The Ninth Man/Chapter 4
CHAPTER IV
AND I will wager that in all its life San Moglio had never seen gathered in the palace of the Podestà such a company; for there faction met faction as friends; old hate smiled at old hate; sworn enemies met for the first time without the drawing of swords.
Nor could Mazzaleone's, own eyes distinguish where a feud lay; one would have supposed that each felt a dear joy in thus seeing close at hand his own enemy. I saw Beatrice degli Oddi talking with her brothers, though all San Moglio knew that they had sworn to tear her in pieces when that happy hour came that they might lay their hands upon her. And she talked with them as though they had never been parted; as though they had not sworn her death so bitterly that she had not left the palace of Ugo da Sala since he took her there from her father's house, Da Sala's men killing her kinsman as he lifted her over the threshold.
I stood near Count Bartolommeo, and heard him say to my lady, "There is the making of a rare fight below," for in the courtyard, where the vassals of the rival houses met face to face, there was no smooth talking, and a menacing growl arose from it through the corridors and up the hallways, I had seen the retainers of Malatesta da Mogliano glommering at those of Casamatto, and the men of Cola degli Oddi itch for the throats of those of Da Sala. The halberdiers of Mazzaleone formed an iron bar, behind which the men could only show their teeth at one another. As my lord spoke his dearest enemy, Carlo Graziani passed, and he and my lord saluted each other, Graziani with the gravity of his disgruntlement. In times of peace a month was barren when there were no broken skulls given and taken between our house and that of Graziani, nor had these men met in many years, save when the common cause of San Moglio called them together. I could see a flame of interest in my lord's face, for it seemed to pique his bold humor.
Then all at once his face darkened, and my gaze followed his and fell on my lady talking with Mazzaleone. They conversed together as old friends. At this sight the heads of the company bent toward them like grain in the wind, for my lady was not of San Moglio. A peace offering of Barga to us, the living symbol of Barga's good faith, she had come here a young bride, a lovely white thing, silent and proud, and as Count Bartolommeo had warmed her in the fire of his love she had warmed toward San Moglio.
None of our household knew what had changed her from fire to ice toward him. But changed she was, and the city knew it; and since then it seemed that her heart was ever tugging and straining up toward the Bargese heights. And who knew what her friendship with Mazzaleone might portend for San Moglio?
She walked slowly around the assembly, flashing her laughter here and there, at her ease with Mazzaleone. Before Count Bartolommeo she paused, and I of many heard her say:
"I knew him when I was but a little maid . . . in my father's house—he was there with a broken wrist. I called him 'the lean man Egidio,' and knew no other name." And Bartolommeo joined them in their walk, he also at his ease and smiling.
And then there happened a strange thing. It was as if this sight had been some unseen torch and had set to flaming the smoldering hates and feuds, the smothered hatreds of years; and now, without a word being spoken, without the outward suavity of the scene being changed, this fire crackled round through the assembly as fire might catch a light festooning of drapery. With hatred came revenge. The thought of the black ballot and its use stalked exultant through us. Enforced peace was upon us, and with enforced peace a handy, silent weapon had Mazzaleone given to San Moglio.
Down in the courtyard the men of San Moglio became more restless, and the men of Mazzaleone more alert, and as I went through to bid our torch-bearers be ready, I saw one of the men of Casamatto fling forth his arm, and in his hand was a black ballot.
"This," cried he, "for Count Malatesta and his house!"