Max Brand

The Bait and the Trap

Warsaw 2019

Contents

I. MISSION OF DANGER

II. AN UNDERSTANDING

III. POISON

IV. TRAPPED

V. AGNES—ONCE EVE

VI. TIZZO'S RASHNESS

VII. THE TEST

VIII. "ANOTHER MAN'S POISON"

IX. THE EYES OF AGNES

X. THE ATTACK

XI. THE SINGED FISH

I. MISSION OF DANGER

THE Borgia lay on his bed on his back, with a cloth soaked in cooling lotion covering his face down to the bearded chin and lips, because the upper portion was troubled by a hot eruption. Now and then white-faced Alessandro Bonfadini, soft-stepping, thin-fingered, changed the cloth for a fresh one. Except during those moments when the change was made, the duke of the Romagna remained blinded.

He was saying: “Niccolò, look on the map that’s spread out on the table and tell me what you see on it; tell me where my next step should take me.”

The young Florentine, stepping to the table, looked at the big map which was spread on it.

“I see all your conquests are tinted red, my lord,” said Machiavelli. “You want to know in what direction your next step should take you.”

“Yes. In what direction should the red begin to flow now.”

Into some adjoining territory so that it will make a solid mass of territory under your rule.”

“Well, name the direction.”

“It should be into a territory where the people hate their present rulers,” said Machiavelli, “and would be glad to turn to you. It should be a place where the least effort would have to be made. Above all, the present ruler should be induced to make the first hostile steps. If you make any further unprovoked attacks all of Italy will be up in arms against you.”

“Think of Urbino,” said Cesare Borgia. “It is vastly rich, furnished with a great stronghold on an impregnable rock, and the people hate their present duke with all their hearts.”

“Urbino is impossible,” answered Machiavelli. “The great stronghold you speak of is too strong to be stormed. And while the people hate their duke, they would be afraid to rise against him unless they were furnished with a good leader. Besides, Guidobaldo da Montefeltro is a coward and never would give you provocation to make war.”

“All good reasons, but they could be undone by better ones. Duke Guidobaldo has a weakness for women, particularly for rich ones. Suppose that I make a rich woman fall into his hands.”

“She would have to be both rich and desperate if she wasted herself on that spendthrift of a Montefeltro,” said Machiavelli.

“REMEMBER Caterina Sforza,” said the Borgia.

“Ah?” said the Florentine. “You have deprived her of Forli, here. You have turned her out of her inheritance. She is a prisoner in your hands, and your wise course is to send her to Rome.”

“I have deprived her of Forli, but still she is rich in jewels and in other lands. I should send her to Rome, and in fact it will be on the way to Rome that my envoy in charge of her will stop at Urbino to pay my respects to Guidobaldo.”

“You never will find an envoy foolhardy enough to enter Urbino, knowing how the duke hates you,” declared Machiavelli.

“But suppose that I can do it. Suppose that I can find the right man. What happens after the Countess Sforza finds herself inside the walls of Urbino?”

“Then,” said Machiavelli, “she will use all her beauty, all her persuasion, all her wealth of promises to make Guidobaldo snatch her out of the hands of your envoy, and set her free.”

“Naturally,” said the Borgia, “and the moment that happens, you see that I shall have a good pretext for war?”

“It all would follow, perhaps,” said Machiavelli, and that would be guessed by any man. The envoy who guides the countess into Urbino knows instantly that his throat will be cut and the countess snatched from his hands within twenty-four hours.”

“I tell you, however, that I know of such a man.”

“A fool?”

“Very far from a fool. You know him yourself. A fellow who is all aflame, without fear, never still, and who fills his days with so much action that he’ll hardly take time to sleep in between for fear of missing another adventure.”

“This man you speak of–has he red hair?” asked the Florentine

“Of course! It’s Tizzo, the firebrand, the key that unlocked Forli for us, the wedge that burst into the citadel of the Rocca. Tizzo is the man.”

“He may have the courage to do it, if you dare him to it,” said the Florentine, “but he’s not stupid enough to venture his neck in such a way.”

“I shall give him a reason,” said the Borgia. “Now that I think of the thing, I’m determined on it. Bonfadini, instantly send orders to the countess to prepare to travel; despatch a relay of riders toward Perugia together with a very secret message to Giovanpaolo Baglione to gather his force at once and let them drift a little toward the boundary of Urbino. Do these things, but first of all fetch me Tizzo, instantly.”

BONFADINI left the room and went into the waiting chamber where a few halberdiers were waiting in the half-armor of the foot soldiery. Also, there were half a dozen men-at-arms completely protected in heavy steel plate. Bonfadini clapped his hands to draw attention.

He said: “Half a dozen of you go out to find Tizzo.”

“Half a dozen are not enough,” said one of the men-at- arms.

“There are not so many quarters of the town; and Tizzo is known to everyone,” said Bonfadini.

“Not when he pulls a black wig over the red of his hair,” said the soldier, “and he does that, usually. Who can tell where to look for him? He may be with a hawking party outside of Forli, or he may be following the greyhounds, or simply riding his white horse through the hills, or inside the walls he may be flirting with a girl, or at the studio of one of the painters, or watching that new sculptor at work, or teaching his company of peasant soldiers how to fence and shoot, or in a blacksmith shop learning the tricks of the trade, or drinking with a traveler in a wineshop, or learning a dance from one of the Gascons, or picking a fight with some huge Switzer. Or he may be running a race, or throwing dice, or sitting beside that scholar from Pisa reading out the Greek as gravely as any old man.”

“If you know that he does all these things,” said Bonfadini, “you ought to be the man to find him. But if I were you, I’d go toward the place where there’s the most noise. Off with you, and have him here quickly, or you’ll hear of it.”

They hurried out, and Bonfadini went at once to the rooms where Caterina Sforza was kept under guard. He found her seated with a grim face at a casement overlooking the town that once had belonged to her. When she saw Bonfadini she exclaimed in her strong, resonant voice: “Tell your master to send a different messenger to me. The look of your white face is like a poison to me.”

“Madame,” said Bonfadini, “I came by command. The duke asks that you prepare yourself to travel at once.”

“Where?” said she.

“To Rome, madame.”

“With what escort?”

“Tizzo of Melrose,” said Bonfadini, and smiled.

“With him?” she cried. “Go under the escort of the very man who stole my city and gave it to the Borgia? It would stifle me. I would die of rage before I had ridden a mile.”

“Madame,” said the poisoner, “I hope that you’ll die of something more than anger.”

And he bowed, himself from the room while she remained standing by her chair, having sprung up in a passion that flushed her handsome face.

ARMED men and their horses were gathered in the court; a mule litter and two horses were prepared for the countess and her maid; an hour or more had gone by and still there was no word of Tizzo. At last a messenger came with word. He was a halberdier with a pair of big dents in his helmet, a scared look in his eyes, and a heavy limp in one leg. Bonfadini brought him straight in to the duke and Machiavelli.

“If you saw Tizzo of Melrose, why didn’t you bring him with you?” asked the duke.

“Highness,” said the soldier, “when I saw him, he was fighting a huge Swiss who handled a five-foot sword as though it were a lath and a man stood with six ducats rattling in his hands; Tizzo had given the money as a wager that he could beat the swordsman and use nothing but a plain stick of wood in the fight. Highness, I thought it was murder and I ran in to stop the fight. Every moment I was sure that a sweep of that sword would murder Captain Tizzo and cut him in two the way a child cuts down a flower. But when I tried to interfere, the Swiss roared out that they would see the battle to a finish; they beat me down and rushed me away. I came back to tell what I have seen, my lord; when you see Captain Tizzo again, he’ll be a dead man.”

The duke pressed the coolness of the wet cloth closer across his eyes.

“What do you say, Niccolò?” he asked. “Is Tizzo a dead man now?”

“A stick against the sweep of a Swiss sword in the hands of a picked man–”

“Why a picked man?” asked the duke.

“Because Tizzo would only fight against the best.”

“Well, that’s true,” agreed the Borgia. “The devil that’s in him will only show its teeth at giants... I suppose that we’ll have to find another officer to ride with the countess.”

But at this moment a knock at the door caused Bonfadini to open it a crack, and then fling it wide, letting in a small uproar from the waiting room. And over the threshold stepped Tizzo, looking as lithe and sleek as a greyhound. He twirled in his hand a slender stick less than a yard in length, and rested a hand on this as he bowed to the Borgia.

“I hear that I’m called for.”

The Borgia pulled the cloth from his face and suddenly stood, a lofty, massive figure, with a weight in the shoulders that made it possible to believe that he had decapitated a fighting bull with a single sword-stroke.

“I’ve searched the town for you, Tizzo,” said the Borgia. “Where have you been?”

“I was wandering about enjoying the sights of the town,” said Tizzo.

“Was one of the sights a butcher-shop?” asked the duke. “There’s blood on that stick!”

“Ah, is there?” murmured Tizzo. He lifted the stick and examined it. “Why, so there is. Six ducats’ worth of blood, in fact.”

“If you had lost the wager, you would not be here alive, man.”

“Ah, you’ve heard about it? The fact is that the Switzer kept me leaping about like a dancer. At last he made sure that he had me and swung himself off balance; so I managed to step in and flick him between the eyes with the tip of my stick. Afterwards I had to leave him the ducats to heal the wound.”

“How long do you expect to live?” asked the duke, curiously.

“As long as there’s a good dash of excitement in the air,” said Tizzo.

“Let us be alone,” said the Borgia. “Except for you, Niccolò.”

The room, accordingly, was cleared at once.

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