Secretum
Page 36
Albani had at last calmed down. Not content with the effect he had produced, Atto began speaking yet again.
"Your Excellency is too subtle of understanding not to pardon me if I commit some errors, and too great-hearted not to be indulgent if I briefly recall how Pope Alexander VIII, as I was on the point of saying a few moments ago, had two nephews who were both Secretaries of State: Cardinal Rubini, who formally held the post, and Cardinal Ottoboni, who exercised it de facto. And yet it was he who pronounced those famous words: 'Take heed, for the eleventh hour has sounded.' By this he meant that matters could not go on like this much longer. And he was pope just before the present one! So, you see that..."
"Come, Abbot Melani, do you really want to make these excellencies angry?" Don Giovanni Battista Pamphili interrupted him; having plenty of famous cases of nepotism in his own family and being of a gay and amiable disposition, he easily succeeded in changing the tone and the direction of the conversation. "'Tis true we're in a Jubilee Year, and so must recognise our sins, but our own, not those of others!"
Laughter from those nearby at table thus succeeded in undoing the frowns of a few Zealot cardinals and silencing Atto's unwelcome incitement.
"The Prince of Monaco, the new Ambassador of the Most Christian King of France, made a most dignified entry to the Quirinale a few days ago to salute the Holy Father with a sumptuous, noble and rich equipage, served by an infinite number of prelates and the nobility," broke in Monsignor D'Aste, in an attempt to take part in Pamphili's diversion.
Someone must, however, have counselled him with a kick under the table to avoid at all costs mentioning the word "France", for a brief grimace of pain crossed his face and he fell silent at once without waiting for any answer from his neighbours.
"Monsignor Straccetto will never understand what and when," commented Prince Borghese sotto voce in the ear of Baron Scarlatti.
The Steward, all agitated and bathed in perspiration, ordered that other wines were to be served at once, to create a little movement and distract the table."On Tuesday, the Reverend Father of the Dominicans went in procession to visit the new Padre General of the Franciscans," said Durazzo.
"Yes, that I heard," replied Negroni. "He climbed right to the top of the Ara Coeli Steps with the cross on his shoulders. Heaven knows how fatiguing that must have been. And, speaking of news, I have heard that His Holiness's Privy Chamberlain has left bearing the Most Eminent Monsignor de Noailles his new cardinal's hat, which he is taking all the way to. . ."
". . . Yes, of course, and now they're choosing who is to bring it to the new Cardinals Lamberg and Borgia," said Durazzo, just succeeding in preventing Negroni from mentioning Paris, where the new Cardinal de Noailles was indeed awaiting his hat.
At that juncture, as the end of the nuptial banquet approached, all eyes turned towards the spouses' table: Cardinal Spada had risen, glass in hand, to salute the providential chairborne arrival of the Princess of Forano, the deus ex machina who thus brought the whole embarrassing dispute to a close.
La Strozzi remained seated in her conveyance; although visibly put to the test by her confinement, she had not been willing to forgo the opportunity to embrace the bride who, as Cloridia had mentioned to me, was a good friend of hers.
The child was not there. Needless to say, the Princess had already dumped him upon the wet-nurse. He would soon be arriving with his father. Cardinal Fabrizio greeted the Princess with a toast and a speech.
"Aristotle was mistaken when he said that woman is weak," he began in a facetious tone. "While 'tis true that the females of rapacious animals such as leopards, panthers, bears, lions and the like, are stronger and more robust than the males, I would make another point: namely that women's ways are idle and delightful, and that each of these things is enough to unnerve a Hercules or an Atlas."
Everyone laughed at the sharpness and piquancy of the Secretary of State's observation.
"Nor do 1 agree with Aristotle when he calls woman 'a monster' or 'an accidental animal'. Here, the great man was raving, perhaps because he was angry with his own good wife."
The renewed outburst of laughter had the effect of clearing the air and cheering souls; the tension caused by Abbot Melani had now completely vanished.
"But above all," continued the master of the house in flattering tones, "a woman like the Princess here present may certainly be said to be strong and not weak, and worthy to stand beside Lasthenia of Mantinea and Axiothea of Phlius, Plato's disciples. And while the examples of Panthasilea and Camilla are reputed favourable, those of Zenobia and Fulvia, Antony's wife, to whom Cassius Dio refers in his account of the reign of Augustus, are most true and historical. Likewise most certain is the history of the Amazons' valour and of their empire. And he who knows not of the Sibyls knows nothing. I can surely place these women beside our newly delivered Princess, so that all together, after the Most Holy Madonna, they may be upheld as models of virtue and wisdom for the bride who now sits here before us."
These words were greeted with a round of applause and a toast to wish Maria Pulcheria Rocci every good fortune: as a bride and not a mother, she was in fact less important than the new mother; besides which, the poor thing, with her seaweed- coloured turbot's countenance, was certainly not one to inspire high-flown epithalamia.
"And what should be said of Aspasia, who taught Pericles and Socrates?" the speech continued, "or of the most learned Areta, remembered by Boccaccio? Was she not simultaneously both mother and philosopher? So well did she raise her offspring that she wrote a most useful book on how to instil manners in children, and another, for the use of the children themselves, on the vanity of youth; at the same time, for thirty-five years she taught natural philosophy, having a hundred philosophers for disciples, as well as composing the most erudite works: on the wars of Athens, on the power of tyrants, on Socrates' Republic, on the un- happiness of women, on the vanity of funerary rites, on bees and on the prudence of ants."
Meanwhile, the fifth course was served, usually consisting entirely of fruit. Although I had already eaten, I could not remain indifferent to the dishes of tartufali tartufolati - truffles in a truffle sauce served on crusts of toasted bread with half-lemons, or to the dishes making up an imperial feast of ravioli with butter, cauliflowers, tartuffolo sea urchins, egg yolks, with juice of lemon and cinnamon. Nor were the other poor torchbearers unmoved by such delicacies, yet they must like Tantalus stand by and listen power- lessly to the motions of the great lords and ladies'jaws and palates. Then came the fried Ascoli olives, the Florentine marzolino cheeses and the Spanish olives.
"But was this not to be the fruit course?" Baron Scarlatti discreetly asked the Prince Borghese.
"The fruit is there," replied the other. "Namely, the truffles on toast and in the imperial feast, the citrus cubes inside the fried olives and the orange flowers garnishing the fresh olives."
"Ah, I see," replied Scarlatti laconically, yet remaining unconvinced that subterranean truffles could be described as fresh fruit.
Then, to refresh the palate, bowls of iced pistachios were brought to the table, together with ground pistachios, pistachios in their shells, pistachio cakes, peach pies alla Senese, candied lettuce stalks and, in honour of Cardinal Durazzo, who came of a noble Genoese family, bowls of candied Genoese pears, together with prunes and candied Adam's apples, citrons and medlars, all from Genoa.
At that moment the Princess of Forano's newborn babe arrived, well swaddled in his father's arms.
"Minor mundus," said Cardinal Spada, greeting him with the name "world in miniature" accorded to man by the ancients for the perfection of his composition. Spada blessed the child and prayed that this might be a sign most auspicious.
"May you augur a prolific future for our beloved bride and groom today!" he concluded.
There was yet another toast; the various members of the couple's families then stood up one after another and, turning to the happy pair, they eulogised, magnified, augured, remembered and exho
rted as is the custom at such banquets.
The ever-generous mantle of darkness had already fallen some two hours earlier when Sfasciamonti arrived with three saddled horses. All the guests, having been regaled with the utmost sumptuousness, had by now all retired to their beds.
As agreed, Atto and I waited in a sheltered corner not far from the Villa Spada. Buvat, who had tippled somewhat too freely at the nuptial banquet, had likewise abandoned himself to the arms of Morpheus and was snoring in his little room.
"Where are we going?" I asked, while the catchpoll helped, first Atto, then me, to mount.
"Near to the Rotonda," he replied.
Sfasciamonti, as he himself had explained that morning, had received information that should enable us to find two cerretani. These were small fry, but it was already a great deal to lay hands on a sure pair like these. As for their names, they were known as II Roscio and II Marcio: Red and Rotten. Such were the colourful nicknames by which the pair whom we were stalking were known in the Roman underworld.
We moved swiftly and silently towards the Tiber and thence to the city centre. As on the night before, we crossed the river by passing through the island of San Bartolomeo.
As intended, we dismounted a short distance from the Piazza della Rotonda. We found waiting for us there a little man who was kind enough to hold the reins of our horses as we clambered down from them. He was a friend of Sfasciamonti's and would look after our mounts for as long as was necessary.
We moved to a dark corner of the piazza where a number of carts for the transport of goods were stationed, secured to one another with a heavy iron chain. These probably belonged to the poor pedlars working at the market held by day at the Rotonda. It was a cul de sac in which darkness, the fetid odour of rats and damp mildew were omnipresent. Atto and I exchanged a worried look: this looked like the ideal place for an ambush. Sfasciamonti, however, surprised us, moving directly into action.
He handed me the lamp which we had been carrying with us, which somewhat faintly lit the scene. He looked under the carts and shook his head in disappointment. Then he stopped next to one of the carts and leaned on it with both hands. Swinging one leg back, he then launched a great kick into the darkness beneath the cart.
We heard a raucous howl in which anger and surprise were mixed in equal measure.
"Ah, here we are," said the catchpoll with the absent-minded ease of someone looking for a pen in a drawer.
"In the name of the Governor of Rome, Monsignor Ranuzio Pallavicini, come out from there, you miserable dog," he enjoined.
As nothing was happening, he leaned under the cart, reached out with one hand and tugged hard. A hoarse growl of protest was heard, which ended when Sfasciamonti hauled out a human figure without so much as a by-your-leave. It was an emaciated old man dressed in rags with a long yellowish beard under his chin and hair as thin and stubbly as a bunch of spinach. Other details I was for the time being unable to descry owing to the semi-dark- ness, which could not however conceal one detail: the stench of putrefying filth that arose from the poor old man after years of living in extreme want.
"I have done nothing, nothing!" he protested, struggling not to let go of an old blanket which he had dragged with him and under which he had probably been sleeping until our arrival.
"What a stink," was Sfasciamonti's only comment as he stood the wretch on his feet like an unfortunate marionette, trembling with somnolence and fear.
The catchpoll grasped the old man's right arm and brought his hand up to his chest. He opened it and passed his fingers over it a few times as though to feel the skin. After this bizarre examination, he announced: "All right, you're clean."
Then, without even giving him the time to complain, he seated him on the cart, this time less roughly, but holding tightly onto his arm.
"Do you see these gentlemen?" said he, pointing to us. "They are persons who have no time to waste. Sometimes, two cerretani sleep here - here, just next to you. I am sure that you know something about them."
The old man said nothing.
"The gentlemen would like to speak with someone from among the cerretani.'"
The old man lowered his eyes and remained silent.
"I am a sergeant. If I want, I can break your arm, lock you in a cell and throw away the key," warned Sfasciamonti.
The old man still kept silent. Then he scratched his head, as though he had just been thinking.
"Il Roscio and Il Marcio?" he asked at last.
"And who else?"
"They come here only from time to time, when they have business to see to. But I don't know what they get up to, no, I know nothing of what they do."
"But you have only to tell me where they are tonight," insisted Sfasciamonti, gripping the other's arm more tightly.
"I do not know. They keep changing."
"I'll break your arm."
"Try at Termine."
Sfasciamonti let go at last of the poor man's arm and the fellow hastened to lay his foul blanket under the cart and return to his wretched sleeping place.
As we moved on horseback to our new goal, the catchpoll explained a few details.
"In summer, many sleep out in that place which we have just left. If their hands are calloused, they are mendicants: people who have worked and fallen on hard times. If there are no calluses, then they're cerretani and have never earned a penny from work."
"So that's why you felt the old man's palm," I deduced.
"Of course, the cerretani like to live a life of ease, by cheating and robbing. Now let us go to Termine and see whether we have better luck there. I have known the names of the pair we seek for quite a while now and I simply cannot wait to get my hands on them."
As he said these words, I saw him try to contain his excitement by rolling up his sleeves. He was preparing for the challenge of encountering the two scoundrels and, even more, that of facing up to his secret fear of the cerretani which was, with every passing day, growing more corrosive and insistent.
Finding Il Marcio and Il Roscio called for an improbable degree of luck. The indication provided by the old man could not have been vaguer: Termine, the enormous space where the agricultural produce from the Agro Romano - the plain surrounding the city-was delivered and stored, and which lay just behind the Baths of Diocletian, was by night as deserted as it was vast. We left the Piazza della Rotonda behind us, moving towards Piazza Colonna, whence we proceeded to the Trevi Fountain and Monte Cavallo. From there, we came to the Four Fountains and crossed the Via Felice, entering Via di Porta Pia which brought us right next to Termine.
Our ride was uneventful, apart from a couple of encounters with the night watch in the vicinity of the papal palace of Monte Cavallo. Sfasciamonti presented his credentials and we were duly permitted to go on our way.
The silence was broken only once, when we drew level with the church of San Carlino, by a question from Atto:
"'Teeyooteelai': was that not what the cerretano said to you?"
"Yes, Signor Atto, why?"
"Oh, nothing, nothing."
On reaching our destination, as expected, the panorama of Termine gave no cause for optimism.
When we turned to the right from Via di Porta Pia, there before us loomed the enormous pile of the Apostolic Chamber's granaries, the great building in which the grain destined for bread production was stored. The warehouses on which the survival of the Roman population depended were in the form of a great S which, for almost half its length, adjoined the colossal bulk of the Baths of Diocletian. The ruins of the baths, eroded both by the elements and by human greed, dominated all of the second half of the Piazza di Termine. Within the ancient thermal complex, removing from their pagan origins what had once been refreshing pools and steam baths, there now stood the church of Santa Maria degli Angeli. Behind this church, whose rustic and irregular facade had, in the most unusual manner, been built from the outer wall of the baths, stretched the bulky mass of the Roman ruins. To the right, one could just descry in
the dark the outer wall of the Villa Peretti Montalto, the immense estate, consisting of vineyards, gardens and manors built with such splendour by the late Pope Sixtus V and, a few years ago, on the passing away of his family, bequeathed to the Princes Savelli. Finally, behind those looking towards the granaries, stood a wall behind which was situated the vegetable garden of the monks of Saint Bernard.
No presence, whether human or otherwise, accompanied our arrival. Apart from the colossal shadows of the baths and granaries and the chirping of the cicadas: nothing. The summer night's air was enlivened by the sweet, pungent odour of wheat.
"What now?" I asked, marvelling at the desolation stretching before my eyes.