CHAPTER I

THE FIRES OF ST. JOHN

It was the eve of St. John in the year of our Lord Nine Hundred

Thirty-Five.

High on the cypress-clad hills of the Eternal City the evening sun had

flamed valediction, and the last lights of the dying day were fading

away on the waves of the Tiber whose changeless tide has rolled down

through centuries of victory and defeat, of pride and shame, of glory

and disgrace.

The purple dusk began to weave its phantom veil over the ancient

capital of the Cæsars and a round blood-red moon was climbing slowly

above the misty crests of the Alban Hills, draining the sky of its

crimson 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 to

sing 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 the

star-embroidered canopy of the heavens, a vast concourse of people

began to pour from shadowy lanes and thoroughfares, from sanctuaries

and hostelries, into the Piazza Navona. Romans and peasants from the

Campagna, folk from Tivoli, Velletri, Corneto and Terracina, pilgrims

from every land of the then known world, Africans and Greeks, Lombards

and Franks, Sicilians, Neapolitans, Syrians and Kopts, Spaniards and

Saxons, men from the frozen coast of Thulé and the burning sands of

Arabia, traders from the Levant, sorcerers from the banks of the Nile,

conjurers from the mythical shores of the Ganges, adventurers from the

Barbary coast, gypsies from the plains of Sarmatia, monks from the

Thebaide, Normans, Gascons and folk from Aquitaine.

In the Piazza Navona booths and stalls had been erected for the sale of

figs and honey, and the fragrant products of the Roman osterié.

Strings of colored lanterns danced and quivered in the air. The fitful

light from the torches, sending spiral columns of resinous smoke into

the night-blue ether, shed a lurid glow over the motley, fantastic

crowd 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 ancient

Circus Agonalis, which at one time occupied the site of the Piazza

Navona, and regarding the bewildering spectacle which presented itself

to his gaze, with the air of one unaccustomed to such scenes, stood

a stranger whose countenance revealed little of the joy of life that

should be the heritage of early manhood.

His sombre and austere bearing, the abstracted mood and far-away look

of the eyes would have marked him a dreamer in a society of men who had

long been strangers to dreams. For stern reality ruled the world and

the lives of a race untouched alike by the glories of the past and the

dawn of the Pre-Renaissance.

He wore the customary pilgrim's habit, almost colorless from the

effects of wind and weather. Now and then a chance passer-by would

cast shy glances at the lone stranger, endeavoring to reconcile his age

and his garb, and wondering at the nature of the transgression that

weighed so heavily upon one apparently so young in years.

And well might his countenance give rise to speculation, were it but

for the determined and stolid air of aloofness which seemed to render

futile every endeavor to entice him into the seething maelstrom of

humanity on the part of those who took note of his dark and austere

form as they crossed the Piazza.

Tristan of Avalon was in his thirtieth year, though the hardships

of a long and tedious journey, consummated entirely afoot, made him

appear of maturer age. The face, long exposed to the relentless rays

of the sun, had taken on the darker tints of the Southland. The nose

was straight, the grey eyes tinged with melancholy, the hair was of

chestnut brown, the forehead high and lofty. The ensemble was that of

one who, unaccustomed to the pilgrim's garb, moves uneasily among his

kind. Yet the atmosphere of frivolity, while irritating and jarring

upon his senses, did not permit him to avert his gaze from the orgy of

color, the pandemonium of jollity, that whirled and piped and roared

about him as the flow of mighty waters.

One of many strange wayfarers bound upon business of one sort or

another to the ancient seat of empire, whose worldly sceptre had long

passed from her palsied grip to the distant shores of the Bosporus,

Tristan had arrived during the early hours of the day in the feudal and

turbulent witches' cauldron of the Rome of the Millennium.

And with him constituents of many peoples, from far and near, had

reached the Leonine quarter from the Tiburtine road, after months of

tedious travel, to worship at the holy shrines, to do penance and to

obtain absolution for real or imaginary transgressions.

From Bosnia, from Servia and Hungary, from Negropont and the islands

of the Greek Archipelago, from Trebizond and the Crimea it came

endlessly floating to the former capital of the Cæsars, a waste drift

of palaces and temples and antique civilizations, for the End of Time

was said to be nigh, and the dread of impending judgment lay heavily

upon the tottering world of the Millennium.

A grotesque and motley crowd it was, that sought and found a temporary

haven in the lowly taverns, erected for the accommodation of perennial

pilgrims, chiefly mean ill-favored dwellings of clay and timber,

divided into racial colonies, so that pilgrims of the same land and

creed might dwell together.

A very Babel of voices assailed Tristan's ear, for the ancient sonorous

tongue had long degenerated into the lingua Franca of bad Latin, though

there were some who could still, though in a broken and barbarous

fashion, make themselves understood, when all other modes of expression

failed them.

All about him throbbed the strange, weird music of zitherns and lutes

and the thrumming of the Egyptian Sistrum. The air of the summer night

was heavy with the odor of incense, garlic and roses. The higher

risen moon gleamed pale as an alabaster lamp in the dark azure of

the heavens, trembling luminously on the waters of a fountain which

occupied the centre of the Piazza Navona.

Here lolled some scattered groups of the populace, discussing the

events of the day, jesting, gesticulating, drinking or love-making.

Others roamed about, engaged in conversation or enjoying the antics of

two Smyrniote tumblers, whose contortions elicited storms of applause

from an appreciative audience.

A crowd of maskers had invaded the Piazza Navona, and the uncommon

spectacle at last drew Tristan from his point of vantage and caused

him to mingle with the crowds, which increased with every moment,

their shouts and gibes and the clatter of their tongues becoming

quite deafening to his ears. Richly decorated chariots, drawn by

spirited steeds, rolled past in a continuous procession. The cries of

the wine-venders and fruit-sellers mingled with the acclaim of the

multitudes. Now and then was heard the fanfare of a company of horsemen

who clattered past, bound upon some feudal adventure.

Weary of walking, distracted by the ever increasing clamor, oppressed

with a sense of loneliness amidst the surging crowds, whose festal

spirit 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 gradually

calm in the monotony of the gurgling flow of the water, which spurted

from the grotesque mouths of lions and dolphins.

The stars sparkled in subdued lustre above the dark, towering cypresses

which crowned the adjacent eminence of Monte Testaccio, and the

distant palaces and ruins stood forth in distinctness of splendor and

desolation beneath the luminous brightness of the moonlit heavens.

White shreds of mist, like sorrowing spirits, floated above the winding

course of the Tiber, and enveloped in a diaphanous haze the cloisters

upon St. Bartholomew's Island at the base of Mount Aventine.

For a time Tristan's eyes roamed over the kaleidoscopic confusion which

met his gaze on every turn. His ear was assailed by the droning sound

of many voices that filled the air about him, when he was startled by

the approach of two men, who, but for their halting gait, might have

passed unheeded in the rolling sea of humanity that ebbed and flowed

over the Piazza.

Basil, the Grand Chamberlain, was endowed with the elegance of the

effeminate Roman noble of his time. Supple as an eel, he nevertheless

suggested great physical strength. The skin was of a deep olive tinge.

The black, beady eyes were a marked feature of the countenance.

Inscrutable and steadfast in regard, with a hint of mockery and

cynicism, coupled with an abiding alertness, they seemed to penetrate

the 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 him

and on his companion, a hunchback garbed entirely in black, from the

Spanish hat, which he wore slouched over his face, to the black hose

and sandals that encased his feet. A large red scar across the low

forehead heightened the repulsiveness of his countenance. There was

something strangely sinister in his sunken, cadaverous cheeks, the low

brow, the inflamed eyelids, and his limping gait.

Without perceiving or heeding the presence of Tristan they paused as by

some preconcerted signal.

As the taller of the two pushed back the hood of his pilgrim garb, as

if to cool his brow in the night breeze, Tristan peered into a face not

lacking in sensuous refinement. Dark supercilious eyes roved from one

object to another, without dwelling long on any particular one. There

was somewhat of a cynical look in the downward curve of the eyebrows,

the thin straight lips and the slightly aquiline nose, which seemed to

imbue him with an air of recklessness and daring, that ill consorted

with his monkish garb.

Their discourse was at first almost unintelligible to Tristan. The

language of the common people had, at this period of the history of

Rome, not only lost its form, but almost the very echo of the Latin

tongue.

After a time, however, Tristan distinguished a name, and, upon

listening more attentively, the burden of the message began to unfold

itself.

"Why then have you ventured out of your hell-hole of iniquity, when

discovery means death or worse?" said Basil, the Grand Chamberlain. "Do

the keeps and dungeons of the Emperor's Tomb so allure you? Or do you

trust 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 Gobbo

in 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 Chamberlain

sardonically. "I have had it in mind at some time or other to relieve

the Grand Penitentiary. The good man's lungs must be well nigh bursting

with the foul air down there by the Tomb of the Apostle. He will

welcome 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 my

spiritual welfare. Know you what I replied?"--

The bravo gave a shrug.

"'Father,' I said, when he urged me to confess, 'pray shrive some one

worthier than myself. But--if you must needs have a confession--I shall

whisper into your holy ear so many interesting little episodes, so many

spicy peccadillos, and--to enhance their interest--mention some names

so 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 shade

of Marozia will henceforth be permitted to haunt the crypts of Castel

San Angelo--merely for the sake of decorum. There is nothing less well

bred 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 Tuscany

were a carnival. One could at least speed the travails of some one who

required swift absolution."

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

"It is always the unexpurgated that happens," Basil replied

sardonically.

"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 you

will become an apt pupil. Remember! He who is dead is dead and long

live 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 death

might be standing unseen at his elbow.

"Who would end one's days in odious immaculacy," Basil interposed

grandiloquently, "even though you will not incur that reproach from

those who know you from report, or who have visited your haunts? But

to the point. There are certain forces at work in Rome which make

breathing in this fetid air a rather cumbersome process."

"I doubt me if they could teach your lordship any new tricks," Il Gobbo

replied, 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 on

the Pincian Hill?"

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

speaker.

There was something in the gleam of his interrogator's eyes that caused

Il Gobbo to hesitate. But his native insolence came to the rescue of

his failing courage.

"Ask rather, what do they not say of it, my lord! It would require less

time 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 befuddle

the brain,--rob it of its power to plot. Perchance the recital of these

mysteries 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 pulley

never rest--of horrors that make the blood freeze in the veins--of

phantoms of fair women that haunt the silent galleries--strange wails

of anguish that sound nightly from the subterranean vaults--"

"A goodly account that ought vastly to interest the Grand

Penitentiary--were it--with proper decorum--whispered in his ear. It

would 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 at

ease. "Perhaps your lordship will now tell me why this fondness for my

society?"

"To confess truth, good Il Gobbo, I did not join you merely to meditate

upon the pleasant things of life. Rather to be inspired to some

extraordinary adventure such as my hungry soul yearns for. As for the

nature thereof, I shall leave that to the notoriously wicked fertility

of 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 sudden

indigestion? 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 to

a crisp in the everlasting flames if I draw steel against the Lord's

anointed."

"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 me

with his especial attention, I too have something to lose, which some

folk hereabout call their honor."

"Your honor!" sneered the Grand Chamberlain. "It is like the skin of an

onion. Peel off one, there's another beneath."

"My skin then--" the bravo growled doggedly. "However--if the lord

Basil will confide in me--"

"Pray lustily to your patron saint and frequent the chapel of the

Grand Penitentiary," replied Basil suavely, beckoning to Il Gobbo to

follow him. "But beware, lest in your zeal to confess you mistake my

peccadillos for your own."

With these words the two worthies slowly retraced their steps in the

direction of Mount Aventine and were soon lost to sight.