Under the Witches' Moon: A Romantic Tale of Mediaeval Rome
A black fire began to burn round his heart, coiling there like a
serpent, as he thought of the illumination that was his, the promise
he had received--deep down in the crypts of the Emperor's Tomb and
again in the Catacombs of St. Calixtus. And he had fallen down and
worshipped, had given his soul to Darkness and abjured the Light.
Satan should rule again on earth. For this had been revealed to him
by the High Priest of Satan himself, then in a vision by the Lord of
Evil. To penetrate the mysteries of Hell with his whole heart and soul,
to strike chill terror into the hearts of those who worshipped at the
altars of Christ, had become Basil's ambition for which he would live
and die.
Basil sat dreaming and gloating over his coming glory; a glory in which
the woman whose beauty had stung him with maddening desire should
share, even if he had to drag her before the dark throne upon which sat
the Unspeakable Presence. The yellow light of the lamps fell upon his
unnatural and mask-like face as he sat rigid in his chair hypnotized by
Hell.
Christ had thrown his great Cross upon the feasts and banquets of the
gods. On his head was a crown of thorns and the Stigmata upon his hands
and feet. And the goblets of red gold had lost their brightness. The
pagan gods were stricken dumb. They had faded away in vapor and were
gone.
And with them the fierce joy of living had left the world. Christ
reigned upon earth, implanting conscience in the souls of men, that
robbed ecstasy of its fruition and infused the most delicious cup
touched with the Aliquid Amari of the poet.
Basil paced the narrow confines of the room, and from his lips came the
opening stanza of that dreadful parody of the Good Friday hymn sung by
the votaries of Satan: "Vexilla Regis Prodeunt Inferni."
Already the banners of the advancing hosts were in the sky. Soon--soon
would he appear himself--the Lord of Darkness!
The room suddenly grew very chill, as if the three dread winds of
Cocytus were blowing through the chamber.
There was a slim rod of copper suspended from the wall, close to the
couch of dull grey damask upon which he had been reclining. He pulled
it and somewhere away in the villa a gong sounded. A moment later a
drab man, lean as a skeleton and bald as an egg, with slanting eyes in
an ashen face and a stooping gait, came gliding noiselessly into the
lamplit room. He wore a long black cassock, which covered his fleshless
form from head to toe.
"Has no one called?" Basil turned to his factotum.
"A stranger," came the sepulchral reply. "He bade me give you this!"
Basil took the scroll which his famulus handed to him and cut the cord.
A fiendish smile passed over his face and lighted up the dark, sinister
eyes. But quickly as the mood had come it left. It fell from him as a
dropped cloak.
He stood upright, supporting himself on the onyx table, while Horus,
who only understood in a dull dim way his master's moods, assisting
him in all his villainies, but confessing his own share to a household
priest, stood impassively by.
"Give me some wine!" Basil turned to the sinister Major Domo, and the
latter disappeared and returned with a jug of Malvasian.
The Grand Chamberlain grasped the jug which Horus had brought him and
held it with shaking fingers to his mouth. When he had drank deep he
dismissed his famulus, struck a flint and burnt the scroll to pallid
ashes. Then he staggered out into the hall of colored marbles and
through it to the garden doors.
The bronze gates trembled as they swung back upon their hinges, and as
the full noon of the quiet garden burst upon Basil's eyes he fancied he
saw the fold of a dark robe disappear among the cypresses.
And now the hot air of high noon wrapped him round with its warm
southern life, flowing over the lithe body within the silken doublet,
drawing away the inward darkness and the vaulting flames within his
soul and reminding his sensuous nature that the future held gigantic
promise of love and power.
The great tenor and alto bells of St. John in Lateran were beating the
echoes to silver far away. The roofs and palaces, domes and towers of
Rome, were bathed in sunlight as he advanced to the embrasure in the
wall and once more surveyed the city.
The heat shimmered down and, through the quivering sunlit air, the
colors of the buildings shone like pebbles at the bottom of a pool and
the white ruins glowed like a mirage of the desert.
An hour later, regardless of the vertical sun rays that beat down
upon the tortuous streets of the city with unabated fervor, the Grand
Chamberlain rode through the streets of Rome, attended by a group of
men-at-arms with the crest of the Broken Spear in a Field of Azure
embroidered upon their doublets.
As the cavalcade swept through the crowded streets, with their
pilgrims from all parts of the world, the religious in their habits,
men-at-arms, flower-sellers, here and there the magnificent chariot of
a cardinal, many of the people lowered their eyes as Basil cantered
past on his black Neapolitan charger, trapped with crimson. More than
one made the sign of the horn, to avert the spell of the evil eye.
When Basil reached the Lateran he found a captain of the noble guard
with two halberdiers in their unsightly liveries guarding the doors.
They saluted and Basil inquired whether the new captain of the guard
was within.
"The Lord Tristan is within," came the reply, and Basil entered,
motioning to his escort to await his return outside.
The Grand Chamberlain traversed several anterooms, speaking to one
or the other of the senatorial guard, and on every face he read
consternation and fear. Little groups of priests stood together in
corners, whispering among each other; the whole of the Lateran was
aroused as by a secret dread. Such deeds, though they were known to
have occurred, were never spoken of, and the priests of the various
churches that had suffered desecration wisely kept their own counsel.
In this, the darkest age in the history of Rome, when crime and lust
and murder lurked in every corner, an outrage such as this struck every
soul with horror and awe. It was unthinkable, unspeakable almost,
suggesting dark mysteries and hidden infamies of Hell, which caused the
blood to run cold and the heart to freeze.
When Basil had made his way through the crowded corridors, receiving
homage, though men looked askance at him as he passed, he came to a
chamber usually reserved for a waiting room in times when the Pontiff
received foreign envoys or members of the priesthood and nobility; a
privilege from which the unfortunate prisoner in the Lateran was to be
forever debarred.
Basil entered this chamber, giving orders that he was to be in no wise
disturbed until he called and those outside heard him lock and bar the
door from within.
In the exact centre of the wall, reaching within two feet of the
ground, there was a large picture of St. Sebastian, barbarously painted
by some unknown artist.
Basil approached the picture and pressed upon the flat frame with all
his strength. There was a sudden click, a whirring, as of the wheels of
a clock. Then the picture swung inward, revealing a circular stairway
of stone, mounting upward. Without replacing the panel door, Basil
mounted the stairs for nearly a hundred steps, until he came to a door
upon which he beat with the hilt of his poniard.
An answering knock came from within, and the door opened. Basil entered
a small chamber, lighted from above by a window in a small dome.
A bat-like figure stood before a table covered with strange
manuscripts. As Basil entered, a thin black arm emerged from the
folds of the gown, which the inmate of the chamber wore. Then, with a
quick bird-like movement, an immensely thin hand twisted like a claw,
wrinkled, yellow and of incredible age, was stretched out toward the
newcomer.
On the second finger of this claw was a certain ring. Basil bent and
kissed the ring. There was another deft and almost imperceptible
movement. When the hand reappeared the ring was gone.
"It has been done?" Basil turned to the dark-robed form in bated
whispers.
The voice that answered seemed to come from a great distance. The lips
in the waxen face scarcely moved. They parted, that was all. Yet the
words were audible and distinct.
"It was done. Last night."
"You were not seen?"
"I wore the mask."
"Is it here?" Basil queried, his eyes flickering with a faint
reflection of that hate which had blazed in them earlier in the day.
"It is not here."
"Where is it?"
"You shall know to-night!"
The light faded out of Basil's eyes.
"What of the new captain?"
"His presence is a menace."
In Basil's eyes gleamed a sombre fire.
"I, too, owe him a grudge. In good time!"
"The time is Now!"
"Patience!" replied the Grand Chamberlain. "He will work his own
undoing. We dare not harm him yet."
"Only a miracle saved him last night."
"Are there not other churches in Rome?"--
"Ay!" mouthed the black form. "But the time of the great sacrifice
draws near--"
"I knew not it was so near at hand," interposed Basil with a start.
"The Becco Notturno demands a bride!"
"How am I to help you in these matters?"
"Am I to counsel the Lord Basil?" sneered the shape. "You drew the
crimson ball."
"When is it to be?"
"Three weeks from to-night. Mark you--a stainless dove!"
Basil nodded, an evil smile upon his lips.
"It shall be as you say! As for that other--I am minded to try his
mettle--"
"So be it!" said the shape. "Leave me now! You will hear from me. My
familiars are everywhere."
Without another word Basil arose and left the chamber. In the corridor
below he met Tristan.
"I know all," he cut short the speech of the new captain of the guard.
"All Rome is full of it. How did it happen? And where?"
"Attracted by a noise as of slippered feet passing over marble, I
entered the corridor of the Sacred Stairs, when one of the panels
parted. A devilish apparition stood within, throwing the beam of its
lantern into the chapel. When a chance ray of light disclosed my
presence the shape of darkness hurled a poniard. It missed me, thanks
be to Our Lady, struck the mosaic of the floor and broke in two."
"You have the pieces?" Basil queried affably and with much concern.
"I ran to the end of the gallery, shouting to my men," Tristan replied.
"When we returned the blade had disappeared."
"Where was it?" Basil queried with much concern and soon they faced the
shattered mosaic.
Basil examined the spot minutely.
"From yonder panel, you say?" he turned to Tristan.
"The third from the Capella," came the ready reply.
"Have you searched the premises?"
"From cellar to garret."--
"And discovered nothing?"
"Nothing."
"What of the panel?"
"It defies our combined efforts."
"Strange, indeed."
Basil strode to the wall and struck the spot indicated by Tristan with
the hilt of his poniard. Then he tested the wall on either side.
"Can your ear detect any difference in sound?"
A negative gesture came in response, and with it a puzzled look passed
into Tristan's eyes.
"Have you seen the Pontiff?"
"We reported the matter to His Holiness."
"And?"
"His Holiness raised his eyes to heaven and said: 'Even God's Vicar has
no jurisdiction in Hell!'"
"Was that all he said?"
"That was all!"
There was a silence during which Basil seemed to commune with himself.
"It is indeed a matter of grave concern," he said at last. "Treason
stalks everywhere. I will send for my Spanish Captain, Don Garcia. He
may be of assistance to you."
And Basil turned and walked down the corridor.
After a time Tristan walked out upon the terrace looking toward the
Coelian Hill.