“Poor friend,” whispered Simonis.
“He realised long before Penicek that the meaning of the Agha’s phrase all lay in soli soli soli,” I said.
“What did you say?” Atto said with a start.
I explained how the chessboard had come into my hands, and I told him what Hristo had said to Simonis: our chess-playing friend believed that the secret of the Agha’s phrase all lay in the repetition of those three mysterious words soli soli soli. When we had found Hristo’s corpse, I added, the poor lad was clutching a white chess king in his fist. Finally, in his chessboard I had found a note that referred to checkmate.
“Yes, Hristo on the very day of his death had mentioned that he thought the words soli soli soli – that is, ‘all alone’ – were connected with checkmate,” explained Simonis.
Abbot Melani quivered as if he had been stung by a wasp and stood up.
“Just a moment. Have I got this right? On the day of the audience the Agha said to Eugene that the Turks had arrived soli soli soli?”
“Certainly, what’s new about that?”
“Wha-a-a-t? And you never told me?”
“Told you what?”
“That the Agha’s phrase contained the words soli soli soli!”
Atto muttered a series of unrepeatable expletives to himself, as if to spare me a direct insult. Then he spoke aloud again:
“Just what were you thinking of? You realise what you’ve done?” he said vehemently.
I still did not understand. Simonis was listening in bewilderment too.
“To tell the truth, Signor Atto, I’m sure I did tell you. Didn’t I explain that the Agha said ‘We’ve come all alone to the Golden Apple’?”
“Just a moment: the phrase was in Latin, is that right?”
“Yes.”
“Say it to me.”
“Soli soli soli ad pomum venimus aureum.”
“And you, you ass, you ignorant beast, you translate soli soli soli as ‘all alone’? The Agha’s phrase means something quite different, curse it.”
It had been a venial sin, but it had serious consequences all the same.
While we made our way back to the ball stadium for something to eat, now that the first part of the job was over, Atto began to explain.
Cloridia and I had believed that soli soli soli was just the repetition of a single term, which meant ‘alone’, and so we had given Atto the translation directly, ‘all alone’, or ‘truly alone’, not mentioning the original version.
Abbot Melani was raging. His legs trembled with anger, he muttered and mumbled swear words and curses, every so often addressing me with an accusing forefinger upraised.
“You young people . . . you’re . . . all irresponsible, that’s what you are! All you can do is get flustered and create disasters. Oh, if you only had a tenth of the brainpower and concentration needed for such things! And I brought you all the way here to Vienna so that you might help me!”
“Be careful, Signor Atto.” I suddenly pulled him back by his arm.
While the old castrato was getting so worked up, before we started down the spiral staircase that led to the ball stadium and the animal cages, we noticed something truly bizarre. In the large eastern courtyard lay a huge stinking pile of dung.
“Good heavens, it must have been Mustafa,” I said, holding my nose.
“I didn’t think lions did such big ones,” remarked Simonis with amusement.
Atto calmed down at last. We made him sit down on the stairs. With his hands quivering from the sudden surge of anger, he finally made up his mind to explain how things were.
“Soli soli soli is not just the stupid repetition of the word soli. On the contrary. It’s a very famous Latin motto.”
I listened in utter amazement.
“And if you had had the good manners to repeat to me literally the Agha’s Latin phrase,” Abbot Melani insisted, “instead of providing your own witless interpretation, we would have saved days and days of useless toil.”
“So what does soli soli soli mean then?” I asked.
“The first soli is the dative singular of the adjective solus, ‘alone’, and so it means ‘to the only one’. The second is the dative of the noun sol, ‘sun’. The third is the genitive of solum, ‘earth’, and so it means ‘of the earth’.”
“And so soli soli soli means . . . ‘To the only sun of the earth’.”
“Exactly. Or ‘to the only sun of the soil’, if you prefer. In France it is a well-known saying, because His Majesty has had it engraved on his army’s cannons. The Sun King likes to remind everyone of his power. But he did not invent the phrase – it was used, for example, by Nostradamus, in some of his woolly wafflings. And Nostradamus must have stolen it in turn from the ancient Romans.”
“And why?”
“Soli soli soli is often found on sundials. It was probably an old Latin custom, which was handed down over the centuries. In any case its origin does not concern us. There are countless similar sayings, like sol solus solo salo, which means ‘only the sun commands the earth and the sea’, or ‘sol solus non soli, that is to say, ‘the sun is just one for all’, or again sol solus soles solari, ‘only the sun consoles without a pause’.”
As he spoke, Atto had got up again and started moving so we had now descended to the lower depths. We at once looked for Frosch to ask him if he had any water or wine to sell us, in particular because after his harangue Atto now felt thirsty, but the keeper was nowhere to be found. Near the entrance to the stable we found the tools and wooden planks with which he was mending the door. We heard a noise from far end of the ball stadium, where the birdcages were stacked. At once the birds became animated and the stadium was filled with their twittering.
“So the story of the Circassian has got nothing to do with it,” I reflected aloud. “But why would the Agha have chosen this saying?” I asked, as we all three headed towards the ball stadium.
“Maybe it was a way of paying homage to Eugene,” hazarded Simonis. “Perhaps the Agha just wanted to say, ‘We have come to the only sun of the earth’.”
“Unlikely,” replied Atto. “Eugene is not the sun of anything. He is the commander-in-chief of the imperial armies, and that’s all. Soli soli soli clearly refers to a sovereign.”
“And so to the Emperor,” I deduced. “But why use this saying in an audience with Eugene, instead of with the Emperor?”
Atto said nothing but looked thoughtful.
“Maybe the phrase has a double meaning,” observed Simonis.
“And what would that be?”
“Let’s see . . . instead of ‘to the only sun of the earth’, it could be translated as ‘to the lonely sun of the earth’.”
“And isn’t that the same thing?”
“No. This second formulation would mean ‘to the solitary sun of the earth’, that is, to the Emperor,” explained Simonis.
“And why would he be lonely?” I asked in surprise.
But I could get no answer. We had entered the ball stadium. The great arena, surrounded by high walls stretching upwards to the sky, was alive with the shrill squawking of the birds. Parrots and parakeets strained their uvulas to the utmost, filling the bowl of the stadium with strident screeches.
“Why on earth are the birds making all this row, boy?” Abbot Melani asked me, having to raise his voice to be heard.
We heard two or three heavy blows, like a mallet striking wooden boards. I explained to Atto that Frosch, concealed among the cages, was probably hammering nails into planks for the new stable door (even though it was not clear why he should be doing it among the birdcages).
The din, already deafening, was made almost unbearable by the reverberation of a new series of hammer blows.
“Curse it, these wretched birds are unbearable,” said Atto again, trying to block his ears with his hands.
Protecting my own eardrums with my hands, I had almost reached the small birdcages when I noticed they were set right up against the wall, and s
o there could be no one behind them, certainly no Frosch, making those vexatious noises.
“Simonis!” I called my assistant, who had stayed behind with Atto.
“Look, Signor Master, look!” he echoed me, calling my attention in turn.
He was looking towards the opposite end of the great space, towards the doorway into the ball stadium, the one we had just entered by.
We were no longer alone. An enormous hairy biped, as tall and broad as two human beings, was baring its slavering canines and, even though I could not hear it on account of the racket made by the birds, was bestially snarling at us. Then it dropped on all fours and came bounding towards us, preparing to attack.
I knew nothing about ferocious animals, but instinct told me that it was enraged by hunger. Petrified, I observed the approaching beast, and with a last shred of awareness I heard the invisible blacksmith rekindle chaos among the birds with new hammer blows, and then I heard a final screech – and only then did I realise that there was at least one other door giving onto the stadium, diametrically opposite the one that the bear had entered by.
While the parrots’ squawking continued to assail my ears, I realised that the second door was hidden by the birdcages that Frosch had piled up on top of one another, and it was that door that some hidden carpenter was tormenting with his hammer blows.
Instinctively running away from the path of the bear, which was unmistakably heading for me, I had lost sight of Melani and Simonis, now hidden by the shape of the Flying Ship.
“Signor Master!” I heard Simonis call out one last time.
Then came the roar, and the tide vomited itself.
As in some crazed seer’s dream, all creation erupted at monstrous speed from the door beyond the cages, almost as if behind it a capricious god had compressed all animal life from every age and place. A chaotic mass of flesh, blood, muscles, claws, manes, skins and fangs smashed their deafening way into the stadium, instantaneously pervading every inch of it like chalk dust thrown into clear water. The earth trembled at the passage of an enormous grey, be-trunked being, followed by the rumble of stamping bulls, of panthers which like black stars of ferocity seemed to absorb the ambient light into their dark fur, of tigers that spread out fanwise like the tentacles of a single feline octopus, of lynxes that almost seemed to fly with the savage energy of the living detonation that had hurled them into the ball stadium.
The birdcages were wiped out by the explosion like reeds in a tempest. The poor winged creatures that had not been instantaneously annihilated by the impact, or crushed by the beasts that burst into the stadium after the boom, rose into the air, filling the entire space above us with a crazy multicoloured cloud. The enormous bear that had rushed us moments before was now a mere trifle.
Where had it come from, the elephant that had knocked down the door, leading the great army of beasts? Why were these wild animals all free? How had they reached the back door of the stadium? None of these questions mattered: while the mad bellowing of the animals assailed my head and ears, I saw an entire army of brutes rushing towards me, and my legs ran as if self-propelled towards the only mad hope of escape.
“Simonis!” I yelled without hearing my own voice, drowned by the powerful trumpeting of the elephant, which had begun to run in a semicircle around the Flying Ship, while swarms of birds flew over it and the lions began a quarrel with the bears, making the walls of the stadium shake with their hate-filled roaring.
I will never know how I made it, since panic is the enemy of memory. I think I must have yelled unceasingly from the incursion of the elephant and its bestial convoy right up to the moment when, clambering with ape-like rapidity, I found myself breathless and voiceless aboard the Flying Ship. I was in such a state of unconscious terror that it was only when I saw Simonis dragging Abbot Melani aboard that I came partially to my senses.
Not far off a bear was tearing to pieces a sort of large pheasant; at once a pair of lions pounced upon it, driving off the bear and taking possession of the prey.
“Here I am!” I shouted, running towards my assistant.
In his attempt to scramble onto the ship, Atto had fallen awkwardly to the ground, and Simonis was almost lifting him bodily, in an attempt to get him on board. Of course, a lion could very easily board the craft as well, but at the moment it was as good a place to be as any.
Meanwhile the smell of the birds killed by the bears and lions must have gone to the heads of the other beasts. An amorphous forest of heads, fangs, claws and snorting nostrils was devouring the belly and genitals of a poor ox, kneeling on its hind legs, its eyes raised to heaven as it emitted a last gasp of agony.
While Simonis and I, both purple with effort, heaved Abbot Melani slowly onto the ship, I saw Atto’s livid lips contract in a mute prayer. Just a few paces away a lioness, held at bay only by the crazy circling of the elephant, roared irately at him.
We had almost managed to drag ourselves and the Abbot aboard when I felt a sharp, cruel blow on my head, and a thousand stings tormenting the skin of my neck and my temples. A small flock of crazed birds had come swarming around us, and a young bird of prey was hammering at my skull. I had to let go of Atto to try and defend myself. Waving my arms around maniacally, my eyes half-closed for fear of being blinded, I thought I saw a kite, some parrots and other fowl of unknown breed.
The lioness meanwhile was getting closer, roaring threateningly and showing its fangs.
Suddenly the ship juddered, as if shaken by an invisible wave, and began to pitch. The elephant had stopped its mad circling and with its trunk had started to beat rhythmically on the opposite wing from the one we were on. By its side a panther, maybe the same one that had been making for me before I scrambled aboard the Flying Ship, was about to leap up, only halted by the continual oscillation of the vessel.
Finally the clamorous birds gave me some peace. I passed my hand over my head and then looked at my palm: it was bright red. Thousands of little wounds, caused by the birds’ attack, were bleeding all over my head, trickling down my chin and my forehead. We finally got Abbot Melani on board, trembling and as pale as a sheet, and he only just managed to keep his balance and not fall straight back down. The ship had shaken so violently that we nearly tumbled as we climbed over the parapet of the cockpit.
“The elephant . . .” I gasped, pointing at the huge animal to explain to Simonis why the ship was shaking in that fashion.
But meanwhile the giant had been attacked in turn by the birds, and had let go of its prey and started to run wildly in a circle again, driving the birds away from its eyes with its swinging trunk and intimidating the lions, panthers and lynxes with its powerful trumpeting. The lioness that had seemed on the point of attacking us, confused by the pandemonium, had preferred to join the group of fellow creatures busily devouring the ox. But the ship now had a new occupier: the panther.
“God Almighty protect us,” murmured Abbot Melani tremulously.
The beast had leaped onto the wing opposite the one we had climbed onto and was now moving towards us in slow measured paces.
There was no time to weigh pros and cons. Simonis snatched up the only tool we had: a chimney-sweep’s broom.
“I left it here last time, Signor Master.”
In the meantime the organised group of animals had finished massacring the ox, which lay on the ground in a pool of blood and guts. Not far off, two bulls had victoriously engaged in battle with a lion, opening its belly with a blow of their horns. The feline now lay with its bowels ripped open, roaring with despair and feebly swiping its paws in the direction of its assassin. All around was ferocity, blood and folly. A few animals had found the two doors out of the stadium; most seemed prisoners inside that crazed arena.
The smell of blood meanwhile had excited the panther that had climbed onto the wing of the ship, and it was staring at us with ravenous fury. We were all three clustered in the cockpit, pressed close to one another. As soon as the animal was below us, my assistant gave it a great
blow on the head. The panther’s amazement was obvious; clearly it had not expected any resistance. Meanwhile the ship swung a couple of times. All around, the mad festivity of the birds was dying down; the deafening screeches had ceased. Several birds had flown off, others were perched here and there, and yet others had ended up crushed or torn to pieces by the animals. It was now the deep bellowing of the larger beasts that prevailed. For want of other prey (the ox was now the preserve of the strongest and most domineering animals), they were now massing together around the ship. After the unleashed frenzy of their incursion, they had identified their next prey: us. Even the elephant, having finished his senseless circling, had come up to the ship and had started to threaten us with the buccin blast of his trunk. That was what it was, I thought – the silvery trumpet noise I had heard two days earlier at Neugebäu! And that was what had produced those thuds, like earthquake rumbles, that we had heard a few hours earlier in the mansion.
Meanwhile the panther, almost as if to get a foretaste of the assault, was amusing itself by attacking the wooden handle of the broom Simonis was stretching out to it, trying to bite it and seize it with its claws. My assistant managed to jerk it from its jaws and give it another resounding thwack on the head. The animal drew back angrily. Then it advanced again and Simonis, turning the broom around, shook its sharp bristles in its face. The panther jerked back, letting out a yelp of surprise, then it began to rub its right eye socket with its paw; one of the bristles must have got into the eye. It shook itself, throwing us a furious glance. We had played around too long; the animal was preparing to pounce. It would tear Simonis to pieces first, as he had irritated it, then me, as I stank of blood from the wounds on my head, and finally Atto.
The Flying Ship trembled. I turned round. A new and powerful weight now burdened the other wing: a large lion, far more fearsome than old Mustafa, was approaching with murderous intentions. We were caught between two fires: I prepared for the end.
The hull gave another judder. While the lion heaved itself onto the wing, on the opposite side the panther tensed its muscles, uncovered its canines, roared and leaped into the air. I did not even have time to utter a mute prayer to the Virgin, and with the animal almost upon us I yelled in fear and despair. Simonis held the broom, useless and ridiculous, out in front of himself.
Veritas (Atto Melani) Page 60