his years. At the first glance at this stranger whom fate hadled across his path, he had known that here was one he might trust,could he but induce him to become his man.

  He held out his hand.

  "I am going to be your friend and I mean to requite the service youhave done the Senator, ere the dawn of another day breaks in the sky.There is a vacancy in the Senator's guard. I appoint you captain ofCastel San Angelo."

  Ere Tristan could sufficiently recover from his surprise to make reply,another voice was audible, a voice, soft and insinuating--the voice ofBasil, the Grand Chamberlain.

  "My lord--the chain of evidence against Gamba is not completed. Infact, later developments seem to point to an intrigue of which he isbut the unwitting victim--"

  Alberic turned to the speaker.

  "The proofs, my Lord Basil, are conclusive. Gamba is a traitorconvicted of having conspired with an emissary of Ugo of Tuscany, todeliver the Archangel's Castle into his hands. He is sentenced--heshall die--as soon as we discover his abode--"

  Basil's face had turned to ashen hues.

  "What mean you, my lord? Gamba is awaiting sentence in the dungeonwhere he has been confined, ever since his trial--"

  "The cage is still there," Alberic interposed sardonically. "The birdhas flown."

  "Escaped?" stammered the Grand Chamberlain, rising from his seatand raising his furtive eyes to those of the Senator. "Then he hasconfederates in our very midst--"

  "We shall know more of this anon," came the laconic reply. "Will youaccept the trust which the Senator of Rome offers you?" Alberic turnedfrom the Grand Chamberlain to Tristan.

  The latter found his voice at last.

  "How shall I thank you, my lord!" he said, grasping the Senator's hand."Grant me but a week, wherein to absolve the business upon which Icame--and I shall prove myself worthy of the lord Alberic's trust!"

  "So be it," the son of Marozia replied. "A long deferred pilgrimage tothe shrines of the Archangel at Monte Gargano will take me from Romefor the space of a month or more. I should like to be assured that thiskeep is in the hands of one who will not fail me in the hour of need!My Lord Basil--greet the new captain of Castel San Angelo--"

  Approaching almost soundlessly over the tiled floor, the GrandChamberlain extended his hand to Tristan, offering his congratulationsupon his sudden advancement.

  Whatever it was that flashed in Basil's eyes, it was gone as quickly asit had come. His thin lips parted in an inscrutable smile as Tristan,with a bend of the head, acknowledged the courtesy.

  For a moment, following his acceptance, Tristan was startled at his owndecision. Another would have felt it to be an amazing streak of luck.Tristan was frightened, though his misgivings vanished after a time.

  Owing to the lateness of the hour and the insecurity of the streetsAlberic offered Tristan the hospitality of his future abode for thenight and the latter gladly accepted.

  After Basil had departed, he remained closeted with the Senator for thespace of an hour or more. What transpired between these two remainedguarded from the outer world, and it was late ere the sentinel on theramparts saw the light in the Senator's chamber extinguished, wonderingat the nature of the business which detained the lord Alberic and thetall stranger in the pilgrim's garb.