The Sorceress of Rome

  *CHAPTER I*

  *THE GRAND CHAMBERLAIN*

  It was the hour of high noon on a sultry October day in Rome, in theyear of our Lord nine hundred and ninety-nine. In the porphyry cabinetof the imperial palace on Mount Aventine, before a table covered withparchments and scrolls, there sat an individual, who even in the mostbrilliant assembly would have attracted general and immediate attention.

  Judging from his appearance he had scarcely passed his thirtieth year.His bearing combined a marked grace and intellectuality. The finelyshaped head poised on splendid shoulders denoted power and intellect.The pale, olive tints of the face seemed to intensify the brilliancy ofthe black eyes whose penetrating gaze revealed a singular compound ofmockery and cynicism. The mouth, small but firm, was not devoid ofdisdain, and even cruelty, and the smile of the thin, compressed lipsheld something more subtle than any passion that can be named. Hisears, hands and feet were of that delicacy and smallness, which is heldto denote aristocracy of birth. And there was in his manner thatindescribable combination of unobtrusive dignity and affected elegancewhich, in all ages and countries, through all changes of manners andcustoms has rendered the demeanour of its few chosen possessors theinstantaneous interpreter of their social rank. He was dressed in acrimson tunic, fastened with a clasp of mother-of-pearl. Tight fittinghose of black and crimson terminating in saffron-coloured shoes coveredhis legs, and a red cap, pointed at the top and rolled up behind broughtthe head into harmony with the rest of the costume.

  Now and then, Benilo, the Grand Chamberlain, cast quick glances at thesand-clock on the table before him; at last with a gesture of mingledimpatience and annoyance, he pushed back the scrolls he had beenexamining, glanced again at the clock, arose and strode to a windowlooking out upon the western slopes of Mount Aventine.

  The sun was slowly setting, and the light green silken curtains hungmotionless, in the almost level rays. The stone houses of the city andher colossal ruins glowed with a brightness almost overpowering. Not aripple stirred the surface of the Tiber, whose golden coils circled thebase of Aventine; not a breath of wind filled the sails of the desertedfishing boats, which swung lazily at their moorings. Over the distantCampagna hung a hot, quivering mist and in the vineyards climbing theJaniculan Mount not a leaf stirred upon its slender stem. The rampartsof Castel San Angelo dreamed deserted in the glow of the westering sun,and beyond the horizon of ancient Portus, torpid, waveless and suffusedin a flood of dazzling brightness, the Tyrrhene Sea stretched toward thecloudless horizon which closed the sun-bright view.

  How long the Grand Chamberlain had thus abstractedly gazed out upon theseven-hilled city gradually sinking into the repose of evening, he wasscarcely conscious, when a slight knock, which seemed to come from thewall, caused him to start. After a brief interval it was repeated.Benilo drew the curtains closer, gave another glance at the sand-clock,nodded to himself, then, approaching the opposite wall, decorated withscenes from the Metamorphoses of Ovid, touched a hidden spring.Noiselessly a panel receded and, from the chasm thus revealed, somethinglike a shadow passed swiftly into the cabinet, the panel closingnoiselessly behind it.

  Benilo had reseated himself at the table, and beckoned his strangevisitor to a chair, which he declined. He was tall and lean and worethe gray habit of the Penitent friars, the cowl drawn over his face,concealing his features.

  For some minutes neither the Grand Chamberlain nor his visitor spoke.At last Benilo broke the silence.

  "You are the bearer of a message?"

  The monk nodded.

  "Tell me the worst! Bad news is like decaying fruit. It becomes themore rotten with the keeping."

  "The worst may be told quickly enough," said the monk with a voice whichcaused the Chamberlain to start.

  "The Saxon dynasty is resting on two eyes."

  Benilo nodded.

  "On two eyes," he repeated, straining his gaze towards the monk.

  "They will soon be closed for ever!"

  The Chamberlain started from his seat.

  "I do not understand."

  "The fever does not temporize."

  "'Tis the nature of the raven to croak. Let thine improvising damnthyself."

  "Fate and the grave are relentless. I am the messenger of both!"

  "King Otto dying?" the Chamberlain muttered to himself. "Away fromRome,--the Fata Morgana of his dreams?"

  A gesture of the monk interrupted the speaker.

  "When a knight makes a vow to a lady, he does not thereby become herbetrothed. She oftener marries another."

  "Yet the Saint may work a miracle. The Holy Father is praying soearnestly for his deliverance, that Saint Michael may fear for hisprestige, did he not succour him."

  "Your heart is tenderer than I had guessed."

  "And joined by the prayers of such as you--"

  The monk raised his hand.

  "Nay,--I am not holy enough."

  "I thought they were all saints at San Zeno."

  "That is for Rome to say."

  There was a brief pause during which Benilo gazed into space. The monkheard him mutter the word "Dying--dying" as if therein lay condensed theessence of all his life.

  Reseating himself the Chamberlain seemed at last to remember thepresence of his visitor, who scrutinized him stealthily from under hiscowl. Pointing to a parchment on the table before him, he saiddismissing the subject:

  "You are reported as one in whom I may place full trust, in whom I mayimplicitly confide. I hate the black cassocks. A monk and misfortuneare seldom apart. You see I dissemble not."

  The Grand Chamberlain's visitor nodded.

  "A viper's friend must needs be a viper,--like to like!"

  "'Tis not the devil's policy to show the cloven hoof."

  "Yet an eavesdropper is best equipped for a prophet."

  Again the Chamberlain started.

  Straining his gaze towards the monk, who stood immobile as a phantom, hesaid:

  "It is reported that you are about to render a great service to Rome."

  The monk nodded.

  "A country without a king is bad! But to carry the matter just a triflefarther,--to dream of Christendom without a Pope--"

  "You would not dare!" exclaimed Benilo with real or feigned surprise,"you would not dare! In the presence of the whole Christian world?Rome can do nothing without the Sun,--nothing without the Pope. Takeaway his benediction: 'Urbi et Orbi'--What would prosper?"

  "You are a poet and a Roman. I am a monk and a native of Aragon."

  Benilo shrugged his shoulders.

  "'Tis but the old question: Cui bono? How many pontiffs have, withinthe memory of man, defiled the chair of Saint Peter? Who are yourreformers? Libertines and gossipers in the taverns of the Suburra,among fried fish, painted women, and garlic; in prosperity proud, inadversity cowards, but infamous ever! The fifth Gregory alone soars sohigh above the earth, he sees not the vermin, the mire beneath."

  "Perhaps they wished to let the mire accumulate, to furnish work for theiron broom of your tramontane saint! Are not his shoulders bent in holycontemplation, like the moon in the first quarter? Is he not shocked atthe sight of misery and of dishevelled despair? His sensitive nerveswould see them with the hair dressed and bound like that of an antiquestatue."

  "Ay! And the feudal barons stick in his palate like the hook in themouth of the dog fish."

  "We want no more martyrs! The light of the glow-worm continues to shineafter the death of the insect."

  "It was a conclave, that disposed of the usurper, John XVI."

  "Ay! And the bravo, when he discovered his error, paid for threecandles for the pontiff's soul, and the monk who officiated at the lastrites praised the departed so loudly, that the corpse sat up andlaughed. And now he is immortal and possesses the secret of eternallife," the monk concluded with downcast eyes.

  "Yet there is one I fear,--one who seems to enlist a special providencein his ca
use."

  "Gerbert of Cluny--"

  "The monk of Aurillac!"

  "They say that he is leagued with the devil; that in his closet he has abrazen head, which answers all questions, and through which the devilhas assured him that he shall not die, till he has said mass inJerusalem."

  "He is competent to convert a brimstone lake."

  "Yet a true soldier seeks for weak spots in the armour."

  "I am answered. But the time and the place?"

  "In the Ghetto at sunset."

  "And the reward?"

  "The halo of a Saint."

  "What of your conscience's peace?"

  "May not a man and his conscience, like ill-mated consorts, be onsomething less than speaking terms?"

  "They kill by the decalogue at San Zeno."

  "Exitus acta probat!" returned the monk solemnly.

  Benilo raised his hand warningly.

  "Let him disappear quietly--ecclesiastically."

  "What is gained by caution when one stands on an earthquake?" asked themonk.

  "You deem not, then, that Heaven might take so strong an interest inGerbert's affairs, as to send some of the blessed to his deliverance?"queried Benilo suavely.

  The Chamberlain's visitor betrayed impatience.

  "If Heaven troubled itself much about what is done on earth, the world'sbusiness would be well-nigh bankrupt."

  "Ay! And even the just may fall by his own justice!" nodded Benilo."He should have made his indulgences dearer, and harder to win. Whytakes he not the lesson from women?"

  There was a brief pause, during which Benilo had arisen and paced up anddown the chamber. His visitor remained immobile, though his eyesfollowed Benilo's every step.

  At last the Grand Chamberlain paused directly before him.

  "How fares his Eminence of Orvieto? He was ailing at last reports," heasked.

  "He died on his way to Rome, of a disease, sudden as the plague. Heloved honey,--they will accuse the bees."

  With a nod of satisfaction Benilo continued his perambulation.

  "Tell me better news of our dearly beloved friend, Monsignor Agnello,Archbishop of Cosenza, Clerk of the Chamber and Vice-Legate of Viterbo."

  "He was found dead in his bed, after eating a most hearty supper," themonk spoke dolefully.

  "Alas, poor man! That was sudden. But such holy men are always readyfor their call," replied the Grand Chamberlain with downcast eyes. "Andwhat part has his Holiness assigned me in his relics?"

  "Some flax of his hair shirt, to coil a rope therewith," replied themonk.

  "A princely benefaction! But your commission for the Father ofChristendom? For indeed I fear the vast treasures he has heaped up,will hang like a leaden mountain on his ascending soul."

  "The Holy Father himself has summoned me to Rome!" The words seemed tosound from nowhere. Yet they hovered on the air like the knell of Fate.

  The Grand-Chamberlain paused, stared and shuddered.

  "And who knows," continued the monk after a pause, "but that by somedivine dispensation all the refractory cardinals of the Sacred Collegemay contract some incurable disease? Have you secured the names,--justto ascertain if their households are well ordered?"

  "The name of every cardinal and bishop in Rome at the present hour."

  "Give it to me."

  A hand white as that of a corpse came from the monk's ample partingsleeves in which Benilo placed a scroll, which he had taken from thetable.

  The monk unrolled it. After glancing down the list of names, he said:

  "The Cardinal of Gregorio."

  The Chamberlain betokened his understanding with a nod.

  "He claims kinship with the stars."

  "The Cardinal of San Pietro in Montorio."

  An evil smile curved Benilo's thin, white lips.

  "An impostor, proved, confessed,--his conscience pawned to a saint--"

  "The Cardinal of San Onofrio,--he, who held you over the baptismalfount," said the monk with a quick glance at the Chamberlain.

  "I had no hand in my own christening."

  The monk nodded.

  "The Cardinal of San Silvestro."

  "He vowed he would join the barefoot friars, if he recovered."

  "He would have made a stalwart mendicant. All the women would haveconfessed to him."

  "It is impossible to escape immortality," sighed Benilo.

  "Obedience is holiness," replied the other.

  After carefully reviewing the not inconsiderable list of names, andplacing a cross against some of them, the monk returned the scroll toits owner.

  When the Chamberlain spoke again, his voice trembled strangely.

  "What of the Golden Chalice?"

  "Offerimus tibi Domine, Calicem Salutaris," the monk quoted from themass. "What differentiates Sacramental Wine from Malvasia?"

  The Chamberlain pondered.

  "Perhaps a degree or two of headiness?"

  "Is it not rather a degree or two of holiness?" replied the monk with astrange gleam in his eyes.

  "The Season claims its mercies."

  "Can one quench a furnace with a parable?"

  "The Holy Host may work a miracle."

  "It is the concern of angels to see their sentences enforced."

  "Sic itur ad astra," said the Chamberlain devoutly.

  And like an echo it came from his visitor's lips:

  "Sic itur ad astra!"

  "We understand each other," Benilo spoke after a pause, arising from hischair. "But remember," he added with a look, which seemed to pierce hisinterlocutor through and through. "What thou dost, monk, thou dost. Ifthy hand fail, I know thee not!"

  Stepping to the panel, Benilo was about to touch the secret spring, whena thought arrested his hand.

  "Thou hast seen my face," he turned to the monk. "It is but meet, thatI see thine."

  Without a word the monk removed his cowl. As he did so, Benilo stoodrooted to the spot, as if a ghost had arisen from the stone floor beforehim.

  "Madman!" he gasped. "You dare to show yourself in Rome?"

  A strange light gleamed in the monk's eyes.

  "I came in quest of the End of Time. Do you doubt the sincerity of myintent?"

  For a moment they faced each other in silence, then the monk turned andvanished without another word through the panel which closed noiselesslybehind him.

  When Benilo found himself once more alone, all the elasticity of temperand mind seemed to have deserted him. All the colour had faded from hisface, all the light seemed to have gone from his eyes. Thus he remainedfor a space, neither heeding his surroundings, nor the flight of time.At last he arose and, traversing the cabinet, made for a remote door andpassed out. Whatever were his thoughts, no outward sign betrayed them,as with the suave and impenetrable mien of the born courtier, he enteredthe vast hall of audience.

  A motley crowd of courtiers, officers, monks and foreign envoys, whosevariegated costumes formed a dazzling kaleidoscope almost bewildering tothe unaccustomed eye, met the Chamberlain's gaze.

  The greater number of those present were recruited from the ranks of theRoman nobility, men whose spare, elegant figures formed a strikingcontrast to the huge giants of the German imperial guard. The mongreland craven descendants of African, Syrian and Slavonian slaves, astrange jumble of races and types, with all the visible signs of theirheterogeneous origin, stared with insolent wonder at the fair-hairedsons of the North, who took their orders from no man, save the grandsonof the mighty emperor Otto the Great, the vanquisher of the Magyars onthe tremendous field of the Lech.

  A strange medley of palace officials, appointed after the ruling code ofthe Eastern Empire, chamberlains, pages and grooms, masters of the outercourt, masters of the inner court, masters of the robe, masters of thehorse, seneschals, high stewards and eunuchs, in their sweeping citronand orange coloured gowns, lent a glowing enchantment to the scene.

  No glaring lights marred the pervading softness of the atmosphere; allobje
cts animate and inanimate seemed in complete harmony with eachother. The entrance to the great hall of audience was flanked with twogreat pillars of Numidian marble, toned by time to hues of richestorange. The hall itself was surrounded by a colonnade of the Corinthianorder, whereon had been lavished exquisite carvings; in niches behindthe columns stood statues in basalt, thrice the size of life. Enormouspillars of rose-coloured marble supported the roof, decorated in thefantastic Byzantine style; the floor, composed of serpentine, porphyryand Numidian marble, was a superb work of art. In the centre a fountainthrew up sprays of perfumed water, its basin bordered with glisteningshells from India and the Archipelago.

  Passing slowly down the hall, Benilo paused here and there to exchangegreetings with some individual among the numerous groups, who wereconversing in hushed whispers on the event at this hour closest to theirheart, the illness of King Otto III, in the cloisters of Monte Garganoin Apulia whither he had journeyed on a pilgrimage to the grottoes ofthe Archangel. Conflicting rumours were rife as to the course of theillness, and each seemed fearful of venturing a surmise, which mightprecipitate a crisis, fraught with direst consequences. The times andthe Roman temper were uncertain.

  The countenance of Archbishop Heribert of Cologne, Chancellor of theEmpire, reflected grave apprehension, which was amply shared by hiscompanions, Archbishop Willigis of Mentz, and Luitprand, Archbishop ofCremona, the Patriarch of Christendom, whose snow-white hair formed astriking contrast to the dark and bronzed countenance of Count Benedictof Palestrina, and Pandulph of Capua, Lord of Spoleto and Beneventum,the lay-members of the group. The conversation, though held inwhispered tones and inaudible to those moving on the edge of theircircle, was yet animated and it would seem, that hope had but a smallshare in the surmises they ventured on what the days to come held instore for the Saxon dynasty.

  Without paying further heed to the motley throng, which surged up anddown the hall of audience, seemingly indifferent to the whisperedcomments upon himself as a mere man of pleasure, Benilo seated himselfupon a couch at the western extremity of the hall. With the elaboratedeliberation of a man who disdains being hurried by anything whatsoever,he took a piece of vellum from his doublet, on which from time to timehe traced a few words. Assuming a reclining position, he appearedabsorbed in deep study, seemingly unheedful of his surroundings. Yet aclose observer might have remarked that the Chamberlain's gaze roamedunsteadily from one group to another, until some chance passer-bydeflected its course and Benilo applied himself to his ostentatious taskmore studiously than before.

  "What does the courtier in the parrot-frock?" Duke Bernhardt of Saxony,stout, burly, asthmatic, addressed a tall, sallow individual, in arose-coloured frock, who strutted by his side with the air of aninflated peacock.

  John of Calabria gave a sigh.

  "Alas! He writes poetry and swears by the ancient Gods!"

  "By the ancient Gods!" puffed the duke, "a commendable habit! As forhis poetry,--the bees sometimes deposit their honey in the mouth of adead beast."

  "And yet the Philistines solved not Samson's riddle," sighed the Greek.

  "Ay! And the devil never ceases to cut wood for him, who wishes to keepthe kettle boiling," spouted the duke with an irate look at hiscompanion as they lost themselves among the throngs. Suddenly a markedhush, the abrupt cessation of the former all-pervading hum, causedBenilo to glance toward the entrance of the audience hall. As he didso, the vellum rolled from his nerveless hand upon the marble floor.