Delphi Collected Works of Max Brand US, page 162
In a niche at the end of the hall crouched a white Venus, shrinking from his approach.
He turned to the loggia. The door was not locked and he stepped into the open, peering down from between the columns into the width of the piazza.
No one stirred across that great pavement; he could hear the sound of the fountain waters in the middle of the place like the soft rushing of a wind.
From the loggia he turned through the next door and found himself in a large anteroom lighted clearly enough by two lamps which no doubt had been supplied with oil to burn all the night through. There lay the hat of Giovanpaolo, shining with an incrustation of pearls all over the crown. On a chair were piled the cuirass, the leg armor of finest steel; a two-handed sword leaned in its sheath against the chair. On the table were a pair of golden spurs with immensely long rowels. And beside the spurs lay an open book, beautifully printed according to the new art which had been introduced through Italy from Germany, that distant nation of northern barbarians. It was strange, thought Tizzo, that any art could come from that misty, northern region!
Through a doorway adjoining he passed into a chamber far more dimly lighted by a single small lamp from whose wick a mere tremor of flame rose, so that the shadows washed up and down the walls ceaselessly and the entire apartment became a ghostly thing.
The paintings along the walls seemed more real than the figure of the man who lay on the great bed. It stood huge as a house at the side of the chamber.
The sleeper must have had restless dreams, for even now he was stirring uneasily, gripping a hand above his head, and muttering. Half of the covers had slipped from him and spilled towards the floor.
Over him leaned Tizzo and recognized the strong, handsome face of Giovanpaolo.
He had come to the end of his short quest!
His sword was naked in his hand, now. He placed the point of it close to the throat of the sleeper and, leaning still closer, heard Giovanpaolo muttering: “Once more, men of Florence, brave fellows! If you are hungry, remember that there is bread and wine in their tents. The fat, red wine of Siena, comrades! Charge once more with me and we shall have it!”
The warrior was fighting again some battle in his sleep as Tizzo murmured; “Waken, my lord! There is a sword at your throat.”
CHAPTER IV.
TO BE BEATEN — AND SPARED.
THE ROUSING OF such a warrior as Giovanpaolo was like the rousing of a lion, Tizzo knew, and he watched with apprehension and curiosity. Giovanpaolo, opening his eyes, looked without a start along the steady gleam of the sword and up into the eyes of the youth.
“So, Tizzo?” he said. “Murder?”
“If I’d wanted to murder you,” said Tizzo, “as much as you’ve wanted to murder me, I could have drawn the edge of this sword across your throat or dipped the point of the dagger into your heart. I have come to talk to you.”
“Let me reach the sword in that chair and I can answer all your questions,” said Giovanpaolo.
He sat up in the bed, looking earnestly at Tizzo.
“Why have you wished to murder me?” asked Tizzo.
“I’ve had no such wish,” said Giovanpaolo.
“You knew that armed men were posted at the summer house of Messer Astorre, waiting for me,” said Tizzo.
“I knew that a trap was baited. I could not believe that such a clever cat as Tizzo would play the mouse and walk into the danger.”
“But if I were fool enough to go — there was the end of me, so far as you are concerned?” asked Tizzo.
“My dear Tizzo,” said the warrior, “what use have I for fools in my life? I knew you were a brave man and a good fighter, so I valued you; but if you were fool enough to throw your eyes on Lady Beatrice with hope, you are no more to me than a dog that bays the moon.”
Tizzo regarded the Baglioni with a curious eye. There was no fear in this man, and there was a ruthless frankness of truth in his remarks, as though the long, keen blade of the sword were no more than a pointing finger.
“Sir Giovanpaolo,” said Tizzo, “if I have looked at the lady it is because I love her as other men love angels in heaven.”
“My friend,” answered the Baglioni, “every pretty girl is as bright as a star — while she is at a distance. I want to keep you from Lady Beatrice.”
“Who means to you,” agreed Tizzo, gloomily, “a strong marriage with some powerful house.”
“She means that to us,” answered Giovanpaolo. “Men who rule cities, Tizzo, cannot be governed by ordinary motives. Beatrice is a pretty thing, and moreover she is a Baglioni, therefore she has to be of use to the house. And what are you? A fellow with a fine flame on his head and a fine spark in his eye — but no more.”
“My lord,” said Tizzo, straightening, “the reason I came to you was to ask for an explanation.”
“I have given you one,” said Giovanpaolo, looking both at the sword and the man without fear.
“I was sworn to your service,” said Tizzo, “and yet you were willing to throw me to the dogs of Marozzo.”
“It was he who had the forethought and the information,” answered the other, shrugging his shoulders.
“The Lady Beatrice was to be the bait, and I was to be the rat for the trap!”
“If you play the rat’s part, you must die the rat’s death.”
“And you, my patron, for whom I have fought with my sword — you let me go to my death?”
“No. I gave you a fighting chance but a good one. To a man who loves you like a brother, to that same Bardi who owes his life to you, I let a hint be given that you should keep at home to-night.”
Tizzo started. “And if I had done as he advised me to do?”
“Then, when Marozzo’s trap had closed on nothing, I should have seized his house and his possessions, given a moiety of them to you, and had him beaten from Perugia with whips; as a man who dared to conspire against and falsely accuse my nearest followers.”
TIZZO was staring, now. There was a queer, crooked, cruel morality in this attitude of mind that he could not fathom. He could see the fact, but he could not feel any understanding of it.
“Instead,” he said, bitterly, “the lady is closed inside a convent until you choose to bring her out for a political wedding, and I am an enemy of your house forever.”
“Not unless you wish to be one,” said Giovanpaolo. “All the qualities that I saw in you before are in you still. I have removed the temptation of Lady Beatrice from your way and I have flashed a sword in your eyes. There is no reason why we should not carry on as we have done before.”
“There is a reason,” said Tizzo, his heart beating high.
“Name it to me, then,” answered Giovanpaolo.
“You have set a trap for me and therefore you are a traitor to me, my lord. What keeps me from driving this sword through your heart, then?”
“A certain foolish set of scruple prevents you,” said Giovanpaolo. “Am the light in your eyes, Tizzo, is the love of battle, not of murder. You cannot strike an unarmed man.”
“It is true,” said Tizzo. “But then is plenty of light in the next room You have a sword there and another on this chair. These apartments are set off from the rest of the house sc that the clashing of swords will bring no interruption to us. Your highness, we will fight hand to hand and wash our stained honors clean with our blood.”
“That,” said Giovanpaolo, “is as childish and mad an idea as I have ever heard, but I like it.”
He rose from the bed and picked up from the chair beside it a sheathed sword. The scabbard fell away with a hissing sound and left in the hand of the Baglioni a blade as like that of Tizzo’s as a twin brother. Giovanpaolo led the way straight into the next room and from the scattered clothes selected hose, doublet, and slippers. Now that he was dressed, he took his position and weighted the balance of his weapon. His sleeve, thrust back to the elbow, showed a forearm alive with snaky muscles. The wrist was perfectly rounded by the distention of the big tendons. Stories of the terrible cunning and strength of this man rushed back upon the brain of Tizzo; for in Giovanpaolo there was the brain to plan great battles and then the courage of a hero to lead his soldiers through the fight.
“Now, Tizzo,” said Giovanpaolo, “I’m to thank you for this pretty little occasion. How often do we have a chance to fence with honest, edged weapons? How often does blood follow the touch?”
He began to advance, slowly.
“I shall have to let the world know that you burst in on me like an assassin,” he said, “but I shall have you honorably buried. Tizzo, I salute your courage, I smile at your folly. Defend yourself!”
On the heel of these words, he rushed suddenly to the attack. Tizzo, having marked everything in the big room, gave back before the assault, and at the first ringing touch of steel against steel, he knew that he had met a great master.
Let the teachers, the schoolmasters of fencing, talk as they pleased; the important matter was not the clumsy swaying of the edge of the sword but the snakelike dartings of the point, which gave a more dangerous wound without exposing the assailant so widely. In that understanding, Tizzo had fenced many a long hour with Luigi Falcone; it was the point, also, which the wild daredevil of an Englishman, the Baron of Melrose, had used against him. And now it was with the point that Giovanpaolo pressed home the attack. He attacked hungrily, and yet with a smooth beauty of movement. For a moment, Tizzo was bewildered, his heart in his throat. Then he thought of the shadowy murderers who had waited for him in the summer house of Messer Astorre, and he met the attack with a savage countering.
THE lightning feet of Tizzo were his defense and his attack. The sleights of a magician’s hands were no more subtle than the flying of his feet, the intricate dancing measures through which they passed.
Twice, in as many minutes, Giovanpaolo cornered his man and set his teeth with a grim, furious purpose to drive the sword through the body of the enemy; and twice, with hardly a parry, Tizzo swayed from the darting point and was away.
Giovanpaolo began to sweat. He drew back to take breath, measuring his man and the work before him.
“By God, Tizzo,” he said, “you are such an exquisite master that my heart bleeds to think that I must lose you through my own handiwork. Defend yourself!”
He leaped again to the attack. The man was as cunning as a fox, leaving apparently wide openings to invite the point of Tizzo’s blade and flashing a murderous counter attack the moment Tizzo lunged at the opening. But Tizzo, holding back, with a carelessly hanging guard, met the assaults, moving his sword arm little, his feet much. There seemed to be an intricate pattern on the floor, in every one of whose divisions he had to step. Death darted past his face, his throat, his body, but it always missed him by a hair’s breadth.
And then Tizzo began to attack in earnest. He had fathomed the consummate science of his man, by this time. Now he pressed steadily in, until Giovanpaolo began to groan faintly in his breathing. His face turned pale; it was polished with sweat.
Here a heavy beating came against the door.
“Who is there?” called Giovanpaolo.
“In the name of God, your highness, we have heard swords clashing in your rooms!”
Giovanpaolo looked at Tizzo for an instant. A faint, cruel smile dawned on his face.
But he answered: “I am fencing with a friend. Be gone and leave us in peace.”
“There is one other thing, your highness. The noble Mateo Marozzo is now in your house, his face horribly wounded. Tizzo, men say, has escaped from a dozen men, branded the face of Mateo Marozzo forever, and escaped. But he is still in Perugia. Shall all the gates be guarded for him?”
“No!” called Giovanpaolo. “He is already gone! Let me be in peace!”
Footfalls obediently withdrew.
Tizzo said: “Your highness, I have always known that you must be such a man as this. You could have let your servants in to kill me like a blind puppy. I thank you. Your highness is troubled; your breath is short and you arm is tired. Shall we end this fighting?”
“End it?” exclaimed Giovanpaolo. “Do you think that I shall ever give over a battle I have entered upon?”
He came in with a desperate, last strength. Twice the leap of his sword blinded the very eyes of Tizzo. And he, half down upon one knee, used suddenly the secret stroke which the Baron of Melrose had given to him as a treasure.
The sword of Giovanpaolo, knocked from his hand, wheeled brightly in the air and then descending, thrust straight through the cushioned bottom of a chair.
Giovanpaolo himself, unabashed, hurled himself straightforward at Tizzo, in spite of the level gleam of the weapon that pointed at his breast.
And Tizzo could not strike the final blow! His arm turned weak and senseless to make the stroke. Giovanpaolo, brushing past the bright point of danger, grasped the doublet of Tizzo at the neck and thrust him back against the wall. The other hand caught Tizzo’s sword hand at the wrist.
So for a moment they stood, with the glare of savage beast in the eyes of Giovanpaolo.
But this fire died out. His hands left their holds. His head dropped forward wearily on his breast. He turned from Tizzo and, slipping into a chair, rested his forehead on the heels of his hands.
Tizzo sheathed his sword and felt gingerly the bruised muscles about his throat.
“To be beaten — and then spared — like a dog!” groaned Giovanpaolo.
Tizzo went to the loggia door and paused there.
“Your highness,” he said, “I cannot fight under you any longer; and it is seen that God will not let me strike against you. Therefore I leave Perugia forever. Farewell. To the Lady Beatrice, say that I send my prayers—”
“Be silent!” commanded Giovanpaolo. “Pour wine for us at that table, and bring it at once.”
CHAPTER V.
WINE OF FRIENDSHIP.
TIZZO, WITH HIS brain quite adrift, unfathoming the purpose of the Baglioni, obediently poured two silver goblets full of pale, golden wine and brought the drink. Giovanpaolo raised himself suddenly from his chair. He picked up one of the beakers in his left hand and motioned Tizzo to do the same.
“Now, Tizzo,” he said, “you have taken service under me before. In the meantime, you have dared to look past your height to the Lady Beatrice. In reward for that, I have allowed you to be trapped. You were a step from death in the summer house of Astorre tonight. I have been half an inch from death in this room. Tizzo, for the evil I have done you, forgive me.”
“Forgive you?” said Tizzo, overcome by the humility of this fierce master of Perugia. “Highness, I have forgotten all offense!”
“You have beaten me,” said Giovanpaolo. “It could be in my heart to hate you, Tizzo; it is also in my heart to love you. I cast the hate away” — here he spilled a little of the wine purposely on the floor—” and I take the love, instead. This cup, Tizzo, is filled with immortal friendship. Beware before you taste the wine. If it passes your lips it is as though you drank my blood. Do you hear me?”
“I hear you, highness,” said Tizzo, beginning to tremble with a great emotion.
“Are you prepared to be with me two hands, two hearts, two souls of friendship?”
“I am!” said Tizzo.
“Then give me your hand!” said Giovanpaolo, grasping that of Tizzo at the same moment. “I drink to you, Tizzo, in token that so long as blood runs in my body, it is your blood and ready to flow for you.”
They drank, and setting down the silver goblets stared at one another for a moment, as men who already saw a strange future stretching before them.
“Giovanpaolo,” said Tizzo, “this is a beginning. Whether it be a dry death or a wet one, by steel, or fire, or bullets, or starvation, may we come to the same ending together.”
Giovanpaolo, picking up from the table a heavy ring of gold, laid it on the floor and stamped on it. He lifted it, snapped it in two parts.
“Take this,” he said to Tizzo. “Whatever message comes with it, night or day, if the half of the ring fits with my half, I shall go at once to answer you.”
“If your portion comes to me in the same manner,” answered Tizzo, “by the blood of God I shall come to you in spite of ten thousand.”
“So, sol” said Giovanpaolo. “We have spoken in a very high strain for a few moments. Sit down, my friend. But — sacred heaven! When I think that a moment ago I stood with a naked breast in front of the point of your sword, I am still amazed. Where did you learn that last trick of the blade, Tizzo? Or did some devil of an enchanter teach you the thing? Will you teach it to me?”
“Whatever I know I shall teach you — and that same stroke as soon as I have the permission of the man who taught it to me.”
“Who was that?”
“Henry, Baron of Melrose.”
“That wild-headed Englishman loves you, I know, Tizzo. He put his head in jeopardy to keep you from death when he rode into this city and gave himself into the hands of Astorre to have you set free. Do you give medicine to make them love you, Tizzo? What is Henry of Melrose to you — except that he is the chief leader of the forces of the Oddi and plots daily against the lives of the Baglioni?”
“He is,” said Tizzo, “a friend of the Oddi, for what he chiefly serves is chance and the bright face of danger. To follow danger, he has left his country and ridden around the world. At last he came seeking for me; and for what mysterious reason I still cannot tell. He values me, I know, and again I cannot tell why. And that not in modesty, but because the strange love of this man amazes me! I only know that he came one day into my life, dashed me away from all the future I had come to accept, and swept me away at his side in the pursuit of adventure. There the Lady Beatrice crossed my way. You know how I set her free from the Oddi and followed her here. You know how that pursuit of her almost won me my death at the hands of Marozzo. And now it has led me to the rooms of your highness — and made us pledge our hands together.”
