The Viper of Milan: A Romance of Lombardy
than the others, yet travel-worn and weary-looking. The delicate cast of
their features bespoke them of another part of Italy, as did the soft
Latin tongue in which they held their whispering, excited conversation.
The elder, whom his companion called Tomaso, was a fair-haired youth of
about nineteen; the other, like enough to be a relative, a mere child of
ten or twelve. The sun was growing hot, and their stout cloaks of dull
red serge were flung back, showing their leathern doublets, to which the
elder boy wore attached a great pouch of undressed skin, which evidently
bore their day's provisions.
Suddenly, when Milan, clear and gray, was distant barely half a mile,
the group of wretched figures was roused from its shuffling apathy: and
the terror latent in their aspect leaped into life and motion.
Swept back by the others, the two Florentines gazed in amazement to
learn the cause of this panic. In the distance, brilliant between the
dark stone of the gateway of the city, fluttered a banner, blazoned with
the same device as those that blew above the walls. The peasants' eyes,
sharpened by fear, were quicker than Tomaso's: it was some seconds
before he could discern that the banner fluttered from the canopy of a
splendid coach, magnificent in gold and scarlet, issuing from the somber
shadow into the sunshine of the road; and as it drew nearer, he looked
with pleasure not unmixed with wonder at the rich gildings, fine silk,
the beauty of the four black horses, the size and magnificent liveries
of the huge negroes who walked at their heads. To him it was an
interesting sight, an incident of his travels. But to the Milanese
peasants it was the symbol of the dread power that ruled Lombardy with a
grip of blood, the device that kept Milan, the wealthiest, proudest city
in the north, cringing in silent slavery; the banner that had waved from
city after city, added by force or treachery to the dominions of Milan;
the banner of Gian Galeazzo Maria Visconti, Duke.
With trembling hands and muttered threats to their slow beasts, the
hinds dragged their burdens to the roadside, forcing the children back
into the hedges; leaving clear the ways. Cowering and awestruck, in
fascinated expectation, they stared, toward that oncoming banner, and at
the horseman who rode behind.
Still at the same measured pace the coach advanced; a cumbrous
structure, swung high on massive gilded wheels, and open under an
embroidered canopy of scarlet silk. At the head of each black horse
walked a negro, richly dressed in scarlet and gold. The trappings of the
steeds were dazzling, in stamped leather and metal.
But this splendor of array the peasant folk of Lombardy were used to; it
was not that that made them crouch as if they would ask the earth to
hide them, shiver and shudder yet farther back as if the soft green bank
could save them.
In the coach sat two, a man and a woman, but both so old and shrivelled
that the distinguishing characteristics of their sex were well-nigh
lost. Both were richly clad in furs, and half-hidden in satin cushions,
nothing of the old man visible but his wrinkled face, gray beard, and,
loaded with rings, thin yellow hands, the fingers of which were
clutching nervously at his heavy silken robe. The woman, painted and
bedizened under a large red wig, weighed down by a gown of cloth of
gold, and with pearls around her neck, wrung her hands together, and
whispered incoherently below her breath. Both had sunk together among
the cushions in an attitude of despair, the man looking steadily in
front of him with white face, the woman casting terror-stricken eyes
over the wretched spectators in a mute appeal for help, if even from
them.
Behind them rode the single horseman who had struck the terror. His pace
was leisurely, his horse's bridle held by a pale-faced man with long
red hair, of a stealthy bearing, crushed and mean-looking, but
resplendent in a jeweled dress. The rider himself, slight and handsome,
about thirty, plainly attired in green, gave, at a first glance, small
token of the spell he exercised. He rode with ease and surety: in one
hand a half-rolled parchment from which he read aloud in a soft voice,
in the other a long whip with which he flicked and teased the occupants
of the carriage.
The coach and its occupants, the solitary rider, and the red-haired man,
were the whole of the procession.
At the rider's side hung a single dagger, the others were unarmed, yet
the crowd trembled under a spell of fear as if half Italy had backed
that man. No one gave sign of feeling, no one moved, though the wretched
couple looked around keenly and eagerly, with the helpless misery of
those who have fallen below everything save fear, and will stoop to ask
help of the lowest. And the Visconti banner floated out dreamily upon
the light spring breeze, and the rider rode at ease and read from the
parchment with a smiling face.
Suddenly the old man rose, and threw out his hands with a wild gesture
toward the crouching peasants. His frantic cry was stifled on his lips,
and a cut from the whip sent him back to his seat with a snarl of
impotent fury. The woman sobbed aloud, but sat still, for the tease of
the whip followed their slightest movements, though the horseman seemed
to heed nothing but the parchment from which he read.
"Beautiful the Tuscan flowers grew
Around the Florentine----"
The soft lines died away on his smiling lips: he raised his eyes and
looked straight at the old man, who, at the words, had turned in his
seat and was gazing over his shoulder with an intensity of hate.
But on the pause there followed a cold laugh as the old man winced,
faltered, and dropped his eyes from that charmed and steady gaze. Again
the whip circled round them, and the calm voice continued:
"But straight and firm the poplars grew
The Lombard ranks between."
The woman gazed around the crowd, desperate in hopeless misery. Hopeless
indeed. Not a finger was raised, not a word uttered, though, men alone,
they numbered more than fifty.
"Perchance thou wouldst not dare to turn
And draw the veil from off that face,
Fearing what secrets thou might'st learn
Both for thine own and her disgrace,"
read the horseman, and the cavalcade passed on its heavy way, and the
faint hope that had leaped to life within the wretched victims, at sight
of human eyes upon them, died within them.
But on the outside of the crowd, Tomaso and Vittore, kneeling with the
rest, as that banner drew near, now stirred uneasily, and, as the coach
came abreast, the woman made a convulsive movement with her hands. The
elder sprang to his feet and stepped forward impulsively. At sight of
him in the roadway the horseman drew rein, and the terror-stricken crowd
watched breathless, while the youth advanced boldly to his stirrup, hot
words upon his lips, defiance in his eyes. The red-haired man at the
bridle crouched, but before the lad could speak, the rider, leaning
forward, struck him a blow full across the face.
There was no need for a second. With a scream of pain, Tomaso fell back,
and then, as if noticing them for the first time, the horseman sent his
glance on the crowd. No sound or movement: they cowered beneath his eyes
in deprecating silence.
"Drive on," he said, and the dreary procession started again, winding
through the sun and shadow toward Brescia.
So great was the spell upon the peasants, that though the wounded boy
lay moaning in the road, not a man, scarce a child among them stirred
from his place till the banner of the Viper was a silver speck in the
distance.
Then with shaking hands the youth was dragged into the ditch amid a
babble of blame and fear. Vittore, rising from his stricken comrade,
gazed into the distance with horror-stricken eyes.
"Who was it?" he whispered at last to the woman near him. "Who was it?"
She turned a dull face up from the scattered vegetables she was
gathering together.
"Who art thou that thou knowest not?" she asked.
"I come from Florence," said the lad quickly, "traveling to Verona."
"To Verona! Thou art not on thy way to Verona here."
"I know it, but the company we traveled with was bound for Milan. Three
days ago we missed them, and thought to find them in the city where we
looked to spend the night, but now----"
He glanced at his companion and could scarce refrain from weeping.
"To Verona!" said an old peasant, turning sharply at the name. "To
Verona!"
The child dropped again to his knees beside Tomaso.
"Yes," he said, over his shoulder. "My cousin--he is done to death, I
fear me--and I were traveling by way of Milan to Della Scala's
court----"
He broke off, and wrung his hands. "Oh, help me, some one; Tomaso is
dying!"
With a certain dull humanity, kindness it could scarcely be called that
was so inert and full of apathy, one or two of them gave what help they
could.
"Thou art from Florence!" said the old man again. "Aye, indeed, I _know_
thou art from Florence, for thy mate here to have had such daring. Why
camest thou from _Florence_ to anywhere by way of Milan?"
For even to the dull mind of the peasantry, Florence, who alone of the
cities of Italy had preserved her liberty, seemed a country of the free,
a republic of equality.
"Tomaso's father sent for him to come to him in Della Scala's court, and
as last year my father was slain in the wars with Venice, since then I
have resided with my cousin--and so accompany him--having naught else to
do!"
The boy looked up bewildered; he was half-dazed with this sudden
misfortune.
"We go to Verona!" he repeated. "We have food and a little money--if
only this had not happened!"
He turned to his prostrate cousin and burst into tears.
The woman looked at him with pity: the old peasant shrugged his
shoulders.
"Thy cousin was over-bold! As well face the evil one--" he mumbled and
crossed himself, "as step into the path of the--" he stopped abruptly
and cast uneasy glances around him.
"And that?" cried the boy, his tears arrested, "that man on horseback?"
"That was the Visconti! Aye! Gian Galeazzo Maria, Duke of Milan!"
The lad gazed down the road with interest and new terror.
"The Duke of Milan! He who lately warred with Florence!" he cried
breathlessly.
"Aye, and beat her!" There was a touch of pride in the answer, for the
peasant was of Milan. But the boy did not notice the remark, he was too
absorbed in terrified conjecture.
"And they in the carriage--?" he whispered.
A silence fell. The crowd shuffled away from him, and turned their faces
to the city. Used to scenes of horror as they were, the cavalcade that
had just passed them seemed, even to their half hearts, to have chilled
the sunlight with its terror.
A young woman suddenly snatched her child up from the ground and
strained it to her, in a passion of distress.
"Oh, Luigi, Luigi, my little child, it was his father and mother, his
father and mother!"
She grasped the old man's arm. "Marked you how she looked at me?" she
cried.
The peasant checked her outbreak, but looked down the road with gloomy
eyes.
"They will never return from Brescia," he said; "they must be near
seventy--old for such an end. However, hush thee, woman, 'tis no affair
of ours!" Several anxious voices echoed him.
"Why should we care!" said one, "'tis a Visconti the less to crush us."
And Vittore saw the whole band turning off, pushing, driving, and urging
their beasts along. He dragged at his still senseless companion in a
sudden panic.
"Help me!" he said. "We would on; I dare not stay alone."
The old man laughed harshly.
"Where will you on to? Are we to drag you into Milan to be whipped to
death for harboring you; and Verona is in the hands of the