Rienzi, the Last of the Roman Tribunes

No fear disturbed the long current of his thoughts. His brothers were the leaders of Rienzi’s hireling army—that army were his creatures. Over Rienzi himself he assumed the right of a creditor. Thus against one party he deemed himself secure. For the friends of the Pope, he had supported himself with private, though cautious, letters from Albornoz, who desired only to make use of him for the return of the Roman Barons; and with the heads of the latter we have already witnessed his negotiations. Thus was he fitted, as he thought, to examine, to tamper with all parties, and to select from each the materials necessary for his own objects.

The open appearance of Montreal excited in Rome no inconsiderable sensation. The friends of the Barons gave out that Rienzi was in league with the Grand Company; and that he was to sell the imperial city to the plunder and pillage of Barbarian robbers. The effrontery with which Montreal (against whom, more than once, the Pontiff had thundered his bulls) appeared in the Metropolitan City of the Church, was made yet more insolent by the recollection of that stern justice which had led the Tribune to declare open war against all the robbers of Italy: and this audacity was linked with the obvious reflection, that the brothers of the bold Provencal were the instruments of Rienzi’s return. So quickly spread suspicion through the city, that Montreal’s presence alone would in a few weeks have sufficed to ruin the Senator. Meanwhile, the natural boldness of Montreal silenced every whisper of prudence; and, blinded by the dazzle of his hopes, the Knight of St. John, as if to give double importance to his coming, took up his residence in a sumptuous palace, and his retinue rivalled, in the splendour of garb and pomp, the display of Rienzi himself in his earlier and more brilliant power.

Amidst the growing excitement, Angelo Villani arrived at Rome. The character of this young man had been formed by his peculiar circumstances. He possessed qualities which often mark the Illegitimate as with a common stamp. He was insolent—like most of those who hold a doubtful rank; and while ashamed of his bastardy, was arrogant of the supposed nobility of his unknown parentage. The universal ferment and agitation of Italy at that day rendered ambition the most common of all the passions, and thus ambition, in all its many shades and varieties, forces itself into our delineations of character in this history. Though not for Angelo Villani were the dreams of the more lofty and generous order of that sublime infirmity, he was strongly incited by the desire and resolve to rise. He had warm affections and grateful impulses; and his fidelity to his patron had been carried to a virtue: but from his irregulated and desultory education, and the reckless profligacy of those with whom, in ante-chambers and guard-rooms, much of his youth had been passed, he had neither high principles nor an enlightened honour. Like most Italians, cunning and shrewd, he scrupled not at any deceit that served a purpose or a friend. His strong attachment to Rienzi had been unconsciously increased by the gratification of pride and vanity, flattered by the favour of so celebrated a man. Both self-interest and attachment urged him to every effort to promote the views and safety of one at once his benefactor and patron; and on undertaking his present mission, his only thought was to fulfil it with the most complete success. Far more brave and daring than was common with the Italians, something of the hardihood of an Ultra-Montane race gave nerve and vigour to his craft; and from what his art suggested, his courage never shrunk.

When Rienzi had first detailed to him the objects of his present task, he instantly called to mind his adventure with the tall soldier in the crowd at Avignon. “If ever thou wantest a friend, seek him in Walter de Montreal,” were words that had often rung in his ear, and they now recurred to him with prophetic distinctness. He had no doubt that it was Montreal himself whom he had seen. Why the Great Captain should have taken this interest in him, Angelo little cared to conjecture. Most probably it was but a crafty pretence—one of the common means by which the Chief of the Grand Company attracted to himself the youths of Italy, as well as the warriors of the North. He only thought now how he could turn the Knight’s promise to account. What more easy than to present himself to Montreal—remind him of the words—enter his service—and thus effectually watch his conduct? The office of spy was not that which would have pleased every mind, but it shocked not the fastidiousness of Angelo Villani; and the fearful hatred with which his patron had often spoken of the avaricious and barbarian robber—the scourge of his native land,—had infected the young man, who had much of the arrogant and mock patriotism of the Romans, with a similar sentiment. More vindictive even than grateful, he bore, too, a secret grudge against Montreal’s brothers, whose rough address had often wounded his pride; and, above all, his early recollections of the fear and execration in which Ursula seemed ever to hold the terrible Fra Moreale, impressed him with a vague belief of some ancient wrong to himself or his race, perpetrated by the Provencal, which he was not ill-pleased to have the occasion to avenge. In truth, the words of Ursula, mystic and dark as they were in their denunciation, had left upon Villani’s boyish impressions an unaccountable feeling of antipathy and hatred to the man it was now his object to betray. For the rest, every device seemed to him decorous and justifiable, so that it saved his master, served his country, and advanced himself.

Montreal was alone in his chamber when it was announced to him that a young Italian craved an audience. Professionally open to access, he forthwith gave admission to the applicant.

The Knight of St. John instantly recognised the page he had encountered at Avignon; and when Angelo Villani said, with easy boldness, “I have come to remind Sir Walter de Montreal of a promise—”

The Knight interrupted him with cordial frankness—“Thou needest not—I remember it. Dost thou now require my friendship?”

“I do noble Signor!” answered Angelo; “I know not where else to seek a patron.”

“Canst thou read and write? I fear me not.”

“I have been taught those arts,” replied Villani.

“It is well. Is thy birth gentle?”

“It is.”

“Better still;—thy name?”

“Angelo Villani.”

“I take thy blue eyes and low broad brow,” said Montreal, with a slight sigh, “in pledge of thy truth. Henceforth, Angelo Villani, thou art in the list of my secretaries. Another time thou shalt tell me more of thyself. Thy service dates from this day. For the rest, no man ever wanted wealth who served Walter de Montreal; nor advancement, if he served him faithfully. My closet, through yonder door, is thy waiting-room. Ask for, and send hither, Lusignan of Lyons; he is my chief scribe, and will see to thy comforts, and instruct thee in thy business.”

Angelo withdrew—Montreal’s eye followed him.

“A strange likeness!” said he, musingly and sadly; “my heart leaps to that boy!”

Chapter 10.III. Montreal’s Banquet

Some few days after the date of the last chapter, Rienzi received news from Rome, which seemed to produce in him a joyous and elated excitement. His troops still lay before Palestrina, and still the banners of the Barons waved over its unconquered walls. In truth, the Italians employed half their time in brawls amongst themselves; the Velletritrani had feuds with the people of Tivoli, and the Romans were still afraid of conquering the Barons;—“The hornet,” said they, “stings worse after he is dead; and neither an Orsini, a Savelli, nor a Colonna, was ever known to forgive.”

Again and again had the captains of his army assured the indignant Senator that the fortress was impregnable, and that time and money were idly wasted upon the siege. Rienzi knew better, but he concealed his thoughts.

He now summoned to his tent the brothers of Provence, and announced to them his intention of returning instantly to Rome. “The mercenaries shall continue the siege under our Lieutenant, and you, with my Roman Legion, shall accompany me. Your brother, Sir Walter, and I, both want your presence; we have affairs to arrange between us. After a few days I shall raise recruits in the city, and return.”

This was what the brothers desired; they approved, with evident joy, the Senator’s proposition.

Rienzi next sent for the lieutenant of his bodyguard, the same Riccardo Annibaldi whom the reader will remember in the earlier part of this work, as the antagonist of Montreal’s lance. This young man—one of the few nobles who espoused the cause of the Senator—had evinced great courage and military ability, and promised fair (should Fate spare his life (It appears that this was the same Annibaldi who was afterwards slain in an affray:—Petrarch lauds his valour and laments his fate.)) to become one of the best Captains of his time.

“Dear Annibaldi,” said Rienzi; “at length I can fulfil the project on which we have privately conferred. I take with me to Rome the two Provencal Captains—I leave you chief of the army. Palestrina will yield now—eh!—ha, ha, ha!—Palestrina will yield now!”

“By my right hand, I think so, Senator,” replied Annibaldi. “These foreigners have hitherto only stirred up quarrels amongst ourselves, and if not cowards are certainly traitors!”

“Hush, hush, hush! Traitors! The learned Arimbaldo, the brave Brettone, traitors! Fie on it! No, no; they are very excellent, honourable men, but not lucky in the camp;—not lucky in the camp;—better speed to them in the city! And now to business.”

The Senator then detailed to Annibaldi the plan he himself had formed for taking the town, and the military skill of Annibaldi at once recognised its feasibility.

With his Roman troop, and Montreal’s brothers, one at either hand, Rienzi then departed to Rome.

That night Montreal gave a banquet to Pandulfo di Guido, and to certain of the principal citizens, whom one by one he had already sounded, and found hollow at heart to the cause of the Senator.

Pandulfo sate at the right hand of the Knight of St. John, and Montreal lavished upon him the most courteous attentions.

“Pledge me in this—it is from the Vale of Chiana, near Monte Pulciano,” said Montreal. “I think I have heard bookmen say (you know, Signor Pandulfo, we ought all to be bookmen now!) that the site was renowned of old. In truth, the wine hath a racy flavour.”

“I hear,” said Bruttini, one of the lesser Barons, (a stanch friend to the Colonna,) “that in this respect the innkeeper’s son has put his book-learning to some use: he knows every place where the wine grows richest.”

“What! the Senator is turned wine-bibber!” said Montreal, quaffing a vast goblet full; “that must unfit him for business—‘tis a pity.”

“Verily, yes,” said Pandulfo; “a man at the head of a state should be temperate—I never drink wine unmixed.”

“Ah,” whispered Montreal, “if your calm good sense ruled Rome, then, indeed, the metropolis of Italy might taste of peace. Signor Vivaldi,”—and the host turned towards a wealthy draper,—“these disturbances are bad for trade.”

“Very, very!” groaned the draper.

“The Barons are your best customers,” quoth the minor noble.

“Much, much!” said the draper.

“‘Tis a pity that they are thus roughly expelled,” said Montreal, in a melancholy tone. “Would it not be possible, if the Senator (I drink his health) were less rash—less zealous, rather,—to unite free institutions with the return of the Barons?—such should be the task of a truly wise statesman!”

“It surely might be possible,” returned Vivaldi; “the Savelli alone spend more with me than all the rest of Rome.”

“I know not if it be possible,” said Bruttini; “but I do know that it is an outrage to all decorum that an innkeeper’s son should be enabled to make a solitude of the palaces of Rome.”

“It certainly seems to indicate too vulgar a desire of mob favour,” said Montreal. “However, I trust we shall harmonize all these differences. Rienzi, perhaps,—nay, doubtless, means well!”

“I would,” said Vivaldi, who had received his cue, “that we might form a mixed constitution—Plebeians and Patricians, each in their separate order.”

“But,” said Montreal, gravely, “so new an experiment would demand great physical force.”

“Why, true; but we might call in an umpire—a foreigner who had no interest in either faction—who might protect the new Buono Stato; a Podesta, as we have done before—Brancaleone, for instance. How well and wisely he ruled! that was a golden age for Rome. A Podesta for ever!—that’s my theory.”

“You need not seek far for the president of your council,” said Montreal, smiling at Pandulfo; “a citizen at once popular, well-born, and wealthy, may be found at my right hand.”

Pandulfo hemmed, and coloured.

Montreal proceeded. “A committee of trades might furnish an honourable employment to Signor Vivaldi; and the treatment of all foreign affairs—the employment of armies, &c., might be left to the Barons, with a more open competition, Signor di Bruttini, to the Barons of the second order than has hitherto been conceded to their birth and importance. Sirs, will you taste the Malvoisie?”

“Still,” said Vivaldi, after a pause—(Vivaldi anticipated at least the supplying with cloth the whole of the Grand Company)—“still, such a moderate and well-digested constitution would never be acceded to by Rienzi.”

“Why should it? what need of Rienzi?” exclaimed Bruttini. “Rienzi may take another trip to Bohemia.”

“Gently, gently,” said Montreal; “I do not despair. All open violence against the Senator would strengthen his power. No, no, humble him—admit the Barons, and then insist on your own terms. Between the two factions you might then establish a fitting balance. And in order to keep your new constitution from the encroachment of either extreme, there are warriors and knights, too, who for a certain rank in the great city of Rome would maintain horse and foot at its service. We Ultra-Montanes are often harshly judged; we are wanderers and Ishmaelites, solely because we have no honourable place of rest. Now, if I—”

“Ay, if you, noble Montreal!” said Vivaldi.

The company remained hushed in breathless attention, when suddenly there was heard—deep, solemn, muffled,—the great bell of the Capitol!

“Hark!” said Vivaldi, the bell: “It tolls for execution: an unwonted hour!”

“Sure, the Senator has not returned!” exclaimed Pandulfo di Guido, turning pale.

“No, no,” quoth Bruttini, “it is but a robber, caught two nights ago in Romagna. I heard that he was to die tonight.”

At the word “robber,” Montreal changed countenance slightly. The wine circulated—the bell continued to toll—its suddenness over, it ceased to alarm. Conversation flowed again.

“What were you saying, Sir Knight?” said Vivaldi.

“Why, let me think on’t;—oh, speaking of the necessity of supporting a new state by force, I said that if I—”

“Ah, that was it!” quoth Bruttini, thumping the table.

“If I were summoned to your aid—summoned, mind ye, and absolved by the Pope’s Legate of my former sins—(they weigh heavily on me, gentles)—I would myself guard your city from foreign foe and civil disturbance, with my gallant swordsmen. Not a Roman citizen should contribute a ‘danaro’ to the cost.”

“Viva Fra Moreale!” cried Bruttini; and the shout was echoed by all the boon companions.

“Enough for me,” continued Montreal, “to expiate my offences. Ye know, gentlemen, my order is vowed to God and the Church—a warrior-monk am I! Enough for me to expiate my offences, I say, in the defence of the Holy City. Yet I, too, have my private and more earthly views,—who is above them? I—the bell changes its note!”

“It is but the change that preludes execution—the poor robber is about to die!”

Montreal crossed himself, and resumed:—“I am a knight and a noble,” said he, proudly; “the profession I have followed is that of arms; but—I will not disguise it—mine equals have regarded me as one who has stained his scutcheon by too reckless a pursuit of glory and of gain. I wish to reconcile myself with my order—to purchase a new name—to vindicate myself to the Grand Master and the Pontiff. I have had hints, gentles,—hints, that I might best promote my interest by restoring order to the Papal metropolis. The Legate Albornoz (here is his letter) recommends me to keep watch upon the Senator.”

“Surely,” interrupted Pandulfo, “I hear steps below.”

“The mob going to the robber’s execution,” said Bruttini; “proceed, Sir Knight!”

“And,” continued Montreal, surveying his audience before he proceeded farther, “what think ye—(I do but ask your opinion, wiser than mine)—what think ye, as a fitting precaution against too arbitrary a power in the Senator—what think ye of the return of the Colonna, and the bold Barons of Palestrina?”

“Here’s to their health!” cried Vivaldi, rising.

As by a sudden impulse, the company rose. “To the health of the besieged Barons!” was shouted aloud.

“Next, what if—(I do but humbly suggest)—what if you gave the Senator a colleague?—it is no affront to him. It was but as yesterday that one of the Colonna, who was Senator, received a colleague in Bertoldo Orsini.”

“A most wise precaution,” cried Vivaldi. “And where a colleague like Pandulfo di Guido?”

“Viva Pandulfo di Guido!” cried the guests, and again their goblets were drained to the bottom.

“And if in this I can assist ye by fair words with the Senator, (ye know he owes me monies—my brothers have served him), command Walter de Montreal.”

“And if fair words fail?” said Vivaldi.

“The Grand Company—(heed me, ye are the counsellors)—the Grand Company is accustomed to forced marches!”

“Viva Fra Moreale!” cried Bruttini and Vivaldi, simultaneously. “A health to all, my friends;” continued Bruttini; “a health to the Barons, Rome’s old friends; to Pandulfo di Guido, the Senator’s new colleague, and to Fra Moreale, Rome’s new Podesta.”

“The bell has ceased,” said Vivaldi, putting down his goblet.

“Heaven have mercy on the robber!” added Bruttini.

Scarce had he spoken, ere three taps were heard at the door—the guests looked at each other in dumb amaze.

“New guests!” said Montreal. “I asked some trusty friends to join us this evening. By my faith they are welcome! Enter!”

The door opened slowly; three by three entered, in complete armour, the guards of the Senator. On they marched, regular and speechless. They surrounded the festive board—they filled the spacious hall, and the lights of the banquet were reflected upon their corselets as on a wall of steel.

Not a syllable was uttered by the feasters, they were as if turned to stone. Presently the guards gave way, and Rienzi himself appeared. He approached the table, and folding his arms, turned his gaze deliberately from guest to guest, till at last, his eyes rested on Montreal, who had also risen, and who alone of the party had recovered the amaze of the moment.

And there, as these two men, each so celebrated, so proud, able, and ambitious, stood, front to front—it was literally as if the rival Spirits of Force and Intellect, Order and Strife, of the Falchion and the Fasces—the Antagonist Principles by which empires are ruled and empires overthrown, had met together, incarnate and opposed. They stood, both silent,—as if fascinated by each other’s gaze,—loftier in stature, and nobler in presence than all around.

Montreal spoke first, and with a forced smile.

“Senator of Rome!—dare I believe that my poor banquet tempts thee, and may I trust that these armed men are a graceful compliment to one to whom arms have been a pastime?”

Rienzi answered not, but waved his hand to his guards. Montreal was seized on the instant. Again he surveyed the guests—as a bird from the rattle-snake,—shrunk Pandulfo di Guido, trembling, motionless, aghast, from the glittering eye of the Senator. Slowly Rienzi raised his fatal hand towards the unhappy citizen—Pandulfo saw,—felt his doom,—shrieked,—and fell senseless in the arms of the soldiers.

One other and rapid glance cast the Senator round the board, and then, with a disdainful smile, as if anxious for no meaner prey, turned away. Not a breath had hitherto passed his lips—all had been dumb show—and his grim silence had imparted a more freezing terror to his unguessed-for apparition. Only, when he reached the door, he turned back, gazed upon the Knight of St. John’s bold and undaunted face, and said, almost in a whisper, “Walter de Montreal!—you heard the death-knell!”

Chapter 10.IV. The Sentence of Walter de Montreal

In silence the Captain of the Grand Company was borne to the prison of the Capitol. In the same building lodged the rivals for the government of Rome; the one occupied the prison, the other the palace. The guards forebore the ceremony of fetters, and leaving a lamp on the table, Montreal perceived he was not alone,—his brothers had preceded him.

“Ye are happily met,” said the Knight of St. John; “we have passed together pleasanter nights than this is likely to be.”

“Can you jest, Walter?” said Arimbaldo, half-weeping. “Know you not that our doom is fixed? Death scowls upon us.”

“Death!” repeated Montreal, and for the first time his countenance changed; perhaps for the first time in his life he felt the thrill and agony of fear.

“Death!” he repeated again. “Impossible! He dare not, Brettone; the soldiers, the Northmen!—they will mutiny, they will pluck us back from the grasp of the headsman!”

“Cast from you so vain a hope,” said Brettone sullenly; “the soldiers are encamped at Palestrina.”

“How! Dolt—fool! Came you then to Rome alone! Are we alone with this dread man?”

“You are the dolt! Why came you hither?” answered the brother.

“Why, indeed! but that I knew thou wast the Captain of the army; and—but thou said’st right—the folly is mine, to have played against the crafty Tribune so unequal a brain as thine. Enough! Reproaches are idle. When were ye arrested?”

“At dusk—the instant we entered the gates of Rome. Rienzi entered privately.”

“Humph! What can he know against me? Who can have betrayed me? My secretaries are tried—all trustworthy—except that youth, and he so seemingly zealous—that Angelo Villani!”

“Villani! Angelo Villani!” cried the brothers in a breath. “Hast thou confided aught to him?”

“Why, I fear he must have seen—at least in part—my correspondence with you, and with the Barons—he was among my scribes. Know you aught of him?”

“Walter, Heaven hath demented you!” returned Brettone. “Angelo Villani is the favourite menial of the Senator.”

“Those eyes deceived me, then,” muttered Montreal, solemnly and shuddering; “and, as if her ghost had returned to earth, God smites me from the grave!”

There was a long silence. At length Montreal, whose bold and sanguine temper was never long clouded, spoke again.

“Are the Senator’s coffers full?—But that is impossible.”

“Bare as a Dominican’s.”

“We are saved, then. He shall name his price for our heads. Money must be more useful to him than blood.”

And as if with that thought all further meditation were rendered unnecessary, Montreal doffed his mantle, uttered a short prayer, and flung himself on a pallet in a corner of the cell.

“I have slept on worse beds,” said the Knight, stretching himself; and in a few minutes he was fast asleep.

The brothers listened to his deep-drawn, but regular breathing, with envy and wonder, but they were in no mood to converse. Still and speechless, they sate like statues beside the sleeper. Time passed on, and the first cold air of the hour that succeeds to midnight crept through the bars of their cell. The bolts crashed, the door opened, six men-at-arms entered, passed the brothers, and one of them touched Montreal.

“Ha!” said he, still sleeping, but turning round. “Ha!” said he, in the soft Provencal tongue, “sweet Adeline, we will not rise yet—it is so long since we met!”

“What says he?” muttered the guard, shaking Montreal roughly. The Knight sprang up at once, and his hand grasped the head of his bed as for his sword. He stared round bewildered, rubbed his eyes, and then gazing on the guard, became alive to the present.

“Ye are early risers in the Capitol,” said he. “What want ye of me?”

“It waits you!”

“It! What?” said Montreal.