"Very well," said Atto, "our friend will not go far."
Just at that moment, in the opposite quadrant of the sky, there appeared a sharp and rapid shadow which, although distant, appeared to be aiming menacingly at the fluttering outline of Caesar Augustus. The latter must have become aware of this, for he turned suddenly downwards to the left, perhaps in the direction of some thicket. The fast-moving shadow then disappeared from the luminous blue bowl of the sky.
"Come, I shall introduce you to the specialist," said Atto, "or rather, to employ the correct term, the falconer, for that is what he prefers to be called."
We found him waiting for us as soon as we left the Villa Spada. He was a truly strange and singular individual: tall and thin, with long crow-black hair, black, rapacious eyes and an aquiline nose. Across his shoulders, he carried a big sack containing all his equipment. He was accompanied by a fine big hunting dog which looked keen to see action.
I looked questioningly at Atto while we accompanied the falconer towards the aviary and the place from which Caesar Augustus had just taken flight.
"Engaging in no hunt absurd, we'll use a falcon, not a cuckoo bird," he jovially declaimed, miming the pose of a bard. "I got the idea from that mad eccentric Albicastro with his endless quotations from that moral poem on madness."
Just at that moment, the falconer glanced up at the ample vault of heaven and whistled twice. At once there plunged from on high a whirlwind of feathers, plumes and talons which, slowing its descent with an acrobatic turn, landed among us, coming to rest on its master's arm, stretched upwards to show the hawk where to land. The man's right arm bore a coarse leather glove to protect it from being maimed by the bird's talons. I looked at the creature with a mixture of admiration and horror, as it settled comfortably between the wrist and the elbow, contentedly testing its solid perch with its talons, while its master covered its head with a leather hood. The falconer had trained his bird well, for, after freeing it who knows where, he had only to call it to bring it back to him.
"Rather than going after cranes, we shall hunt the parrot," announced Atto, "and with the best of arms, a falcon."
We returned to the villa, silently hoping that no one would ask us what we were doing or why. Fate was friendly to us. We met only one of Sfasciamonti's friends, on guard, who let us pass without posing any questions, although he did look at us somewhat curiously.
"It is horrible," I protested, as we straddled the wall bordering the Barberini estate, towards which Caesar Augustus had flown. "It will massacre him."
"Massacre, massacre. . ." chanted Atto smugly as we got him over the wall with the help of a stool. "Let us say that we shall teach him a lesson. The note belongs to us, the parrot knows that perfectly well. I could, to tell the truth, have used this method from the start, but you would never have agreed."
"What makes you think that I shall agree now?"
"The emergency. The parrot is no longer obeying any orders, the situation is out of control. Remember, my boy, emergencies call for uncomfortable decisions. And if there is no emergency, one must await, or even, if needs be, create one. That is an old technique employed by all men in government, which I have often had occasion to observe during the course of my career as a counsellor," said Atto with a disarming little smile, betraying a certain contentment that Caesar Augustus' petulant disobedience allowed him recourse to strong measures.
We jumped down from the wall; this was the natural continuation of a Roman wall, fortified with towers further to the left, which extended down almost as far as Piazza San Cosimato. Scrambling from the stool, the dog followed us over the barrier.
"Say what you will, the fact remains that the falcon is bloodthirsty," I protested. "I know perfectly well what it is capable of. Once I saw one during training catch a hen and split it asunder, tearing its heart from its breast still beating."
Meanwhile, the falconer had unhooded the falcon and released it. The hawk had climbed rapidly to a considerable height where it appeared as little more than a dark spot in the sky.
"Perhaps it won't ill-treat him too much," sniggered Melani. "In any case, the only thing that matters to us is the note. If he lets go of it, he'll come to no harm."
"You speak as though the falcon could understand what he's doing. Birds are beasts. They have neither intellect nor heart," I replied.
"Enough of that, boy," the falconer broke in.
He spoke with a northern accent, perhaps from Bologna, or Vice- nza, where I knew that falconers had always been in abundance.
"Your ignorance is equalled only by the courage of my falcon," he told me in a harsh voice. "You say that birds have no pity. Do you not know that the great Palamedes, imitating the flight of cranes, which fly in V or A formation, or grouped to form many other letters, composed the characters from which came the alphabet, as Saint Jerome writes, and that from the imitation of the wise living of these cranes, or grues, comes the latin verb congruere, which means literally to be congruent, or coherent."
"No, I did not know that, but. . ."
While he imparted these notions to me, above our heads the falcon traced a series of threatening circles in search of his victim.
We advanced cautiously through the long grass, looking for traces of Caesar Augustus. Atto and the falconer were sure of tracking him down. I was rather less sure, but I thought that if that were to happen, I should be able to make the parrot understand that it would be in its best interests to return Albani's note, on pains of suffering the cruellest of combats. We all stood there with our noses pointing up in the air, waiting for something to happen. The hound sniffed feverishly at trees, looking halfway up, watching the slightest movements.
"And how can you say that birds have no heart? They practise gratitude, fidelity and justice far better than men. The sparrow- hawk captures a little bird to help with its digestion and keeps it alive all night close to its belly, whereupon, out of gratitude, it frees it instead of devouring it. Geese are even more modest than a young maiden: they couple only when they know that no one can see them and, afterwards, they wash thoroughly. Crows practice only marital love. Widowed, a turtledove will never mate again. Swallows always feed each of their fledglings fairly and equally. Are human beings capable of that? Furthermore, among fowls, the males are loquacious and the females taciturn: the contrary of men and, when one comes to think of it, far better. Lastly, geese, although rather inclined to gossip, when they know that an eagle is approaching, resist the temptation to honk and thus be discovered by putting a stone in their beaks.
"They even assist us when we are ill: there is no better way of ridding oneself of stomach ache than to place on it a live duck. For pains in the ribs, you need only eat an Austrian parrot; those with weak stomachs should eat swan's, eagle's or cormorant's meat; the dropsy is treated with powder of burned bats, while for many distempers one takes swallows' nests dissolved in water, nor is there an end to the remedies which poultry breeders generously offer us, and.. . One moment."
The falconer had at last broken off. Everything happened suddenly. The dog barked loudly and pointed: he had found the quarry. From a nearby shrub we heard a loud rustling, then the beating of wings. Caesar Augustus, brilliantly white and fluffed- up with his yellow crest, escaped from the thicket and took to the air. The dog barked loudly but the falconer held him back from following and cried out:
"Look! Look!"
Hearing that call, the falcon knew that its time had come. Instinctively, it directed its beak downwards and plunged towards Caesar Augustus who had fortunately, although three times slower than his aggressor, gained a good start. He was flying towards the fortified Roman wall; the raptor corrected the angle of its attack as it drew closer. It was like a projectile, ready to plant the tip of its beak into the flesh of its victim, or to brake at the last moment, then turn and wound it with its deadly talons. It would only remain then for it to follow the disorderly fall, diving at last onto the poor injured and defenceless body on the ground
and slaughtering it with two or three decisive blows to the breast.
The parrot hastened towards the great wall, behind which it presumably hoped to find shelter at least from the first attack.
"Caesar Augustus," I cried, hoping that he might hear me, but then I realised that everything was happening too fast for human senses.
The falcon was drawing ever closer. Twenty yards; fifteen; ten; seven. All of us, three men and a dog, stared breathlessly at the scene. The wall was too far off. The parrot could never make it that far. Only an instant and it would all be over. I awaited the impact.
"No," the falconer hissed angrily.
He had made it. At the very last moment, Caesar Augustus had opted for a nearer refuge. He had hidden himself in a group of trees thick enough to discourage the falcon, who slowed down and at once regained height.
"Caesar Augustus!" I called again, approaching at a run. "Let go of the paper and all will be well!"
We tried but failed to find the outline of the parrot among the branches. He had hidden really well, as the falconer, too, was forced to admit.
"You promised that you would give him time to ponder," I protested vigorously to Atto.
"I am sorry. I did not realise that things would go so quickly. Nevertheless, he has had all the time he needed for thinking."
"Thinking? But he'll be utterly terrified."
The events that followed proved me to have been utterly mistaken.
While we were exploring around and under the thick clump of trees, a sudden, lacerating double whistle broke the silence. We looked at one another. It was the falconer's whistle, yet he seemed as astonished as we.
"I did not.. . did not do it. I never whistled," he stammered.
Instinctively, he looked upward.
"The glove, damn it," he cursed, seeing that his faithful pupil, hearing the call, was promptly returning and was looking for his forearm. So the falconer had to pull on his leather glove in furious haste and only just caught the flying beast in time. It was then, out of the corner of my eye, that I saw the white and yellow spot gliding silently to the left, once again in the direction of the Roman wall. Atto too realised this a few (important) moments later.
The parrot had imitated the falconer's whistle perfectly, thus causing the predator to return to its master, down below. Caesar Augustus had thus gained enough time to get away, before his enemy could gain height and, with that, the ability to attack.
"That way!" exclaimed Melani, turning to the falconer.
The wasted time had given Caesar Augustus a distinct advantage. The falcon was once again freed and once again had to gain height. The dog was barking wildly.
"Can your bird not attack at once?" asked Atto, running towards the point where Caesar Augustus had disappeared from sight.
"He has first to gain height. He does not attack horizontally like a goshawk!" replied the falconer, as offended as if he had been asked to attend a wedding dressed in rags.
This gave rise to a wretched, disorderly chase downhill along the Roman walls, following the road that traverses the Barberini property up to Piazza Cosimato. Behind the ancient walls, rhythmically punctuated by antique watchtowers, Caesar Augustus's yellow crest would reappear from time to time. He could not fly higher than the falcon, as herons do to dodge such attacks. He had, however, perfectly understood the enemy's weak points and was employing delaying tactics: flying low and passing very rapidly from a tree to a crack in the wall, then vice versa, alternating brief but lightning sorties with the repeated whistle which he had heard the falconer use and had at once learned to imitate to perfection. The falcon could only obey the commands which he had been taught from his very first training, and with every whistle he came back to his master, who was, understandably, almost out of his mind. A couple of times, Caesar Augustus also used the falconer's "Look! Look!" hunting signal, throwing the adversary into such confusion that, if its master had not got it away from there with yells and curses, it might have turned its warlike attentions to a couple of innocent sparrows fluttering in the vicinity.
The last part of the road was flanked on both sides by two ordinary walls and no longer by Roman ruins. I turned around to look for Atto: we had lost him. Caesar Augustus, too, was nowhere to be seen. I did, however, hope that he would have continued along the same trajectory as he had followed hitherto. In that case, as soon as we reached the first open space, we might perhaps have caught sight of him. It was thus that we came to the front of the convent of the nuns of Saint Francis, in Piazza San Cosimato. Abbot Melani arrived some time later, completely out of breath (despite the fact that he had left off running very early on) and sat down by the roadside:
The hunter wastes much time at stalking
The game he's after, riding, walking,
He combs through hill and dale and hedge, Conceals h imself am ong the sedge,
Oft scares away more than he gets
If he's been slipshod with his nets.
"Thus Albicastro would have mocked me with his beloved Brant, if he had seen the state I am in," Melani sighed philosophically, huffing and puffing like a pair of bellows.
I noticed that the Abbot, as I had discovered many years previously, had a taste for citing quotations on the most varied occasions. Only, especially at difficult moments like this, he no longer had breath enough to sing them; and so, instead of the little songs of Le Seigneur Luigi, his one-time master, he preferred to quote verses.
I then turned to contemplate the piazza. To my surprise, notwithstanding the fact that it was very early on Sunday morning, Piazza San Cosimato was full of people. His Holiness (but this I was to discover only later) had decided freely to grant the little boys and girls of Rome the Jubilee indulgence and the remission of sins, subject only to visiting the Vatican Basilica. For this reason, the children of various quarters were preparing to visit the Vatican in procession, with so many little standards, crosses and crucifixes. The maidens were all dressed in the most splendid lace surplices, and with garlands on their heads, each decorated for some particular devotion. The affecting little procession was attended and guided by the parents and by the nuns of the Convent of Saint Francis, all of whom were crowding into the piazza and witnessed our arrival, all dusty and fatigued, with no little surprise.
The falconer was at his wits' end.
"He is not coming back, I cannot see him," he blubbered.
He had lost sight of his falcon. He feared that he might have been abandoned, as sometimes happen with raptors apparently tamed by their masters yet still in their hearts wild and proud.
"There he is!" cried Atto.
"The falcon?" asked the falconer, his face lighting up.
"No, the parrot."
I too had seen. Caesar Augustus, who must have been rather tired too, had just left a cornice and begun to glide in the direction of the nearby Piazza San Callisto. Atto was by now exhausted, while the falconer had thoughts only for his pupil. Only I and the dog were prepared to follow the parrot, with the opposite intentions: I, to save him, he, to slaughter.
The dog barked like mad and charged to the attack, terrifying and scattering all the children from the ranks of the procession, amidst whom I too plunged in pursuit of the parrot, sowing further confusion and provoking the anguished reproofs of the nuns.
By now Caesar Augustus was flying wearily, perching ever more frequently on windowsills, little shrines and balconies, then flying off only when fear of the dog, which bared its teeth angrily, forced him to seek some new refuge. I could not even ask him to land on the ground and give himself up. The dog was always ahead of me, barking wildly and leaping up furiously, simply longing to get its teeth into the poor fugitive. The passers-by watched in shock as our screaming scrimmage, an extraordinary chimera composed of fleeing wings, biting fangs and legs coming to the rescue, made its way forward.
Several times, I narrowed my eyes, peering into the distance: the bird still seemed to have that wretched scrap of paper hanging onto a talon. Af
ter covering a considerable part of the Via di Santa Maria in Trastevere, our bizarre trio turned left and came at last to the bridge of the San Bartolomeo island.
Caesar Augustus landed on a windowsill at the corner, just where the bridge begins. He was quite high up, and the dog (which had perhaps realised by now that it had lost all trace of its master) was beginning to tire of that exhausting, absurd circus. It looked at the parrot, which nothing now seemed likely to shift from its position of safety. To my left stood the San Bartolomeo bridge and, beyond it, that beautiful island, the one single piece of insular territory which completes and embellishes the impetuous flow of fair Tiber. The dog at last turned on its heels, not without one last outburst of rage and disappointment.
"So, do you want to come down? We are alone now."
In the parrot's eyes, I read his willingness to surrender at last to a friend. He was on the point of coming down. Instead, one last cruel reversal intervened.
An old woman who lived in the house had come to the window. She had seen him. Taken aback by the unusual features of that bizarre and beautiful creature, yet incapable of appreciating such splendour and rendered nervous by her own stupidity, the hag tried brutally to drive him away, threatening to strike him. The poor fowl fled, borne on the wind which in that place generously accompanies the current of the river.
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