THE WOLF OF THE CAMPAGNA
by Harry Bailey
A TALE OF CESARE BORGIA
I RAMIRO d’ORCO, whom men call the Wolf of the Campagna on account of the evil deeds of my master Cesare Borgia. Duke of Romagna, am about to write an account of my last adventure so that all may know why I died. I live now: but, with the setting sun, men will come for me, and, in some manner, I shalt pay all my debts to the God I have wronged.
I dread it not, for is not Maria dead? Perhaps she will obtain pardon for me; then together will we wander through the marble palaces, hand in hand. But there may be no mercy for so great a sinner as I. I have sinned, deeply; but ever at another man’s dictates. I only know I want death and Maria. For the rest I can but hope, I can but pray.
But my time runs short. I will begin; for the sun is high in the heavens and I have much to write before he sets.
Rome lay sweltering in the glare of an August day. Cesare Borgia was staying with his sister Lucrezia at Naples; but he had ordered me to await his return in Rome. Huge as was the Borgia palace, few of its inmates stirred during the hot day. The servants were busy in their own quarters, and my bravos, in the courtyard, slept or played interminable games of dice.
At last evening fell and I was able, though the risk was still great. to enjoy the outside freshness.
Wrapping my cloak tightly round chin and shoulders and pulling my hat over my eyes, I sallied forth into the open air. The shimmering Tiber Tay bathed in gold and blood as the gorgeous sunset deepened, but little I reeked a scene so beautiful. Even in the city, ruled as it was by the Borgias, my life was not worth a moment’s purchase should my identity be discovered, so I keenly scrutinized each passer-by and kept ready hands on dagger and sword. Thus I passed through the streets until I drew near Tiber’s banks, and sat down on the grass that clothed its yellow margin.
Suddenly to my vacant ears there came a scream, another, and yet another, before I realized what was afoot. Leaping up, I hurried forward until I could see a young girl, of exquisite beauty, struggling in the grasp of three of Tiber’s rogues.
I stole onward, silently, ghostlike. When ten paces away. I bounded forward, and my dagger reached the heart of the nearest rascal. He died without a groan. The others loosed the girl and turned quickly, their
