Max Brand

The Pearls of Bonfadini

Warsaw 2017

Contents

I. A STRANGE POISON

II. STATECRAFT EXTRAORDINARY

III. ARRIVAL OF TIZZO

IV. THE SHREWD MACHIAVIELLI

V. A MAD DOG

VI. BONFADINI’S PLEASURE

VII. A CAT IN A TREE

VIII. THE BURNING OF A CANDLE

IX. THE PEARLS

X. BONFADINI AGAIN

XI. ONE MAN’S POLICY

I. A STRANGE POISON

CESARE BORGIA, all in black, except for the white ruff of collar about his neck, black-masked also, across the upper part of his face, lolled in a big chair that had the dimensions and gave the effect of a throne. Always one who loved shadows, he had the room lighted by a few candles only and they cast on the wall wavering shadows of the men who stood near the chair of the duke of Romagna. Only Bonfadini’s face could be seen clearly; it was so bone-white that it seemed to be illumined from within. The poisoner’s expression was always one of still attention.

Before the duke stood Giovanni Malatesta, the waver and some of the sooty smoke of the candles in his face, a captain in the employ of Oliverotto, the hired soldier. He was completely in plate armor. His helmet was plumed. His raised visor exposed a stern young face, fearless of the great man whom he was to address.

The Borgia said: “We’ve had enough compliments, Malatesta. Now let’s have the letter.”

Malatesta bowed, unrolled a scroll of paper, and read aloud: “To the most noble Cesare Borgia, duke of Valentinois and the Romagna, we who are signed below send greetings, set forth certain complaints, and declare the action which we are about to take.

“Among our complaints the first is that no man’s life is safe when he comes near the noble duke, whether he be an enemy or too great a friend.

“Second, the money which the noble duke promises for service is paid in full, always, but his other promises are neglected.

“Third, his ambition is so great that presently there would be room for only one man in Italy.

“For these reasons we have determined to serve him no longer but to stand together against him. For this purpose we sign our names:

“Giovanpaolo Baglione, Paolo Orsini, Fabio Orsini, Francesco Orsini, Oliverotto da Ferma, Vitellozzo Vitelli.”

The duke did not lift his head; there was a slight rustling sound as his men turned towards him. The pale hand of Alessandro Bonfadini, secretary and poisoner, drooping over the top of Borgia’s chair, touched his shoulder as though by accident, but received no sign.

“You have another paper there in your hand,” said the Borgia. “What is that?”

“It is for Captain Tizzo,” said the messenger.

“Is it as pleasant as the other? Read it!” said the duke.

“Aloud?” asked Malatesta.

“Aloud, if that pleases Captain Tizzo, also,” said the duke.

Tizzo of Melrose advanced a step and nodded, the candlelight glimmering on the red of his hair. Most of the men about him were not of middle age, and yet he seemed a youth among the youngest.

“Read it aloud, certainly,” said Tizzo.

“Very well,” said Malatesta. And unfurling the paper he read: “To the noble Captain Tizzo of Melrose:

“We send you greetings as to a brave and wise officer by whom almost alone the towns of Forli and Urbino were won over to the possession of the duke of Romagna.

“Tizzo, we know your honesty and your quality as a soldier and as a man. With you at his side, we fear the duke. Without you, we care less for him than for an apple-paring…”

THE hand of Bonfadini again touched the shoulder of the Borgia, and this time that shoulder shrugged slightly up and down. Bonfadini glided instantly towards the candles, stepping between them and the open window. He leaned as though to trim the wicks, and each one that he touched gave, instantly, a slightly brighter flame, a single puff of pale smoke, as was natural. And the smoke was blowing towards Malatesta.

The Malatesta was reading on: “We wish all men to know that we desire to have you among us, a wise, trusted, and well-rewarded commander. Leave him and we will make your career famous. Stay with him and you will be praised and paid until you are dangerously strong, and then you will be stabbed and thrown in a gutter, as he has thrown other men.”

“This is rather strong talk,” said the Borgia calmly. “But continue, Malatesta.”

The captain hesitated, shrugged his shoulders, and then struggled with a yawn; which was strange, because it was hardly a time or a place to feel sleepy.

“We wish to point out to you,” continued the captain, reading, “that although the duke holds the Lady Beatrice merely as a hostage for the good behavior of Giovanpaolo Baglione and promises that you shall have her hand in marriage as soon as–”

Captain Malatesta hesitated, yawned openly, rubbed his eyes, and fell suddenly to the ground.

There was a general exclamation. Several of the men rushed forward to the fallen captain. And one of them cried out: “Dead! Dead as a stone!”

The voice of the Borgia, usually muffled and low, now was heard saying loudly: “A proper reward for traitors, my friends! Let all of you bear witness that no hand of mine touched this man; the finger of God was laid on him for his treachery. May all that he spoke for die like dogs in the same way. Bear witness, all of you!”

He gave instant order that the body should be carried out; and all except two of those who were about the duke left his presence at once. They had noticed nothing strange in the air of the room, except perhaps a slight fragrance almost like that of violets; also, a few of them were just a trifle dizzy. But the open air soon put that right.

Cesare Borgia remained alone with Alessandro Bonfadini and bright-eyed, cat-faced Niccolò Machiavelli. The duke went to the couch and stretched himself upon it. He yawned–in his turn.

“That is very precious stuff, Bonfadini,” he said. “How much of it remains to you?”

“About six men, my lord,” said the poisoner.

Machiavelli laughed. “That is a new measurement,” he said.

“Can you make more of it, Bonfadini?” asked the duke.

“I am making more, my lord,” said the poisoner.

“When will it be ready?”

“In about two years,” said Bonfadini.

“Ah hai! Two years to make a few pinches of fragrant white powder that burns so well in a candle flame?” asked the Borgia.

“My lord,” said Bonfadini, “must understand that I am not often at the cattle farm; I usually must be at the side of my lord.”

“Of course you must be at my side,” said the Borgia. “You are the brightest dagger in my armory and you are kept shining by continual use. But what have your visits to the cattle farm to do with your poisons?”

“I am more at ease in the country air, my lord,” said Bonfadini. “My mind works more precisely.”

“Be frank,” said the duke. “Come, come! Do you think I would question you before my wise friend Machiavelli except that he is free to hear everything I know? No, Bonfadini; you help me to some very considerable deeds, and he has the pen that may make them famous. What is all this about poisons and the cattle farm, and two years to make half an ounce of white powder?”

“I MUST find healthy young cattle, my lord,” said Bonfadini, “and inject a certain poison into the body of one. Several injections. At the end of a month the beef sickens and dies. When the body is corrupt, after a certain number of days, the liquids are drawn off and distilled. They have not the strength of the original poison. They are far more terrible. Death itself has helped to strengthen them.

“This fine juice I inject into another beef, which dies, and the distilled product is introduced to a third, and so on, the virulence of the poison steadily growing, until at last I have only a certain process to crystallize a sediment in the quart of liquid which two years of labor will have given to me. There remains a few pinches of powder to which I add a certain perfume of my invention. The rest my lord knows better than any man.”

“Beautiful, eh, Machiavelli?” asked the duke.

“So in all art,” said the Florentine. “Patience makes the perfect thing. No one but Bonfadini has raised murder to a fine art.”

“And still,” said the duke, “you notice that he says nothing. ‘A certain poison…’ and ‘a certain number of days…’ and ‘a certain perfume…’ It’s plain that you will not entrust your secrets to me, Bonfadini.”

“My lord, I merely remove temptation from your hands.”

“Like a good priest, eh?”

The Borgia laughed. “Now tell me what I have gained from all of this?”

“No matter what the eye-witnesses testify,” said Machiavelli, “the generals will not believe that it was the hand of God which struck down their messenger. No one in Italy will believe it.”

“I don’t care what they believe, so long as they don’t understand. Always to be successful and never to be understood is the secret of greatness. So long as Italy fears me, it will follow me. Is that true?”

“Very true,” said Machiavelli.

He began to peel an apple, cutting the paring translucently thin, using a very sharp pen-knife.”

He said as he peeled the fruit: “You have convinced the generals that their messenger was murdered. They will make a strong head against you.”

“On the contrary,” said the Borgia, “out of all of this, I shall make a net in which I shall catch every one of the generals.”

“In what manner?” asked Machiavelli.

“Who is the most honest man about me–barring my faithful Bonfadini?” asked the duke.

“Why, red-headed, fire-eating Tizzo, I suppose,” said the Florentine.

“He is the net I will use to catch the traitors, one and all.”

“But Tizzo is not a fool.”

“Certainly not. He is as suspicious as a cat. But I shall make his suspicions the lever through which I work on him. Once I satisfy his doubts, he will be my devoted servant again.”

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