Black Magic by Marjorie Bowen (good novels to read TXT) 📕

of the other.

 

Michael II wore a straight robe of gold-coloured silk and a skull-cap

of crimson and blue; no jewels nor any suggestion of pomp concealed

the youthfulness, almost frailty of his appearance; the red hair made

his face the paler by contrast; his full lips were highly coloured

under the darkened upper lip.

 

“Grateful?” he repeated, and his voice was mournful. “I think you do

not know what I have done—I have dared to cast the Emperor from his

throne—lies he not even now without the walls, defying me with a

handful of Frankish knights? Is not the excommunication on him?”

 

“Yea,” answered Theirry. “And is it for my sake ye have done this?”

 

“Must you question it?” returned Michael, with a quick breath. “Yea,

for your sake, to make you, as I promised, Emperor of the West—my

vengeance had else been more quietly satisfied—” He laughed. “I have

not forgot all my magic.”

 

Theirry winced.

 

“The vision in the Basilica was proof of that—what are you who can

bring back the hallowed dead to aid your schemes?”

 

Michael II answered softly.

 

“And who are you who take my aid and my friendship, and all the while

fear and loathe me?”

 

He moved his hand from his face and leant forward, showing a deep red

mark on his cheek where the palm had pressed.

 

“Do you think I am not human, Theirry?” He gave a sigh. “If you would

believe in me, trust me, be faithful to me—why, our friendship would

be the lever to move the universe, and you and I would rule the world

between us.”

 

Theirry fingered the arras beside him.

 

“In what way can I be false to you?”

 

“You betrayed me once. You are the only man in Rome who knows my

secret. But this is truth, if again you forsake me, you bring about

your own downfall—stand by me, and I will share with you the dominion

of the earth—this, I say, is truth.”

 

Theirry laughed unhappily.

 

“Sweet devil, there is no God, and I have no soul!—there, do not

fear—I shall be very faithful to you—since what is there for man

save to glut his desires of pomp and wealth and power?” He moved from

the wall and took a quick turn about the room.

 

“And yet I know not!” he cried. “Can all your magic, all your

learning, all your riches, keep you where you are? The clouds hang

angrily over Rome, nor have they lifted since Orsini announced you

Pope—the people riot in the streets—all beautiful things are dead,

many see ghosts and devils walking at twilight across the Maremma…

Oh, horror!—they say Pan has left his ruined temple to enter

Christian churches and laugh in the face of the marble Christ–can

these things be?”

 

The Pope swept back the hair from his damp brow. “The powers that put

me here can keep me here—be you but true to me!”

 

“Ay, I will be Emperor”—Theirry grasped his sword hilt fiercely—

“though the world I rule rot about me, though ghouls and fiends make

my Imperial train—I will join hands with Antichrist and see if there

be a God or no!”

 

The Pope rose.

 

“You must go against Balthasar. You must defeat his hosts and bring to

me his Empress, then will I crown you in St. Peter’s.”

 

Theirry pressed his hand to his forehead.

 

“We start to-morrow with the dawn—beneath the banner of God His

Church; I, in this mail ye gave me, tempered and forged in Hell!”

 

“Ye need have no fear of failure; you shall go forth triumphantly and

return victoriously. You shall make your dwelling the Golden Palace on

the Aventine, and neither Heliogabalus nor Basil, nor Charlemagne

shall be more magnificently housed than you…”

 

Michael seemed to check his words suddenly; he turned his face away

and looked across the city which lay beneath the heavy pall of clouds.

 

“Be but true to me,” he added in a low voice.

 

Theirry smiled wildly.

 

“A curious love have you for me, and but little faith in my strength

or constancy—well, you shall see, I go forth to-morrow, with many men

and banners, to rout the Emperor utterly.”

 

“Until then, stay in the Vatican,” said Michael II suddenly. “My

prelates and my nobles know you for their leader now.”

 

“Nay,”—Theirry flushed as he answered—“I must go to my own abode in

the city.” “Jacobea of Martzburg is still in Rome,” said the other.

“Do you leave me to go to her?” “Nay—I know not even where she

lodges,” replied Theirry hastily.

 

Michael smiled bitterly and was silent.

 

“What is Jacobea to me?” demanded Theirry desperately.

 

The other gave him a sinister glance.

 

“Why did you approach her after her devotions in San Giovanni in

Laterano—speak to her and recall yourself to her mind?”

 

Theirry went swiftly pale.

 

“You know that!—Ah, it was the dancer, your accomplice… What

mystery is this?” he asked in a distracted way. “Why does not Ursula

of Rooselaare come forth under her true name and confound the

Emperor?—why does she follow me, and in such a guise?”

 

Without looking at him Michael answered.

 

“Maybe because she is very wise—maybe because she is a very fool—let

her pass, she has served her turn. You say you do not go to palter

with Jacobea, then farewell until to-morrow; I have much to

do…farewell, Theirry.”

 

He held out his hand with a stately gesture, and, as Theirry took it

in his, the curious thought came to him how seldom he had touched so

much as Dirk’s fingers, even in the old days, so proud a reserve had

always encompassed the youth, and, now, the man.

 

Theirry left the rich-scented chamber and the vast halls of the

Vatican and passed into the riotous and lawless streets of Rome.

 

The storm that had hung so unnaturally long over the city had affected

the people; bravoes and assassins crept from their hiding-places in

the Catacombs, or the Palatine, and flaunted in the streets; the wine

shops were filled with mongrel soldiers of all nations, attracted by

the declaration of war from the surrounding towns; blasphemers mocked

openly at the processions of monks and pilgrims that traversed the

streets chanting the penitential psalms, or scourging themselves in an

attempt to avert the wrath of Heaven.

 

There was no law; crime went unpunished; virtue became a jest; many of

the convents were closed and deserted, while their late occupants

rejoined the world they suddenly longed for; the poor were despoiled,

the rich robbed; ghastly and blasphemous processions nightly paraded

the streets in honour of some heathen deity; the priests inspired no

respect, the name of God no fear; the plague marched among the people,

striking down hundreds; their bodies were flung into the Tiber, and

their spirits went to join the devils that nightly danced on the

Campagna to the accompaniment of rolling storms.

 

Witches gathered in the low marches of the Maremma and came at night

into the city, trailing grey, fever-laden vapour after them.

 

The bell-ropes began to rot in the churches, and the bells clattered

from the steeples; the gold rusted on the altars, and mice gnawed the

garments on the holy images of the Saints.

 

The people lived with reckless laughter and died with hopeless curses;

magicians, warlocks and vile things flourished exceedingly, and all

manner of strange and hideous creatures left their caves to prowl the

streets at nightfall.

 

And such under Pope Michael II was Rome, swiftly and in a moment.

 

Theirry, like all others, went heavily armed; his hand was constantly

on his sword hilt as he made his way through the city that was

forsaken by God.

 

With no faltering step or hesitating bearing he passed through the

crowds that gathered more thickly as the night came on, and turned

towards the Appian Gate.

 

Here it was gloomy, almost deserted; dark houses bordered the Appian

Way, and a few strange figures crept along in their shadow; in the

west a sullen glare of crimson showed that the sun was setting behind

the thick clouds. Dark began to fall rapidly.

 

Theirry walked long beyond the Gate and stopped at a low convent

building, above the portals of which hung a lamp, its gentle radiance

like a star in the heavy, noisome twilight.

 

The gate, that led into a courtyard, stood half open. Theirry softly

pushed it wider and entered. The pure perfume of flowers greeted him;

a sense of peace and security, grown strange of late in Rome, filled

the square grass court; in the centre was a fountain, almost hidden in

white roses; behind their leaves the water dripped pleasantly.

 

There were no lights in the convent windows, but it was not yet too

dark for Theirry to distinguish the slim figure of a lady seated on a

wooden bench, her hands passive in her lap. He latched the gate and

softly crossed the lawn.

 

“You said that I might come.”

 

Jacobea turned her head, unsmiling, unsurprised.

 

“Ay, sir; this place is open to all.”

 

He uncovered before her.

 

“I cannot hope ye are glad to see me.”

 

“Glad?” She echoed the word as if it sounded in a foreign tongue;

then, after a pause, “Yes, I am glad that you have come.”

 

He seated himself beside her, his splendid mail touching her straight

grey robe, his full, beautiful face turned towards her worn ‘and

expressionless features.

 

“What do you do here?” he asked.

 

She answered in the same gentle tone; she had a white rose in her

hands, and turned it about as she spoke.

 

“So little—there are two sisters here, and I help them; one can do

nothing against the plague, but for the little forsaken children

something, rend something for the miserable sick.”

 

“The wretched of Rome are not in your keeping,” he said eagerly. “It

will mean your life–why did you not go with the Empress?”

 

She shook her head.

 

“I was not needed. I suppose what they said of her was true. I cannot

remember clearly, but I think that when Melchoir died I knew it was

her doing.”

 

“We must not dwell on the past,” cried Theirry. “Have you heard that I

lead the Pope’s army against Balthasar?”

 

“Nay;” her eyes were on the white rose.

 

“Jacobea, I shall be the Emperor.”

 

“The Emperor,” she repeated dreamily.

 

“I shall rule the Latin world—Emperor of the West!”

 

In the now complete dark they could scarcely see each other; there

were no stars, and distant thunder rolled at intervals; Theirry

timidly put out his hand and touched the fold of her dress where it

lay along the seat.

 

“I wish you would not stay here—it is so lonely—”

 

“I think she would wish me to do this.”

 

“She?” he questioned.

 

Jacobea seemed surprised he did not take her meaning.

 

“Sybilla.”

 

“O Christus!” shuddered Theirry. “Ye still think of her?”

 

Jacobea smiled, as he felt rather than saw.

 

“Think of her?…is she not always with me?”

 

“She is dead.”

 

He saw the blurred outline of the lady’s figure stir.

 

“Yea, she died on a cold morning—it was so cold you could see your

breath before you as you rode along, and the road was hard as glass—

there was a yellow dawn that day, and the pine trees seemed frozen,

they stood so motionless—you would not think it was ten years ago—I

wonder how long it seems to her?”

 

A silence fell upon them for a while, then