Kitabı oku: «The Sorceress of Rome», sayfa 13

But no! It was impossible. This woman had made him utterly her own; her glance had sufficed to snap asunder the fetters of a self-imposed yoke, as though her will, powerful even after death, had suddenly passed upon him. Though he saw her not at the present moment, he had but to close his eyes, to see her as distinctly as if she were still present in the body. And in that moment Eckhardt felt all the horrors of the path he was about to choose, the dead and terrible aspect of the life he was about to espouse. To be a monk, to crawl till death in the chill shade of the cloister, to see none save living spectres, to watch by the nameless corpses of folks unknown, to wear his raiment for his coffin's pall – a terrible dread seized him. One brief hour spent before an altar and some gabbled words were about to cut him off for ever from the society of the living. With his own hand he was about to seal the stone upon his tomb, and turn the key in the lock of the door of Life.

Like a whirlwind these thoughts passed through Eckhardt's brain. Then he imagined once more that he saw the eyes of his dead wife gazing upon him, burning into the very depths of his soul. What made their aspect so terrible to him, he was not just then in the frame to analyze. Some mysterious force, which had left the sweetness of her face unmarred, seemed to have imparted something to her eyes that inspired him with an unaccountable dread.

As he paused thus before the pillar, pressing his icy hands to his fevered temples, vainly groping for a solution, vainly endeavouring to break the fetters which bound his will and seemed to crush his strength, there broke upon his ears the loud command of the officiating monk, to return and bid the Fiend desist. These words broke the deadly spell which had benumbed his senses and caused him to remain riveted to the spot, where the phantom had hovered. His sunken eyes glared as those of a madman, as he slowly turned in response to the monk's behest. The hot breath came panting from between his parched lips. Then, without heeding the ceremony, without heeding the monks or the spectators who had flocked hither to witness his consecration, Eckhardt dashed through the circle of which he had formed the central figure and, ere the amazed spectators knew what happened or the monks could stem his precipitate flight, the chief of the imperial hosts rushed out of the church in his robes of consecration and vanished from sight.

So quickly, so unexpectedly did it all happen, that even the officiating Cardinal seemed completely paralyzed by the suddenness of Eckhardt's flight. There was no doubt in the mind of Cyprianus that the Margrave had gone mad and his whispered orders sent two monks speeding after the demented neophyte. Deep, ominous silence hovered over the vast area of the Basilica. It seemed as if the very air was fraught with deep portent, and ominous forebodings of impending danger filled the hearts of the assembled thousands. The people knelt in silent prayer and breathless expectation. Would Eckhardt return? Would the ceremony proceed?

Among all those, who had so eagerly watched the uncommon spectacle of whose crowning glory they were about to see themselves deprived, there was but one to whom the real cause of the scene which had just come to a close, was no mystery. Benilo alone knew the cause of Eckhardt's flight. To the last moment he had triumphed, convinced that no temptation could turn from his chosen path a mind so stern as Eckhardt's. But when the effect of the mysterious vision upon the kneeling general became apparent, when his restlessness grew with every moment, up to the terrible climax, accentuated by his madman's yell, when, unmindful of the monk's admonition – he saw him rush out of the church in his consecrated robes – then Benilo knew that the general would not return. For the time all the insolent boastfulness of his nature forsook him and he shivered as one seized with a sudden chill. Without awaiting what was to come, unseen and unnoticed amidst the all-pervading consternation, the Chamberlain rushed out of the Basilica by the same door through which Eckhardt had gained the open.

Under his canopy sat the Vice-Gerent of Christ, surrounded by the consecrated cardinals and bishops and the monks of the various orders. Without an inkling of the true cause prompting Eckhardt's precipitate flight Gregory had witnessed the terrible scene, which had just come to a close. But inwardly he rejoiced. For only when every opposition to Eckhardt's mad desire had appeared fruitless, had the Pontiff acquiesced in granting to him the special dispensation, which shortened the time of his novitiate to the limit of three days.

But it was not a matter for the moment, for Gregory himself was to partake of the Communion and the monk Cyprianus, who was to perform the holy office, a tribute to the order whose superior he was, had just blessed the host. In his consecrated hand the wine was to turn into the blood of Christ, Gregory had just partaken of the holy wafer. Now the monk placed the golden tube in the golden chalice and, drawing his cowl deeply over his forehead, passed the other end of the tube to the Pontiff.

Gregory placed the golden tube to his lips, and as he sipped the wine, changed into blood, the two cardinals on duty approached the sacred throne, a torch in one hand, a small bundle of tow in the other. According to custom they set the tow on fire.

Again the unison chant of the monks resounded; the assembled thousands lying prostrate in prayer.

Suddenly there arose a strange bustle round the pontifical canopy. Suppressed murmurs broke the silence. Monks were to be seen rushing hither and thither. Gregory had fainted! The monk Cyprianus seemed vainly endeavouring to revive him. For a moment the crowds remained in awe-struck silence, then, as if the grim spectre of Death had visibly appeared amongst them, the terror-stricken worshippers rushed out of the Basilica of St. Peter and soon the terrible rumour was rife in the streets of Rome. Pope Gregory the Fifth was dying.

CHAPTER XV
THE DEATH WATCH

The sun had sunk to rest and the noises of the day were dying out, one by one. The deep hush of the hour of dusk settled once more over the city, shaken to its very depths by the terrible catastrophe and upheaved by the fanaticism of the monks, who roused the populace to a paroxysm of frenzy and fear which gave way to pandemonium itself, when the feelings of the masses, strung to their utmost tension, leaped into the opposite extreme. Crescentius had remained shut up in Castel San Angelo, but the monk Cyprianus could be seen stalking through the city at the hour of dusk, and whosoever met him crossed himself devoutly, and prayed to have time for confession, when the end was nigh.

The importance of the impending change impressed itself upon every mind. The time when worldly power alone could hope to successfully cope with the crying evils of a fast decaying age, of a world, grown old and stale and rotten, upon which had not yet fallen the beam of the Renaissance, was not yet at hand, and the fatal day of Canossa had not yet illumined the century with its lurid glare.

Therefore Otto had chosen Bruno, the friend of his boyhood, for the highest honours in Christendom, Bruno, one in mind, one in soul with himself, and the Conclave had by its vote ratified the imperial choice. But Bruno himself had not wished the honour. While he shared the high ideals of his royal friend he lacked that confidence in himself, which was so essential a requirement for the ruler whose throne swayed on the storm-tossed billows of the Roman See. Bruno was of a rather retrospective turn of mind, and it was doubtful, whether he would be able to carry out the sweeping reforms planned by Theophano's idealistic son, and regarded with secret abhorrence by the Italian cardinals. Only with the aid of the venerable Gerbert had Gregory consented to enter upon the grave duties awaiting him at the head of the Christian world at a time when that world seemed to totter in its very foundations. And he had paid the penalty, cut down in the prime of life.

In the Vatican chapel on a bier, round which were burning six wax candles in silver-sticks, lay the fast decaying body of Gregory V. Terrible rumours concerning the Pontiff's death were abroad in the city. The doors of the Pope's private apartments had been found locked from within. The terrified attendants had not ventured to return to the Vatican until the gray morning light of the succeeding day broke behind the crests of the Apennines. They had broken down the door, rumour had it, but to recoil from the terrible sight which met their eyes. On his bed lay the dead Pontiff. The head and right arm almost touched the floor, as if in the death-struggle he had lost his balance. Traces of burnt parchment on the floor and an empty phial on the table beside him intensified, rather than cleared up the mystery. And as they approached, terror-stricken, and endeavoured to lift the body, the right arm almost severed itself from the trunk at their touch, and the body was fast turning black. The handsome features of the youth were gray and drawn, his hair clammy and dishevelled and the open eyes stared frightfully into space as if vainly searching for the murderer.

Whatever Gerbert's suspicions were when, too late, he arrived in the death chamber, no hint escaped his lips. Under his personal care the body of the hapless youth was prepared for interment, then he hurriedly convoked the Conclave and ordered the gates of Rome closed against any one attempting to leave the city.

The Vatican chapel was hung with funereal tapestry. Everywhere were seen garlands of flowers entwined with branches of cypress. In the middle of the chapel stood the bier, covered with black velvet. A choir of monks, robed in vestments of black damask, was chanting the last Requiem. The Cardinal of Sienna was conducting the last rites. As the echoes of the chant died away under the vaulted arches, a monk approached the bier, and sprinkled the corpse with holy water. The Cardinal pronounced the benediction; the monk bent slightly over the body when a drop from the forehead of the dead Pontiff rebounded to his face. He shuddered and hastily retreated behind the monks, who formed into the recessional. Only two remained in the chapel. Contrary to all custom they extinguished the candles which had burnt down half-way. The smaller ones they left to flicker out, until they should pitifully flare up once, more, then to go out in the great darkness like the soul of man, when his hour has come.

The last and only one to remain within the chapel to hold the death-watch with the Pontiff, was Eckhardt, the Margrave. Wrapt in his dark fancies he sat beside the bier. After his precipitate flight all memory of what succeeded had vanished. Exhausted and tottering he had found himself in the palace on the Caelian Mount, where he shut himself up till the terrible tidings of the Pontiff's death penetrated to the solitude of his abode. Now it seemed to him that the moment he would set foot in the streets of Rome, some dark and fearful revelation awaited him. Since that night, when the strange apparition had drawn him from the altars of Christ, had caused him to renounce the vows his lips were about to pronounce, a terrible fear and suspicion had gripped his soul. The presentiment of some awful mystery haunted him night and day, as he brooded over the terrible fascination of those eyes, which had laid their spell upon him, the amazing resemblance of the apparition to the wife of his soul, long dead in her grave. And the more he pondered the heavier grew his heart within him, and he groped in vain for a ray of light on his dark and lonely path, – vainly for a guiding hand, to conduct him from the labyrinth of doubt and fear into the realms of oblivion and peace. The Margrave's senses reeled from the heavy fumes of flowers and incense, which filled the Basilica. The light from a cresset-lantern on the wall, contending singly with the pale mournful rays of the moon, which cast a dim light through the long casement, over pillars and aisles, fell athwart his pallid face. The terrible incidents of the past night, which had thrown him back into the throes of the world, and had snuffed out the Pontiff's life, weighed heavily upon him, and for the nonce, the commander abandoned every attempt to clear the terrible mystery which enshrouded him. He almost despaired of combating the spectre single-handed, and now the one man, who might by counsel and precept have guided his steps, had been struck down by the assassin's hand.

The sanctity of the place, the solemnity of the hour, and the deep silence around were well calculated to deepen the melancholy mood of the solitary watcher. Weird were the fancies that swept over his mind, memories of a long forgotten past, and dim, indistinct plans for the future, till at length, wearied with his own reflections over that saddest of all earthly enigmas, what might have been, he seated himself on a low bench beside the bier. The moonbeams grew fainter and more faint, as the time wore on, and the sharp distinction between light and shadow faded fast from the marble floor.

Thicker and thicker drooped the shadows round the bier of the dead Pontiff. The silence seemed to deepen. The moon was gone. Save for the struggling rays of the cresset-lantern above him, the blackness of night closed round the solemn and ghostly scene.

The scent of flowers and the fumes of incense weighed heavily on Eckhardt's senses. Vainly did he combat the drowsiness; the silence, the dim light and the heavy fumes at last laid their benumbing spell upon him and lulled him to sleep. His head fell back and his eyes closed.

But his sleep was far from calm. Weird dreams beset him. Again he lived over the terrible ordeal of the preceding night. Again he saw himself surrounded, hemmed in by a vast concourse. Again he saw the phantom at the shrine, the phantom with Ginevra's face, – Ginevra's eyes; again he heard her strange luring words. The wine spilled from the sacred chalice looked like blood on the marble stairs of the altar. He heard his own voice, strange, unearthly; gripped by a choking sensation he rushed from the crowded Basilica, the air of which seemed to stifle him, – rushed in pursuit of the phantom with Ginevra's face, – Ginevra's eyes. At the threshold of the church a hand seized his own, – a woman's hand. How long, since he had felt a woman's hand in his own! It was cold as the skin of a serpent, yet it burnt like fire. And the hand drew him onward, ever onward. There was no resisting the gaze of those eyes which burnt into his own.

A deep azure overspread the sky. The trees were clothed in the raiment of spring. Blindly he staggered onward. Blindly he followed his strange guide through groves, fragrant with the perfumes of flowers, – the air seemed as a bower of love. The hand drew him onward with its chill, yet burning touch. The way seemed endless. Faster and faster grew their speed. At last they seemed to devour the way. The earth flitted beneath them as a gray shadow. The black trees fled in the darkness like an army in rout. They delved into glens, gloomy and chill. The night-birds clamoured in the forest deeps; will-o'-the-wisps gleamed over stagnant pools and now and then the burning eyes of spectres pierced the gloom, who lined a dark avenue in their nebulous shrouds.

And the hand drew him onward – ever onward! Neither spoke. Neither questioned. At last he found himself in a churchyard. The scent of faded roses hovered on the air like the memory of a long-forgotten love. They passed tombstone after tombstone, gray, crumbling, with defaced inscriptions; the spectral light of the moon in its last quarter dimly illumined their path till at last they reached a stone half hidden behind tall weeds and covered with ivy, moss and lichen. The earth had been thrown up from the grave, which yawned to receive its inmate. Owls and bats flocked and flapped about them with strange cries; the foxes barked their answer far away and a thousand evil sounds rose from the stillness. As they paused before the yawning grave he gazed up into his companion's face. Pale as marble Ginevra stood by his side, the long white shroud flowing unbroken to her feet. Through the smile of her parted lips gleamed her white teeth, as she pointed downward, to the narrow berth, then her arms encircled his neck like rings of steel; her eyes seemed to pierce his own, he felt unable to breathe, he felt his strength giving way, together they were sinking into the night of the grave —

A shrill cry resounded through the silence of the Basilica. Awakened by the terrible oppression of his dream, – roused by the sound of his own voice, Eckhardt opened his eyes and gazed about, fearstruck and dismayed. After a moment or two he arose, to shake off the spell, which had laid its benumbing touch upon him, when he suddenly recoiled, then stood rooted to the spot with wild, dilated eyes. At the foot of the Pontiff's bier stood the tall form of a woman. The fitful rays of the cresset-lantern above him illumined her white, flowing garb. A white transparent veil drooped from her head to her feet; but the diaphanous texture revealed a face pale and beautiful, and eyes which held him enthralled with their slumbrous, mesmeric spell. Breathless with horror Eckhardt gazed upon the apparition; was it but the continuation of his dream or was he going mad?

As the phantom slowly began to recede into the shadows, Eckhardt with a supreme effort shook off the lethargy which benumbed his limbs. He dared remain no longer inert, he must penetrate the mystery, whatever the cost, whatever the risk. With imploring, outstretched arms he staggered after the apparition, – if apparition indeed it was, – straining his gaze towards her slowly receding form – and so absorbed was he in his pursuit, that he saw not the shadow which glided into the mortuary chapel. Suddenly some dark object hurled itself against him; quick as a flash, and ere he could draw a second breath, a dagger gleamed before Eckhardt's eyes; he felt the contact of steel with his iron breast-plate, he heard the weapon snap asunder and fall at his feet, but when he recovered from his surprise, the would-be assassin, without risking a second stroke, had fled and the apparition seemed to have melted into air. Eckhardt found himself alone with the dead body of the Pontiff.

With loud voice he called for the sentry, stationed without, and when that worthy at last made his appearance, his heavy, drooping eyelids and his drowsy gait did not argue in favour of too great a watchfulness. Making the sentry doff his heavy iron shoes, Eckhardt bade him secure a torch, then he made the round of the chapel, preceded by his stolid companion. The Margrave's anxiety found slight reflex in the coarse features of his subordinate, who understood just enough of what was wanted of him to comprehend the disappointment in his master's countenance. As every door was locked and bolted, the only supposition remaining was that the bravo had discovered some outlet from within. But Eckhardt's tests proved unavailing. The floor and the walls seemed of solid masonry which to penetrate seemed impossible. The broken blade offered no clue either to the author or perpetrator of this deed of darkness, and after commanding the sentry to keep his watch for the remainder of the night, inside, Eckhardt endeavoured once more to compose himself to rest, while the man-at-arms stretched his huge limbs before the pontifical bier.

The bells of St. Peter's chimed shrill and loud as a mighty multitude, greater even than that of the preceding night, swept within its portals toward the chapel of Boniface VIII. There, filling every inch of space, only the more fortunate of the crowd gained a glimpse of the coffin, which had been closed, for the corpse was decaying fast, the effect of the terrible and mysterious poison which had been mixed in the holy wine. At length, as the solemn chant of the choristers began to swell through the edifice, preluding the celebration of the Death Mass for the departed Pontiff, a silence as of the tomb pervaded the vast edifice.

Thus the day wore on, – thus the day departed.

The solemn chant had died away. The sun of another day had set.

The funeral cortege set in motion. Fifty torches surrounded the bier and so numerous were the lamps in the windows of the streets through which the funeral procession passed, so abundant the showers of roses which poured upon the bier, that the people declared it surpassed the procession Corpus Domini.

Interchanging solemn hymns, the cortege arrived at last before the church of San Pietro in Montorio, where the body was to be placed in the niche provisionally appointed, where it was to remain till the death of the succeeding pope should consign it to its final place of rest.

The ceremony ended, the people dispersed. Few loiterers remained on the pavement of the church. The sacristan announced that it was about to be closed, and waiting until, as he thought, all had departed, he turned the ponderous doors on their hinges and shut them with a crash. The report, reverberating from arch to arch, shook the ancient sepulchre through its every angle. The lamps, which at wide intervals burned feebly before the shrines of the saints, lent additional solemnity and awe to the obscurity of the place. One torch was left to light a narrow circle round the entrance to the crypt.

Silence had succeeded when out of the shadow of the tomb there passed two figures, who upon entering the narrow circle of light emanating from the dim, flickering taper, faced each other in mute amazement and surprise.

"What are you doing here?" spoke the one, in the garb of a monk, as they stood revealed to each other in the half gloom.

With a gesture of horror and dismay the other, a woman, wrapt in a dark mantle, which covered her tall and stately form from head to foot, turned away from him.

"I give you back the question," she replied, dread and fear in her tones.

"My presence here concerns the dead," said the monk.

"They say, the hand of the dead Pontiff has touched his murderer."

The monk paled. For a moment he almost lost his self-control.

"He had to die some way," he replied with a shrug.

"Monster!" she exclaimed, recoiling from him, as if she had seen a snake in her path.

"He travelled in godly company," said the monk Cyprianus with a dark laugh. "An entire Conclave will welcome him at the gates of Paradise. Why are you here?" the monk concluded, a shade of suspicion lingering in his tones.

"Am I accountable to you?" flashed Theodora.

"Being what you are through my intercession, – perhaps," replied the monk.

She measured him with a look of unutterable contempt.

"Because the prying eyes of a perjured wretch, who screened his vileness behind the cassock of the monk, dared to offend the majesty of Death and to disturb the repose of the departed, you come to me like some importunate slave dissatisfied with his hire? You dare to constitute yourself my guardian, to call Theodora a thing of your creation? Take care! You speak to a descendant of Marozia. I have had enough of whimpering monks. For the service demanded of you in a certain hour you have been paid. So clear the way, and trouble me no more!"

The monk did not stir.

"The fair Theodora has not inherited Ginevra's memory," he said with a sneer. "The gold was to purchase the repose of Ginevra's soul."

Theodora shuddered, as if oppressed with the memories of the past.

"Candles and masses," she said, as one soliloquizing. "How signally they failed!"

The monk shrugged his shoulders.

"If a thousand Aves, and tapers six foot long fail in their purpose, – what undiscovered penance could perform the miracle?"

There was something in the gleam of the monk's eye which brought Theodora to herself.

"What do you want of me?" she questioned curtly.

"The fulfilment of your pledge."

"You have been paid."

The monk waved his hands.

"'Tis not for gold, I have ventured this – "

And he pointed to the crypts below.

She recoiled from him, regarding him with a fixed stare.

"What do you want of me?" she again asked with a look, in which hate and wonder struggled for the mastery.

"The new Conclave will be made up of your creatures. Their choice must fall – on me!"

"On the perjured assassin?" shrieked the woman. "Out of my way! I've done with you!"

The monk stirred not. From his drawn white face two eyes like glowing coals burnt into those of the woman.

"Remember your pledge!"

"Out of my way, assassin! Dare you so high? The chair of St. Peter shall never be defiled by such a one – as you!"

"And thus Theodora rewards the service rendered to Ginevra," the monk said, breathing hard, and making a step towards her. She watched him narrowly, her hand concealed under her cloak.

"Dare but to touch the hem of this robe with your blood-stained hands – "

Cyprianus retreated before the menace in her eyes.

"I thought I had lived too long for surprises," he said calmly. "Yet, considering that I bear here in this bosom a secret, which one, I know, would give an empire to obtain, – Cyprianus can be found tractable."

With a last glance at the woman's face, stony in its marble-cold disdain, the monk turned and left the church through the sacristy. For a moment Theodora remained as one spell-bound, then she drew her mantle more closely about her and left the sepulchre by an exit situated in an opposite direction. No sooner had her footsteps died to silence when two shadowy forms sped noiselessly through the incense-saturated dusk of S. Pietro in Montorio, pausing on the threshold of the door, through which the monk Cyprianus had gained the open.

"I need that man!" whispered the taller into the ear of his companion, pointing with shadowy finger to the swiftly vanishing form of the monk.

The other nodded with a horrid grin, which glowed upon his visage like phosphorus upon a skull.

With a quick nod of understanding, the Grand Chamberlain and John of the Catacombs quitted the steps of S. Pietro in Montorio.

Darkness fell.

Night enveloped the trembling world with her star embroidered robe of dark azure.