The Silver Devil (37 page)

Some
citizens had come out from their houses to make a stand, and the Cabrian
soldiers were fighting with the bitterness of despair; but the Spaniards
outnumbered them five to one, and the fight was clearly hopeless. The black
banners were giving way before the golden leopards of Naples, and always the
fighting crept nearer the palace walls. One of the pages cried, "Look,
they are firing the houses," and as he spoke, I saw gouts of flame
beginning to stream from the wooden tenements against the outer wall. That
would be the old quarter, I thought numbly; where I lived with my mother and
foster father before Antonio was married.

I
do not know how long I crouched on the parapet, the rough stone hurting my
knees, peering down at the fighting. The other two boys were still young enough
to see it as a game of soldiers at first—it was only as the fighting came
closer that they saw what devastation followed the battle, and their excited
chatter was silenced. Renewed argument was breaking out among the lords. By now
the sunshine was blotted out by a pall of smoke and dust, the air was thick
with gunpowder and the meaty reek of blood, and ashes were flying by on the
wind. The arrows had almost ceased to fly, for the footsoldiers had pressed so
far into the city that they had forced their foes out of bowshot.

Ippolito's
boy, sharper-eared than I, turned to his fellow with a face peaked with fright.
"They are saying we ought to flee the city."

Cautiously
edging closer, I tried to catch the drift of the argument. It was not easy. All
the men were shouting at once; Domenico stood in their midst like a trapped
leopard, spitting his outrage and fury at creatures who had never dared to
withstand him before. They ringed him in like hunters, drowning his voice with
the power born of desperation.

"Your
Grace, this is not cowardice but wisdom!"

"To
stay here would be folly! The city is burning!"

Domenico's
voice caught in his throat in a little choking snarl. "They cannot burn
stone."

"Will
you be broiled alive on your own leads? For God's sake, Your Grace..."

"You
can reach the mountains and seek help from there."

"Seek
help? I?" The black eyes flared frighteningly silver.

"Then
live in exile if you prefer it." The captain of the guard was angry, too,
and past choosing his words. "Only get out before they raze your palace
about your ears, and do it quickly while you can still get clear."

Riccardo
D'Esti hurried to soften this speech, his fixed smile a dreadful thing to see.
"Your Grace, if you escape, we lose only the city. But if you are taken,
we will lose everything! Our lives, our..."

His
voice stopped suddenly. I thought for a moment that it was drowned in the hiss
and clatter that rained down around us. Then, with a look of surprise on his
face, he teetered slowly to his knees and fell with an arrow deep in his back.

"God's
nails," Santi growled, "it's the dogs on the other side of the gorge.
They're shooting now."

At
once the others turned on the duke with redoubled energy. He must go, they
said, for the state's sake and his own—take a few men and ride for his life to
the mountains, to Diumo. There he could consult with the archbishop and mold an
alliance to strike back against Spain. "Why not with Savoy?" one of
them demanded. "Your Grace's bride's great father?"

I
saw the murderous glance Domenico gave him and was as startled as he. But
perhaps the Duke of Savoy would not give his daughter in a landless match, and
Domenico hated even so unintentional a reminder. He did not answer the
suggestion, only shook his head curtly.

A
second flight of arrows rattled over the battlement, and suddenly Santi, who had
been watching the fighting through the smoke, thrust his way through the ring
of men.

"My
lord Duke, you'll have to get down the side of this tower, or you are trapped
here. They're at the gates down below." The direct rough speech, the
sudden seriousness of the man's brutish face, were queerly compelling. "I
know where some traders keep horses stabled in caves in the gorge— they use 'em
for transporting grain from the ships to the mills—I could go down and fetch
them, and lead them to that clump of trees at the foot of the walls there. The
damned Spanish are nearly all inside the city now, so we should have a clear
run along the coast as far as Pinzi, then turn west and make for the mountains.
That should give them a wide enough berth. All we need are some ropes to let us
down the walls—they will have men set to pick off whoever sticks his nose out
of either of the north gates."

This
succeeded as nothing else had in silencing the whole assembly. Riccardo's body
lay forgotten on the flags as the nobles stared in astonishment at Santi. He
took no notice of them; he was staring at Domenico straight in the eyes, his
heavy body expectant, his expression anxious.

"Your
Grace, this man is mad!" One of the nobles sounded shrill with outrage.
"Only a commoner would expect Your Grace to hang from ropes to serve as a
target for those devils who are shooting at us."

Ippolito
touched Santi's arm. "He is not quite a fool, Giovanni. What about the
archers?"

"We'll
have to risk them. Quick, Your Grace!"

Domenico
held his gaze a moment longer and then turned away. "Get the ropes"
was all he said.

The
men needed no second bidding. On the word some of them were racing towards the
stairs, shouting orders to the servants within to fetch ropes, all they could
find, and join them securely on pain of their lives.

Domenico
went swiftly to the north side of the tower and stared down for a moment with
an unfathomable expression on his face. Then he called to Santi.

"If
you go down the full face of this tower, you will be stuck like a prize hog.
Hang the rope from the lower rampart there—it will save so many lengths, and
you can climb in the shelter of this tower. Most of the arrows will glance off
it, belike."

Santi
looked and nodded. "Right."

He
had forgotten who it was he spoke to; and for an instant Domenico's bleak face
was alight with self-mockery for missing his title at such a time. The look
flickered and was gone like summer lightning, but I stood like a stock,
forgetting where I was and what I pretended to be.

"We
shall follow you." His voice, still harsh, but steadier now, startled me
from my dream. "Are there enough horses for us all?"

"Some
dozen or fourteen. Enough and to spare."

"Your
Grace, I shall stay here." The captain of the guard spoke gruffly.
"Saving your pleasure, someone in authority should oversee this rout and
try to make terms that will save the palace."

"Yes."
The duke's voice sounded strange. "It is not to be pillaged."

I
caught the despairing look that the captain shot at his fellows.

"Then
I am to surrender it without a fight, Your Grace?" "I care not how.
Only preserve it until I can deliver the city again."

The
captain drew a sharp breath and after a visible struggle bowed his head and
stepped back. I heard him mutter to his ensign, "Surrender under a pledge
of safety," and then the two of them withdrew to make their own plans. I
realized with a stab of something like jealousy that Sandro had been right;
Domenico loved the Palazzo della Raffaelie as much as he loved anything.

I
wondered what had become of Sandro. I had not seen him since the previous day—I
had not even noticed him at the banquet. But then I forgot about him, for the
servants were dragging great coils of rope on to the lower rampart, and I
hurried after the others as they left the tower to join Santi down below in its
sheltering shadow.

After
one look at Santi, swinging perilously as he lowered himself down fathom after
fathom of rope, I had to back away from the edge. It took a steadier sight than
mine to discern the stone flagway fringing the gorge; to my horrified glance,
the side of the palace dropped sheer into the river, and it looked as though
the big man would have to go on and on until he touched the water. In fact,
although I could not look long enough to see it, he had less than half the
apparent height to descend.

The
bowmen cannot have seen him, for the flights of arrows were no more frequent
than they had been before, and the shafts were aimed to skim the battlements,
not to pierce the man clambering between earth and sky. The men crouched beside
the parapet, sweating as they watched the loop of rope rubbing against the
stone with the shifting of Santi's weight.

A
jubilant mutter went up; the rope was still, and there had been no jerk, no
cry. Ippolito looked eagerly up at the duke. "He is down, Your Grace. Will
you follow him?"

Domenico
shook his head. "Send these first." His gesture indicated the whole
group; his glance barely flicked us. "I have other business first."

"There
is no time, Your Grace." A flash of exasperation crossed Ippolito's kindly
face. "You stand in greater peril than any of us—for God's sake, come
now!"

The
fair face hardened. "Do not command me, sirrah! I do not keep a secretary
to order my actions."

"I
do not seek to do that, Your Grace, but for your own safety..." His
pleading glance drew the help it begged, and the nobles crowded about Domenico,
pleading and persuading. I could see his bright head above the tallest of those
surrounding him; he was looking from face to face, his lips curling back in
that almost animal snarl, light flooding his eyes so that it hurt to look at
them. Then suddenly his voice cut through the hubbub in a vicious scream.

"I
say I will not!"

They
fell back before the blaze of his wrath, their reasoning and sophistry useless
in the face of his blind absoluteness. Then suddenly Ippolito stepped close to
him like a swordsman stepping inside his opponent's guard and said something in
a low voice. I saw Domenico go still, and gradually the silver malignancy in
his eyes was replaced by an arrested expression. He stared down at Ippolito,
suspicious but intent.

"Do
you swear?" It was almost too soft to hear, but I caught the movement of
his lips.

Ippolito
nodded, and a little of the tautness went out of Domenico.

"Good
Ippolito... I am persuaded, then. But do it, as you hope to live."

Ippolito
beamed and slapped the looped rope with a proprietary hand. "Your
conveyance awaits, Your Grace."

Domenico
turned, moving past the clustered courtiers as though they did not exist, and
looked down at the rope with a frown. Then, almost before I saw him move, he
was over the parapet in one almost liquid motion and scorching down the rope.
Watching his bright head gleaming farther and farther away, I felt as though I
were watching Lucifer's fall from heaven. I wanted to cry out, but mercifully
my fear for him kept me dumb while my thoughts rushed on in a tumult of
wordless prayers. The vision of his supple body lying broken at the foot of the
gorge was so clear that I seemed to see it with my waking sight. Inwardly I was
waiting for the shout that would tell me that those around me saw it in
reality. It seemed like hours, like centuries, before Ippolito straightened up
and beckoned to Andrea Regnovi.

"Come
on, sir. His Grace is down—now I must go and do his errand."

The
relief was so great that I swayed and stumbled against the parapet. No one
heeded me; I leaned against the stonework, my cheek against the roughness of
the rock, and let my senses slide. Flags and sky were mingling, gray amid the
smoke, and then the whole world seemed to slip away from me.

Someone
shook me by the shoulder, and with a jar I was back in the real world, slumped
against the parapet. I had just enough sense left to keep my head down.

"Come
on, boy," Ippolito's voice said above me, "we shall have to leave you
behind if you do not pluck up. Go and tell my nephew Lorenzo that I bade him
look after you."

I
muttered shamefaced thanks, but he had already hurried on, his feet clattering
down the stone stairs—the business Domenico had for him must have been urgent.

Boys
and men were clustering around the rope as one by one they lowered themselves
into that gray infinity. The arrows were beginning to fly around us in earnest
as the Spanish archers noticed the activity and made the lower rampart their
special target. I knew that I must do as the others did and go down the rope,
but every time I made a move towards the edge, fear weighted my limbs like
gyves, and I stood rooted to the spot. My throat was dry and my palms were
sweating, and I felt as helpless as I had in prison, in the grip of a fever. If
Domenico had been before me, commanding me, I would have obeyed him without
thought; but he had gone, "without a thought for me, not caring if I was
with him or no. The fear of a cold welcome was as sharp as the fear of falling.

To
climb that rope would be to trust my life to a few strands of twisted hemp, to
dangle helplessly in the air, four times higher than the tallest ship. Somehow
I was standing gripping the ledge with both hands, on an empty rampart: all the
others had gone while I hung back. In panic I slid to my knees, crouching
abjectly behind the bulwark out of the hail of arrows. For my life, I dared not
move. I might have been there yet if someone had not come.