TWICE IN TIME

CHAPTER XX Turmoil

Undoubtedly, as I have said, Il Duomo—Saint Mary's of the Flower—was the second cathedral in all Christendom. I was there, gas-bottles and all, the next morning before Cardinal Riario began to say mass.

I tried to lose myself among the throngs of worshippers who strolled most informally among the banks of seats in the octagonal choir space beneath the great open dome. For once I was glad of the natural darkness that clung in the cathedral, lighted only by the ornate upper windows.

At the high altar the cardinal, young and handsome for all his high dignity, was intoning the service. I found a shadow beside a carved wooden screen, and tried to shrink my height by bowing my shoulders under my mantle.

More worshipers appeared, and more, brave in all the colors and fabrics of Sabbath costume. A tall, ruddy head and beard showed among them—Guaracco, I saw at once. In my heart I prayed that he fail to see me, and he did. He was looking for other things, and perhaps he believed that I had indeed fled Florence.

Then, on the other side of the choir, a flash of blue velvet, a smiling, handsome face. It was Giuliano de Medici,[17] and his arm was linked with that of Francesco de Pazzi, as though with a close friend. On the other side of Giuliano, and a little to the rear, walked Bernardo Bandini, the dissolute young gentleman on whom Guaracco threatened to bestow Lisa. Would Guaracco do so? Would Lisa consent?

And then someone strolled past me. Lorenzo, a gorgeous figure in a crimson houppelande, sword at side, chatting with a crooked, smiling young man— Agnolo Poliziano, the poet. Behind them, tense and pale, slunk two dark-clad figures, the assassins Maffei and Bagnone.

I took a step toward the ruler of Florence. I drew in my breath to shout a warning, in the midst of the holy service. I saw Guaracco approaching beyond some chairs.

It was then that the host was elevated at the altar. The young cardinal's voice rang out the prayerful words that, all unknowing, would signal for violence:

"Ite, missa est!"

Maffei, the vengeful Volterran, who was closer to me than Bagnone, stepped suddenly forward, clutching at Lorenzo. His dagger twinkled in air.

I seemed to move of an involuntary stimulus. Had I been a true Florentine, I would have paused to draw sword, and that would have been too late to save Lorenzo. Being an American, and from the Twentieth Century, I struck with my fist. Maffei staggered under the blow, his thrust went awry. It glanced along Lorenzo's neck.

"Beware, Your Magnificence!" I cried, and struck Maffei again, a roundabout right.

He turned halfway toward me, catching my knuckles on the point of his chin. Down he floundered in a flurry of black robes, and I set my foot on his dagger hand. The weapon clanked on the floor, and I kicked it away.

All had become howling confusion. My gas, I saw, would not affect only Guaracco's party, but the whole congregation. I dared not release it. At last I thought to draw my sword.

Across the octagonal space, chairs were overturning and horrified people were scurrying and gesticulating. For a moment I saw Giuliano's blue velvet form struggling on the floor, while Francesco de Pazzi, with his knee on Giuliano's breast, struck viciously with his dagger. Other swords were out on all sides.

"Down with the Medici oppressors!" I heard Guaracco trumpeting. * * *

A cheer answered him, for the service had been liberally attended by members of the conspiracy. The cardinal, his young eyes wide with horror, was drawing back from the altar, and a priest in black robes was trying to lead him away. Maffei had risen, and was running before my sword-point. I turned to see what was happening to Lorenzo.

He had drawn his own sword, and was parrying the wild dagger thrusts of Bagnone, but his wound streamed blood and the terrified Poliziano hampered him by clinging to him.

I hurried to them and thrust hard at Bagnone, but my stroke was turned, for as Guaracco had done the night before, this conspirator wore mail under his gown. Yet the digging jab drove him back. I gestured Poliziano toward a doorway with my weapon.

"Is that the sacristy?" I shouted. "Get him in there and bolt the door!"

"Giuliano!" Lorenzo was shouting back. "Is Giuliano safe?"

But I gave him an unceremonious shove, and a moment later Poliziano had dragged him to the threshold.

"Down with the Medici!" yelled Guaracco again.

His voice was near, and I faced around upon him and half a dozen of his supporters who were rushing to cut Lorenzo off. I threw myself in their way, quickly wadding my cloak into a shield, and engaged several blades at once. I heard the clang of the door behind me, and the shooting of the bolts.

"Medici! Medici!" I roared, fencing off my assailants. "Murder! Help, honest men, murder is being done!"

"Medici!" someone echoed, and never have I heard a sweeter voice.

A robust cavalier in plum-purple hurried to my side. He, too, had a sword, and struck manfully at the conspirators. His example fired others. In a trice the entire floor of the choir was a melee of jabbering voices and clashing steel.

Several armored guardsmen made their appearance. I saw Guaracco fleeing. I followed suit, for I remembered that Lorenzo, whose life I had just saved, had doomed me.

The public square outside the cathedral was swiftly jamming with people, some armed and angry, others frightened and mystified. All were talking at once, and nearly all were shouting "Medici! Medici!" In this quarter, at least, the people were for their ruler.

A fellow in a jerkin of falding, with gray hair and a cast in his eye, stopped me with a fierce clutch even as I emerged from the cathedral.

"Is it true that Ser Giuliano de Medici is slain?" he asked.

"I fear so," I replied. "I saw him struck down."

The gray head shook dolefully, but the one good eye lighted up.

"Come to the Palazzo Publico, young sir," the man urged me. "There is good sport there."

"What sport?" I asked, panting from the excitement.

"Salviati and some cutthroats went up to seize the magistrates. But the most of them were trapped in a room. The door had a spring lock."

Joy surged into me. My device had worked.

"How then?" I cried.

"Some guards, and friends of the Medici, came and seized the lot," he replied with relish. "Even now they are being hanged from the windows, like hams on a rafter." * * *

Fierce as it sounded, the news came gladly to my ears. Guaracco's conspiracy had failed in part at the cathedral, it had failed utterly at the palace. But I had no time for rejoicing. Elsewhere in the city was rising fresh danger.

"Nay, come with me," I bade my new friend. "I know of better sport still." I raised my voice. "Hark, all true Florentines and servants of the Magnificent! Who will fight for the Medici?"

"I!" stoutly called a youth, brandishing a cudgel. "And I!" came another volunteer. "I! I! I!" chorused others. Half a score offered themselves in as many seconds.

"Then follow," I said, and set off at a trot for the Pazzi quarter.

I now held a bottle of chlorine gas in each hand. The fellows set up a shout, of enthusiasm or excitement, and ran at my heels.

We had not far to run. Out of a narrow side street road a man on horseback—a square-faced man, bright of eye and straight of back for all the whiteness of his hair. He wore gold-fihgreed armor on chest and legs, and waved a sword. Armed footmen came at his heels. "Liberty! Liberty!" he was shouting. "Overthrow the oppressors!"

He must be Giacopo de Pazzi, the aged but sturdy head of the rebellious family. Behind him were marshalled the retainers of his house, a good hundred— and dangerous looking. And masses of citizenry pressed from other streets to stare, perhaps to join.

There was nothing for it but audacity. "Medici!" I thundered in return to the Pazzi slogan, and flourished one of the gas-bottles as though it were a battle flag. "Forward, loyal Florentines! Smite the assassins!"

My own following set up a shout, and pressed forward with me. I had more adherents than I had thought at first; doubtless we had been reenforced by others as we passed along the street. But Giacopo de Pazzi was not the man to be daunted. He had come out looking for trouble, and seemed glad to find it. Yelling a war-cry, he came toward us at a trot.

His horse alone would scatter my band, for we were all afoot. I made a decision, and hurled my first gas bottle. It burst on the pavement several yards ahead of the old man, and he checked and stared. I ran close and threw the second.

It smashed even closer to him. The cloud of gas, rising and mixing with the air, must have been driven sharply into his eyes and nose, as well as into the nostrils of his horse. The poor beast snorted and reared. Giacopo de Pazzi kept his seat with difficulty. Coughing, he dropped his sword and clutched at his throat with his hand. A moment later his frightened steed, out of control, had sidled into the foremost of his own men, throwing them into disorder.

The onlookers knew less of what had happened than Giacopo de Pazzi, but he had lost command of the situation, and the balance of approval tilted from him. Hoots and jeers rang in the air.

"Medici!" I screamed again.

"Medici! Medici!" echoed back from all sides.

I hurried almost into the midst of the Pazzi party. From my belt I tore my third and last bottle bomb, and threw it. It broke only a few feet from me, and the fumes blinded and strangled me as well as others. I retreated as best I might, coughing and dabbing at my tear-filled eyes. But, though I could not see, that final dose of irritating gas must have completed the job of halting the rush to dominate the city.

I heard an increasing hubbub of loud shouts for the Medici, and when my vision cleared at last, I saw a flash of armor. Guardsmen were making their appearance, threatening the parade with swords and pikes. I saw the foremost armed servants of the Pazzi faltering and drawing back, crumpling the head of the column. Some darted to right and left, losing themselves in the crowd.

Giacopo de Pazzi had recovered somewhat from his taste of chlorine. He was no coward, but he knew when he was beaten. He spurred quickly around a corner and away before we could reach him and drag him from the saddle.

I thought that he might reach the gates and escape, and did not begrudge him that boon. To me he seemed the least grisly of all that group of rascally plotters.[18]

An officer of the guard passed close to me, and I hailed him. "How goes it at the palace?" I asked.

"The rebels are all taken or slain," he answered. "His Magnificence is safe, and has spoken from a balcony, begging that there be no more butchery, and asking that the survivors be delivered to fair trial. He urges peace, even while his tears stream for his dead brother."

"It is not over yet," I admonished him. "Keep watch on the gates. Some mercenaries have been gathered there to help the conspiracy."

"They will never enter this city," he assured me.

I turned from him toward the Arno.

There was one more thing to do, and it lay with me to do it.