"Teeyouteelie."
It was then that the unthinkable happened. On the wall behind the old man I saw a rapid, rapacious shadow suddenly lengthen. A flying creature (a vampire or perhaps a demon come to punish my avarice?) was above our heads and on the point of attacking. I had no time to turn around and already I felt the air turbulent above me, the tips of the creature's wings brushing my ears, its claws sinking painfully into the soft flesh of my shoulders. I turned, but this was an ill-judged move: the flying beast was firmly ensconced on my shoulder and any attempt to distance myself from it would have been as useless as to try to bite my own ear. I struggled to drive it off with my hands but it left my shoulder and this time sank its talons into my face. I had by now forgotten the old man with his tortured body and his mouth vomiting forth its foul froth. I tried to scream, but the sharp claws of the flying beast were clamped over my lips. Yet, I could hear a voice, a strangled sound:
"Arrest him! ARREST HIM!"
It was only at that point in the dream (or rather nightmare) that I came to my senses. I brushed my face with my forearm and thought it had not been such a good idea to sleep with the window open. I felt his body, halfway between a chicken's and a little owl's, beat a hasty retreat, seeking to perch elsewhere. It was day; sunlight filled the room, flooding it with its beneficent rays.
He had found a perch on the back of a chair. I stared angrily at him. Not only had he entered without permission but while I was sleeping he had walked, first on my shoulder, then on my face, thus invading not only my bedchamber but my dream, disagreeable as it already was. He gazed obliquely at me, with his usual mixture of effrontery and doubt.
"My dream was true. You really are a monstrous being. How could you wake me up like this?"
Caesar Augustus did not answer.
Our return from the Ponte Sisto prison the night before had been swift and had passed without a word of comment; all three of us - Atto, the catchpoll and I - were too tired to utter another word. What was more, we knew that we would not be able to resume our investigations before the following evening, so that our taste for action was distinctly cooled by the inevitable wait.
Fatigued as I was, I did not need to wait long to fall asleep. The all-too-brief repose 1 gained was soon spoiled by the dream vision of that decrepit beggar, obviously suggested by Il Roscio's confession. Ah yes, said I to myself, that old man reminded me of the Tawneymen who, to obtain alms, feign lunacy, frenzy and possession by devils; and roll on the ground after eating a mixture containing soap; but also the Dommerers who wear heavy iron chains around their necks. . .
"De minimis non curat Papa? screeched the parrot, interrupting my reminiscences.
"I know^that the Pope does not deal with trifles. . . Ha, ha, and thanks for comparing me to His Holiness. I know, I know, I must provide feed for the aviary, nor do I regard that as a trifle," I retorted while rising and seeking my clothes. "If you'll only give me time to get ready."
Caesar Augustus glided lazily towards the still open window. I noticed that in his right talon he held a little bundle of twigs, something which I had often noticed in recent times. Obviously, it was not given to me to know what he was up to.
He stood a few more minutes on the windowsill, then flew off towards the villa's vineyards. While I was closing the shutters before leaving the room, I noticed another sign of Caesar Augustus's unusual behaviour: a half-liquid ochre-coloured mess in the middle of which were fragments of grain and apple pips. He was by no means in the habit of defecating in such an unsuitable place, on the window-sill. Caesar Augustus must really be very nervous.
After attending to my regular duty in the aviary, I decided to take advantage of the state of semi-liberty which the service of Atto Melani accorded me and took a short break. Atto and Buvat had not yet come to look for me, and Sfasciamonti was probably busy at his usual work as guardian of the Villa Spada's security. I sought Cloridia but learned that she was in the apartments of the Princess of Forano; the Princess was dressing and it was not for the time being possible to free my consort from her duties. Somewhat frustrated by this impediment, I filched an apple from the kitchens, chewing which I moved surreptitiously away from the Villa Spada.
As I was entering the avenue leading to the front gate, I heard a familiar voice in the distance.
"The Master of the Fowls, find me the Master of the Fowls! Is no one working here today?"
Don Paschatio, doubtless let down once more by some of his workmen, was seeking me to fill in for them.
This was, I decided, not the right day on which to make myself available. Last night's sounds and images still echoed in my head; Sfasciamonti's assault on the old beggar in the Piazza della Rotonda; the imprudent inspection of the beggars' dormitory at Termine; lastly, the chase after the cerretano and the interrogation of his accomplice, II Roscio, at the prison of Ponte Sisto; all of which events, quite apart from giving rise to the nightmare visions which had met me at dawn, had left marks of anxiety even during my first waking hours. To forget all those misadventures, said I to myself, there could be no better remedy than a calm promenade in town.
I did not, however, wish to go too far and so I first walked downhill towards the Via della Scala, turning right there and then left, wandering between Piazza de' Rienzi and Santa Maria in Trastevere.
A company of pilgrims, preceded by the standard of their city and attired in long black cloaks, was advancing towards the Basilica of St Paul chanting a hymn of praise to the Virgin.
The little procession wended its way through narrow streets and damp alleyways where small shops overflowing with every kind of merchandise and taverns reeking of cheap wine and roast meat opened wide their inviting doors, as though almost tugging at the arm of the passer-by. The fagades of the surrounding houses hid their shame and wretchedness behind long rows of white cloths, hanging from window to window and dripping icy water onto the heads of pedestrians, while Trastevere's sleepy thoroughfares were trampled by cartwheels, the feet of children at play and the hooves of donkeys resignedly heaving their burdens.
On entering Piazza San Callisto, I heard what I can only describe as some miaowing music gradually draw nearer, while a great multitude of people came towards me. At the head of the crowd were two middle-aged men, dirty and badly dressed, who advanced painfully, leaning on walking sticks. I noticed with a certain disquiet that both had their eyeballs turned inwards, like the old man of whom I'd dreamed at dawn. Between the pair and holding each by the arm was a companion no less filthy and unpresentable, also using a stick and displaying a very obvious limp. Immediately behind, there followed a fiddler, filling the street with the insinuating melancholy of a chaconne. There followed other ragged tramps, almost all blind or crippled. Beggars, always beggars. For years I had lived in Rome in their company, without ever paying much attention to them. Now, since the return of Atto Melani, they had suddenly become not only important, but very important to me! I therefore stood aside, the better to observe the procession. The two blind men at the head of the group held a snuff box and a bowl respectively, both made of silver, and chanted in lamentable counterpoint with the sound of the fiddle.
"Charity for Saint Elizabeth, make an offering to Saint Elizabeth!"
Every now and then a benefactor would break away from the indistinct mass of passers-by, to throw some coin into the bowl. The other blind man would then offer him a pinch of snuff, which the kind person offering charity would take from the snuff box with a sort of tiny glass measure.
The rest of the procession, as I was able to observe when they turned to the right into the Vicolo de' Pazzi, was one long line of people, all muffled up and miserable-looking, every single unfortunate among them apparently eyeless, legless or armless. The cortege was surrounded by a collection of poor children begging for charity, rather like seagulls following a ship in the hope of some refuse from the vessel's stores.
A young cleric approached the head of the procession. He threw agrosso coin into the bowl and to
ok a small pinch of tobacco, which caused him to cough and sneeze. When he had moved away from the cortege, I followed and accosted him.
"Excuse me, Father, what procession is this?"
"It is the Company of Saint Elizabeth. Normally they come out on Sundays, while today is Saturday. But in Jubilee time an exception or two is allowed them too."
"The Company of Saint Elizabeth?" I asked, recalling that I had in the past heard tell of it. "That group consisting entirely of the halt and the blind?"
"Yes, poor things. Fortunately, Pope Paul Vgave them a permit to beg. If only there were no catchpolls. .."
"What do you mean?"
"Oh, nothing. Just that the company has to pay many taxes for religious ceremonies, so that in the end, little remains to them. But you must excuse me now, I have to go to San Pietro in Montorio and I am already late."
I was unable to detain the young cleric any longer or to obtain from him any other particulars concerning the Company of Saint Elizabeth. After leaving the priest, I spent an infinitesimal proportion of the money received for my literary services to Abbot Melani on the acquisition from a street vendor of a carton of little fish, just fried and deliciously crisp to the teeth.
I turned towards Piazza Santa Maria in Trastevere; contemplating the noble and ancient fagade of the church, I ate, leaning on the steps of the fountain in the middle of the square. I was thinking. I remembered that I had heard tell of the Company of St Elizabeth, because on the saint's day they hold a procession with a great military escort and visit the four holy basilicas. I was not, however, aware that they had a papal authorisation to beg; furthermore, I found the cleric's remark concerning the catchpolls distinctly curious. What could Sfasciamonti's colleagues have to do with the company's contribution to religious festivities? I turned and saw the dusty and sinuous serpent of the procession turning into a side-road. Behind it there remained a breath of air smelling of unwashed bodies, rotting clothes and kitchen odours.
"And I, what do I pay taxes for?" exclaimed the owner of a tavern with four tables outside, waylaying me loudly and polemically. A middle-aged man with a feline expression and a swollen pot-belly, his accent was from the Abruzzi and he seemed to be one of those people who complains about everything but does nothing about anything. After the company had gone on its way, he had begun to sweep lazily but irately in front of his door.
"But the Company of St Elizabeth never entered your inn," said I, amazed by the man's anger with those crippled, wretched outcasts.
"My boy, I don't know how long you've lived in this city, but I can assure you that I am far older than you," said he, leaning his broom against the wall, "and I have seen and heard more than you could ever imagine. For example, whoever owns a shop, market stall, warehouse, store, inn, hostelry, wine-shop, bakery or other place where goods are sold, both foodstuffs and other goods, must, in order to exercise any trade pay in advance ten baiocchi a month to have the street cleaned and washed. Hired carriages, the pozzolana quarries, the docks on the Tiber, even ordinary town carriages, all pay taxes. And even those who don't pay them must slave away to comply with the health regulations against pollution of the air: buffalo herdsmen, butchers and coachmen must cleanse their stables, coach houses and enclosures of all dung and refuse. Market gardeners and the owners of vineyards may not keep manure in the streets of Rome, either within the walls or without. Fruiterers, greengrocers, fishmongers and straw merchants must always remove all the refuse they have produced during the day, down to the last straw, leaf or wood shaving, otherwise they get a fine of five scudi. What else? Ah yes, dyers and tanners cannot throw the waste water from their work into the street and have to pour it into drains specially built for that purpose. And now I tell you: the wastrels of Saint Elizabeth's Company, when they come here, stink and befoul the streets worse than the Nubians of ancient Rome, they take up the whole roadway and make my customers go away. And they, what do they pay?"
"I have just been told that they pay a tax to the catchpolls," I replied, making immediate use of my conversation with the young cleric.
"To the catchpolls? Ha ha!" guffawed the innkeeper, grasping his broom and beginning again to sweep the pavement. "And you call that a tax? But that's the catchpolls' fee."
"The catchpolls' fee?"
He stopped and looked all around him, as though to make sure that no one was listening.
"For heaven's sake, young man, where do you live? Everyone knows that the catchpolls take money under the counter from the Company of Saint Elizabeth, in exchange for which they can beg as much as they wish, even in places where it is forbidden by orders and edicts. The money is given on the pretext of paying for religious festivities. But everyone knows that is not what it is all about."
He resumed sweeping vigorously, as though he wanted to work off an impotent, sulking rage by the activity of cleaning.
"Forgive me," I resumed, "but if you are telling me. .."
"He talks like he eats, and what he says, even I can see."
The voice that had come between us was that of a shoe vendor, who was carrying on his shoulders two strings of footwear of every kind and size (boots and clogs, street shoes and slippers) secured to a wooden yoke by long leather thongs. He was a thin, emaciated old man with a pitilessly lined face, wearing only a grey shirt knotted at his belly, breeches that were too short and a half stoved-in straw hat.
"If people help these ragamuffins, there will only be more and more of them. Look at me, boy. I go out and earn my bread. As for those like the Company of Saint Elizabeth, they have protectors and grow fat."
"Come on now, they're blind and crippled," I insisted.
"Oh really? Then how do you explain that there are more and more beggars, vagabonds and wastrels? How do you explain that one Roman out of two begs for charity? And yet, the alms keep rolling in, indeed they do!"
"Perhaps it's because there's not enough bread for everyone."
"Not enough bread!" said the shoe-seller scornfully. "Poor fool. . ."
"The truth," the innkeeper went on, "is that the poor are not poor. A beggar who's found a good place, say in front of San Sisto's, can earn far more money than me."
"But what are you saying?"
"Let fools give alms," said the pedlar acidly.
"In Rome, poverty is the best school for theft, impurity, blasphemy and every kind of abomination," insisted the innkeeper without giving me the time to think or to respond.
The squabble which I have so crudely described in fact went on for quite some time, so that I was able to learn, if not hard facts, at least the opinions of my two contradictors, which I was in time to discover corresponded to a viewpoint widely held.
While Rome had for centuries been a universal haven for the poor, in recent times there had arisen an ever more solid wall of disgust and mistrust for them.
Until a few decades ago, pious souls among the poor were counted by the thousand. It was no accident that Robert Bellarmine in his De arte bene moriendi (but this I was to learn later from other sources), referring to wise philosophers and excellent doctors of the Church like Aristotle, Saint Basil, Saint John Chrisostom and above all the celebrated De amore pauperum of Gregory of Nazianzius, preached that in every city two cities existed side by side, that of the poor and that of the rich, united by the bond of piety and generosity. God could in fact have created everyone strong and learned, but did not so intend: with wondrous providence, he was pleased to make the one rich, the other poor, the one learned, the other ignorant; the one robust, the other weak, the one healthy, the other sick. Charity was, however, always to be directed towards the poor (among other things because, as Father Daniello Bartoli put it, he who gives charity does not lose but gains). The lax held it sufficient to give them what is superfluous. Other, more rigorous persons thought that one must always give something, because in truth there exist very few among the faithful, even among kings, who are prepared to admit that they have more than they need.
With time, howe
ver, the problem had become more serious: no longer was the question how much should be given to the poor, but whether the latter really were poor. On the streets of the Holy City (as Father Guevarre wrote, but this the two with whom I had been conversing were not to know) there abounded above all shameless individuals who made use of sackcloth and ashes, healthy limbs swathed in bandages, mimed madness and artificial tremors to extract money from the purses of the ingenuous and to find comfortable places in dormitories. Public and private subsidies, the hospices opened by the popes (like that of San Michele, inaugurated by Pope Innocent XII) and the charitable gifts of the nobility (Cardinal Farnese gave up to a fifth of his considerable income) thus ended up not in the hands of the truly wretched, but in the purses of wastrels and scoundrels, happy to live and die on the street so long as they did not have to work. They preferred a thousand times to lead a rogue's existence, so long as it was a life of ease. The beggars breathed the air of Rome; and such are the Romans that, since air is worth nothing, why, they thought, work for it?
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