"Lisa loves me," I said stoutly.
"Only at my bidding. My will commands her."
I gazed at him as though I had never seen him before.
Not that I had not known him from the first day as a dangerous scoundrel; not that I had not always hated and feared him; but at last I knew that I must not delay. He must die, for the sake of Lisa and myself and all the world.
In one motion I bared my sword and darted it at him. He reeled back with a cry, but no blood came. My point had turned against a concealed shirt of mail. He extended his arm, dangling the lantern above an open cask.
"There is powder inside," he warned. "Attack, and—"
I hesitated only a second, then turned at the sound of pattering feet. His two dwarfs were at me, ducking under the sweep of my sword to close in. But I brought down the pommel of my weapon upon the head of the hunchback, even as he shortened his own blade to thrust. Down he fell, and I sprang across him and darted upstairs.
"Lisa! Lisa!" I cried. Only the roared curses of Guaracco answered me. He was pursuing, a rifle in his hands.
"You cannot catch me!" I yelled, on inspiration. "I go back to my prison!"
I gained the front door and ran out. Away I fled, passed Verrocchio's bottega, around a corner to a broader street, and toward the heart of Florence. For I had only pretended that I was fleeing the city.
What now? Seek Lorenzo and warn him? Dared I show my face to him? Ahead of me loomed the Palazzo Publico, destined for a stirring scene of tomorrow's uprising. I had a sudden hope and plan.
Unbuckling my sword, I hid it in a bush. Boldly I went to a side door and knocked. A porter opened to me.
"I am the locksmith," I said. "I come to fix the antechamber door."
"I heard no orders," he temporized, but allowed me to enter and mount the stairs to the upper floor.
Here was a reception hall and a door opening to the left. Guaracco had designated it as an ambush for the bravos who would follow Francesco Salviati. I examined its heavy lock, and with my dagger made shift to drag it partially from the door. Still watched by the suspicious porter, I tinkered with its inner works.
"Now it will serve," I told him, and went my way.
To all appearances I left the lock as it had been. But I had bent a spring and pried out a rivet. Any man or men, going into that room and closing the door behind, could not get out again without the aid of even a better locksmith than I.
After that, I sought a livery stable, and with a few coins that were left in my pouch hired a horse. Somehow I wheedled my way past the watch at a gate, and made the best time darkness would allow to the old familiar country house which Guaracco still kept.
A single caretaker opened to my thunderous knocking. Without ceremony I drew my sword and swore to cut out his liver if he forestalled me by word or deed. He tremblingly made submission, and I locked him in a closet. Then I took a lamp down to the cellar workshop where Guaracco had tested my scientific knowledge on our first day of acquaintance.
It was in a dusty turmoil, but in a corner among odds and ends of machinery was what I had hoped to find—the remains of our unsuccessful time reflector. I checked the battery, found it in bad shape, but materials were at hand to freshen it. When I had restored it to power, I procured salt from the kitchen and mixed a great basin of brine. Finally I attached two wires to the terminals of the battery, and thrust their ends into the liquid.
I watched carefully. Electrolysis commenced. The bubbles that rose at the negative wire would be liberated hydrogen. Those at the positive end were what I wanted. From a bench I brought a glass bottle, holding more than half a gallon, filled it with brine and inverted it above this stream of bubbles. Steadily the gas crowded out the salt water, showing greenish yellow. I stoppered the bottle as it filled, then charged a second and a third. Finally I drew the wires out. The bottles had earlike rings at their necks; and I strung them on a girdle under my cloak.
They were now a weapon for me that Guaracco had not dreamed of; for I had produced chlorine gas, such as had poisoned armies in the World War, the war that was still centuries ahead of me.
As I finished the work, Sunday dawned grayly. I released the frightened caretaker, and rode once more to Florence.
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.
17
Giuliano was ill on this fatal Sunday, but Francesco de Pazzi and Bernardo Bandini went to his house and urged him in a friendly manner to attend mass.