Chapter XI The Incantation
t was near the hour of midnight when a figure, muffled and concealed in an ample mantle left Castel San Angelo. The guards on duty did not challenge it and after crossing the Aelian bridge, it traversed the deserted thoroughfares until it reached the Flaminian way, which it entered. Avoiding the foot-path near the river, the figure moved stealthily along the farther side of the road, which, as far as could be discerned by the glimpses of the moon which occasionally shone forth from a bank of heavy clouds, was deserted. A few sounds arose from the banks of the river and there was now and then a splash in the water or a distant cry betokening some passing craft. Otherwise profound silence reigned. The low structures and wharfs on the opposite bank could be but imperfectly discerned, but the moonlight fell clear upon the mausoleum of Augustus and the adjacent church of St. Eufemia. The same glimmer also ran like a silver-belt across the stream and revealed the gloomy walls of the Septizonium. The world of habitations beyond this melancholy stronghold was buried in darkness.
After crossing Ponte Sisto the muffled rambler entered a churchyard, which seemed to have been abandoned for ages. The moon was now shining brightly and silvered the massive square watchtowers, the battlements, and pinnacles with gorgeous tracery. Crescentius had hardly set foot on the moss-grown path, when two individuals wrapped in dark, flowing mantles, whose manner was as mysterious as their appearance, glided stealthily past him.
They seemed not to have noticed his presence but pursued their way through the churchyard, creeping beneath the shadow of a wall in the direction of some low structure, which appeared to be a charnel-house situated at its north-western extremity. Before this building grew a black and stunted yew-tree. Arrived at it, they paused to see whether they were observed. They did not notice the unbidden visitor, who had concealed himself behind a buttress. One of the two individuals who seemed bent by great age then unlocked the door of the charnel-house and brought out a pick-axe and a spade. Then both men proceeded some little distance from the building and began to shovel out the mould from a grass-grown grave.
Determined to watch their proceeding, Crescentius crept towards the yew-tree, behind which he ensconced himself. The bent and decrepit one of the two meanwhile continued to ply his spade with a vigour that seemed incomprehensible in one so far stricken in years and of such infirm appearance. At length he paused, and kneeling within the shallow grave endeavoured to drag something from it. His assistant, apparently younger and possessed of greater vigour, knelt to lend his aid. After some exertion they drew forth the corpse of a woman which had been interred without a coffin and apparently in the habiliments worn during life. Then the two men raised the corpse, and conveyed it to the charnel-house. After having done so, one of them returned to the grave for the lantern and, upon returning, entered the building and closed and fastened the door behind him.
Crescentius had chosen the moment when one of the two individuals left the lone house, to enter unobserved and to conceal himself in the shadows. What he had witnessed, had exercised a terrible fascination over him, and he was determined to see to an end the devilish rites about to be performed by the personage, in quest of whom he had come. The chamber in which he found himself was in perfect keeping with the horrible ceremonial about to be performed. In one corner lay a mouldering heap of skulls, bones and other fragments of mortality; in the other a pile of broken coffins, emptied of their tenants and reared on end. But what chiefly attracted his attention, was a ghastly collection of human limbs blackened with pitch, girded round with iron hoops and hung like meat in a shamble against the wall. There were two heads, and although the features were scarcely distinguishable owing to the liquid in which they had been immersed, they still retained a terrible expression of agony. These were the quarters of two priests recently executed for conspiracy against the Pontiff, which had been left there pending their final disposition. The implements of execution were scattered about and mixed with the tools of the sexton, while in the centre of the room stood a large wooden frame supported by rafters. On this frame, bespattered with blood and besmeared with pitch, the body was now placed. This done, the one who seemed to be the moving spirit of the two, placed the lantern beside it, and as the light fell upon its livid features, sullied with earth, and exhibiting traces of decay, Crescentius was so appalled by the sight, that he revealed his presence by a half suppressed outcry. Seeing the futility of further concealment, he stepped into the light of the lantern and was about to speak, when he heard the older address his assistant, neither of whom evinced the least surprise at his presence, while he pointed toward him:
“Look! It is the very face! The bronzed and strongly marked features,—the fierce gray eye—the iron frame of the figure we beheld in the show-stone! Thus he looked, as we tracked his perilous course.”
“You know me then?” asked the intruder uneasily.
“You are the Senator of Rome!”
“You spoke of my perilous course! How have you learned this?”
“By the art that reveals all things! And in proof that your thoughts are known to me, I will tell you the inquiry you would make before it is uttered. You came here to learn whether the enterprise in which you are engaged will succeed.”
“Such was my intent,” replied Crescentius. “From the reports about you, I will freely admit, I regarded you as an impostor! Now I am convinced that you are skilled in the occult science and would fain consult you on the future. What is the meaning of this?” he continued pointing to the corpse before him.
“I expected you!” was the conjurer’s laconic reply.
“How is that possible?” exclaimed Crescentius. “It is only within the hour, that I conceived the thought,—and only the events of this evening prompted it.”
“I know all!” replied Dom Sabbat. “Yet I would caution you: beware, how you pry into the future. You may repent of your rashness, when it is too late.”
“I have no fear! Let me know the worst!” replied Crescentius.
The conjurer pointed to the corpse.
“That carcass having been placed in the ground without the holy rites of burial, I have power over it. As the witch of Endor called up Samuel, as is recorded in Holy Writ,—as Erichtho raised up a corpse, to reveal to Sextus Pompejus the event of the Pharsalian war,—as the dead maid was brought back to life by Appollonius of Thyana,—so I, by certain powerful incantations will lure the soul of this corpse for a short space into its former abode, and compel it to answer my questions. Dare you be present at the ceremony?”
“I dare!” replied the Senator of Rome.
“So it be!” replied Dom Sabbat. “You will need all your courage!” and he extinguished the light.
An awful silence ensued in the charnel-house, broken only by a low murmur from the conjurer who appeared to be reciting an incantation. As he proceeded, his tones became louder and his voice that of command. Suddenly he paused and seemed to await a response. But as none was made, greatly to the disappointment of Crescentius, whose curiosity, despite his fears, was raised to the highest pitch, cried:
“Blood is wanting to complete the charm!”
“If that be all, I will speedily supply the deficiency,” replied the Senator, bared his left arm and, drawing his poniard, pricked it slightly with the point of the weapon.
“I bleed now!” he cried.
“Sprinkle the corpse with the blood,” commanded Dom Sabbat.
“The blood is flowing upon it!” replied Crescentius with a shudder.
Upon this the conjurer began to mutter an incantation in a louder and more authoritative tone than before. His assistant added his voice, and both joined in a sort of chorus, but in a jargon entirely unintelligible to the Senator.
Suddenly a blue flame appeared above their heads, and slowly descending, settled upon the brow of the corpse, lighting up the sunken cavities of the eyes and the discoloured and distorted features.
“She moves! She moves!” shouted the Senator frantically. “She moves! She is alive.”
“Be silent!” cried Dom Sabbat, “else mischief may ensue!”
And again he started his incantation.
“Down on your knees!” he exclaimed at length with terrible voice. “The spirit is at hand.”
There was a rushing sound and a stream of white, dazzling light shot down upon the corpse, which emitted a hollow groan. In obedience to Dom Sabbat’s demand Crescentius had prostrated himself on the ground, but he kept his gaze steadily fixed on the body, which, to his infinite amazement, slowly arose until it stood erect upon the frame. There it remained perfectly motionless, with the arms close to the sides and the habiliments torn and dishevelled. The blue light still retained its position upon the brow and communicated a horrible glimmer to the features. The spectacle was so dreadful, that Crescentius would have averted his eyes, but he was unable to do so. The conjurer and his familiar meanwhile continued their invocations, until, as it seemed to the Senator, the lips of the corpse moved and a voice of despair exclaimed: “Why have you called me?”
“To question you about the future!” replied Dom Sabbat rising.
“Speak and I will answer,” replied the corpse.
“Ask her,—but be brief;—her time is short,” said Dom Sabbat, addressing the Senator. “Only as long as that flame burns, have I power over her!”
“What is her name?” questioned the Senator.
“Marozia!”
The Senator’s hand went to his forehead; he tottered and almost fell. But he caught himself.
“Spirit of Marozia,” he cried, “if indeed thou standest before me, and some demon has not entered thy frame to delude me,—by all that is holy, and by every blessed saint do I adjure thee to tell me, whether the scheme, on which I am now engaged for the glory of Rome, will prosper?”
“Thou art mistaken, Johannes Crescentius,” returned the corpse. “Thy scheme is not for the glory of Rome!”
“I will not pause to argue this point,” continued the Senator. “Will the end be successful?”
“The end will be death,” replied the corpse.
“To the King—or to myself?”
“To both!”
“Ha!” ejaculated Crescentius, breathing hard. “To both!”
“Proceed if you have more to ask,—the flame is expiring,” cried the conjurer.
“And—Stephania?” But he could not utter the question. He felt like one choking.
But before the question was formed, the light vanished and a heavy sound was heard, as of the body falling on the frame.
“It is over!” said Dom Sabbat
“Can you not summon her again?” asked Crescentius, in a tone of deep disappointment. “I must know that other.”
“Impossible,” replied the conjurer. “The spirit has flown and cannot be recalled. We must commit the body to the earth!”
“My curiosity is excited,—not satisfied,” said the Senator. “Would it were to occur again!”
“Thus it is ever,” replied Dom Sabbat. “We seek to know that which is forbidden, and quench our thirst at a fount, which but inflames our curiosity the more. You have embarked on a perilous enterprise;—be warned, Senator of Rome! If you continue to pursue it, it will lead you to perdition.”
“I cannot retreat,” replied Crescentius. “And I would not, if I could. Death to both of us:—this at least is atonement!”
“I warn you again,—if you persist, you are lost!”
“Impossible,—I cannot retreat;—I could not, if I would! By no sophistry can I clear my conscience of the ties imposed upon it. I have sworn never to desist from the execution of this scheme, never—never! And so resolved am I, that if I stood alone in this very hour—I would go on.”
“You stand alone!”
No one knew whence the voice had come. The three stood appalled.
A deep groan issued from the corpse.
“For the last time,—be warned!” expostulated Dom Sabbat.
“Come forth!” cried Crescentius rushing towards the door. “This place stifles me!” And he unbolted the door and threw it wide open, stepping outside.
The moon was shining brightly from a deep blue azure. Before him stood the old church of St. Damian bathed in the moonlight. The Senator gazed abstractedly at the venerable structure, then he re-entered the charnel-house, where he found the conjurer and his companion employed in placing the body of the excommunicated denizen of Castel San Angelo into a coffin, which they had taken from a pile in the corner. He immediately proffered his assistance and in a short space the task was completed. The coffin was then borne toward the grave, at the edge of which it was laid, while the Dom Sabbat mumbled a strange Requiem over the departed.
This ended, it was laid into its shallow resting place, and speedily covered with earth.
When all was ready for their departure, Dom Sabbat turned to the Senator of Rome, bidding him farewell. Declining the proffered gold, he observed:
“If you are wise, my lord, you will profit by the awful warning you have this night received.”
“Who are you?” the Senator questioned abruptly, trying to peer through the cowl which the adept of the black arts had drawn over his face, “since the devils obey your beck?”
The conjurer laughed a soundless laugh.
“Of dominion over devils I am innocent—since I rule no men!”
At the entrance of the churchyard, Crescentius parted from the conjurer and his associate, about whose personality he had not troubled himself, and returned in deep rumination to Castel San Angelo.
No sooner had the Senator of Rome departed, than the conjurer’s familiar tore the trappings from his person and stood revealed to his companion as Benilo, the Chamberlain.
“Dog! Liar! Impostor,” he hissed into Dom Sabbat’s face, while kicking and buffeting him. “Marozia has been dead some fifty years. How dare you perpetrate this monstrous fraud? Was it this I bade you tell the Senator of Rome?”
Dom Sabbat cringed before the blows and the flaming madness in the Chamberlain’s eyes. Folding his arms over his chest and bending low he replied with feigned contrition:
“It was not for me to compel the spirit’s answer! And as for the corpse, ’twas Marozia’s. Thus read you the devil’s favour. Until blessed by the holy rite, the body cannot return to its native dust.”
“Then it was Marozia’s spirit we beheld?” Benilo queried with a shudder, as they left the churchyard.
“Marozia’s spirit,” replied Dom Sabbat. “Yet who would raise a fabric on the memory of a lie?”