CHAPTER I
THE GRAND CHAMBERLAIN
Castel San Angelo, the Tomb of the Flavian Emperor, seemed rather tohave been built for a great keep, a breakwater as it were to stem therush of barbarian seas which were wont to come storming down fromthe frozen north, than for the resting-place of the former masterof the world. Its constructors had aimed at nothing less than itseverlastingness. So thick were its bastioned walls, so thick thecurtains which divided its inner and outer masonry, that no force ofnature seemed capable of honeycombing or weakening them.
Hidden within its screens and vaults, like the gnawings of a foul andintricate cancer, ran dark passages which discharged themselves hereand there into dreadful dungeons, or secret places not guessed at inthe common tally of its rooms.
These oubliettes were hideous with blotched and spotted memories,rotten with the dew of suffering, eloquent in their terror andcorruption and darkness of the cruelty which turned to these walls forsecurity. The hiss and purr of subterranean fires, the grinding of low,grated jaws, the flop and echo of stagnant water that oozed from astagnant inner moat into vermin-swarming, human-haunted cellars: thesesounds spoke even less of grief than the hellish ferment in the soulsof those who had lorded it in this keep since the fall of the WesternEmpire.
On this night there hung an air of menace about the Mausoleum of theFlavian Emperor which seemed enhanced by the roar and clatter ofthe tempest that raged over the seven-hilled city. Snaky twists oflightning leaped athwart the driving darkness, and deafening peals ofthunder reverberated in deep, booming echoes through the inky vault ofthe heavens.
In one of the upper chambers of the huge granite pile, which seemed todefy the very elements, in a square room, dug out of the very rock,containing but one window that appeared as a deep wedge in the wall,piercing to the sheer flank of the tower, there sat, brooding over aletter he held in his hand, Basil, the Grand Chamberlain.
The drowsy odor of incense, smouldering in the little purple shrinelamp, robbed the air of its last freshness.
A tunic of dark velvet, fur bound and girt with a belt of finestMoorish steel, was relieved by an undervest of deepest crimson. Wovenhose to match the tunic ended in crimson buskins of soft leather. Themantle and the skull cap which he had discarded lay beside him on thefloor, guarded by a tawny hound of the ancient Molossian breed.
By the fitful light of the two waxen tapers, which flickered dismallyunder the onslaught of the elements, the inmate of the chamber slowlyand laboriously deciphered the letter. Then he placed it in hisdoublet, lapsing into deep rumination, as one who is vainly seeking tosolve a problem that defies solution.
Rising at last from his chair Basil paced the narrow confines of thechamber, whose crimson walls seemed to form a fitting background forthe dark-robed occupant.
Outside, the storm howled furiously, flinging gusty dashes of rain andhail against the stone masonry and clattering noisily with every blowinflicted upon the solid rock.
When, spent by its own fury, the hurricane abated for a moment, thefaint sound of a bell tolling the Angelus could be heard whimperingthrough the night.
When Basil had left Theodora after their meeting at the palace, therehad been a darker light in his eyes, a something more ominous of evilin his manner. While his passion had utterly enslaved him, makinghim a puppet in the hands of the woman whose boundless ambition mustinevitably lead her either to the heights of the empire whereof shedreamed, or to the deepest abyss of hell, Basil was far from beingcontent to occupy a position which made him merely a creature of herwill and making. To mount the throne with the woman whose beauty hadset his senses aflame, to rule the city of Rome from the ramparts ofCastel San Angelo, as Ugo of Tuscany by the side of Marozia, this wasthe dream of the man who would leave no stone unturned to accomplishthe ambition of his life.
In an age where certain dark personalities appeared terribly sane totheir contemporaries, their occult dealings with powers whose existencenone questioned must have seemed terribly real to themselves and tothose who gazed from afar. When the mad were above the sane in power,and beyond the reach of observation, there was no limit to theirbaleful activity.
Basil, from the early days of his youth, had lived in a world of evilspirits, imaginary perhaps for us, but real enough for those who mightat any moment be at his mercy. Stimulating his mad desire with thepotent drug which the Saracens had brought with them from the scentedEast, he pushed his hashish-born imaginings to the very throne ofEvil. His ambition, which was boundless, and centred in the longed forachievement of a hope too stupendous even for thought, had intimatelyconnected him with those whose occult researches put them outside thepale of the Church, and the power he wielded in the shadowy world ofdemons was as unchallenged as that which he felt himself wielding inthe tangible world of men.
Among the people there was no end to the dark stories of magic andpoison, some of them real enough, that were whispered about him, andmany a belated rambler looked with a shudder up to the light thatburned in a chamber of his palace on the Pincian Hill till the wee,small hours of the night. Had he been merely a practitioner of theBlack Arts he would probably long since have ended his career in thedungeons of Castel San Angelo. But he was safe enough as one of thegreat ones of the world, the confidant of the Senator of Rome; safe,because he was feared and because none dared to oppose his balefulinfluence.
Basil pondered, as if the solution of the problem in his mind had atlast presented itself, but had again left him, unsatisfied, in thethroes of doubt and fear.
Rising from his seat he again unfolded the letter and peered over itscontents.
"Can we regain the door by which we have entered?" he soliloquized."Can we conquer the phantom that haunts the silent chambers of thebrain? Were it an eye, or a hand, I could pluck it off. However, if Icannot strangle it, I can conquer it! Shall it forever blot the lightof heaven from my path? Shall I forever suffer and tremble at thisimpalpable something--this shade from the abyss--of hell--that isthere--yet not there?"
He paused for a moment in his perambulation, gazing through the narrowunglazed window into the storm-tossed night without. Now and then aflash of lightning shot athwart the inky darkness, lighting up darkrecesses and deep embrasures. The sullen roar of the thunder seemed tocome from the bowels of the earth.
And as the Grand Chamberlain walked, as if driven by some invisibledemon, the great Molossian hound followed him about with a stealthy,noiseless gait, raising its head now and then as if silently inquiringinto its master's mood.
When at length he reseated himself, the huge hound cowered at his feetand licked its huge paws.
The mood of the woman for whom his lust-bitten soul yearned as it hadnever yearned for anything on earth, her words of disdain, which hadscorched his very brain, and, above all, the knowledge that she readhis inmost thoughts, had roused every atom of evil within his soul.This state of mind was accentuated by the further consideration thatshe, of all women whom he had sent to their shame and death, was notafraid of him. She had even dared to hint at the existence of a rivalwho might indeed, in time, supersede him, if he were not wary.
For some time Basil had been vaguely conscious of losing ground in thefavor of the woman whom no man might utterly trust save to his undoing.The rivalry of Roxana, who, like her tenth-century prototypes, was buttoo eager to enter the arena for Marozia's fateful inheritance, hadpoured oil on the flames when Theodora had learned that the Senatorof Rome himself was frequenting her bowers, and she was not slow toperceive the agency that was at work to defeat and destroy her utterly.
By adding ever new fuel to the hatred of the two women for each otherBasil hoped to clear for himself a path that would carry him to theheight of his aspirations, by compelling Theodora to openly espousehim her champion. Sooner or later he knew they would ignite under eachother's taunts, and upon the ruins of the conflagration he hoped tobuild his own empire, with Theodora to share with him the throne.
Alberic had departed for the shrines of the Archa
ngel at Monte Gargano.Intent upon the purification of the Church and upon matters pertainingto the empire, he was an element that needed hardly be reckoned withseriously. A successful coup would hurl him into the dungeons of hisown keep, perchance, by some irony of fate, into the very cell whereMarozia had so mysteriously and ignominiously ended her career. Oncein possession of the Mausoleum, the Germans and Dalmatians bought andbribed, he would be the master--unless--
Suddenly the huge beast at his feet raised its muzzle, sniffing the airand uttering a low growl.
A moment later Maraglia, the Castellan of Castel San Angelo, enteredthrough a winding passage.
"What brings you here at this hour, with your damned butcher's face?"Basil turned upon the newcomer who had paused when his gaze fell uponthe Molossian.
The brutal features of Maraglia looked ghastly enough in the flickeringlight of the tapers and Basil's temper seemed to deepen their ashenpallor.
"My lord--it is there again,--in the lower gallery--near the cell wherethe Lady Marozia was strangled--"
"By all the furies of Hell! Since when are you in the secrets of thedevil?"
"Since I held the noose, my Lord Basil," replied the warden of theEmperor's Tomb doggedly. "Though I knew not at the time whose breathwas being shortened. It was all too dark--a night just like this--"
"Perchance your memory, going back to that hour, has retained somethingmore than the mere surmise," Basil glowered from under the dark,straight brows. "How many were there?"
"There were three--all masked, my lord. But their voices were theirown--"
"You possess a keen ear, my man, as one, accustomed to dark deeds andpassages, well should," Basil interposed sardonically. "Deem you, inyour undoubted wisdom, the lady has returned and is haunting her formerabode? Once upon a time she was not wont to abide in estate so lowly.And, they say, she was beautiful--even to her death."
"And well they may," Maraglia interposed. "I saw her but twice. Whenshe came, and before she died."
"Before she died?"
"And the look she bent upon him who led the execution," Maragliacontinued thoughtfully. "She spoke not once. Dumb and silent she wentto the fishes. When the Lord Alberic arrived, it was all too late--"
"All too late!" Basil interposed sardonically. "The fishes too weredumb. Profit by their example, Maraglia. Too much wisdom engendersdeath."
"The death rattle of one sounds to my ears just like that of another,my lord," Maraglia replied, quaking under the look that was upon him."And the voices of the few who still abide are growing weaker day byday."
"They shall not much longer annoy your delicate ears," Basil replied."The Senator who has found this abode somewhat too draughty hasdeparted for the holy shrines, to do penance for the death of hismother. He suspects all was not well. He would know more. Perchance theArchangel may grant him a revelation. Meanwhile, we must to work. Thenew captain appointed by the Senator enters his service on the morrow.A holy man, much given to contemplation over the mysteries of love. Hisattention must be diverted. Every trace of life must be extinct--thisvery night. No proofs must be allowed to remain. Meanwhile, what of theapparition whereof you rave?"
"It is there, my lord, as sure as my soul lives," replied thecastellan. "A shapeless something, preceded by a breath, cold as from anewly dug grave."
"A shapeless something, say you? Whence comes it and where goes it? Forwhose diversion does it perambulate?"
"The astrologer monk perchance who improvises prophecies."
"Then let his improvising damn himself," replied Basil sullenly. "Tocall himself inspired and pretend to read the stars! How about hisprophecy now?"
"He holds to it!"
"What! That I have less than one month to live?"
"Just that--no more!"--
Basil gave the speaker a quick glance.
"What niggardly dispensation and presumption withal! This fellow toclaim kinship with the stars! To profess to be in their confidence, toshare the secrets of the heavens while he is smothered by darkness,utter and everlasting. The heavens mind you, Maraglia! My star! It is astar of darker red than Mars and crosses Hell--not Heaven! In thought Iwatch it every night with sleepless eyes. Is it not well to cleanse theearth of such lying prophets that truth may have standing room? Wherehave you lodged him?"
"In the Hermit's cell--"
"Well done! Thereby he shall prove his asceticism. Let practisedabstinence save him in such a pass! He shall eat his words--aneverlasting banquet. A fat astrologer--by the token--as I hear, was henot?"
"He was fat when he entered."
"Wretch! Would you starve him? Remember the worms and the fishes--yourfriends. Would you cheat them? Hath he foretold his end?"
"Ay--by starvation."
"He lies! You shall take him in extremis and, with your knife in histhroat, give him the lie. An impostor proved. What of the night?"
"It rains and thunders."
"Why should we mind rain and thunder? Lead me to this madman, and,incidentally, to this phantom that keeps him company. Why do you gape,Maraglia? Move on! I follow!"
Maraglia was ill at ease, but he dared not disobey. Taking up oneof the candles, he led the way, trembling, his face ashen, his teethchattering, as if in the throes of a chill.
Through a panel door in the wall they descended a winding stairway,leaving the dog behind. The flight conducted them to a private postern,well secured and guarded inside and out. As they issued from this thehowl of blown rain met and staggered them. Looking up at the cupola ofbasalt from the depths of that well of masonry, it seemed to crack andsplit in a rush of fusing stars. Basil's mad soul leapt to the callof the hour. He was one with this mighty demonstration of nature. Hisbrain danced and flickered with dark visions of power. He appeared tohimself as an angel, a destroying angel, commissioned from on high topurge the world of lies.
"Take me to this monk!" he screamed through the thunder.
Deep in the foundation of the northeastern crypts the miserablecreature was embedded in a stone chamber as utterly void and empty asdespair. The walls, the floor, the roof were all chiselled as smooth asglass. There was not a foothold anywhere even for a cat, neither door,nor traps, nor egress, nor window of any kind save where, just underthe ceiling, the grated opening by which he had been lowered, admittedby day a haggard ghost of light. And even that wretched solace waswithdrawn as night fell, became a phantom, a diluted whisp of memory,sank like water into the blackness, and left the fancy suddenly nakedin the self-consciousness of hell. Then the monk screamed like a madmanand threw himself towards the flitting spectre. He fell on the smoothsurface of the polished rock and bruised his limbs horribly. Yet thevery pain was a saving occupation. He struck his skull and revelled inthe agonizing dance of lights the blow procured him. But one by onethey blew out; and in a moment dead negation had him by the throatagain, rolling him over and over, choking him under enormous slabs ofdarkness. Gasping, he cursed his improvidence, in not having glued hisvision to the place of the light's going. It would have been somethinggained from madness to hold and gloat upon it, to watch hour by hourfor its feeble redawn. Among all the spawning monstrosities of thatpit, with only the assured prospect of a lingering death before him,the prodigy of eternal darkness quite overcrowded that other of thirstor starvation.
Yet the black gloom broke, it would seem, before its due. Had heannihilated time and was this death? He rose rapturously to his feetand stood staring at the grating, the tears gushing down his sunkencheeks. The bars were withdrawn, in their place a dim lamp was intrudedand a face looked down.
"Barnabo--are you hungry and a-thirst?"
The voice spoke to him of life. It was the name he had borne in theworld and he wondered who from that world could be addressing him.
He answered quaveringly.
"Of a truth, I am hungry and a-thirst."
"It is a beatitude," replied the voice suavely. "You shall have yourfill of justice."
"Justice!" screamed the prisoner. "I fear it is but an em
pty phrase."
"Comfort yourself," said the other. "I shall make a full measure of it!It shall bubble and sparkle to the brim like a goblet of Cyprian. Knowyou the wine, monk? A cool fragrant liquid, that gurgles down the aridthroat and brings visions of green meadows and sparkling brooks--"
"I ask no mercy," cried the monk, falling on his knees and stretchingout his lean arms. "Only make an end of it--of this hellish torment."
"Torment?" came the voice from above. "What torment is there in thevision of the wine cup--or, for that matter, a feast on groaning tablesunder the trees? Are you not rich in experiences, Barnabo,--both ofthe board and of love? Remember the hours when she lay in your arms,innocent, save of original sin? Ah! Could she see you now, Barnabo--howyou have changed! No more the elegant courtier that wooed Theodora eredespair drove you to don the penitential garb and, like Balaam's ass,to raise your voice and prophesy! Deem you--as fate has thrown her intothese arms of mine--memory will revive the forgotten joys of the daysof long ago?"
"Mercy--demon!" gasped the monk. His swollen throat could hardly shapethe words.
Basil laughed and bent lower.
"Answer me then--you who boast of being inspired from above--youwho listen to the music of the spheres in the dead watches of thenight--tell me then, you man of God--how long am I to live?"
"Monster, relieve me of your sight!" shrieked the unhappy wretch.
"It is the light," mocked Basil. "The light from above. Raise yourvoice, monk, and prophesy. You who would hurl the anathema upon Basil,the Grand Chamberlain, who arrogated to yourself the mission topurge the universe and to summon me--me--before the tribunal of theChurch--tell me, you, who aspired to take to his bed the spouse of thedevil, till the white lightnings of her passion seared and blasted yourcarcass,--tell me--how long am I to live?"
An inarticulate shriek came from within.
"By justice--till the dead rise from their graves."
"Live forever--on an empty phrase?" Basil mocked. "Are you, too,provisioned for eternity?"
He held out his hand as if he were offering the starving wretch food.
The monk fell on his knees. His lips moved, but no sound was audible.
"Perchance he hath a vision," Basil turned to Maraglia who stoodsullenly by.
"Oh, dull this living agony."
"How long am I to live?"
"Now, hear me, God," screamed the monk. "Let not this man ever againknow surcease from torment in bed, at board, in body or in mind. Lethis lust devour him, let the worm burrow in his entrails, the maggot inhis brain! May death seize and damnation wither him at the moment whenhe is nearest the achievement of his fondest hopes!"
Basil screamed him down.
An uncontrollable terror had seized him.
"Silence, beast, or I shall strangle you!"
"Libertine, traitor, assassin--may heaven's lightnings blast you--"
For a moment the two battled in a war of screeching blasphemy.
At the next moment the grate was flung into place, the light whiskedand vanished, a door slammed and the Stygian blackness of the cellclosed once more upon the moaning heap in its midst.
Basil's eyes gleamed like live coals as he turned to Maraglia, who,quaking and ashen, was babbling a prayer between white lips.
"Make an end of him!" he snarled. "He has lived too long. And now, inthe devil's name, lead the way above!"
A flash of lightning that seemed to rend the very heavens illumined fora moment the dark and tortuous passage, its sheen reflected throughthe narrow port-holes on the blackness of the walls. It was followedby a peal of thunder so terrific that it shook the vast pile of theEmperor's Tomb to its foundations, clattering and roaring, as if athousand worlds had been rent in twain.
Maraglia, who had preceded the Grand Chamberlain with the taper,uttered a wild shriek of terror, dropped the light, causing it to beextinguished and his fleeting steps carried him down a night-wrappedgallery as fast as his limbs would carry him, utterly indifferent toBasil's fate in the Stygian gloom.
Paralyzed with terror, the Grand Chamberlain stared into the inkyblackness. For a moment it had seemed to him as if a breath from anopen grave had indeed been wafted to his nostrils.
But it was neither the thunder, nor the lightning, neither the swish ofthe rain nor the roar of the hurricane, that had prompted Maraglia'soutcry and precipitate flight and his abject terror, as we shall see.
Under the Witches' Moon: A Romantic Tale of Mediaeval Rome Page 15
