Alberic the Wise and Other Journeys, Page 3

  Claude suddenly became quite dizzy, and reached back for support, but instead of the marble banister he found himself clutching a gnarled and twisted tree trunk. He gasped and pulled his hand away as if it had touched a hot iron—then he jumped back, for now he noticed that instead of the marble floor there was grass under his feet. He held his breath—and he could feel the shiny surface of the painting pressing against his back.

  “You mustn’t be startled,” she said quietly. “It’s only an olive tree. They are really quite beautiful this time of year.”

  So it had happened at last! He was not really surprised, he told himself. It was just that it had happened at that very moment and in that way. He pressed his fingertips together to make sure that he was really there, or somewhere, and then he let his breath out slowly. For several moments they stood looking at each other.

  “How thoughtless of me, though,” she continued. “You must be dreadfully warm in that heavy coat. Please, come with me.” She took his hand and led him around a grass bank and through a grove of trees just out of sight to the left. As they walked further on, her likeness remained in the foreground of the painting, as it had been, for she took with her all that was really herself, and left behind only the artist’s recollection, for anyone who should happen along.

  “No, no one will miss us,” she assured him, anticipating his thoughts. “They will not know I am gone, and will certainly never believe that you are here.”

  They found a pleasant place to sit on a low stone wall that stretched across and around a small field and they talked, and what was unusual was that they did so not as two people who had just met, but as if they were old friends.

  “But Claudio is a lovely name,” she insisted. How much nicer it sounded the way she said it. “And you must call me Elena.”

  Her voice was as clear and soft as he would have expected and if she didn’t look as unhappy as he had thought she was, she was even more beautiful. There didn’t seem to be any opportunity for all the questions Claude had meant to ask. Indeed, they slipped his mind entirely as he and Elena spent the afternoon earnestly discussing the shapes of the clouds, the reasons for names, the places they had never been and how far a bird could fly and still come home again—and they would probably have gone right on doing so had it not been for the bell which sounded far in the distance, as if from another world.

  “Oh dear, it is the museum bell,” Elena said, jumping to her feet. “It’s six o’clock and you must leave now.” They walked quickly back to the edge of the picture. Now Claude suddenly remembered that he still did not know how he had gotten there or why, or for that matter very much more than he had known before. “I do hope you can come again,” she said, touching his arm lightly, and before he could say anything he felt the air around him thicken and the cold marble floor beneath his shoes. And there in the painting Elena looked out at him sadly, just as before.

  Claude spent a restless night. Did it really happen? Could it have happened? Should he go back? “I’m sure I shouldn’t,” he mumbled before dropping off to sleep, and for one full day he didn’t. On the following afternoon, however, he did return to the museum. There on the floor was a fresh pool of water, or if you prefer now, tears, and almost before he could decide whether or not he wanted to go—he’d gone.

  “Good afternoon,” Elena said gravely. “I was afraid you wouldn’t return, and it’s such a lovely day for a picnic.” If he had entered the picture or if it had simply reached out and engulfed him he wasn’t sure, but he did know that he was there because she wanted him to be, and in another minute they had already started down the road—walking for a while along the river near the jujube trees, then across the bridge and up an easy slope along the opposite bank. As they walked, Elena told him many things about the valley and all that they could see from where they stood and even much that lay beyond. Before the afternoon had ended he’d learned the names and uses of all the native herbs and plants, the styles of architecture, the great works of the artists and scholars, and the size and aspect of the neighboring cities and kingdoms. He learned too that the manor house with its handsome courts and gardens had been built by her great-great-great-granduncle Ludovico the Tempestuous shortly after he had acquired the land more than two hundred years before—and that since then the valley had been ruled by her family. Yes, all these things he had learned, but not a thing more about Elena herself.

  During the next week, Claude returned every afternoon and each time the tears were there to let him know how long he’d been away, and so too was Elena. She was so good and kind and soon he found he not only loved the days but her as well, and had almost forgotten not to care. They wandered happily through the fields and vineyards, the small quiet farms and on occasion the ruins of the old castle itself, and it was only at those odd moments when she did not think he was looking that the care and sadness would return momentarily to her face. Yet when he asked, she would smile sweetly and show him the oldest tree that grew in the valley or the grotto where a wise man once lived.

  One day, though, while Elena was busily chasing a butterfly, Claude started up the hill that somehow they had always managed to avoid. For several days he’d felt certain that sounds, vague yet persistent, were coming from the other side—rumbling and clanking and what he thought to be muffled shouts and voices—but each time, he was told it was only the wind. When he had almost reached the top Elena looked up and noticed for the first time where he was going.

  “Stop, come down!” she shouted, but too late, for in three more steps he had reached the top.

  There below and before him stretched another part of the valley and a great battle raging within it. Confusion! Chaos! Turmoil! Desolation! Destruction! Horsemen galloped and wheeled and galloped again across the blackened ground, clouds of dust mingled with the choking smoke of cannon. Infantry with pikes and crossbows charged across the field and fell. Wagons raced back and forth and monstrous siege engines were being pushed slowly towards the walls of the city, which was fiercely resisting the attack—a city which for some reason had never been mentioned in their conversations.

  “Come away,” said Elena when she had reached his side, and her eyes now showed all the unhappiness that he had seen on the first day he’d found her.

  “But why have you never told me?” Claude asked quietly.

  “Please come away,” she repeated. “It is not your concern.”

  As she spoke, below and to the left a fresh assault on the city had begun. The mangonels hurled their great stones against the thick walls until they had opened a small breach next to one of the towers. Hundreds of foot soldiers charged towards it across the open ground, but before they had gone even halfway the crossbows from the wall had begun to play their deadly music and the whine of arrows filled the air. Most of the attackers fell where they were hit. The few who were unlucky enough to reach the walls were dispatched in ways less quick and merciful, and even before the dust had settled, repairs had begun and the breach was closed.

  “What is the reason?” Claude asked again, stunned by the sight of such pain and horror. “Who is fighting and why?”

  Before Elena could answer, the museum bell once again announced the end of the day. “Tomorrow,” she promised hastily. How thankful for the delay she seemed.

  The next day Elena did her best to direct Claude’s attention elsewhere, suggesting among other things a visit to the nearby monastery, well known for its good works and even more renowned for the excellence of its chapel—the finest example of its particular style in the region. But he would not be turned away, and back up and over the hill they went. The battle still raged. It was terrible, and yet to Claude it was in a way also fascinating and unreal, seeing all those distant figures moving about like the pieces in a game. He moved forward, down the hill, closer, leading Elena by the hand. When they had reached the shelter of a large boulder only a few hundred yards away they stopped, and with no other delay possible she reluctantly told her story.

  “
This valley had always been so peaceful,” she began, “and even though things at times were less than perfect, the farms were good, the city busy and prosperous and our situation far removed from the routes of invasion and plunder that brought desolation to so much of the country. My father was Duke Grifonetto, the fourteenth of his line, and he was a just and good ruler. During his reign the main piazza was paved, three new wells were dug, the south gate was repaired and refaced with the finest marbles carved and decorated in classical motifs, the library was established and grain storehouses built to ensure supplies of food in the event of unforeseen hardships. Life was so happy in the palace.” She sighed, touching her handkerchief lightly to the corner of her eye before going on. “But there were some among us who were not satisfied.” And her mood darkened suddenly. “Led by the disaffected son of one of our own noble houses, an evil young man named Buto, they plotted to destroy the government and take everything for themselves. First they gained entry to the palace and my father’s service. Then, in his name and without his knowledge, they raised the taxes, using the money for their own purposes, and sold the food in the warehouses for their own gain also. Rumors concerning my father’s honesty were spread and soon they hardened into lies. Old friends turned against us and all confidence in the ruling family was destroyed. Merchants were forced to pay tribute or flee and when my father discovered all this it was too late, for Buto and his brigands had gained control of the army and the arsenal. Soon all justice vanished and the rights of the citizens were taken away. No longer could anyone speak his mind or sell his merchandise in freedom, and even thinking became a hazardous occupation. The weak were plundered and for those who resisted there was only death—or worse. My family and I were cast into the filthy dungeon beneath the old citadel, and the city fell into the hands of this fearsome tyrant and his mercenary soldiers.”

  Claude listened intently, his anger rising at her account of such villainy and injustice. For the better part of the afternoon she continued the story, telling him in greater detail of the plots and intrigues that caused her father’s downfall—the burning of the courts of law, the strange disappearance of three chests from the city treasury, the spoiling of the city’s water supply—and as she spoke, the constant sound of swords and fighting men could be heard in the background.

  “But what then?” Claude asked eagerly. “Where is your family and how did this battle begin?”

  “There were some who remained loyal,” she continued. Now they had crept even closer to the battle and were sitting behind a fallen tree where every shot or cry of pain could be heard clearly. “And there were some who yearned for a return to the better days. Many efforts were made to set us free but the citadel was too well guarded. Then the tyrant, fearful that the people would rise again under my father’s leadership, had him removed by serving him a poisoned soufflé for dinner one evening. Shortly thereafter, the jailer, who had been an old family servant, managed to leave the dungeon door ajar and my two brothers and I escaped. My mother was too ill to travel and for all I know is still there.

  “But that seems so long ago.” She sighed again. “Soon after, we raised an army from the surrounding countryside and since that time have laid siege to the city. The battle has gone on year after year after year, and even though our cause is just we have never been able to gain the wall. It is always the same—charge and defeat, attack and retreat. My brothers fell in the early attacks as did almost all the men of our noble families. Only Ugolino, brave Count Ugolino, remains to lead us. But now he grows old and weary and each day there are fewer to follow. Our farms are stripped and bare, the land is black, and many of our soldiers are now just boys like yourself. But come, I will show you.”

  They moved still nearer, until they were at the very edge of the field, crouching behind the withered remains of some dead bushes. To their right a group of horsemen had reined up for a moment.

  “How brave they are,” he thought to himself, “and how few.”

  Just at that moment the city gate nearest them was flung open and from it galloped a heavily armed raiding party. They closed in quickly, surprising the young horsemen, and pressed their attack furiously. The skirmish dispersed in confusion across the dusty ground. Just in front of Claude and Elena a huge warrior singled out one of the boys and rode down on him hard, unseating him with one cruel thrust of his lance. Turning quickly, he reined in his horse, dismounted and unbuckled his mace. The boy looked up imploringly as the warrior stood over him, his armor gleaming.

  “It is my cousin Nicolo,” Elena cried.

  Claude’s breath came in short, sharp gasps and his heart pounded. Elena clutched his wrist, but just as the warrior raised the mace to strike he wrenched free, snatched up a heavy branch lying at his feet and leaped from behind the bush.

  The startled soldier jumped back and lowered his weapon. Then in a moment his eyes narrowed and he spoke in a harsh and pitiless voice:

  “Stand aside, stranger, or you too will die!”

  Claude gripped the branch tightly. A small hard knot of fear lodged in his chest, but he was determined and quick. Just as the warrior began to raise the mace again, he swung with all the force at his command. The branch struck the side of the warrior’s head just below his helmet. He cried out in pain. Claude swung again, this time catching him on the joint of his right thumb, which caused him to drop the mace and howl again. The third blow landed just behind his left knee and he crumpled to the ground with a moan and a clatter. “Yield!” demanded Claude, pressing his knee to the hapless warrior’s throat, and yield he did.

  “How can we ever repay you?” Elena cried happily, but Claude was too happy to think of reward. Almost immediately a group of archers arrived to take the prisoner away and they all followed back to the encampment.

  “You have performed a great service for us,” said the aged Count Ugolino. “My days as a fighter are done, and as you can see, all does not go well. But today you have given us new hope. We cannot ask more of you.”

  “But you must let me help,” Claude pleaded, for now there was something for which he knew he cared.

  “It is far too dangerous,” Elena insisted.

  “And it is not even your cause,” added the Count, but there was no way to dissuade him and by the time Claude left that afternoon he had vowed to fight until the city was theirs once more.

  At first he helped only in those small ways where it was felt he could—tending the wounded, searching the countryside for food, patrolling the camp and repairing the weapons and armor. But soon that was not enough and he began to take part in the day’s skirmishes, fearfully in the beginning, for now the flush of his first victory had faded, but still with great determination. From the rear of the battle line one day to the center the next and then finally to the front, he became in a very short time a seasoned soldier. Before long he had led his first assault on the wall, a successful attack which set fire to one of the fortified towers, and soon after that he was leading them all.

  Claude was everywhere indestructible—fighting, charging across the field with each attack, directing fire, encouraging the men, and pitting his strength and skill against the relentless enemy. From one grim battle to the next he grew stronger and more sure until his age and size no longer seemed to matter. His name became a rallying cry—“Claudio! Claudio!”—and a word that sent a shiver sliding into the boots of all those unfortunate enough to face him.

  Day after day now, as soon as school had ended, weekdays and weekends too, he returned to the painting, fighting until the bell called him at six and then planning and waiting to begin again the next day.

  Gradually the tide of battle began to shift. The army grew stronger and more confident under Claude’s leadership and the siege grew more intense. An attack on the river gate, another on the west tower and a third on the arsenal—then a merciless bombardment of ballistas and mortars hurling fireballs of pitch and sulphur into the city and pounding the walls to pieces. Slowly the lines were drawn tighter a
nd then tighter again as bowmen, crouching behind their barricades, swept the battlements clear. One afternoon, leading a picked group of men in a sudden rush, Claude actually held part of the wall for several hours, though almost at the cost of his life. And so it went, each new attack testing and probing and poking at the enemy’s defenses until at last the time had come.

  “I am convinced that we should attack at this point,” he announced that afternoon. Everyone had gathered around to hear Claude outline his plan. The Count was there, with those still remaining from among the families exiled so long ago, and Elena, her eyes now bright with anticipation. Before them lay a map on which the sequence of battle was presented in great detail.

  “The wall is strongest here,” Claude continued, pointing to the one bastion they had never been able to approach, “and so it is here that they will least expect us. But it is also here that for weeks our sappers have been digging, and now the wall is undermined and gunpowder charges set at its base. Tomorrow we shall attack first at these locations,” and the tip of his sword touched lightly at several points on the map. “We shall attack until their attention is diverted and their defenses spread thin. Then at my signal the powder will be ignited—and we shall charge for the last time.” When he stopped not a word was spoken. It was so daring, and so simple, but would it work?

  The next day was bright and clear as indeed all the days had been. Everything awaited Claude’s arrival. A cloud of smoke hung heavily over the beleaguered city and the air was stilled as if in expectation of the events to come. Pikes, lances and swords were sharpened and ready. Ladders, ropes and grappling irons were assembled. Bows were tightened, armor polished and the horses brushed and shining. Everything was checked and rechecked, and everything was ready.