Then, on the other side of the choir, a flash of blue velvet, a smiling, handsome face. It was Giuliano de Medici,* and his arm was linked with that of Francesco de Pazzi, as though with a close friend. On the other side of Giuliano, and a little to the rear, walked Bernardo Bandini, the dissolute young gentleman on whom Guaracco threatened to bestow Lisa. Would Guaracco do so? Would Lisa consent?
And then someone strolled past me. Lorenzo, a gorgeous figure in a crimson houppelande, sword at side, chatting with a crooked, smiling young man—Agnolo Poliziano, the poet. Behind them, tense and pale, slunk two dark-clad figures, the assassins Maffei and Bagnone.
I took a step toward the ruler of Florence. I drew in my breath to shout a warning, in the midst of the holy service. I saw Guaracco approaching beyond some chairs.
It was then that the host was elevated at the altar. The young cardinal's voice rang out the prayerful words that, all unknowing, would signal for violence:
"Ite, missa est!"
Maffei, the vengeful Volterran, who was closer to me than Bagnone, stepped suddenly forward, clutching at Lorenzo. His dagger twinkled in air.
* Giuliano was ill on this fatal Sunday, but Francesco de Pazzi and Bernardo Bandini went to his house and urged him in a friendly manner to attend mass.
I seemed to move of an involuntary stimulus. Had I been a true Florentine, I would have paused to draw sword, and that would have been too late to save Lorenzo. Being an American, and from the Twentieth Century, I struck with my fist. Maffei staggered under the blow, his thrust went awry. It glanced along Lorenzo's neck.
"Beware, Your Magnificence!" I cried, and struck Maffei again, a roundabout right.
He turned halfway toward me, catching my knuckles on the point of his chin. Down he floundered in a flurry of black robes, and I set my foot on his dagger hand. The weapon clanked on the floor, and I kicked it away.
All had become howling confusion. My gas, I saw, would not affect only Guaracco's party, but the whole congregation. I dared not release it. At last I thought to draw my sword.
Across the octagonal space, chairs were overturning and horrified people were scurrying and gesticulating. For a moment I saw Giuliano's blue velvet form struggling on the floor, while Francesco de Pazzi, with his knee on Giuliano's breast, struck viciously with his dagger. Other swords were out on all sides.
"Down with the Medici oppressors!" I heard Guaracco trumpeting.
A CHEER answered him, for the service had been liberally attended by members of the conspiracy.
The cardinal, his young eyes wide with horror, was drawing back from the altar, and a priest in black robes was trying to lead him away. Maffei had risen, and was running before my sword-point. I turned to see what was happening to Lorenzo.
He had drawn his own sword, and was parrying the wild dagger thrusts of Bagnone, but his wound streamed blood and the terrified Poliziano hampered him by clinging to him.
I hurried to them and thrust hard at Bagnone, but my stroke was turned, for as Guaracco had done the night before, this conspirator wore mail under his gown. Yet the digging jab drove him back. I gestured toward a doorway with my weapon. "Is that the sacristy?" I shouted. "Get him in there and bolt the door!"
"Giuliano!" Lorenzo was shouting back. "Is Giuliano safe?"
But I gave him an unceremonious shove, and a moment later Poliziano had dragged him to the threshold.
"Down with the Medici!" yelled Guaracco again.
His voice was near, and I faced around upon him and half a dozen of his supporters who were rushing to cut Lorenzo off. I threw myself in their way, quickly wadding my cloak into a shield, and engaged several blades at once. I heard the clang of the door behind me, and the shooting of the bolts.
"Medici! Medici!" I roared, fencing off my assailants. "Murder! Help, honest men, murder is being done!"
"Medici!" someone echoed, and never have I heard a sweeter voice. A robust cavalier in plum-purple hurried to my side. He, too, had a sword, and struck manfully at the conspirators. His example fired others. In a trice the entire floor of the choir was a melee of jabbering voices and clashing steel.
Several armored guardsmen made their appearance. I saw Guaracco fleeing. I followed suit, for I remembered that Lorenzo, whose life I had just saved, had doomed me.
The public square outside the cathedral was swiftly jamming with people, some armed and angry, others frightened and mystified. All were talking at once, and nearly all were shouting
"Medici! Medici!" In this quarter, at least, the people were for their ruler. A fellow in a jerkin of falding, with gray hair and a cast in his eye, stopped me with a fierce clutch even as I emerged from the cathedral.
"Is it true that Ser Giuliano de Medici is slain?" he asked.
"I fear so," I replied. "I saw him struck down."
The gray head shook dolefully, but the one good eye lighted up.
"Come to the Palazzo Publico, young sir," the man urged me. "There is good sport there."
"What sport?" I asked, panting from the excitement.
"Salviati and some cutthroats went up to seize the magistrates. But the most of them were trapped in a room. The door had a spring lock."
Joy surged into me. My device had worked.
"How then?" I cried.
"Some guards, and friends of the Medici, came and seized the lot," he replied with relish. "Even now they are being hanged from the windows, like hams on a rafter."
"FIERCE as it sounded, the news came gladly to my ears. Guaracco's conspiracy had failed in part at the cathedral, it had failed utterly at the palace. But I had no time for rejoicing. Elsewhere in the city was rising fresh danger.
"Nay, come with me," I bade my new friend. "I know of better sport still." I raised my voice. "Hark, all true Florentines and servants of the Magnificent! Who will fight for the
Medici?"
"I!" stoutly called a youth, brandishing a cudgel. "And I!" came another volunteer. "I! I! I!" chorused others. Half a score offered themselves in as many seconds.
"Then follow," I said, and set off at a trot for the Pazzi quarter. I now held a bottle of chlorine gas in each hand. The fellows set up a shout, of enthusiasm or excitement, and ran at my heels.
We had not far to run. Out of a narrow side street road a man on horseback—a square-faced man, bright of eye and straight of back for all the whiteness of his hair. He wore goldfiligreed armor on chest and legs, and waved a sword. Armed footmen came at his heels. "Liberty! Liberty!" he was shouting. "Overthrow the oppressors!"
He must be Giacopo de Pazzi, the aged but sturdy head of the rebellious family. Behind him were marshalled the retainers of his house, a good hundred—and dangerous looking. And masses of citizenry pressed from other streets to stare, perhaps to join. There was nothing for it but audacity.
"Medici !" I thundered in return to the Pazzi slogan, and flourished one of the gas-bottles as though it were a battle flag. "Forward, loyal Florentines! Smite the assassins!"
My own following set up a shout, and pressed forward with me. I had more adherents than I had thought at first; doubtless we had been reenforced by others as we passed along the street. But Giacopo de Pazzi was not the man to be daunted. He had come out looking for trouble, and seemed glad to find it. Yelling a warcry, he came toward us at a trot. His horse alone would scatter my band, for we were all afoot. I made a decision, and hurled my first gas bottle.
It burst on the pavement several yards ahead of the old man, and he checked and stared. I ran close and threw the second.
It smashed even closer to him. The cloud of gas, rising and mixing with the air, must have been driven sharply into his eyes and nose, as well as into the nostrils of his horse. The poor beast snorted and reared. Giacopo de Pazzi kept his seat with difficulty. Coughing, he dropped his sword and clutched at his throat with his hand.
A moment later his frightened steed, out of control, had sidled into the foremost of his own men, throwing them into disorder.
The o
nlookers knew less of what had happened than Giacopo de Pazzi, but he had lost command of the situation, and the balance of approval tilted from him. Hoots and jeers rang in the air.
"Medici!" I screamed again.
"Medici ! Medici !" echoed back from all sides.
I hurried almost into the midst of the Pazzi party. From my belt I tore my third and last bottle bomb, and threw it. It broke only a few feet from me, and the fumes blinded and strangled me as well as others. I retreated as best I might, coughing and dabbing at my tear-filled eyes. But, though I could not see, that final dose of irritating gas must have completed the job of halting the rush to dominate the city.
I heard an increasing hubbub of loud shouts for the Medici, and when my vision cleared at last, I saw a flash of armor. Guardsmen were making their appearance, threatening the parade with swords and pikes. I saw the foremost armed servants of the Pazzi faltering and drawing back, crumpling the head of the column. Some darted to right and left, losing themselves in the crowd.
Giacopo de Pazzi had recovered somewhat from his taste of chlorine. He was no coward, but he knew when he was beaten. He spurred quickly around a corner and away before we could reach him and drag him from the saddle.
I thought that he might reach the gates and escape, and did not begrudge him that boon. To me he seemed the least grisly of all that group of rascally plotters.
An officer of the guard passed close to me, and I hailed him. "How goes it at the palace?" I asked.
"The rebels are all taken or slain," he answered. "His Magnificence is safe, and has spoken from a balcony, begging that there be no more butchery, and asking that the survivors be delivered to fair trial. He urges peace, even while his tears stream for his dead brother."
"It is not over yet," I admonished him. "Keep watch on the gates. Some mercenaries have been gathered there to help the conspiracy."
"They will never enter this city," he assured me.
I turned from him toward the Arno. There was one more thing to do, and it lay with me to do it.
*Giatopo de Pazzi was a simple and decent man, who might not have approved of the entire conspiracy. He was later captured, and his mutilated body tossed into the Arno. Another conspirator, Bandini, was a fugitive for months, but was finally haled back to Florence and hanged from the Palazzo Publico
CHAPTER XXI
The Christening
CLOSE to the riverside, Guaracco's house neved looked so quiet and yet so forbidding. I ran to the door and tried it. From within a voice challenged me quietly, cautiously.
"I am from Guaracco!" I called at once. "All is lost in the city."
There was a rattling of Chains, as if the barrier was being lowered, and I did not wait for the door to open. With my shoulder I bore strongly against it, and it creaked back. A cry of profane execration greeted me. One of the dwarfs, the ugly one I had stunned the night before, swung up his curved sword. But my own point was quickly in his throat and he crumpled on the threshold, his oaths dying into a blood-choked gurgle. I hurried inside without waiting for him to cease struggling.
"Lisa!" I shouted as I ran through room after room. "Lisat where are you?"
"Leo!"
It was muffled, little louder than a whisper, but I, having come into the kitchen, traced the direction of her voice. She was beneath me. In the floor showed a great cleated hatchway. She must be in the cellar, among Guaracco's stacked weapons. Seizing the iron ring that served as handle for the door, I heaved it up. Light gleamed from below.
There was no ladder or other way down, but I swung myself into the hole, landing upright on the earthen cellar floor. She was there, seated like a stone figure upon a great chest that must be full of ammunition. Beyond were the stairs that led to the front of the house. Her eyes sought mine in the lantern light.
"Leo," she murmured, as softly as the sigh of wind heard far away. "You have come back."
"Fly away from here!" I gasped at her. "These devil's machines and weapons shall be destroyed within the minute. And we are leaving Florence forever—before Guaracco finds us. Or Lorenzo does either."
"But I must stay," she protested, as though she reminded me of the obvious. "I was told to wait."
"Told by Guaracco!" I cried hotly, for it now was manifest to me that he had bound her to her place by hypnotism, stronger than shackles.
"Guaracco, yes." Her head dipped a little in agreement. "He said that all would be well. A new Florence would be built, with no oppression."
"Lies, lies!" I cried passionately. "He tried to form himself a devil's kingdom here, erected on spilt blood and corpses." I caught her hand. "Come, Lisa!"
I got her to her feet, but it was like lifting a straw dummy.
"I was told to wait, Leo," she said.
My hands seized her shoulders, and I tried to shake her into consciousness. "Lisa, do you love me? Or is that only an illusion, too, turned on and off by Guaracco like the spigot of a wine cask?"
"Love you, yes." She was definite enough.
"Then come, I say." I backed toward the stairs, drawing her along with me. She looked ahead, and saw something. Her eyes widened, her mouth opened to cry out.
"Leo—danger!"
She tore from my grasp and scurried around me so that she was between me and the stairs. I turned on my heel only swiftly enough to see what she had seen.
GUARACCO had descended upon me and his hand was lifted, holding something that gleamed. I heard the bark of an explosion, saw a sudden ghostly puff of smoke. And Lisa sagged against me, into my arms. Her eyes were suddenly bright and wakeful again, and her mouth tremblingly smiled. I eased her slackening body to the floor. I knew that she was dead.
"Do not move, Leo!" warned Guaracco hastily. Still at the foot of the stairs, he leveled his weapon at me pointblank. "This fires six shots! It is one of the guns I made according to the science I gleaned from you."
It was, indeed, a revolver. His thumb had drawn up the hammer, and the muzzle stared me between the eyes. I gathered for a spring, but paused. I did not fear to die, but I feared that Guaracco might live.
"You have failed," were the first words I spoke to him.
"Failed?" His eyes flickered down toward Lisa. With his rebellion crumpled around his head, he could still smile in triumph.
"Failed," I said again. "Lisa was under your spell, but she broke it to save my life. She loved me. Her love was more than your dirty conjuring tricks."
"True, true," he admitted smoothly. "And I am glad, after all, that she did save your life. Leo, there is still time and opportunity for us to help each other."
I curled my lip in contempt, but he went on:
"Many have died today. Why should we? If you do not understand, Leo, look at what else I bring,"
His free left hand extended toward me, and between thumb and finger flashed a globule of rosy-silver light.
"It is a pearl," he intoned in a new voice. "The pearl of sleep, Leo. Look upon it!"
I looked. I felt my senses sway, but held them firm. It was only a pearl. The light did not wax or blur or brighten. I was resisting his spell. It was only a pearl that Guaracco held, trying to spellbind me with it. But I stared, and would not let it have power over me.
"You are going to sleep, Leo," Guaracco was intoning. "To sleep—and all is well between us."
I gazed, my mind at work. A way opened to revenge and victory, if I were cunning. Slowly, stiffly, simulating a trance, I made a step toward him. He thought himself the winner.
"Leo, Leo, I am your friend," he tried to din into me. "I am Guaracco, who adopted you as his cousin, made you great and wealthy. And you will be grateful and help Guaracco. You will tell Lorenzo de Medici that Guaracco, too, fought to put down this conspiracy. Those who can testify otherwise are dead."
It would have worked had he been able truly to impose his will. I let him deceive himself, and took another step. We were almost within arm's reach of each other. The leveled revolver was bigger and brighter to my gaze than t
he pearl. I kept my face gravenly rapt, my eyes staring, but I was awake and resolute. Would he suspect?
"Once we are believed, we can still work together, Leo," Guaracco was insisting. "Plan again, and better and bigger. We may yet rule the world!"
I threw myself upon him.
HE pulled trigger, but my right hand was upon the revolver. Pain bit my thumb, that had thrust itself between breech and hammer, and the firing pin drove deep into the base of the nail. A moment more and I wrenched it away and flung it behind me. It exploded with the shock, and the bullet sang into the beam overhead. A moment later we had both drawn swords.
"You triple traitor!" howled Guaracco, parrying my first lunge. "Come then, if you will have death this way!"
I made no reply, but deflected his riposte—the trick he had learned from me. His chest was exposed to a return riposte, but I knew the mail that defended it, and swept my blade in a quick arc. He got his brow out of the way with millimeters to spare. Falling back, he tried to clutch at another pistol, one of a heap in an open box, but I nicked at his outflung hand, and got home. He whimpered. Two of his fingers soared away, and blood fountained forth.
"Wait, Leo!" he changed his tune at once. "I must not die, if you expect to live and—"
I did not expect to live, and made him no answer. His sword was up, and I beat it momentarily aside and slashed at his face. Quickly he parried, but only half-broke the force of the blow. His cheek was laid open, and his beard suddenly gleamed a deeper red.
"The time reflector," he yammered at me, on sudden inspiration. "Only I can show you how to rebuild, improve, get back to your own age!"
He should have saved his breath, for he was panting and choking. His thrusts were unsteady, easy to foil.
My digging lunge at his belly, while it did not pierce the chain mail, drove most of the wind out of him. It drove out the fight, too. He tried to retreat to the stairs, but misjudged and brought his back against the plankfaced wall. He threw down his sword and lifted his hands.
Manly Wade Wellman - Novel 1940 Page 14
