These words restored Cimon’s depleted spirits to the full, and his answer was quickly forthcoming.
‘Lysimachus,’ he said, ‘if this scheme of yours procures me the reward of which you have spoken, you could not have chosen a more resolute or loyal comrade. Therefore entrust me with whatever task you desire me to perform, and you will marvel at the energy I devote to your cause.’
‘Two days hence,’ said Lysimachus, ‘the brides will cross their husbands’ threshold for the first time. As dusk is falling, we shall go to the house, you with your companions and I with some of mine whom I trust implicitly, and make our way inside by armed force. We shall then seize the ladies from the midst of the assembled guests, and carry them off to a ship which I have caused to be fitted out in secret, killing anyone who should have the temerity to stand in our way.’
Cimon agreed to the plan, and lay quietly in prison until the appointed time.
When the wedding-day arrived, it was marked by magnificent pomp and splendour, and the house of the two brothers was filled throughout with sounds of revelry and rejoicing. Lysimachus, having completed all his preparations, handed out weapons to Cimon and his companions, as well as to his own friends, and these they concealed beneath their robes. He then delivered a lengthy harangue to fire them with enthusiasm for his plan, and when he judged the time to be ripe, he divided them into three separate groups, one of which he prudently dispatched to the harbour so that no one could prevent them from embarking when the time came for them to leave. Having led the other two parties to the house of Pasimondas, he posted one of them at the main entrance to frustrate any attempt to lock them inside or bar their retreat, whilst with the other, including Cimon, he charged up the stairs. On reaching the hall, where the two brides were already seated and about to dine along with numerous other ladies, they marched boldly forward and hurled the tables to the floor. Then each of the two men seized his lady and handed her over to his companions, instructing them to carry them off at once to the waiting ship.
The brides began to cry and scream, the other ladies and the servants followed suit, and the whole place was filled in an instant with uproar and wailing. But Cimon and Lysimachus and their companions, having drawn their swords, made their way unopposed to the head of the staircase, everyone standing aside to let them pass. As they were descending the stairs, they were met by Pasimondas, who had been attracted by all the noise and came up wielding a heavy stick; but he was struck such a fierce blow over the head by Cimon that a good half of it was severed from his body, and he dropped dead at the feet of his assailant. In rushing to his brother’s assistance, the hapless Ormisdas was likewise slain by one of Cimon’s lusty blows, whilst a handful of others who ventured to approach were set upon and beaten back by the rest of the invaders.
Leaving the house full of blood, tumult, tears, and sadness, they made their way unimpeded to the ship, keeping close together and carrying their spoils before them. Having handed the ladies aboard, Cimon and Lysimachus followed with their comrades just as the shore began to fill with armed men who were coming to the rescue of the two ladies. But they plied their oars with a will, and made good their escape.
On arriving in Crete they were given a joyous welcome by a large number of their friends and relatives, and after they had married their ladies and held a great wedding-feast, they gaily enjoyed the spoils of their endeavours.
In Rhodes and in Cyprus their deeds gave rise to great commotion and uproar, which took some time to subside. But in the fullness of time, their friends and relatives interceded on their behalf in both these places, and made it possible for Cimon and Lysimachus, after a period of exile, to return to Cyprus and Rhodes with Iphigenia and Cassandra respectively. And each lived happily ever after with his lady in the land of his birth.
SECOND STORY
Gostanza, in love with Martuccio Gomito, hears that he has died, and in her despair she puts to sea alone in a small boat, which is carried by the wind to Susa; she finds him, alive and well, in Tunis, and makes herself known to him, whereupon Martuccio, who stands high in the King’s esteem on account of certain advice he had offered him, marries her and brings her back with a rich fortune to Lipari.1
Perceiving that Panfilo’s story was at an end, the queen, having warmly commended it, directed Emilia to proceed with one of hers, and Emilia began as follows:
It is only natural that we should rejoice on seeing an enterprise crowned with rewards appropriate to the sentiments that inspired it. And since it is proper for true love to be rewarded in the long run with joy rather than suffering, it gives me far greater pleasure to obey the queen, and speak upon the present topic, than it gave me yesterday to address myself to the one prescribed for us by the king.
You are to know then, dainty ladies, that near Sicily there is a small island called Lipari, on which, not very long ago, there lived a most beautiful girl, Gostanza by name, who belonged to one of the noblest families on the island. With this girl, a young man called Martuccio Gomito, who also lived on the island, and who, apart from being an outstanding craftsman, was exceedingly handsome and well-mannered, fell in love. And Gostanza reciprocated his love so wholeheartedly that she was never happy when he was out of her sight. Desiring to make her his wife, Martuccio requested her father’s consent, but was told that since he was too poor he couldn’t have her.
Martuccio, indignant at seeing himself rejected on the grounds of his poverty, commissioned a small sailing-ship with certain friends and relatives of his, and vowed never to return to Lipari until he was a rich man. Having put to sea, he began to play the pirate along the Barbary coast, plundering every vessel that was weaker than his own. He had all the luck that was going for as long as he kept his ambition within reasonable bounds. But it was not enough that Martuccio and his companions should have quickly amassed a small fortune for themselves; their appetite for riches was enormous, and in trying to assuage it they encountered a flotilla of Saracen ships, by which, after lengthy resistance, they were captured and plundered. Most of Martuccio’s men were dumped into the sea, and their ship was sunk, but Martuccio himself was hauled off to Tunis, where he was left to languish in a prison-cell.
Word was meanwhile brought to Lipari, not merely by one or two but by several different people, that Martuccio and all the men aboard his ship had drowned.
When she heard that Martuccio and his companions were dead, the girl, who had been distressed beyond measure by his departure, wept incessantly and resolved to put an end to her life. Lacking the courage to do herself violently to death, she hit upon a novel but no less certain way of killing herself; and one night, she secretly left her father’s house and made her way to the harbour, where she chanced upon a tiny fishing-boat, lying some distance away from the other vessels. Its owners having gone ashore just a little while earlier, the boat was still equipped with its mast, its sail, and its oars. And since, like most of the women on the island, she had learnt the rudiments of seamanship, she stepped promptly aboard, rowed a little way out to sea, and hoisted the sail, after which she threw the oars and rudder overboard and placed herself entirely at the mercy of the wind. She calculated that one of two things would inevitably happen: either the boat, being without ballast or rudder, would capsize in the wind, or it would be driven aground somewhere and smashed to pieces. In either case she was certain to drown, for she would be unable to save herself even if she wanted to. So having wrapped a cloak round her head, she lay down, weeping, on the floor of the boat.
But her calculations proved quite wrong, for the wind blew so gently from the north that the sea was barely disturbed, the boat maintained an even keel, and towards evening on the following day she drifted ashore near a town called Susa,2 a hundred miles or so beyond Tunis.
The girl was not aware that she was more ashore than afloat, for she had not raised her head once from the position in which it was lying, nor had she any intention of doing so, whatever happened.
As luck would have it, when the
boat ran aground there was a poor woman on the shore, taking in nets that had been left in the sun by the fishermen for whom she worked. On seeing the boat, she wondered how the fishermen aboard could have let it run aground under full sail, and assumed that they must be asleep. So she went up to the boat, but the only person she could see was this young woman, lying there fast asleep. Having called to her several times, she eventually got her to wake up, and since she could see that the girl was a Christian from the clothes she was wearing, she asked her in Italian how it came about that she had landed in that particular spot, and in that particular boat, all by herself.
Hearing herself addressed in Italian, the girl wondered whether she had been driven back to Lipari by a change of wind. She started to her feet and looked around, and on seeing that she was grounded on a coastline that was totally unfamiliar to her, she asked the good woman where she was.
‘You are near Susa, in Barbary, my daughter,’ the woman replied.
On learning where she was, the girl, dismayed that God had denied her the death she was seeking, was afraid lest worse should befall her. Not knowing what to do, she sat down beside the keel of the boat and burst into tears. On seeing this, the good woman took pity on her and persuaded her, after a good deal of coaxing, to go with her to her little cottage, where she treated her so kindly that Gostanza told her how she came to be there. The woman realized that she must be hungry, and so she placed some dry bread, water, and a quantity of fish before her, and with much difficulty persuaded her to eat a little.
Then Gostanza asked her who she was, and how she came to speak such fluent Italian, whereupon the good woman told her that she was from Trapani, that her name was Carapresa, and that she was employed by some fishermen, who were Christians.
The girl was feeling very sorry for herself, but on hearing the name Carapresa (which means ‘precious gain’), without knowing why, she took it as a good omen. For some strange reason she began to feel more hopeful, and was no longer so anxious to put an end to herself. Without disclosing who she was or whence she came, she earnestly entreated the good woman, in God’s name, to have mercy on her youth and advise her how to save herself from coming to any harm.
The woman was a kindly soul, and after leaving her for a while in the cottage whilst she quickly gathered up her nets, she returned and wrapped her from head to foot in her own cloak, then took her with her to Susa. And on arriving in the town, she said:
‘Gostanza, I am going to take you to the house of a very kind Saracen lady, who employs me regularly on various errands. She is elderly and tender-hearted: I shall commend you to her as warmly as I possibly can, and I am quite certain that she will gladly take you in and treat you as a daughter. Once you are under her roof, you are to serve her as loyally as you can, so as to win and retain her favour until such time as God may send you better fortune.’
Carapresa was as good as her word. When the lady, who was getting on in years, had heard her story, she looked into Gostanza’s eyes, burst into tears, gathered her in her arms and kissed her on the forehead. Then she led her by the hand into the house, where she lived with certain other women, isolated from all male company. The women worked with their hands in various ways, producing a number of different objects made of silk, palm, and leather, and within a few days, the girl, having learned to make some of these objects, was sharing the work with the others. Her benefactress and the other ladies were remarkably kind and affectionate towards her, and before very long they had taught her to speak their language.
Now, whilst the girl was living in Susa, having long been given up as dead by her family, it happened that the King of Tunis, whose name was Mulay Abd Allah, was threatened by a powerful young grandee, who came from Granada, and who claimed that the kingdom of Tunis belonged to him. And having assembled an enormous army, he marched against the King to drive him from the realm.
Tidings of these events came to the ears of Martuccio Gomito as he lay in prison, and as he was well versed in the language of the Saracens, on learning that the King of Tunis was making strenuous efforts to defend himself, he said to one of the men who were guarding him and his companions:
‘If I could speak to the King, I am sure I could advise him how to win this war of his.’
The gaoler reported Martuccio’s words to his superior, who immediately passed them on to the King. The King therefore ordered Martuccio to be brought before him, and asked him what advice he had in mind.
‘My lord,’ replied Martuccio, ‘years ago I spent some time in this country of yours, and if I rightly observed the tactics you employ in battle, it seems that you leave the brunt of the fighting to your archers. If, therefore, one could devise a way of cutting off the enemy’s supply of arrows whilst leaving your own men with arrows to spare, I reckon that your battle would be won.’
‘If this could be done,’ replied the King, ‘without a doubt I should be confident of winning.’
‘My lord,’ said Martuccio, ‘it can certainly be done if you have a mind to do it. Listen, and I shall tell you how. You must see that the bows of your archers are fitted with much finer string than that which is normally used. You must then have arrows specially made, the notches of which will only take this finer string. All of this must be done in great secrecy so that the enemy knows nothing about it, otherwise he would take suitable counter-measures. The reason for my advice is this: as you know, when your enemy’s archers have fired all their arrows, and your own men have fired theirs, each side will have to gather up the other’s arrows for the battle to continue. But the arrows fired by your archers will be useless to the enemy because their bow-strings will be too thick to fit into the small notches, whereas your own men will have no difficulty at all in using the enemy’s arrows because a fine string goes perfectly well into a wide notch. Thus your own men will have an abundant supply of arrows, and the others will have none at all.’
Being a man of some intelligence, the King approved of Martuc-cio’s plan and carried it out to the letter, thereby winning the war. Martuccio was therefore raised to a high position in the King’s favour, and consequently grew rich and powerful.
Tidings of these events spread throughout the country, and when it was reported to Gostanza that Martuccio Gomito, whom she had long supposed to be dead, was in fact alive, her love for him, which by now was beginning to fade from her heart, was suddenly rekindled, blazing more fiercely than ever, and all her lost hopes were revived. She therefore recounted all her vicissitudes to the good lady with whom she was living, and told her that she desired to go to Tunis, so that she might feast her eyes upon that which her ears had made them eager to behold. Her request was warmly approved by the lady, who, treating her as a daughter, took her by sea to Tunis, where she and Gostanza were honourably received in the house of one of the lady’s kinswomen.
They had brought Carapresa with them, and the lady sent her to find out all she could about Martuccio. When she returned with the news that Martuccio was alive and of high estate, the lady resolved to go in person to Martuccio and inform him of the arrival of his beloved Gostanza. And so one day, she called upon Martuccio, and said to him:
‘Martuccio, a servant of yours from Lipari has turned up at my house, and desires to talk to you there in private. Since he did not wish me to entrust his mission to others, I have come to inform you in person.’
Martuccio thanked the lady, and followed her back to her house.
The girl was so delighted to see him that she nearly died. Carried away by her feelings, she ran up to him and flung her arms round his neck; then she burst into tears, unable to speak because of her joy and the bitter memory of her past misfortunes.
When he saw who it was, Martuccio was at first struck dumb with astonishment, but then he began to sigh, and said:
‘Oh, Gostanza, can it really be you? I was told, long ago, that you had vanished from Lipari, never to be heard of again.’ And this was all he could say before he, too, burst into tears, took her tenderly in his arms
, and kissed her.
Gostanza described to him all that had happened to her, and told him of the honour paid to her by the noble lady with whom she had been staying. Martuccio spent some time conversing with her, after which he left her and went to the King, his master, to whom he gave a full account, not only of his own vicissitudes but also those of the girl, adding that he intended, by the King’s leave, to marry her according to the Christian rite.
The King, who was filled with amazement, summoned the girl to his presence; and having heard her confirm Martuccio’s story with her own lips, he said:
‘Then you have certainly earned the right to marry him.’
He then called for sumptuous and splendid gifts to be brought, and divided them between Gostanza and Martuccio, granting them leave to arrange matters between themselves in whatever way they pleased.
The gentlewoman with whom Gostanza had been staying was nobly entertained by Martuccio, who thanked her for all she had done to assist Gostanza, gave her such presents as were suitable to a person of her rank, and commended her to God, after which she and Gostanza took their leave of one another, shedding many tears. By the King’s leave, they then embarked on a small sailing-ship, taking Carapresa with them, and with the aid of a prosperous wind they came once more to Lipari, where there was such great rejoicing that no words could ever describe it.
The Decameron Page 61
