Rienzi, the Last of the Roman Tribunes by Baron Edward Bulwer Lytton Lytton (best summer reads .txt) 📗

The next morning, when Rienzi descended to the room where his captains awaited him, his quick eye perceived that a cloud still lowered upon the brow of Messere Brettone. Arimbaldo, sheltered by the recess of the rude casement, shunned his eye.

“A fair morning, gentles,” said Rienzi; “the Sun laughs upon our enterprise. I have messengers from Rome betimes—fresh troops will join us ere noon.”

“I am glad, Senator,” answered Brettone, “that you have tidings which will counteract the ill of those I have to narrate to thee. The soldiers murmur loudly—their pay is due to them; and, I fear me, that without money they will not march to Palestrina.”

“As they will,” returned Rienzi, carelessly. “It is but a few days since they entered Rome; pay did they receive in advance—if they demand more, the Colonna and Orsini may outbid me. Draw off your soldiers, Sir Knight, and farewell.”

Brettone’s countenance fell—it was his object to get Rienzi more and more in his power, and he wished not to suffer him to gain that strength which would accrue to him from the fall of Palestrina: the indifference of the Senator foiled and entrapped him in his own net.

“That must not be,” said the brother of Montreal, after a confused silence; “we cannot leave you thus to your enemies—the soldiers, it is true, demand pay—”

“And should have it,” said Rienzi. “I know these mercenaries—it is ever with them, mutiny or money. I will throw myself on my Romans, and triumph—or fall, if so Heaven decrees, with them. Acquaint your constables with my resolve.”

Scarce were these words spoken, ere, as previously concerted with Brettone, the chief constable of the mercenaries appeared at the door. “Senator,” said he, with a rough semblance of aspect, “your orders to march have reached me, I have sought to marshal my men—but—”

“I know what thou wouldst say, friend,” interrupted Rienzi, waving his hand: “Messere Brettone will give you my reply. Another time, Sir Captain, more ceremony with the Senator of Rome—you may withdraw.”

The unforeseen dignity of Rienzi rebuked and abashed the constable; he looked at Brettone, who motioned him to depart. He closed the door and withdrew.

“What is to be done?” said Brettone.

“Sir Knight,” replied Rienzi, gravely, “let us understand each other. Would you serve me or not? If the first, you are not my equal, but subordinate—and you must obey and not dictate; if the last, my debt to you shall be discharged, and the world is wide enough for both.”

“We have declared allegiance to you,” answered Brettone, “and it shall be given.”

“One caution before I re-accept your fealty,” replied Rienzi, very slowly. “For an open foe, I have my sword—for a traitor, mark me, Rome has the axe; of the first I have no fear; for the last, no mercy.”

“These are not words that should pass between friends,” said Brettone, turning pale with suppressed emotion.

“Friends!—ye are my friends, then!—your hands! Friends, so ye are!—and shall prove it! Dear Arimbaldo, thou, like myself, art book-learned,—a clerkly soldier. Dost thou remember how in the Roman history it is told that the Treasury lacked money for the soldiers? The Consul convened the Nobles. ‘Ye,’ said he, ‘that have the offices and dignity should be the first to pay for them.’ Ye heed me, my friends; the nobles took the hint, they found the money—the army was paid. This example is not lost on you. I have made you the leaders of my force, Rome hath showered her honours on you. Your generosity shall commence the example which the Romans shall thus learn of strangers. Ye gaze at me, my friends! I read your noble souls—and thank ye beforehand. Ye have the dignity and the office; ye have also the wealth!—pay the hirelings, pay them!” (See the anonymous biographer, lib. ii. cap. 19.)

Had a thunderbolt fallen at the feet of Brettone, he could not have been more astounded than at this simple suggestion of Rienzi’s. He lifted his eyes to the Senator’s face, and saw there that smile which he had already, bold as he was, learned to dread. He felt himself fairly sunk in the pit he had digged for another. There was that in the Senator-Tribune’s brow that told him to refuse was to declare open war, and the moment was not ripe for that.

“Ye accede,” said Rienzi; “ye have done well.”

The Senator clapped his hands—his guard appeared.

“Summon the head constables of the soldiery.”

The brothers still remained dumb.

The constables entered.

“My friends,” said Rienzi, “Messere Brettone and Messere Arimbaldo have my directions to divide amongst your force a thousand florins. This evening we encamp beneath Palestrina.”

The constables withdrew in visible surprise. Rienzi gazed a moment on the brothers, chuckling within himself—for his sarcastic humour enjoyed his triumph. “You lament not your devotion, my friends!”

“No,” said Brettone, rousing himself; “the sum but trivially swells our debt.”

“Frankly said—your hands once more!—the good people of Tivoli expect me in the Piazza—they require some admonitions. Adieu till noon.”

When the door closed on Rienzi, Brettone struck the handle of his sword fiercely—“The Roman laughs at us,” said he. “But let Walter de Montreal once appear in Rome, and the proud jester shall pay us dearly for this.”

“Hush!” said Arimbaldo, “walls have ears, and that imp of Satan, young Villani, seems to me ever at our heels!”

“A thousand florins! I trust his heart hath as many drops,” growled the chafed Brettone, unheeding his brother.

The soldiers were paid—the army marched—the eloquence of the Senator had augmented his force by volunteers from Tivoli, and wild and half armed peasantry joined his standard from the Campagna and the neighbouring mountains.

Palestrina was besieged: Rienzi continued dexterously to watch the brothers of Montreal. Under pretext of imparting to the Italian volunteers the advantage of their military science, he separated them from their mercenaries, and assigned to them the command of the less disciplined Italians, with whom, he believed, they could not venture to tamper. He himself assumed the lead of the Northmen—and, despite themselves, they were fascinated by his artful, yet dignified affability, and the personal courage he displayed in some sallies of the besieged Barons. But as the huntsmen upon all the subtlest windings of their prey,—so pressed the relentless and speeding Fates upon Cola di Rienzi!