Under the Witches' Moon: A Romantic Tale of Mediaeval Rome
night. Tristan fell beneath their feet and was for a moment so utterly
stunned that he could not rise.
As in a dream he heard the leader of the band give a command to his
followers. They mounted their steeds which were tethered outside and
tramped away into the night.
The sudden appearance of an armed band in the sacred precincts of the
Lateran had so terrified and cowed the crowd of worshippers that even
when the doors of the Basilica were left unguarded, not one ventured to
give assistance. Like shadows they fled into the night.
When Tristan regained some sort of consciousness he looked about in
vain for aid.
Dimly he remembered that the ruffians were mounted, and by the time he
summoned succor they would have stowed their captive safely away in one
of their castellated fortresses, where one might search for him in vain
forever more.
The Piazza in front of the Lateran was deserted. Not a human being was
to be seen. Tristan pursued his way through waste spaces that offered
no clue. He rushed through narrow and deserted streets, abandoned of
the living. He felt like shouting at the top of his voice: "Romans
awake! They have abducted the Pontiff." But, stranger as he was, and
dreading lest he might share John's fate or worse, he withstood the
impulse and at last found himself upon the Bridge of San Angelo before
the fortress tomb of the former master of the world, dreaming in the
surrounding desolation. Before the massive bronze gate cowered a
man-at-arms, drowsing over his pike.
Without a moment's hesitation, Tristan shook the drowsy guardian of the
Angel's Castle into blaspheming alertness.
"They have abducted the Pontiff!" he shouted, without releasing his
clutch on the gaping Burgundian. "Sound the alarums! Even now it may be
too late!"
The man in the brown leather jerkin and steel casque stared
open-mouthed at the speaker.
"The Lord Alberic is within--" he stammered at last, with an effort to
shake off the drowsiness that held his senses captive.
"Then rouse him in the devil's name," shouted Tristan.
The last words had their effect upon the stolid Northman. After the
elapse of some precious moments Alberic himself emerged from the
Emperor's Tomb and Tristan repeated his account of the outrage, little
guessing the rank of him with whom he was standing face to face.
But now they were confronted with a dilemma which it seemed would put
all Tristan's efforts to naught.
Who were the leaders of the party that had abducted the Pontiff? For
thereon hinged their success of intercepting the outlaws.
Tristan's description of the leader did not seem to make any marked
impression on the Senator of Rome.
He questioned Tristan with regard to their coat-of-arms or other
heraldic emblems. But the author of the outrage had shown sufficient
foresight to avoid a hazardous display. There seemed but one
alternative; to scour the city of Rome in the uncertain hope of
intercepting the outlaws, if they were still within the walls.
Tristan attached himself to the senatorial party, joining in the
pursuit. At first their task seemed hopeless indeed. Those they
met and questioned had seen no armed band, or, if they had, denied
all knowledge thereof. The frowning masonry of the Cenci, Savelli,
Frangipani, and Odescalchi, which they passed in turn, returned but an
inscrutable reply to their questioning glances.
For a time they continued their fruitless quest. But as if an outrage
so horrible had ignited the very air about them, they soon found people
stirring, shutters opening and shadowy figures issuing from dark
doorways, while folk were running and shouting to one another:
"The Pontiff has been abducted!"
Between cries of rage and shouts of command and indecision on the part
of the leader, who knew not in which direction to pursue, an hour had
elapsed, when they suddenly heard the clatter of hoofs. A company of
horsemen came galloping down the street. Alberic's suspicions that the
ruffians would prefer carrying their victim by devious byways to one
or the other of their Roman lairs, rather than attempt to leave the
city in the teeth of the Senator's guard, seemed realized. Oaths and
sharp orders broke the silence of the night.
It was amongst a gigantic pile of ruins, apart from all habitations
of the living, that they came to a halt. To a gaunt brick-built tower
they drew close, knocking against the iron-studded door, but ere those
within could open, they were surrounded, outnumbered ten to one.
Tristan was the first to bound in amongst them.
His eyes quivered upon the steel-clad form of the leader of the band.
At the next moment a blow from Tristan's fist struck him down and, ere
he could recover himself, he had been bound, hand and foot, and turned
over to the Senator's guards.
His followers, despairing of success, made a sudden dash through the
ranks of the people who had been attracted by the melee, riding down a
number, injuring and maiming many.
The Senator of Rome ranged his men, now re-inforced by the Prefect's
guard, round the drooping form of John, while a howling and shouting
mob, ready to wreak vengeance on the first object it encountered in its
path, followed in their wake as they made their way towards the Lateran.
An hour later, in a high vaulted, dimly lighted chamber of the
Archangel's Castle, Tristan, the pilgrim, and Alberic, the Senator of
Rome, faced each other for the second time.
In the course of the pursuit of the ruffians in which he participated,
Tristan had been casually informed of the rank of him who led the
Senatorial guard in person and when, their object accomplished, he
started to detach himself from the men-at-arms, Alberic had foiled his
intention by commanding him to accompany him to the fortress-tomb where
he himself held forth.
Seated opposite each other, each seemed to scan the other's
countenance before a word was spoken between them.
Alberic's regard of the man who seemed utterly unconscious of the
importance of the service he had rendered the Senator betokened
approval, and his eyes dwelt for some moments on the frank and open
countenance of this stranger, perchance contrasting it inwardly with
the complex nature of those about his person in whom he could trust but
so long as he could tempt them with earthly dross, and who would turn
against him should a higher bidder for their favor appear.
Tristan's first impression of the son of Marozia was that of one born
to command. Dark piercing eyes were set in a face, stern, haughty, yet
strangely beautiful. Alberic's tall, slender figure, dressed in black
velvet, relieved by slashes of red satin, added to the impressiveness
of his personality. Upon closer scrutiny Tristan could discover a
marked resemblance between the man before him and his half-brother, the
ill-fated Pontiff, whom, for political reasons, or considerations of
his personal safety, he kept prisoner in the pontifical palace.
But there was yet another present, who apparently took little heed
of the stranger, engaged as he seemed in the perusal of a parchment,
spread out upon a table before him,--Basil, the Grand Chamberlain.
A whispered conversation had taken place between the Senator and
his confidential adviser, for this was Basil's true station in the
senatorial household. In the evil days of Marozia's regime he had
occupied the same favored position at the Roman court, and, when
Alberic's revolt had swept the regime of Ugo of Tuscany and Marozia
from Roman soil, the son had attached to himself the man who had shown
a marked sagacity and ability in the days that had come to a close.
Basil's complex countenance proved somewhat more of an enigma to the
silent on-looker than did the Senator's stern, though frank face.
He was garbed in black, a color to which he seemed partial. A flat cap
of black velvet with a feather curled round the brim, above a doublet
of black velvet, close fitting, the sleeves slashed, to show the
crimson tunic underneath. The trunk hose round the muscular legs were
of black silk and gold thread, woven together and lined with sarsenet.
His feet were encased in black buskins with silver buckles, and puffed
silk inserted in the slashings of the leather.
The whole suggestion of the dark, sable figure was odd. It was exotic,
and the absence of a beard greatly intensified the impression.
The face, as Tristan saw it by the light of the taper, was
expressionless--a physical mask.
At last Alberic broke the silence, turning his eyes full upon the man
who met his gaze without flinching.
"You have--at your own risk--saved Rome and Holy Church from a calamity
the whole extent of which we may not even surmise, had the Pontiff
been carried away by the lawless band of Tebaldo Savello. We owe you
thanks--and we shall not shirk our duty. You are a stranger. Who are
you and why are you here?"
To the same questions that another had put to him on the memorable
eve of his arrival, in the Piazza Navona, Tristan replied with equal
frankness. His words bore the stamp of truth, and Alberic listened to a
tale passing strange to Roman ears.
And, unseen by Tristan, something began to stir in the dark,
unfathomable eyes of Basil, as some unknown thing stirs in deep waters,
and the hidden thing therein, to him who saw, was hidden no longer.
Some nameless being was looking out of these windows of the soul. One
looking at him now would have shrank away, cold fear gripping his heart.
For a moment, after Tristan had finished his tale, there was silence.
Alberic had risen and, seemingly unconscious of the presences in his
chamber, was perambulating its narrow confines until, of a sudden, he
stopped directly before Tristan.
"These penances completed, whereof you speak--do you intend returning
to the land of your birth?"
A blank dismay shone in Tristan's eyes. Not having referred to the
nature of the transgression, for which he was to do penance, and obtain
absolution, he found it somewhat difficult to answer Alberic's question.
"This is a matter I had not considered," he replied with some
hesitancy, which remained not unremarked by the Senator.
Alberic was a man of few words, and he possessed a discernment far
beyond his years. At the first glance at this stranger whom fate had
led across his path, he had known that here was one he might trust,
could he but induce him to become his man.
He held out his hand.
"I am going to be your friend and I mean to requite the service you
have done the Senator, ere the dawn of another day breaks in the sky.
There is a vacancy in the Senator's guard. I appoint you captain of
Castel San Angelo."
Ere Tristan could sufficiently recover from his surprise to make reply,
another voice was audible, a voice, soft and insinuating--the voice of
Basil, the Grand Chamberlain.
"My lord--the chain of evidence against Gamba is not completed. In
fact, later developments seem to point to an intrigue of which he is
but the unwitting victim--"
Alberic turned to the speaker.
"The proofs, my Lord Basil, are conclusive. Gamba is a traitor
convicted of having conspired with an emissary of Ugo of Tuscany, to
deliver the Archangel's Castle into his hands. He is sentenced--he
shall die--as soon as we discover his abode--"
Basil's face had turned to ashen hues.
"What mean you, my lord? Gamba is awaiting sentence in the dungeon
where he has been confined, ever since his trial--"
"The cage is still there," Alberic interposed sardonically. "The bird
has flown."
"Escaped?" stammered the Grand Chamberlain, rising from his seat
and raising his furtive eyes to those of the Senator. "Then he has
confederates in our very midst--"
"We shall know more of this anon," came the laconic reply. "Will you