"And what is more," continued the condottiero, as if Cosimo had not spoken, "not only are the lords of Mondolfo unlucky in themselves, but they are a source of ill luck to those they serve. Giovanni's father had but taken service with Cesare Borgia when the latter's ruin came at the hands of Pope Julius II. What Giovanni's own friendship cost his friends none knows better than your highness. So that, when all is said, I think you had better look about you for another condottiero, magnificent."
The magnificent stood gnawing his beard and brooding darkly, for he was a grossly superstitious fellow who studied omens and dabbled in horoscopes, divinations, and the like. And he was struck by the thing that Galeotto said. He looked at Cosimo darkly. But Cosimo laughed.
"Who believes such old wives' tales? Not I, for one."
"The more fool you!" snapped the Duke.
"Indeed, indeed," Galeotto applauded. "A disbelief in omens can but spring from an ignorance of such matters. You should study them, Messer Cosimo. I have done so, and I tell you that the lordship of Mondolfo is unlucky to all dark-complexioned men. And when such a man has a mole under the left ear as you have—in itself a sign of death by hanging—it is well to avoid all risks."
"Now that is very strange!" muttered the Duke, much struck by this whittling down of Cosimo's chances, whilst Cosimo shrugged impatiently and smiled contemptuously. "You seem to be greatly versed in these matters, Ser Galeotto," added Farnese.
"He who would succeed in whatever he may undertake should qualify to read all signs," said Galeotto sententiously. "I have sought this knowledge."
"Do you see aught in me that you can read?" inquired the Duke in all seriousness.
Galeotto considered him a moment without any trace in his eyes of the wicked mockery that filled his soul. "Why," he answered slowly, "not in your own person, magnificent—leastways, not upon so brief a glance. But since you ask me, I have lately been considering the new coinage of your highness."
"Yes, yes!" exclaimed the Duke, all eagerness, whilst several of his followers came crowding nearer—for all the world is interested in omens. "What do you read there?"
"Your fate, I think."
"My fate?"
"Have you a coin upon you?"
Farnese produced a gold ducat, fire-new from the mint. The condottiero took it and placed his finger upon the four letters P L A C—the abbreviation of "Placentia" in the inscription.
"P—L—A—C," he spelled. "That contains your fate, magnificent, and you may read it for yourself." And he returned the coin to the Duke, who stared at the letters foolishly and then at this reader of omens.
"But what is the meaning of PLAC?" he asked, and he had paled a little with excitement.
"I have a feeling that it is a sign. I cannot say more. I can but point it out to you, my lord, and leave the deciphering of it to yourself, who are more skilled than most men in such matters. Have I your excellency's leave to go doff this dusty garb?" he concluded.
"Ay, go, sir," answered the Duke abstractedly, puzzling now with knitted brows over the coin that bore his image.
"Come, Falcone," said Galeotto, and with his equerry at his heels he set his foot on the first step.
Cosimo leaned forward, a sneer on his white hawk-face. "I trust, Ser Galeotto, that you are a better condottiero than a charlatan."
"And you, sir," said Galeotto, smiling his sweetest in return, "are, I trust, a better charlatan than a condottiero."
He went up the stairs, the gaudy throng making way before him, and he came at last to the top, where stood the Lord of Pagliano awaiting him, a great trouble in his eyes. They clasped hands in silence, and Cavalcanti went in person to lead his guest to his apartments.
"You have not a happy air," said Galeotto as they went. "And, Body of God! it is no matter for marvel considering the company you keep. How long has the Farnese beast been here?"
"His visit is now in its third week," said Cavalcanti, answering mechanically.
Galeotto swore in sheer surprise. "By the Host! And what keeps him?"
Cavalcanti shrugged and let his arms fall to his sides. To Galeotto this proud, stern baron seemed most oddly dispirited.
"I see that we must talk," he said. "Things are speeding well and swiftly now," he added, dropping his voice. "But more of that presently. I have much to tell you."
When they had reached the chamber that was Galeotto's, and the doors were closed and Falcone was unbuckling his master's spurs—
"Now for my news," said the condottiero. "But first, to spare me repetitions, let us have Agostino here. Where is he?"
The look on Cavalcanti's face caused Galeotto to throw up his head like a spirited animal that scents danger.
"Where is he?" he repeated, and old Falcone's fingers fell idle upon the buckle on which they were engaged.
Cavalcanti's answer was a groan. He flung his long arms to the ceiling, as if invoking Heaven's aid; then he let them fall again heavily, all strength gone out of them.
Galeotto stood an instant looking at him and turning very white. Suddenly he stepped forward, leaving Falcone upon his knees.
"What is this?" he said, his voice a rumble of thunder. "Where is the boy? I say."
The Lord of Pagliano could not meet the gaze of those steel-coloured eyes.
"O God!" he groaned. "How shall I tell you?"
"Is he dead?" asked Galeotto, his voice hard.
"No, no—not dead. But . . . But . . ." The plight of one usually so strong, so full of mastery and arrogance, was pitiful.
"But what?" demanded the condottiero. "Gesù! Am I a woman, or a man without sorrows, that you need to stand hesitating? Whatever it may be, speak, then, and tell me."
"He is in the clutches of the Holy Office," answered Cavalcanti miserably.
Galeotto looked at him, his pallor increasing. Then he sat down suddenly, and, elbows on knees, he took his head in his hands and spoke no word for a spell, during which time Falcone, still kneeling, looked from one to the other in an agony of apprehension and impatience to hear more.
Neither noticed the presence of the equerry; nor would it have mattered if they had, for he was trusty as steel, and they had no secrets from him.
At last, having gained some measure of self-control, Galeotto begged to know what had happened, and Cavalcanti related the event.
"What could I do? What could I do?" he cried when he had finished.
"You let them take him?" said Galeotto, like a man who repeats the thing he has been told, because he cannot credit it. "You let them take him?"
"What alternative had I?" groaned Cavalcanti, his face ashen and seared with pain.
"There is that between us, Ettore, that . . . that will not let me credit this, even though you tell it me."
And now the wretched Lord of Pagliano began to use the very arguments that I had used to him. He spoke of Cosimo's suit of his daughter, and how the Duke sought to constrain him to consent to the alliance. He urged that in this matter of the Holy Office was a trap set for him to place him in Farnese's power.
"A trap?" roared the condottiero, leaping up. "What trap? Where is this trap? You had five score men-at-arms under your orders here—three score of them my own men, each one of whom would have laid down his life for me, and you allowed the boy to be taken hence by six rascals from the Holy Office, intimidated by a paltry score of troopers that rode with this filthy Duke!"
"Nay, nay—not that," the other protested. "Had I dared to raise a finger I should have brought myself within the reach of the Inquisition without benefiting Agostino. That was the trap, as Agostino himself perceived. It was he himself who urged me not to intervene, but to let them take him hence, since there was no possible charge which the Holy Office could prefer against him."
"No charge!" cried Galeotto, with a withering scorn. "Did villainy ever want for invention? And this trap? Body of God, Ettore, am I to account you a fool after all these years? What trap was there that could be sprung upon you as things stood? Why, man, the g
ame was in your hands entirely. Here was this Farnese in your power. What better hostage than that could you have held? You had but to whistle your war-dogs to heel and seize his person, demanding of the Pope his father a plenary absolution and indemnity for yourself and for Agostino from any prosecutions of the Holy Office ere you surrendered him. And had they attempted to employ force against you, you could have held them in check by threatening to hang the Duke unless the parchments you demanded were signed and delivered to you. My God, Ettore! Must I tell you this?"
Cavalcanti sank to a seat and took his head in his hands.
"You are right," he said. "I deserve all your reproaches. I have been a fool. Worse—I have wanted for courage." And then, suddenly, he reared his head again, and his glance kindled. "But it is not yet too late," he cried, and started up. "It is still time!"
"Time!" sneered Galeotto. "Why, the boy is in their hands. It is hostage for hostage now, a very different matter. He is lost—irretrievably lost!" he ended, groaning. "We can but avenge him. To save him is beyond our power."
"No," said Cavalcanti. "It is not. I am a dolt, a dotard; and I have been the cause of it. Then I shall pay the price."
"What price?" quoth the condottiero, pondering the other with an eye that held no faintest gleam of hope.
"Within an hour you shall have in your hands the necessary papers to set Agostino at liberty; and you shall carry them yourself to Rome. It is the amend I owe you. It shall be made."
"But how is it possible?"
"It is possible, and it shall be done. And when it is done you may count upon me to the last breath to help you to pull down this pestilential Duke in ruin."
He strode to the door, his step firm once more and his face set, though it was very grey. "I will leave you now. But you may count upon the fulfilment of my promise."
He went out, leaving Galeotto and Falcone alone, and the condottiero flung himself into a chair and sat there moodily, deep in thought, still in his dusty garments and with no thought for changing them. Falcone stood by the window, looking out upon the gardens and not daring to intrude upon his master's mood.
Thus Cavalcanti found them an hour later when he returned. He brought a parchment, to which was appended a great seal bearing the Pontifical arms. He thrust it into Galeotto's hand.
"There," he said, "is the discharge of the debt which through my weakness and folly I have incurred."
Galeotto looked at the parchment, then at Cavalcanti, and then at the parchment once more. It was a papal bull of plenary pardon and indemnity to me.
"How came you by this?" he asked, astonished.
"Is not Farnese the Pope's son?" quoth Cavalcanti scornfully.
"But upon what terms was it conceded? If it involves your honour, your life, or your liberty, here's to make an end of it." And he held it across in his hands as if to tear it, looking up at the Lord of Pagliano.
"It involves none of these," the latter answered steadily. "You had best set out at once. The Holy Office can be swift to act."
CHAPTER VIII
THE THIRD DEGREE
I WAS haled from my dungeon by my gaoler accompanied by two figures that looked immensely tall in their black monkish gowns, their heads and faces covered by vizored cowls in which two holes were cut for their eyes. Seen by the ruddy glare of the torch which the gaoler carried to that subterranean place of darkness, those black, silent figures, their very hands tucked away into the wide-mouthed sleeves of their habits, looked spectral and lurid—horrific messengers of death.
By chill, dark passages of stone, through which our steps reverberated, they brought me to a pillared, vaulted underground chamber, lighted by torches in iron brackets on the walls.
On a dais stood an oaken writing-table bearing two massive wax tapers and a Crucifix. At this table sat a portly, swarthy-visaged man in the black robes of the order of St. Dominic. Immediately below and flanking him on either hand sat two mute cowled figures to do the office of amanuenses.
Away on the right, where the shadows were but faintly penetrated by the rays of the torches, stood an engine of wood somewhat of the size and appearance of the framework of a couch, but with stout straps of leather to pinion the patient, and enormous wooden screws upon which the frame could be made to lengthen or contract. From the ceiling grey ropes dangled from pulleys, like the tentacles of some dread monster of cruelty.
One glance into that gloomy part of the chamber was enough for me.
Repressing a shudder, I faced the inquisitor, and thereafter kept my eyes upon him to avoid the sight of those other horrors. And he was horror enough for any man in my circumstances to envisage.
He was very fat, with a shaven, swarthy face and the dewlap of an ox. In that round fleshliness his eyes were sunken like two black buttons, malicious through their very want of expression. His mouth was loose-lipped and gluttonous and cruel.
When he spoke, the deep rumbling quality of his voice was increased by the echoes of that vaulted place.
"What is your name?" he said.
"I am Agostino d'Anguissola, Lord of Mondolfo and . . ."
"Pass over your titles," he boomed. "The Holy Office takes no account of worldly rank. What is your age?"
"I am in my twenty-first year."
"Benedicamus Dominum," he commented, though I could not grasp the appositeness of the comment. "You stand accused, Agostino d'Anguissola, of sacrilege and of defiling holy things. What have you to say? Do you confess your guilt?"
"I am so far from confessing it," I answered, "that I have yet to learn what is the nature of the sacrilege with which I am charged. I am conscious of no such sin. Far from it, indeed . . ."
"You shall be informed," he interrupted, imposing silence upon me by a wave of his fat hand; and heaving his vast bulk sideways—"Read him the indictment," he bade one of the amanuenses.
From the depths of a vizored cowl came a thin, shrill voice:
"The Holy Office has knowledge that Agostino d'Anguissola did for a space of some six months, during the winter of the year of Our Blessed Lord 1544, and the spring of the year of Our Blessed Lord 1545, pursue a fraudulent and sacrilegious traffic, adulterating, for moneys which he extorted from the poor and the faithful, things which are holy, and adapting them to his own base purposes. It is charged against him that in a hermitage on Monte Orsaro he did claim for an image of St. Sebastian that it was miraculous, that it had power to heal suffering and that miraculously it bled from its wounds each year during Passion Week, whence it resulted that pilgrimages were made to this false shrine and great store of alms was collected by the said Agostino d'Anguissola, which moneys he appropriated to his own purposes. It is further known that ultimately he fled the place, fearing discovery, and that after his flight the image was discovered broken and the cunning engine by which this diabolical sacrilege was perpetrated was revealed."
Throughout the reading, the fleshy eyes of the inquisitor had been steadily, inscrutably regarding me. He passed a hand over his pendulous chin, as the thin voice faded into silence.
"You have heard," said he.
"I have heard a tangle of falsehood," answered I. "Never was truth more untruly told than this."
The beady eyes vanished behind narrowing creases of fat; and yet I knew that they were still regarding me. Presently they appeared again.
"Do you deny that the image contained this hideous engine of fraud?"
"I do not," I answered.
"Set it down," he eagerly bade one of the amanuenses. "He confesses thus much." And then to me—"Do you deny that you occupied the hermitage during the season named?"
"I do not."
"Set it down," he said again. "What, then, remains?" he asked me.
"It remains that I knew nothing of the fraud. The trickster was a pretended monk who dwelt there before me and at whose death I was present. I took his place thereafter, implicitly believing in the miraculous image, refusing, when its fraud was ultimately suggested to me, to credit that any man could h
ave dared so vile and sacrilegious a thing. In the end, when it was broken and its fraud discovered, I quitted that ghastly shrine of Satan's in horror and disgust."
There was no emotion on the huge, yellow face. "That is the obvious defence," he said slowly. "But it does not explain the appropriation of the moneys."
"I appropriated none," I cried angrily. "That is the foulest lie of all."
"Do you deny that alms were made?"
"Certainly they were made; though to what extent I am unaware. A vessel of baked earth stood at the door to receive the offerings of the faithful. It had been my predecessor's practice to distribute a part of these alms among the poor; a part, it was said, he kept to build a bridge over the Bagnanza torrent, which was greatly needed."
"Well, well?" quoth he. "And when you left you took with you the moneys that had been collected?"
"I did not," I answered. "I gave the matter no thought. When I left I took nothing with me—not so much as the habit I had worn in that hermitage."
There was a pause. Then he spoke slowly. "Such is not the evidence before the Holy Office."
"What evidence?" I cried, breaking in upon his speech. "Where is my accuser? Set me face to face with him."
Slowly he shook his huge head with its absurd fringe of greasy locks about the tonsured scalp—that symbol of the Crown of Thorns.
"You must surely know that such is not the way of the Holy Office. In its wisdom this tribunal holds that to produce delators would be to subject them perhaps to molestation, and thus dry up the springs of knowledge and information which it now enjoys. So that your request is idle; as idle as is the attempt at defence that you have made, the falsehoods with which you have sought to clog the wheels of justice."
"Falsehood, sir monk?" quoth I, so fiercely that one of my attendants set a restraining hand upon my arm.
The beady eyes vanished and reappeared, and they considered me impassively.
"Your sin, Agostino d'Anguissola," said he in his booming, level voice, "is the most hideous that the wickedness of man could conceive or diabolical greed put into execution. It is the sin that more than any other closes the door to mercy. It is the offence of Simon Mage, and it is to be expiated only through the gates of death. You shall return hence to your cell, and when the door closes upon you, it closes upon you for all time in life, nor shall you ever see your fellow-man again. There hunger and thirst shall be your executioners, slowly to deprive you of a life of which you have not known how to make a better use. Without light or food or drink shall you remain there until you die. This is the punishment for such sacrilege as yours."