Under the Witches' Moon: A Romantic Tale of Mediaeval Rome, Page 3

  CHAPTER I

  THE FIRES OF ST. JOHN

  It was the eve of St. John in the year of our Lord Nine HundredThirty-Five.

  High on the cypress-clad hills of the Eternal City the evening sun hadflamed valediction, and the last lights of the dying day were fadingaway on the waves of the Tiber whose changeless tide has rolled downthrough centuries of victory and defeat, of pride and shame, of gloryand disgrace.

  The purple dusk began to weave its phantom veil over the ancientcapital of the Caesars and a round blood-red moon was climbing slowlyabove the misty crests of the Alban Hills, draining the sky of itscrimson sunset hues.

  The silvery chimes of the Angelus, pealing from churches and convents,from Santa Maria in Trastevere to Santa Maria of the Aventine, began tosing their message of peace into the heart of nature and of man.

  As the hours of the night advanced and the moon rose higher in thestar-embroidered canopy of the heavens, a vast concourse of peoplebegan to pour from shadowy lanes and thoroughfares, from sanctuariesand hostelries, into the Piazza Navona. Romans and peasants from theCampagna, folk from Tivoli, Velletri, Corneto and Terracina, pilgrimsfrom every land of the then known world, Africans and Greeks, Lombardsand Franks, Sicilians, Neapolitans, Syrians and Kopts, Spaniards andSaxons, men from the frozen coast of Thule and the burning sands ofArabia, traders from the Levant, sorcerers from the banks of the Nile,conjurers from the mythical shores of the Ganges, adventurers from theBarbary coast, gypsies from the plains of Sarmatia, monks from theThebaide, Normans, Gascons and folk from Aquitaine.

  In the Piazza Navona booths and stalls had been erected for the sale offigs and honey, and the fragrant products of the Roman osterie.

  Strings of colored lanterns danced and quivered in the air. The fitfullight from the torches, sending spiral columns of resinous smoke intothe night-blue ether, shed a lurid glow over the motley, fantasticcrowd that increased with every moment, recruited from fishermen,flower girls, water-carriers and herdsmen from the Roman Campagna.

  Ensconced in the shadow of a roofless portico, a relic of the ancientCircus Agonalis, which at one time occupied the site of the PiazzaNavona, and regarding the bewildering spectacle which presented itselfto his gaze, with the air of one unaccustomed to such scenes, stooda stranger whose countenance revealed little of the joy of life thatshould be the heritage of early manhood.

  His sombre and austere bearing, the abstracted mood and far-away lookof the eyes would have marked him a dreamer in a society of men who hadlong been strangers to dreams. For stern reality ruled the world andthe lives of a race untouched alike by the glories of the past and thedawn of the Pre-Renaissance.

  He wore the customary pilgrim's habit, almost colorless from theeffects of wind and weather. Now and then a chance passer-by wouldcast shy glances at the lone stranger, endeavoring to reconcile his ageand his garb, and wondering at the nature of the transgression thatweighed so heavily upon one apparently so young in years.

  And well might his countenance give rise to speculation, were it butfor the determined and stolid air of aloofness which seemed to renderfutile every endeavor to entice him into the seething maelstrom ofhumanity on the part of those who took note of his dark and austereform as they crossed the Piazza.

  Tristan of Avalon was in his thirtieth year, though the hardshipsof a long and tedious journey, consummated entirely afoot, made himappear of maturer age. The face, long exposed to the relentless raysof the sun, had taken on the darker tints of the Southland. The nosewas straight, the grey eyes tinged with melancholy, the hair was ofchestnut brown, the forehead high and lofty. The ensemble was that ofone who, unaccustomed to the pilgrim's garb, moves uneasily among hiskind. Yet the atmosphere of frivolity, while irritating and jarringupon his senses, did not permit him to avert his gaze from the orgy ofcolor, the pandemonium of jollity, that whirled and piped and roaredabout him as the flow of mighty waters.

  One of many strange wayfarers bound upon business of one sort oranother to the ancient seat of empire, whose worldly sceptre had longpassed from her palsied grip to the distant shores of the Bosporus,Tristan had arrived during the early hours of the day in the feudal andturbulent witches' cauldron of the Rome of the Millennium.

  And with him constituents of many peoples, from far and near, hadreached the Leonine quarter from the Tiburtine road, after months oftedious travel, to worship at the holy shrines, to do penance and toobtain absolution for real or imaginary transgressions.

  From Bosnia, from Servia and Hungary, from Negropont and the islandsof the Greek Archipelago, from Trebizond and the Crimea it cameendlessly floating to the former capital of the Caesars, a waste driftof palaces and temples and antique civilizations, for the End of Timewas said to be nigh, and the dread of impending judgment lay heavilyupon the tottering world of the Millennium.

  A grotesque and motley crowd it was, that sought and found a temporaryhaven in the lowly taverns, erected for the accommodation of perennialpilgrims, chiefly mean ill-favored dwellings of clay and timber,divided into racial colonies, so that pilgrims of the same land andcreed might dwell together.

  A very Babel of voices assailed Tristan's ear, for the ancient sonoroustongue had long degenerated into the lingua Franca of bad Latin, thoughthere were some who could still, though in a broken and barbarousfashion, make themselves understood, when all other modes of expressionfailed them.

  All about him throbbed the strange, weird music of zitherns and lutesand the thrumming of the Egyptian Sistrum. The air of the summer nightwas heavy with the odor of incense, garlic and roses. The higherrisen moon gleamed pale as an alabaster lamp in the dark azure ofthe heavens, trembling luminously on the waters of a fountain whichoccupied the centre of the Piazza Navona.

  Here lolled some scattered groups of the populace, discussing theevents of the day, jesting, gesticulating, drinking or love-making.Others roamed about, engaged in conversation or enjoying the antics oftwo Smyrniote tumblers, whose contortions elicited storms of applausefrom an appreciative audience.

  A crowd of maskers had invaded the Piazza Navona, and the uncommonspectacle at last drew Tristan from his point of vantage and causedhim to mingle with the crowds, which increased with every moment,their shouts and gibes and the clatter of their tongues becomingquite deafening to his ears. Richly decorated chariots, drawn byspirited steeds, rolled past in a continuous procession. The cries ofthe wine-venders and fruit-sellers mingled with the acclaim of themultitudes. Now and then was heard the fanfare of a company of horsemenwho clattered past, bound upon some feudal adventure.

  Weary of walking, distracted by the ever increasing clamor, oppressedwith a sense of loneliness amidst the surging crowds, whose festalspirit he did not share, Tristan made his way towards the fountain and,seating himself on the margin, regardless of the chattering groups,which intermittently clustered about it, he felt his mood graduallycalm in the monotony of the gurgling flow of the water, which spurtedfrom the grotesque mouths of lions and dolphins.

  The stars sparkled in subdued lustre above the dark, towering cypresseswhich crowned the adjacent eminence of Monte Testaccio, and thedistant palaces and ruins stood forth in distinctness of splendor anddesolation beneath the luminous brightness of the moonlit heavens.White shreds of mist, like sorrowing spirits, floated above the windingcourse of the Tiber, and enveloped in a diaphanous haze the cloistersupon St. Bartholomew's Island at the base of Mount Aventine.

  For a time Tristan's eyes roamed over the kaleidoscopic confusion whichmet his gaze on every turn. His ear was assailed by the droning soundof many voices that filled the air about him, when he was startled bythe approach of two men, who, but for their halting gait, might havepassed unheeded in the rolling sea of humanity that ebbed and flowedover the Piazza.

  Basil, the Grand Chamberlain, was endowed with the elegance of theeffeminate Roman noble of his time. Supple as an eel, he neverthelesssuggested great physical strength. The skin was of a deep olive tinge.The black, beady eyes were a marked feature of the count
enance.Inscrutable and steadfast in regard, with a hint of mockery andcynicism, coupled with an abiding alertness, they seemed to penetratethe very core of matter.

  He wore a black mantle reaching almost to his feet. Of his features,shaded by a hood, little was to be seen, save his glittering minx-eyes.These he kept alternately fixed upon the crowds that surged around himand on his companion, a hunchback garbed entirely in black, from theSpanish hat, which he wore slouched over his face, to the black hoseand sandals that encased his feet. A large red scar across the lowforehead heightened the repulsiveness of his countenance. There wassomething strangely sinister in his sunken, cadaverous cheeks, the lowbrow, the inflamed eyelids, and his limping gait.

  Without perceiving or heeding the presence of Tristan they paused as bysome preconcerted signal.

  As the taller of the two pushed back the hood of his pilgrim garb, asif to cool his brow in the night breeze, Tristan peered into a face notlacking in sensuous refinement. Dark supercilious eyes roved from oneobject to another, without dwelling long on any particular one. Therewas somewhat of a cynical look in the downward curve of the eyebrows,the thin straight lips and the slightly aquiline nose, which seemed toimbue him with an air of recklessness and daring, that ill consortedwith his monkish garb.

  Their discourse was at first almost unintelligible to Tristan. Thelanguage of the common people had, at this period of the history ofRome, not only lost its form, but almost the very echo of the Latintongue.

  After a time, however, Tristan distinguished a name, and, uponlistening more attentively, the burden of the message began to unfolditself.

  "Why then have you ventured out of your hell-hole of iniquity, whendiscovery means death or worse?" said Basil, the Grand Chamberlain. "Dothe keeps and dungeons of the Emperor's Tomb so allure you? Or do youtrust in some miraculous delivery from its vermin-haunted vaults?"

  At these words Rome's most dreaded bravo, Il Gobbo of the Catacombs,snarled contemptuously.

  "You are needlessly alarmed, my lord. They will not look for Il Gobboin this company, though even a mole may walk in the shadow of a saint."

  Basil regarded the speaker with mingled pity and contempt.

  "There is room for all the world in Rome and the devil to boot."

  Il Gobbo chuckled unpleasantly.

  "Besides--folk about here show a great reverence for a holy garb--"

  "Always with fitting reservations," interposed the Grand Chamberlainsardonically. "I have had it in mind at some time or other to relievethe Grand Penitentiary. The good man's lungs must be well nigh burstingwith the foul air down there by the Tomb of the Apostle. He willwelcome a rest!"

  "Requiescat," chanted the bravo, imitating the nasal tone of the clergy.

  Basil nodded approval.

  "He at one time did me the honor of showing some concern in myspiritual welfare. Know you what I replied?"--

  The bravo gave a shrug.

  "'Father,' I said, when he urged me to confess, 'pray shrive some oneworthier than myself. But--if you must needs have a confession--I shallwhisper into your holy ear so many interesting little episodes, so manyspicy peccadillos, and--to enhance their interest--mention some namesso high in the grace of God--'"

  "And the reverend father?"

  "Looked anathema and vanished"--

  Basil paused for a moment, after which he continued with a sigh:

  "It is too late! The Church is to be purified. Not even the pale shadeof Marozia will henceforth be permitted to haunt the crypts of CastelSan Angelo--merely for the sake of decorum. There is nothing less wellbred than memory!"

  For a moment they relapsed into silence, watching the shifting crowds,then Basil continued:

  "Compared with this virtuous boredom the last days of Ugo of Tuscanywere a carnival. One could at least speed the travails of some one whorequired swift absolution."

  "Can you contrive to bring about this happy state?" queried Il Gobbo.

  "It is always the unexpurgated that happens," Basil repliedsardonically.

  "I hope to advance in your school," Il Gobbo interposed with a smile.

  "I have long had you in mind. If you are in favor with yourself youwill become an apt pupil. Remember! He who is dead is dead and longlive the survivor."

  "In very truth, my lord, breath is the first and last thing we draw--"rejoined the bravo, evidently not relishing the thought that deathmight be standing unseen at his elbow.

  "Who would end one's days in odious immaculacy," Basil interposedgrandiloquently, "even though you will not incur that reproach fromthose who know you from report, or who have visited your haunts? Butto the point. There are certain forces at work in Rome which makebreathing in this fetid air a rather cumbersome process."

  "I doubt me if they could teach your lordship any new tricks," Il Gobboreplied, somewhat dubiously.

  The Grand Chamberlain smiled darkly.

  "Good Il Gobbo, the darkest of my tricks you have not yet fathomed."

  "Perchance then the gust of rumor blows true about my lord's palace onthe Pincian Hill?"

  "What say they about my palatial abode?" Basil turned suavely to thespeaker.

  There was something in the gleam of his interrogator's eyes that causedIl Gobbo to hesitate. But his native insolence came to the rescue ofhis failing courage.

  "Ask rather, what do they not say of it, my lord! It would require lesstime to recite--"

  "Nevertheless, I am just now in a frame of mind to shudder soundly.These Roman nights, with their garlic and incense, are apt to befuddlethe brain,--rob it of its power to plot. Perchance the recital of thesemysteries would bring to mind something I have omitted."

  The bravo regarded the speaker with a look of awe.

  "They whisper of torture chambers, where knife and screw and pulleynever rest--of horrors that make the blood freeze in the veins--ofphantoms of fair women that haunt the silent galleries--strange wailsof anguish that sound nightly from the subterranean vaults--"

  "A goodly account that ought vastly to interest the GrandPenitentiary--were it--with proper decorum--whispered in his ear. Itwould make him forget--for the time at least--the dirty Roman gossip.Deem you not, good Il Gobbo?"

  "I am not versed in such matters, my lord," replied the bravo, ill atease. "Perhaps your lordship will now tell me why this fondness for mysociety?"

  "To confess truth, good Il Gobbo, I did not join you merely to meditateupon the pleasant things of life. Rather to be inspired to someextraordinary adventure such as my hungry soul yearns for. As for thenature thereof, I shall leave that to the notoriously wicked fertilityof your imagination."

  The lurid tone of the speaker startled the bravo.

  "My lord, you would not lay hands on the Lord's anointed?"

  Il Gobbo met a glance that made the blood freeze in his veins.

  "Is it the thing you call your conscience that ails you, or some suddenindigestion? Or is the bribe not large enough?"

  The bravo doggedly shook his head.

  "Courage lieth not always in bulk," he growled. "May my soul burn toa crisp in the everlasting flames if I draw steel against the Lord'sanointed."

  "Silence, fool! What you do in my service shall not burden your soul!Have you forgotten our compact?"

  "That I have not, my lord! But since the Senator of Rome has favored mewith his especial attention, I too have something to lose, which somefolk hereabout call their honor."

  "Your honor!" sneered the Grand Chamberlain. "It is like the skin of anonion. Peel off one, there's another beneath."

  "My skin then--" the bravo growled doggedly. "However--if the lordBasil will confide in me--"

  "Pray lustily to your patron saint and frequent the chapel of theGrand Penitentiary," replied Basil suavely, beckoning to Il Gobbo tofollow him. "But beware, lest in your zeal to confess you mistake mypeccadillos for your own."

  With these words the two worthies slowly retraced their steps in thedirection of Mount Aventine and were soon lost to sight.