Claws of the Tigress, The Firebrand & The Pearls of Bonfadini (3 Historical Adventures in One Edition). Max Brand

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      Tizzo warded the stroke skillfully with his sword, but the blade broke at the hilt and the head of the long ax, turning, descended flat upon his skull. A red sheet of flame leaped across his brain; darkness swallowed him.

      When he wakened, he rolled his eyes vainly to find light. All was thick blackness; water dripped, somewhere; and he was lying on a pavement greasy with slime.

      He stood up, in spite of his spinning brain, and found that he could touch both walls of his chamber with his outstretched hands.

      They had him cooped in one of the dungeon cells, far underground. They might leave him there to die, never opening the cell for a year for fear of the plague; or else they might take him to the torture chamber.

      Tizzo sat down, cross-legged, and resigned himself to his fate. The sharpest, the most sudden regret that came to him was that he had not killed at least one man in the battle of his capture.

      Afterwards, he began to think of “Tomaso.”

      * * * * *

      He was very cold, very hungry, when a port in his door was opened, and a ray of light shone in at him. By that light, a loaf of bread and a pitcher of water were placed upon the floor.

      “Where am I, friend?” asked Tizzo.

      “Ay, you were out of your wits and talking dreams,” chuckled the jailer, “when we put you down here. You are in the cellars of Messer Mateo Marozzo. We keep you here for three days to see whether or not the plague comes out on your face. If it comes, why, then we wall up this door and let you rest for a hundred years. If it does not come, you have the pleasure of meeting Messer Marozzo and the torture chamber.”

      It seemed to Tizzo that the part of good sense would be to end his misery by dashing out his brains against the stones; but he could not smash the bottle and spill the unique wine of life. Hope remained to him, foolish though it might be. And now and again, several times a day, he amused himself with a horrible interest by feeling the glands at the base of his throat. For these were the first to swell when the plague laid hold on a man.

      Yet for a third time the shutter of the door opened, and the light struck on his face. Then said the voice of a man beside the jailer: “It is more than three days, and yet there is no sign of the plague in him. You may take him out at once. Let him be washed and have him dressed in clean clothes. He is to come before Messer Mateo!”

      All of this was done quickly. Half a dozen armed men—a proof that the desperate courage of Tizzo was recognized—took him from his cell. Under their eyes and the points of their weapons, as it were, he was allowed to strip, bathe, and put on clean clothes. Then irons were fastened to his wrists and ankles with a chain that connected them passing through his belt; and in this fashion he was taken into the great hall of the Marozzo palace, and through this to a smaller room where a tall, very handsome, dark fellow walked up and down; several other men stood back, apparently attendants.

      * * * * *

      When Tizzo was brought in with clanking chains, the tall man stepped straight up to him; the guards on either side checked Tizzo by the arms.

      “Do you know who I am?” he asked.

      “You are Mateo Marozzo, I suppose,” answered Tizzo.

      “Have you ever seen me before?”

      “With your visor down, Messer Mateo,” said Tizzo.

      “You know it was I that you faced that day?”

      “Yes.”

      “Well,” said Marozzo, stepping back with a smile of infinite satisfaction, “you are now in my hands.”

      “I am glad of it, Messer Mateo,” said Tizzo.

      “Glad of it, did you say?”

      “I had rather be in your hands than in those of any other man in Perugia. You at least know that I fight as an honorable man.”

      “Ah, you’ve been reading stories about perfect knights. Is that it?” asked Marozzo. “Do you think that the spies and body-snatchers of the Oddi are entitled to be treated like men of honor?”

      “I know nothing of the Oddi,” said Tizzo.

      “Am I to believe that?”

      “I hope so,” said Tizzo, frankly.

      “On the contrary,” said Marozzo, “I know that you are one of their men of greatest trust.”

      “I have never seen one of their faces,” said Tizzo.

      Marozzo laughed in his face in return. “Perhaps you never have seen the mad Englishman, Lord Melrose?” he asked.

      “Yes. I know him. I am in his service.”

      “And he in that of the Oddi. In fact, my friend, I know that you are one of their most prized hirelings, in spite of your youth. Shall give you the proof?”

      “That you cannot do.”

      “Presently. When I have sent off to Astorre Baglioni himself a letter from Lord Melrose in which he offers anything for your release. Anything up to his own life!”

      “His life?” exclaimed Tizzo, hoarsely.

      “If that devil of a Melrose offers so much, you are worth a high price; you stand among the first of the servants of the Oddi. Admit that, my friend, and talk to me freely concerning whatever you know of the Oddi now—their location, their position, their plans—talk openly, and it may be that I shall be able to give you what I have a right to take—your life!”

      His glance went hungrily over Tizzo as he spoke. It was plain that he hardly wished to surrender personal revenge to statecraft, no matter how he might be advanced in the eyes of the all-powerful Baglioni.

      “Messer Mateo,” said Tizzo, “I only repeat what I have said to you before; I know nothing about the Oddi.”

      “Well,” said Marozzo, “then I shall have to see if I can persuade you to talk.”

      Tizzo knew what that meant. Torture would be used now, in order to force him to confess things of which he knew nothing. A fine sweat covered his body, gleamed on his face; and his eye looked inward on his soul, wondering how long he would be able to endure the agony without screeching out shamefully. For wild savages would never be able to reproduce the exquisite masterpieces of pain of which the people of Italy were capable.

      But before another move was made, a servant came in haste, carrying a letter on a tray.

      “A message from Signor Bardi!”

      CHAPTER 12

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