Barbarossa; An Historical Novel of the XII Century.

Knights and pages looked with apprehension upon this ominous calm. To most it seemed as though the storm was only massing its strength in order the better to destroy all within its reach.

"What a singular tempest!" exclaimed Frederic, who had been driven from his tent by the violence of the gale; "it is as though chaos had come again."

As if in answer to the Emperor, a dazzling flash furrowed the sky, and extended from above the camp to the Eternal City, as though to presage its destruction, and then the lightning again blazed forth, and crash succeeded crash, while the rain poured down in torrents. Then there was a pause, followed by three deafening peals, at regular intervals, and all was still.

The statue of the Archangel no longer guarded the summit of Saint Angelo; the tempest had hurled it from its pedestal. All was wild uproar; and the affrightened soldiers sought shelter where they could from the violence of the storm.

"Woe to us!" they cried; "our last day is at hand; we must all perish in this deluge!"

But although the environs of the city were laid waste, no one was fatally injured, and soon the clouds rolled away, and the stars shone out brightly in the dark azure of the cloudless sky.

During the height of the storm, two soldiers were riding towards the camp, but it was in vain that they spurred on their jaded steeds; the terrified animals tumbled and stood still, as each flash burst forth.

So far as his appearance went, one of these horsemen belonged to the highest rank of the aristocracy; his armor was costly and richly arabesqued in gold, and his helmet bore a Count's coronet; but on the shield the only device was a simple cross, the emblem of the crusaders. His face, half hidden under his casque, was bronzed by the suns of Asia, and his eyes shone brightly, as if he would have defied the fury of the elements. He rode on calmly, with loosened rein, and at times patted his charger's neck, with words of encouragement.

"What is the matter, my good Velox?" he said; "we have braved many a storm before. Courage, good horse, we will soon be there."

On his arrival at camp, the stranger requested to be taken at once to the Imperial tent.

Frederic was seated at a table; before him a parchment was spread out, which he was reading attentively, and occasionally crossing out words and writing marginal notes. He was correcting the sermon which his Pope was to deliver next day in the Church of St. Peter.

A heavy step was heard, and the Emperor looked up, angrily, for he had expressly forbidden all intrusion. But when the curtain of the tent was drawn aside, and a man of tall stature and noble bearing entered, Frederic uttered an exclamation of glad surprise. Throwing down his pen, he sprang forward and caught Rechberg in his arms.

"God be thanked! You are back at last. – Come here, my boy, and let me look at you!" and the Emperor led him to the table. "Why, you have grown to be a man, Erwin! Your eyes glow with the fire of the Eastern sun, and your face has gained a look of energy and resolution."

He again embraced him, and laying aside the sermon, ordered in some refreshments.

"You are wet to the skin, Erwin; change your clothes first," said Frederic. "Why did you travel in this horrible weather?"

"The storm broke upon me suddenly, and as far as I can judge, it has done some damage in the camp. All I need do is to change my surcoat."

The powerful figure of the young man stood out in bold relief before the Emperor, who looked upon him with an expression of almost paternal interest, which softened his stern features.

"How does it happen that we have had no news of you for the last two years?"

"The Infidels captured me while I was asleep, and for eighteen months I have been in a dungeon, with scarcely a hope of release, for the ransom which they demanded was exorbitant."

"I don't blame them," said Frederic, laughing; "you cost them dear enough. All the pilgrims returning from the Holy Land relate marvels of your prowess."

"At last the Knights of the Temple stormed the fortress where I was confined, and delivered me."

"Ah! the Templars! – Valiant warriors! Their courage is wonderful, and their daring amounts wellnigh to rashness; but how did you get back to Europe?"

"On a Norman ship, which landed me at Tarentum."

"Well! you will tell me all your adventures when we have more leisure. I look forward with pleasure to their recital. But you arrived most opportunely for the celebrations of our late victories. We are to crown Pascal to-morrow in the Church of St. Peter."

Rechberg made no answer, but his face wore a pained expression.

"As I have just returned from Palestine," he said, after a brief pause, "I trust, my dear godfather, that you will excuse me from taking part in Pascal's glorification."

"Very good! I understand," exclaimed the Emperor, with a slight frown. "The Crusader is not inclined to recognize our Pope! Well, well, be it so! you shall be entirely free to act in everything which concerns your conscience."

The two kinsmen continued their conversation until a late hour of the night.

CHAPTER LIV.

THE TRIUMPHAL ENTRY

At last the day so anxiously longed for by Barbarossa arrived; the tents which had been overthrown by the storm were again pitched, and the Romans completed their preparations for the festival.

Still all hearts appeared to suffer from this fictitious joy; no one seemed at his ease; a dull presentiment hovered over Rome, where all felt vaguely that the angel of vengeance was at hand.

A crowd of citizens dressed in holiday attire, was assembled upon the main road leading from Saint Angelo to the Basilica of St. Peter. The settled gloom of their features contrasted strikingly with their brilliant costume, and as they glanced towards the castle, where had stood formerly the statue of St. Michael, they shook their heads and sighed.

"Saint Michael has protected us for centuries," said an old man, "but he has disappeared now! May God have mercy on us!"

"You are alarmed at nothing, Master Bartholomew," replied his friend Anselm; "you know that metals attract the lightning, and as the statue was of gilded bronze, it could scarcely escape the fluid at that exposed point."

"You are very wise, Anselm," resumed the first speaker; "but the statue has stood there unhurt during all the storms of five hundred years! not one had power against it until the eve of our reception of this schismatical Emperor!"

"It is nothing but the merest chance!"

"Take care, Bartholomew," added a third, "the Emperor has hosts of friends, and it might be dangerous to speak against him."

"I am certain that chance has had nothing to do with it! – I take care! Anselm, do you think that an old man of eighty-seven years of age is afraid to speak the truth? Yes, Barbarossa is a schismatic, he is the scourge of the Church. He will bring bad luck to Rome, and I know there are many who think as I do, but have not courage enough to express their opinion! – Look how money has been lavished here for the last four weeks! but see if the gold and the treason which it purchased do not burn those who are guilty!"

And Bartholomew started off again in the direction of the Castle of Saint Angelo.

"He is right in the main," said Gervase; "not a man in Rome has a doubt who is the lawful Pope, but what could we do? the terrible Barbarossa would have demolished Rome, as he did Milan, without the slightest scruple."

"Certainly he would," replied Anselm.

"Is it true that Alexander has anathematized the city?"

"No, no!" exclaimed several voices; "he did not even curse Barbarossa."

"I can speak positively on this point," said Anselm, "Frangipani heard the Pope's very words as he was kneeling before the image of our Saviour; this is what he said: – 'Arise, O Lord, and judge between me and my enemies! O Almighty God, stretch out thine arm against the enemies of the Church!'-This was precisely what happened, and nothing more."

"It is quite enough! he called down Heaven's vengeance upon us, and we may expect the most direful calamities!"

"Nonsense!" said Anselm; "all this is merely the effect of yesterday's tempest."

"What a time that was, what a storm!"

"Yes, and cries and groans were heard in the air."

"And some people even saw a cross of fire above St. Peter's Church."

"Did not the hurricane come from the direction of Gaeta? Such a thing was never known before; I tell you it was more than natural."

"You are a fool, Ambrose."

"Alexander is at Gaeta, and Rome may yet regret that she deserted the Head of the Church. Say what you please, that was no ordinary storm. Did you not notice in what a gloomy terrible manner it burst upon the city?"

"Cheer up; mayhap you will be elected to the Senate, and the embroidered toga will soon make you forget your scruples of conscience. But here comes the procession."

At this moment the bells of St. Peter began to toll.

"Come to my house," said Ambrose, "we can see it so much better from the balcony."

The cavalcade advanced; first came a body of knights occupying the entire width of the street; at their head rode the herald of the Empire, dressed in a splendid tabard. On either side was a standard-bearer, clad in a sumptuous costume, and glancing haughtily upon the crowd. Behind them came the serried ranks of the knights, who had laid aside their coats-of-mail, their lances, and their shields. They wore only their swords, and were all in plated armor, which shone in the rays of the August sun like a moving sea of silver.

"How formidable those men of iron appear on their chargers!" said Ambrose; "how powerfully built they seem! those Germans are sturdy soldiers!"

"At last they have all gone by; how many were there? Just look, how they drive the crowd back on St. Peter's Square, to form a brazen wall up to the Basilica."

"Here come the bishops! Holy Virgin, how magnificently they are dressed! Anselm, count the prelates. – I want to know how many of them there are."

"Do you see that one with long, black hair? That is the bishop who fought so bravely in the last attack, And that one behind him, with the red head, is the Bishop of Osnabruck, – a miserable villain!"

"Yes; they all look ill-natured and wicked; they ought to be called the Emperor's spiritual knights; how they glare at everybody! – By St. Peter! I would not like to be confirmed by one of those gentlemen; they strike too hard!"

During this conversation, the bishops had approached the Church; they wore brilliant mitres on their heads, and their steeds were covered with gorgeous housings.

Next after the bishops came the Antipope Pascal in full Pontifical robes, surrounded by the prelates of his court. But the costume of this Head of the Church became him as little as it had done his predecessor, Octavian, and his embarrassed manner and undignified carriage formed a painful contrast with the exalted and difficult functions of the ministry which he was called upon to discharge.

"Fancy Alexander by the side of Pascal," said Ambrose. "What a difference! In Alexander everything showed the real pope: his looks, his words, his bearing, even the glance of his eye. But with Pascal there is nothing! Bah! the Emperor has made a singular choice to fill St. Peter's chair."

"Silence!" cried Anselm, "here comes the divinity of the festival, the Divus Augustus himself."

At this moment the mob shouted, -

"Long live the Emperor! Hail, Great Augustus!"

Frederic appeared mounted on a magnificent charger; by his side rode the Empress Beatrice, and in front was borne the Imperial banner.

As he approached the castle, the crowd made a movement, the applause ceased, and all eyes were turned to the tower of Saint Angelo.

In place of the image of the mighty Archangel, an immense flag hung from its summit. This unexpected memento of their humiliation created a most painful impression upon the Romans, who looked in vain for the venerated emblem of their patron saint. Alexander's curse, with all its fearful consequences, recurred to their minds, and hushed the cries of rejoicing, even among the paid emissaries of the Chancellor, and it was amid a death-like silence that Frederic moved towards the church of St. Peter.

"What does this mean?" said Gervase, who, from the balcony, could not perceive the flag; "everybody is staring at the castle, and the cries of 'Hail to the Emperor! Glory to the great Augustus!' have ceased."

"Only look at the Imperial mantle! how it glitters!"

"Yes; and see how proudly Barbarossa rides! They might call him Jupiter tonans!"

In fact, Frederic slowly advanced with the grave and stern bearing of a conqueror. Not a trace of emotion was visible on his countenance, and his eyes glanced calmly upon the admiring multitude.

A branch of laurel was entwined upon his diadem, and he bore, in his right hand, the Imperial sceptre, with a more haughty grace than Augustus himself in his triumphal chariot.

"The Empress is a gracious lady," said Anselm; "she looks like a lamb by the side of a lion."

"Who is that red-bearded noble behind the Emperor?"

"Frederic of Hohenstauffen, Duke of Suabia, a good and kind prince, very different from his cousin. They say the Emperor does not trust him, and that the Duke looks so sadly, because Frederic forced him to join his army.

"Ah! look there! Here comes the Chancellor Rinaldo! What a handsome little man he is! See how he smiles, – you would never imagine, from his appearance, that he is deceit personified?"

A squadron of men-at-arms closed the procession, which was followed by an immense crowd.

"Quick, my friends," said Ambrose, "let us go to St. Peter's as fast as we can! If we can only get through the crowd! What a retinue of bishops!"

"Yes, seventy-three! – it is a holy number, for both seven and three are in it!"

The church was filled to overflowing. Pascal offered up the holy sacrifice, upon the tomb of the blessed Apostles Peter and Paul, in the presence of those who, instead of discharging the functions of their sacred ministry, had entered God's sanctuary like thieves and robbers. The people often have singular presentiments, and scarcely had Pascal mounted the steps of the altar, when a murmur of discontent broke out. For a moment a riot seemed imminent, and many of the spectators endeavored to leave the church, through dread of some violence to the Antipope, the Emperor, and the schismatical bishops.

During the ceremony, Frederic knelt devoutly, and Beatrice took her place by the side of her husband.

At the conclusion of the Mass, Frederic ascended his throne, and Pascal seated himself in the pontifical chair, which was placed opposite. The Emperor wore the Imperial crown, in his right hand he held the sceptre, in his left the globe. In the space between the two thrones knelt the bishops, all of whom rose when Rinaldo proceeded to the altar to read aloud the formula, by which the clergy were to swear allegiance to Pascal as lawful Pope.

The organ and the solemn chants ceased; and Rinaldo's voice resounded through the church, while the people looked on with sullen interest. The hands were raised, the oath administered, and then each in turn approached the Emperor's throne to pledge him his obedience.

On the first step they bowed respectfully, on the second they knelt before the monarch and kissed the hand which held the sceptre; then they moved towards the altar, knelt before Pascal and kissed his pastoral ring, in token of submission.

Meanwhile the organ broke out into a joyful strain, and the choir sang, but the melody found no echo in the hearts of the Romans.

The conviction that the schismatic Pascal was a mere tool of the Emperor, and that this assembly was composed of bishops who were aliens to the Church, wounded all their preconceived ideas. They feared lest the vengeance of God should come to punish this usurpation of Saint Peter's chair. Many again tried to leave the church, but the crowd without choked up all egress.

The Emperor placed his right hand (which had borne the sceptre) upon his knee, and each bishop kissed it as he passed, but he scarcely perceived their presence. His haughty soul was floating in an ocean of gratified pride. At last he was seated in that place which Alexander once had occupied, and where his predecessors used to receive the homage of Christendom. What a change! Alexander was a helpless fugitive, and Pascal was his creature, his puppet; he himself was the real Pontifex Maximus. Absolute master of Church and State, he was at last at the pinnacle of greatness; success had crowned his efforts; all Christendom was his vassal. He glanced towards the kneeling bishops, and then his eyes turned to the crowd as if he could no longer delay the moment when they too should swear him their allegiance.

But God has not yet given to mortals the power to thwart his designs. If for a time he allows the wicked man to prosper, it is to cut him off at the decisive moment of his career.

The hand of the Almighty was raised against the master of the world: the cup was full, and at the very moment when Barbarossa was dreaming of new conquests, the avenging angel hovered around his head.

The ceremony was nearly at an end.

Frederic turned towards the Pope, as if to say:

"Well then, speak, repeat the lesson which I have taught you."

It appeared as though the sermon which had been prepared and revised by the Emperor, was not to Pascal's liking; still he dared not disobey his master's sign-he descended from the altar. Again the music ceased, and a profound silence prevailed through the church, where all listened anxiously for what the Imperial Pope was to say.

But Pascal was not to speak.

Scarcely was he in front of the altar, when an extraordinary movement commenced in the crowd; here and there persons fell lifeless. It seemed as though death was smiting its chosen victims. At first it was thought to be merely the result of fainting-fits, so often met with in crowded assemblages; but as the mortality continued to spread, and the corpses immediately became covered with black spots, a great fear seized the minds of all.

"He is dead! really dead!" said Gervase, who was supporting the body of his friend Ambrose. "May God have mercy on his soul!"

And he made the sign of the cross on his forehead.

"But see how black he becomes!" said Anselm. "By all the saints! it is the plague!"

Scarcely had he spoken, when his words were repeated by the crowd.

"The plague! the plague!" was cried out on all sides.

"God help us! the pestilence is in Rome!" exclaimed the people, as they fled tumultuously through the doors to escape from the infected atmosphere.

At first the Emperor's face flushed with anger, for he imagined that it was a scheme concocted by the malevolence of his adversaries; but when the crowd began to scatter in disorder, and the terrible cry, "the pestilence is among us," was heard, a mortal dread fell upon the Imperial retinue. The bishops grew pale, and many a remorseful conscience whispered, -

"It is the vengeance of an offended God."

Still Frederic gave no signs of fear or agitation; his dauntless spirit was a stranger to any such sentiments. He merely regretted the interruption of the ceremony, that was all. He had erected his triumphal throne in the Church of St. Peter, in the very heart of Christendom, and his eyes gleamed with menace and discontent, as though he would have forced the pestilence itself to recoil before his frown. But death fears no mortal man, not even him who, seated on the topmost pinnacle of successful ambition, thinks to rival God.

Already the plague had struck down some of Frederic's own retinue.

Count Ludolf of Dassel, the Chancellor's brother, had fallen dead, at a few steps from the throne; and his neighbor, the Bishop Alexander of Lodi, a few moments after, shared his fate. The prelates looked with stupid wonder at these corpses, all bearing distinctive marks of the scourge. Not one among them had the courage to stoop down and perform the last duties which the Church enjoins. These men had none of the noble sentiments of their calling; they had the vices and the passions of the court, hands fitted only to wield the sword, and guilty hearts which scarcely now began to be touched by repentance.

Many wished to follow the example set them by the Romans, but the Emperor's voice forbade.

"What means this, my lords? What, Bishop of Luttich, you, one of the most valiant swords in my army, would you too be one of the first to fly from danger? If God sends us a misfortune, we will bear it with becoming resignation."

He ordered the grand marshal to arrange the return to his camp. There was no disorder. The people had left the church, and the square of St. Peter was deserted; for the Romans, in the vain hope of escaping the pestilence, had sought refuge within their dwellings. At first the bugles sounded the march, but the joyous music met with no response; there were no shouts of popular applause; the streets were empty, and on all sides were seen the corpses of the victims. Princes and prelates rode along with downcast eyes and looks expressive of grief and apprehension. Suddenly a soldier fell dead from his horse; the pestilence was among the men-at-arms. The bugles were silent, the cavalcade halted for an instant, and then all was wild confusion; the ranks were broken, and each man dashed madly forward to escape from the infected air of the empoisoned city.

All order was lost; the return to camp was like a rout, and even Barbarossa and his consort urged their horses to a gallop to regain their tents.

CHAPTER LV.

THE HAND OF GOD

The plague continued to rage as violently as it had broken out. Death smote its victims without forewarning: some fell as they were putting foot in stirrup to mount their steeds; others, by the side of the friend whom they were placing in the grave, which had been dug for him through charity.

"God chastises us for our behavior to the Pope," said the Romans.

This feeling spread even among the German soldiery. The tents were emptied of their inhabitants who had fallen victims to the direful contagion. In a few days, many thousands had perished, and among them the Emperor's cousin, the Duke of Suabia, and Diepold of Bohemia; but the bishops were attacked with marked virulence, and it seemed as though not one of them was destined to return to his home. There was a dead silence everywhere, unbroken even by the clash of arms, and naught was heard but the creaking of the death-carts piled up with corpses which were thrown together by hundreds into a common pit. But soon it was no longer possible even to bury them, and the dead bodies lay rotting in the sun; adding by their pestilential odors to the malignity of the disease.

Even the horses were attacked; they fell into a species of stupor which terminated in death. Still, although his camp was almost depopulated, Barbarossa remained unmoved; he hoped that the plague would wear itself out, and that he might resume the great work which it had interrupted. As yet the Romans had not sworn allegiance to the Empire, Pascal had not been installed as sovereign Pontiff and Frangipani still held bravely out in the Castle of St. Angelo, The partisans of Alexander must be entirely destroyed; and to accomplish this Frederic would not yield a step, not even to the plague.

In this determination he was encouraged by Dassel.

"If we give up now," he said, "we are lost. All Christendom will look upon our defeat as a judgment of Heaven. You cannot hereafter undertake anything which will not appear to be marked with the seal of divine displeasure."

Frederic admitted the justice of the policy, and determined to dare everything. He rode through the streets of the camp, striving to encourage his troops. Erwin was always at his side, although he had frequently implored his young kinsman to return to Germany.

"You must go beyond the Alps," he said. "I wish it; and as soon as this Roman question is settled, I will join you."

"But I will not go, my dear godfather, even were the camp peopled with corpses."

The Emperor was deeply touched by this mark of affection, and he pressed the young man's hand with emotion.

One day, Barbarossa returned to his tent, after his usual round of inspection. The destruction of his army seemed inevitable, if it was not soon removed from this pestilential atmosphere, and his indomitable pride was crushed at last.