The Sorceress of Rome. Gallizier Nathan
continued his perambulation.
"Tell me better news of our dearly beloved friend, Monsignor Agnello, Archbishop of Cosenza, Clerk of the Chamber and Vice-Legate of Viterbo."
"He was found dead in his bed, after eating a most hearty supper," the monk spoke dolefully.
"Alas, poor man! That was sudden. But such holy men are always ready for their call," replied the Grand Chamberlain with downcast eyes. "And what part has his Holiness assigned me in his relics?"
"Some flax of his hair shirt, to coil a rope therewith," replied the monk.
"A princely benefaction! But your commission for the Father of Christendom? For indeed I fear the vast treasures he has heaped up, will hang like a leaden mountain on his ascending soul."
"The Holy Father himself has summoned me to Rome!" The words seemed to sound from nowhere. Yet they hovered on the air like the knell of Fate.
The Grand-Chamberlain paused, stared and shuddered.
"And who knows," continued the monk after a pause, "but that by some divine dispensation all the refractory cardinals of the Sacred College may contract some incurable disease? Have you secured the names, – just to ascertain if their households are well ordered?"
"The name of every cardinal and bishop in Rome at the present hour."
"Give it to me."
A hand white as that of a corpse came from the monk's ample parting sleeves in which Benilo placed a scroll, which he had taken from the table.
The monk unrolled it. After glancing down the list of names, he said:
"The Cardinal of Gregorio."
The Chamberlain betokened his understanding with a nod.
"He claims kinship with the stars."
"The Cardinal of San Pietro in Montorio."
An evil smile curved Benilo's thin, white lips.
"An impostor, proved, confessed, – his conscience pawned to a saint – "
"The Cardinal of San Onofrio, – he, who held you over the baptismal fount," said the monk with a quick glance at the Chamberlain.
"I had no hand in my own christening."
The monk nodded.
"The Cardinal of San Silvestro."
"He vowed he would join the barefoot friars, if he recovered."
"He would have made a stalwart mendicant. All the women would have confessed to him."
"It is impossible to escape immortality," sighed Benilo.
"Obedience is holiness," replied the other.
After carefully reviewing the not inconsiderable list of names, and placing a cross against some of them, the monk returned the scroll to its owner.
When the Chamberlain spoke again, his voice trembled strangely.
"What of the Golden Chalice?"
"Offerimus tibi Domine, Calicem Salutaris," the monk quoted from the mass. "What differentiates Sacramental Wine from Malvasia?"
The Chamberlain pondered.
"Perhaps a degree or two of headiness?"
"Is it not rather a degree or two of holiness?" replied the monk with a strange gleam in his eyes.
"The Season claims its mercies."
"Can one quench a furnace with a parable?"
"The Holy Host may work a miracle."
"It is the concern of angels to see their sentences enforced."
"Sic itur ad astra," said the Chamberlain devoutly.
And like an echo it came from his visitor's lips:
"Sic itur ad astra!"
"We understand each other," Benilo spoke after a pause, arising from his chair. "But remember," he added with a look, which seemed to pierce his interlocutor through and through. "What thou dost, monk, thou dost. If thy hand fail, I know thee not!"
Stepping to the panel, Benilo was about to touch the secret spring, when a thought arrested his hand.
"Thou hast seen my face," he turned to the monk. "It is but meet, that I see thine."
Without a word the monk removed his cowl. As he did so, Benilo stood rooted to the spot, as if a ghost had arisen from the stone floor before him.
"Madman!" he gasped. "You dare to show yourself in Rome?"
A strange light gleamed in the monk's eyes.
"I came in quest of the End of Time. Do you doubt the sincerity of my intent?"
For a moment they faced each other in silence, then the monk turned and vanished without another word through the panel which closed noiselessly behind him.
When Benilo found himself once more alone, all the elasticity of temper and mind seemed to have deserted him. All the colour had faded from his face, all the light seemed to have gone from his eyes. Thus he remained for a space, neither heeding his surroundings, nor the flight of time. At last he arose and, traversing the cabinet, made for a remote door and passed out. Whatever were his thoughts, no outward sign betrayed them, as with the suave and impenetrable mien of the born courtier, he entered the vast hall of audience.
A motley crowd of courtiers, officers, monks and foreign envoys, whose variegated costumes formed a dazzling kaleidoscope almost bewildering to the unaccustomed eye, met the Chamberlain's gaze.
The greater number of those present were recruited from the ranks of the Roman nobility, men whose spare, elegant figures formed a striking contrast to the huge giants of the German imperial guard. The mongrel and craven descendants of African, Syrian and Slavonian slaves, a strange jumble of races and types, with all the visible signs of their heterogeneous origin, stared with insolent wonder at the fair-haired sons of the North, who took their orders from no man, save the grandson of the mighty emperor Otto the Great, the vanquisher of the Magyars on the tremendous field of the Lech.
A strange medley of palace officials, appointed after the ruling code of the Eastern Empire, chamberlains, pages and grooms, masters of the outer court, masters of the inner court, masters of the robe, masters of the horse, seneschals, high stewards and eunuchs, in their sweeping citron and orange coloured gowns, lent a glowing enchantment to the scene.
No glaring lights marred the pervading softness of the atmosphere; all objects animate and inanimate seemed in complete harmony with each other. The entrance to the great hall of audience was flanked with two great pillars of Numidian marble, toned by time to hues of richest orange. The hall itself was surrounded by a colonnade of the Corinthian order, whereon had been lavished exquisite carvings; in niches behind the columns stood statues in basalt, thrice the size of life. Enormous pillars of rose-coloured marble supported the roof, decorated in the fantastic Byzantine style; the floor, composed of serpentine, porphyry and Numidian marble, was a superb work of art. In the centre a fountain threw up sprays of perfumed water, its basin bordered with glistening shells from India and the Archipelago.
Passing slowly down the hall, Benilo paused here and there to exchange greetings with some individual among the numerous groups, who were conversing in hushed whispers on the event at this hour closest to their heart, the illness of King Otto III, in the cloisters of Monte Gargano in Apulia whither he had journeyed on a pilgrimage to the grottoes of the Archangel. Conflicting rumours were rife as to the course of the illness, and each seemed fearful of venturing a surmise, which might precipitate a crisis, fraught with direst consequences. The times and the Roman temper were uncertain.
The countenance of Archbishop Heribert of Cologne, Chancellor of the Empire, reflected grave apprehension, which was amply shared by his companions, Archbishop Willigis of Mentz, and Luitprand, Archbishop of Cremona, the Patriarch of Christendom, whose snow-white hair formed a striking contrast to the dark and bronzed countenance of Count Benedict of Palestrina, and Pandulph of Capua, Lord of Spoleto and Beneventum, the lay-members of the group. The conversation, though held in whispered tones and inaudible to those moving on the edge of their