The Honour of Savelli: A Romance
overcome by the sickness of the sea, and flung himself down in a
corner on the deck of the ship from which spot nothing would induce
him to move. At every lurch he threw out a prayer which ended in a
groan, and so great was his distress, that as he afterwards stated, he
would have sold his soul to Satan for a paul, if only to obtain an
hour's relief. As for me, I was well, having had some experience of
the ocean before, when employed by the Most Serene Republic for
service against the Turk, and found contentment in the master's
stories, and in pacing up and down watching such things as came under
my view. I had plenty of opportunity for reflection on the voyage, and
came to the conclusion that on delivering my letter to the Cardinal at
Rome, I would seek out Bayard if he were there, lay my story before
him, and beseech his help to enable me to recover myself.
At last, one fine day, we reached Ostia, and there disembarked after
bidding farewell to the master, and set out on our way to Rome. Jacopo
recovered his spirits as his foot touched land, and though the
ruddiness of his cheek had paled a little, he was quite himself again
by the time we crossed the Stagno di Ostia. Finally we came in full
view of the Eternal City, and towards the afternoon, having pressed
along at a good pace, our jaded horses brought us before the Gate of
St. Paul.
CHAPTER XIII.
ROME.
As we rode up to the ruinous stretch of the battered wall, and saw
before us the gate, lying open against the mottled green and grey
high-ground of the Aventine, that old hill, covered with straggling
and unkempt vineyards, and studded with the walls of monasteries, I
was moved more than I can tell, for I was about to realise a dream of
my life, and put foot once again in the place of my birth, a spot not
only bound to me by that tie, but sacred with the hundred legends of
my forefathers' history, men who had for centuries played so great a
part in its fate, until our house was cast forth by the mother-city,
to wander as exiles over the land. It is true that since the days of
my childhood I had not seen Rome, it is true that such memories of it
as I had were dim and misty, and that to recall them was like trying
to bring back before one's eyes, when awake, the vague but pleasant
visions of a delightful dream; nevertheless my heart filled with a
strange joy, and my pulse began to beat more rapidly, as each stride
of my horse brought me nearer home. In short, I was a Roman come back
to Rome, and in these words sum up my feelings.
Filled with such thoughts, I tightened the reins half unconsciously,
and my horse, doubtless upset by his voyage, and the hard going from
Ostia, very willingly slackened his pace to a walk. Jacopo, as in duty
bound, followed my example, and immediately began to buzz into speech.
"It is nearly six years since I last saw that gate, excellency, when
with Count Carlo Orsini we rode up, just as it was closed behind
Cesare Borgia."
"That was when you left me for a time, on my taking service with
Venice."
"True, your worship; I had no mind for the galleys," and Jacopo
shuddered at the recollection of his recent voyage. "My courage," he
continued, "is firm enough on firm ground, but when the sea plays cup
and ball with me, I have no soul to think of my own salvation, let
alone fighting. _Ohime!_ But on that villainous craft we have left,
there were times when I was only too anxious not to live."
I smiled as I inquired, "And after your service with the Orsini where
did you go?"
"Well, your worship, no sooner did Count Carlo drive those scorpions
of the Colonna and Borgia back to Rome, than the Most Serene Republic
must needs step in and cause peace to be made. This threw me and
sundry other honest fellows out of employment, and on to the edge of
starvation, so we boldly rode into Rome, and changing from the bear to
the bull, tendered our services to the Borgia, and they were snapped
up I can tell you. I was lucky enough to find a master in the Duke of
Gandia."
"Lucky, you call it."
"Ay, your worship! for Giovanni Borgia had an open purse and a free
hand. I was with him until he was murdered, and then, affairs being
warm in Rome, and hearing you had come back from the sea, why, I came
back to the old banner."
"It is said that Gandia was murdered by the Cardinal Ascanio Sforza."
"Indeed no, your excellency! I saw the deed done. It was in this way:
the Duke and his brother Cesare, then Cardinal of Valencia, supped at
the house of their mother, the Lady Vannozza. After supper they must
needs walk home together; I was the Duke's sole attendant, but Cesare
was accompanied by his cut-throat Michelotto and half-a-dozen others.
On the way some mention was made of Donna Sancia, Don Giuffre's wife,
and the brothers came to blows. The Cardinal stabbed the Duke with his
own hand, and he gave a great cry and fell down dead. Seeing it was no
use trying to help a dead man, and being in no hurry to trouble St.
Peter myself, I knocked down the strangler Michelotto, and making a
run for it, escaped with a whole skin. The body of the Duke was flung
into the Tiber, and was discovered by a charcoal monger of the
Ripetta, whom Cesare hanged at Tor di Nona, as a reward for his
intelligence. They buried the Duke, as you know, signore, in Santa
Maria del Popolo--poor man!"
"And you mean to say that this was never known to the Pope?"
"I never said anything about that, your worship; a secret cannot be
kept by half-a-dozen, and I dare swear our Lord knows all about it or
else the Cardinal Ascanio would hardly be in the Cesarini as he is.
These things, however, must not be spoken of in Rome. Men's tongues
should be weighted with lead when the Borgia's name crops up."
We had by this time come opposite the Monte Testaccio, that curious
mound made of old pottery, which lies towards the river, south-west of
the Ostian Gate, and so engrossed were we in our talk, that we did
not observe a large party of riders of both sexes, with an escort of
men-at-arms, coming at a hand gallop from our right, straight in our
direction. Our attention was however sharply drawn to the fact by the
cry of an equerry who was riding well in advance of the others, and
this man shouted:
"The road! The road! Way for His Holiness! Way! Way!"
We drew off at once to the side, Jacopo dismounting and sinking to his
knees. I however contented myself with uncovering, and watching with
no little astonishment the party as they came up. They were evidently
returning from hawking, and at the head of the clump of riders were
two men in full Turkish costume.
"Who are those Turks?" I asked Jacopo, and the knave still kneeling,
and holding his hands up in supplication, answered hurriedly--
"One is the Soldan Djem, excellency--O Lord, I trust we may not be
hanged as an afternoon's amusement--the other, the fair one, old
Alexander VI. himself--O Lord! What cursed luck! Kneel, excellency; it
is our only chance."
"Tush!" I replied, and remembered at once that the brother of Bajazet,
the Grand Turk, was a hostage in Rome, practically a prisoner in the
hands of Alexander, a legacy he had inherited from the Cibo, and which
brought him forty thousand ducats annually. I could understand Djem in
Eastern costume, but the Pope masquerading in broad delight as a Moor!
It was as wonderful as it was disgusting to me. And then the
remembrance of Corte's daughter came to my mind, and as they
approached, I could hardly refrain from making a dash to rid the world
of the monster who sat in St. Peter's chair. I barely saluted as they
passed, but Jacopo roared out for a blessing, and the papal hand
airily cast a benediction at us. Alexander was apparently in a high
good-humour, for, turning in his saddle, he made some joking remark to
a lady who rode a trifle behind him, whereat she laughed loudly, a
harsh unmusical laugh, and glanced at me with a half-amused air, from
under her heavy lashes as she went by. The rest of the party,
spurring, laughing and chattering were a few yards behind; and as they
clattered on to the road, Djem, giving a wild shout of _Allah_!
_Allah!_ threw the reins on the neck of his barb, and galloped through
the gate at full speed, followed by Alexander and the rest of the
riders, who urging their mounts to a racing pace, and, both men and
women, yelling in imitation of the Moor, vanished through the gate
after him in a whirlwind of dust. So quickly did all this happen, that
I had hardly time to observe the faces of those who passed me, and
indeed, so astonished was I, that I had scarce room in my mind for any
other feeling. I had of course heard wild tales of the Vatican, and
strange and horrible stories of the Borgia himself, indeed there was
one crime that should have brought down God's lightning on the man,
for all that he was the Vicar of Christ; but I never for one moment
conceived it possible that Alexander could so far forget his place as
to appear in public robed as a heathen, and gallop through the streets
of Rome like a drunken madman.
When they had gone, Jacopo arose from his knees, and dusting them with
his hands whilst he looked up at me, said: "_Corpo di Bacco!_ But I
gave up all for lost. I vow a candle to St. Mary of--I forget
where--but to the shrine nearest to the place we dine, for this lucky
escape."
"Come, sirrah!" I said, a little annoyed, "mount. There never was any
danger."
"Your excellency is pleased to say so," he replied, swinging himself
into the saddle, "but if you saw two old men and a half-dozen old
women strung up for merely blocking the way, as I did at Tor di Nona,
perhaps your worship would think as I do."
I made no reply, allowing Jacopo the run of his tongue to relieve his
feelings, and we went on slowly until we reached the gate. Here I
spoke, "As you know Rome better than I do, Jacopo, you had best lead
the way; but I want to pass by the two houses of my family before we
make for the Strangers' Quarters, where we must find a lodging for the
night."
"Very well, your worship!" and Jacopo drew a little to the front.
"There they go," he said, shading his eyes with his hands, and turning
to the left, where a dun cloud of dust on the Via della Marmorata
marked the progress of the Borgia. "The best way, signore," he
continued, "is over the hill; we will get a view from there, and then
passing by the places you want to see, make for a quiet hostel I know
of in the Strangers' Quarters."
Following him, we rode up the Aventine, until we reached the old wall
of Servius Tullius, here we stopped to observe the view. To the west
and south-west we could see the green of the Campagna merging into the
distant grey of the Roman Maremma, whilst beyond that a clear blue
line, below the flush of the coming sunset, marked the sea. Beneath us
lay the Tiber and the Island, the yellow water of the river stirred
into ripples by the breeze, and looking from the distance like
hammered brass. Beyond the Tiber rose Monte Gianicolo, behind which
the top of the Vatican Hill was just visible. To the north the view
was a little shut in by the Palatine and the church of St. Prisca
above us, and far off rose the cone of Soratte. North-east and east
lay the Palatine, the Esquiline, with the campaniles of Santa Maria
Maggiore and San Pietro in Vincoli. Over Monte Coelio we could see the
heights of the Sabine Hills, and running our eyes along the Appian
Way, we could almost descry the Alban Lake, the mountains being
distinctly visible. We stayed for a few moments drinking in the view,
and then going onwards, turned north-west, past St. Prisca, and began
the descent, by a winding way, held in by vineyards. Coming down we