The Sorceress of Rome

CHAPTER XV

THE STORM OF CASTEL SAN ANGELO

The sun of autumn hung a bloody circle over Rome, but seemed to give neither light nor warmth. The city itself presented a seething cauldron of rebellion. The gates had been closed against the advancing Germans and when, with the first streak of dawn, Haco had arrived under the Marian hill with the contingents from Tivoli, they found themselves before a city, which had to be reconquered ere they could even join the comparatively weak garrison on the Aventine, where Otto was a prisoner in his own palace. During the night Eckhardt had assayed to reach a place of concealment on the Tiburtine road, where he awaited the arrival of his forces, which he had immediately marshalled in their respective positions. Castel San Angelo rested on an impregnable rock, but Eckhardt had sworn a terrible oath, that he would scale its walls before the sun of another day rose behind the Alban hills; and although a rain of arrows and bolts, so dense and deadly that it threatened to break the line of the assailants, was poured into the German ranks, it did not stay their determined advance.

The first line of assault consisted of heavy-armed foot-soldiers with round bucklers, short swords and massive battle-axes. Forming in close phalanx, these men of gigantic size, in hauberks and round helmets, fixed shield to shield like an iron wall, advanced in dense array to the charge. They were led on the right wing by the imperial guard, whose huge statures, fair long hair and gleaming halberds formed a strange contrast to the lighter arms and the more pliant forms of the defenders of Castel San Angelo.

The Roman army, which the Senator had stationed round the base of his formidable stronghold, could not withstand the shock of this tremendous phalanx, so far heavier in arms and numbers, and with all their courage and skill they wavered and broke into flight. Many were precipitated into the Tiber and drowned miserably within sight of their helpless comrades; most of them were mowed down by the pursuing German cavalry or shot by the German archers.

After the terrible defeat of the Senator's army by the first line of Eckhardt's battle-array, the squadrons of the second line of battle spread over the plain, preparatory to the last and final assault. The vast stronghold of the Senator looked as proud and menacing as ever; reared upon its almost impenetrable granite-foundation it formed even at this date one of the most powerful fortresses of Western Europe. Its huge battlements were defended with a long chain of covered towers, from which Albanian bowmen shot down every living thing, that approached the circuit of its walls. Every attempt to scale the lofty stronghold with ladders had during former sieges been beaten off with fearful loss, after desperate combats at all hours of day and night. Although he had twice stormed the walls of Rome, Eckhardt had never succeeded in capturing the fortress, which he must call his own, who would be master of the Seven Hills. But the wrath of the Margrave defied every obstacle, laughed to scorn every impediment which might retard his vengeance upon the cursed rabble of Rome, those mongrel curs, with whom rebellion was a pastime and for whom oaths existed but to be broken. All day long the Germans had hurled themselves against the massive walls, sustaining terrible losses, while those within the city were equally severe. All day long they had plied their huge catapults, which hurled masses of rock and iron into the city and fortress, keeping up an incessant bombardment. They also used the balista, an immense fixed cross-bar, which shot bolts with extraordinary force and precision upon the battlements, whereon nothing living could stand exposed without certain destruction.

Seated motionless on his coal-black charger, like some dark spirit of revenge, plainly visible from the ramparts of Castel San Angelo, Eckhardt directed the assault of his army at this point, or that, according as the situation required. Many an arrow and stone struck the ground close by his side, but he seemed to bear a charmed existence and never stirred an inch from his chosen vantage ground. Already had a breach been made in one or two places in the base of the walls, yet had he not given the order to break into the city, but seemed to watch for some weak spot in the defences. It was verging towards evening. The besiegers could hear the cries and the rage of those within the walls, who dared not remain in the streets during the terrific rain of iron and stones hurled by the German machines. Despite their strenuous efforts, Castel San Angelo hurled defiance into the teeth of the Margrave, who demanded its surrender, and the task of capturing the stronghold, otherwise than by starving the garrison, seemed to hold out smaller promise with every moment, as the sun hurried on his western course. The sky became overcast and the night bade fair to be stormy.

During the assaults of the day, Eckhardt had many times strained his gaze towards the road leading to Tivoli, as if he expected some succour from that direction, when, as the sun was sinking in a crimson haze, a cloud of dust met the general's gaze and at the same moment a thunderous shout rose from the imperial hosts. Drawn by twelve oxen, there appeared at the edge of the plain a new engine of assault, which Eckhardt had ordered constructed, anticipating an emergency, such as the present. It had remained with the host in Tivoli, and despite the comparatively short distance, it had required almost twenty-four hours to draw it over the sloping ground to Rome. It was a tower of three stages, constructed of massive beams, protected by frames and hides and crowned with a stout roof. It was now being rolled forward on broad heavy wheels to afford means of scaling the walls. As it slowly approached the ramparts of Castel San Angelo, the assault of the Germans, renewed on the whole line of the walls with redoubled fury, presented a terrific sight. The catapults and balistae were pouring stones, bolts and arrows on the defenders; the whizzing of the missiles, the shouts of the assailants, answered by furious yells from the walls, the roar of the flames, as here and there a house near the city walls caught fire from burning pitch, made a truly infernal din.

"The turret is within twenty feet of the walls, – on a level with the ramparts, – fifteen, – ten feet, – down with the scaling bridge!" shouted Haco, who was standing by the side of Eckhardt. Crashing, the gang-way went from the front of the pent house. But as he spoke, the soft earth, whereon the turret stood, gave way. The gang-way fell short, the turret toppled and split. The besieged hurled on it bolts, rocks, boiling pitch and fire balls, and presently it collapsed with a sudden crash and fell in a heap, mangling and burying the men inside it and beneath it, and at once it blazed up, a mass of burning timber.

"It is, as I feared," said Eckhardt. "No turret lofty enough to overtop these walls can be brought up to work on ground like this. We must resort to the catapults! Let all be brought into action at once!"

The destruction of the great, movable turret, on the success of which such hopes and fears had been placed, caused the ranks of assailants and defenders to pause for a space, while both were watching the spectacle of the blazing pile. A lull ensued in the storm of battle, during which Eckhardt, while he seemed to direct his men towards a certain point near the walls, never released his gaze from Castel San Angelo. Then he gave a whispered order to Haco, who set off at once on its execution. An appalling crash rent the sky, as the German machines began their simultaneous attack on the walls of Rome, while a storming-column, forming under their protection, rushed forth towards the gates of the city. The strain on the mind of Eckhardt, who alone knew the intense crisis of that moment, was almost unbearable. He must succeed this very night; for on the morrow the peremptory order of the Electors would recall his forces beyond the Alps. There would be no respite; there could be no resistance. His only salvation lay in their undaunted courage and their ignorance of the impending decree.

The evening grew more and more sultry.

At intervals a gust came flying, raising the white dust and rustling in the dying leaves. It passed by, leaving the stillness on the Aventine more still than before. Nothing was to be heard, save the dull, seemingly subterranean growls of thunder, and against this low threatening and sullen roar the pounding of Eckhardt's catapults against the walls. At times a flash broke across the clouds; then all stood out sharp and clear against the increasing darkness. Only the watchfires of Castel San Angelo were reflected in the sluggish tide of the Tiber, from which rose noisome odours of backwater, rotting fern leaves and decaying wood.

The Piazza of St. Peter meanwhile presented a singular spectacle, congested as it was with a multitude, which, in the glare of the lightning, resembled one waving mass of heads, – a cornfield before it has been swept by a tornado. It was an infuriated mob, which listened to the harangue of Benilo, interrupting the same ever and ever with the hysterical shout: "Death to the Saxon! Death to the Emperor!"

"Blood of St. John!" exclaimed an individual in the coarse brown garb of a smith, "Why do we bellow here? Let us to the Aventine – to the Aventine!"

His eye met that of Il Gobbo the grave-digger. He pounced upon him like an eagle on his prey, shaking him by the shoulder.

"Gobbo! Dog! Assassin! Art deaf to good news! I tell thee, there is strife in the city, – some new sedition! It may be that our friends have conquered – down with the tyrant and oppressor! Down with the Saxon! Down with everything!"

And he laughed – a hoarse, mad laughter.

"We Romans shall yet be free, – think of it, thou villain, – a thousand curses on thee!"

The artisan had correctly interpreted the temper of the Romans, when he raised his shout: To the Aventine! To the Aventine!

"Romans! We give our enemies red war! War to the knife!" screamed the speaker at the conclusion of his harangue.

"Death to the Saxons! Death to the King!" came the answering yell.

In the midst of all this some partisan of the King ventured to reason with the mob. It was impossible to distinguish in the ensuing mêlée, but in the distance a man was being tossed and torn by the mob. For a moment his white face rose above the sea of heads, with all the despair which a drowning man shows, when it rises for the last time above the waves, then it sank back and something mangled and shapeless was flung out into the great Piazza, where it lay still.

"To the Aventine! To the Aventine!" shouted the mob, and armed with all sorts of rude weapons they trooped off, brandishing their clubs and staves and shouting confused maledictions.

Count Ludeger of the Palatinate, to whom Eckhardt had entrusted the King's safety, had made sure that all approaches were locked and barred, while he had disposed his spearmen and archers in such a manner as to make it appear, in the case of assault, that he commanded a much superior number, than were actually at his disposal.

The warlike Count Palatine, who, aroused on an alarm, had instantly equipped himself with casque and sword, stood listening to what was passing outside, sniffing the air and rolling his eyes as if he desired nothing better than a conflict. Arranging his archers round the barred gate, with the order to hold their bows in readiness, he descended to the entrance which was surrounded by a howling mob, who demanded admittance or, if denied, declared they would enter by force. After having surveyed the assailants through a wicket, and having convinced himself that they were of the baser class, he demanded to speak with the leader of the mob. A surly individual, armed with a club, came boldly forward and demanded to see the King.

"For what purpose?" asked the Count Palatine.

"That is, – as we choose!" replied the ruffian.

By this time the archers had mounted the roof of the palace, while Count Ludeger stood in the foreground. To him the routing of such a rabble seemed a task not worth speaking of, and it was not his intention to parley. He dared not open the gates until he was prepared to act, therefore mounting a balcony in the upper story of the palace, which looked over the entrance, he stood fully visible from where the invaders stood, whose numbers swelled with every moment. Then advancing to the parapet, he made a signal, demanding silence, and spoke in a voice audible to every ear in the throng:

"Dogs! You came hither thinking the palace was defenceless. You wish to see the King. Off! Away with your foul odours and your yelping throats! And if when you have turned tail, any cur among you dares bark back, he shall pay for it with an arrow through his chine! Away with you!"

The crowd seemed to waver and to look for their leader, but the Count Palatine gave them little time. Raising his hand he waved a signal to the archers. The low growling and snarling of the mob swelled to a yell of terror, as three score or more of their number fell under the hail of arrows. At the same moment the gate of the palace was thrown open and the guards charged the Roman mob with drawn swords, mowing down all that were in their path. Back fell the first rank of the rioters, pressing against those in the rear, and with an outcry of terror the crowd scattered in flight.

From the balcony of his palace, Otto had witnessed the scene which had just come to a close. He saw hatred and vengeance around him in the eyes of the populace. He knew himself to be hated, deserted, betrayed, most unjustly, most cruelly, despite all he had done for the state and the people. After the mob had departed, he retreated to his chamber. Here his strength seemed utterly to forsake him. Calling his attendants, they took from him his cloak, his diadem, and his sword of state, they unlaced the imperial buskins and gilt mail, in which he was encased. He seemed eager to fling from him his gilded trappings, while his attendants watched him in perplexity and fear. He spoke not, nor gave any sign.