"Catch him!" screamed Abbot Melani, approaching in his turn, and he was right, because that someone or something seemed to trip up and almost fall. I rushed out blindly, praying God that Atto would reach him before I did.
But just at that moment, there fell upon me, and everywhere around me, a loud and horrible rain of cadavers, skulls and human bones, and mandibles and jawbones and ribs and shoulder-blades and disgusting filth, struck down by which, I fell to the ground and remained there. Only then did I fully distinguish that revolting stuff from close quarters, as I lay half-buried and almost dead. I tried to free myself from the monstrous crunching mortiferous mush, whose horrid gurgling mingled with a duet of infernal bellowing of which I could guess neither the origin nor the nature. What I could now recognise as a vertebra obstructed my vision and what had once been the skull of a living person looked at me threateningly, almost suspended in the void. I tried to scream, but my mouth uttered no sound. I felt my strength failing me, and while my last thoughts gathered painfully into a prayer for my soul's salvation, as in a dream, I heard the abbot's voice resounding through the vaults.
"That's enough, I can see you. Halt or I fire."
It seemed to me that a long time passed (but now I know it was only a few minutes) before I was called back from the formless nightmare into which I had fallen by the echoing sound of a strange voice.
I noted with alarm that a strange hand was holding my head up, while someone (a third being?) freed my limbs from the frightful mass under which I was all but buried. Instinctively, I drew back from these strange attentions but, slipping clumsily, I found myself with my nose up against a nauseous-smelling member (impossible to tell which one). Suddenly overcome by the exertions of my stomach, in a few seconds I threw up all my dinner. I heard the stranger curse in a language that seemed similar to my own.
While I was still trying to recover my breath, I felt the kindly hand of Abbot Melani grasp me under the armpit.
"Courage, boy."
I rose painfully to my feet, and by the dim light of the lamp I caught sight of an individual, wrapped in a sort of gown, muttering as he bent down to the ground in a febrile attempt to isolate from my gastric secretions the no less vomit-inducing heap of human remains.
"To each his own treasures," sneered Atto.
I saw that Abbot Melani was holding a little device in his hand; from what I could make out, it ended with a piece of shining wood inset with gleaming metal. He was pointing it threateningly at a second individual, dressed like his companion and seated on a carved stone.
In the moment when the lantern lit up this figure, I was thunderstruck by the sight of his face, that is, if one could call it a face. For it was nothing but a symphony of wrinkles, a concerto of folds, a madrigal of ribbons of skin which seemed to hold together only because they were too old and tired to rebel against their enforced companionship. The grey and diffident pupils were crowned by the intense red of the eye, which made of the whole one of the most fearsome sights I had ever beheld. The picture was completed by sharp brown teeth, worthy of an infernal vision by Melozzo da Forli.
"Corpisantari," murmured the abbot to himself, disgustedly, shaking his head.
"You could at least have shown a little more care," he added sardonically. "You scared these two gentlemen."
And he lowered the little device with which he had been keeping the first mysterious individual covered, returning it to his pocket in token of peace.
While I was cleaning myself up as well as I could under the circumstances, and struggling to overcome the nausea that still afflicted me, I was able to see the face of the second individual when he stood up for a moment. Or rather, to catch a glimpse of him, because he wore a filthy greatcoat with sleeves that were too long and a cowl that almost completely covered his face, leaving a slit through which, when the light permitted it, one could distinguish his features. And that was just as well, for after many patient attempts to observe him I discovered the existence of a whitish half- closed eye and of another swollen eyeball, enormous and protruding, as though it were almost about to fall to the ground; a nose like a deformed and cankered cucumber, and a yellowish, greasy skin; while, as to the mouth, I could never have sworn that he had one, were it not for the formless sounds that occasionally emerged from that vicinity. From the sleeves, two hands would furtively emerge from time to time, hooked and clawed, and as decrepit as they were swift and predatory.
The abbot turned and met my fearful and questioning gaze. With a nod, he pointed to the first of the two, impatient to recover his freedom so that he could rejoin his companion in his disgusting sorting of bones from the contents of my stomach.
"How curious," said Atto, dusting his sleeves and shoulders carefully. "In the hostelry I am forever sneezing, yet all the dust these two wretches have on them has not caused me to sneeze even once."
And he explained that the two strange beings whom we had encountered were members of the miserable (yet adequately fed) band of those who spent their nights exploring the innumerable cavities under the city of Rome in search of treasures. Not jewels or Roman statues, but the most holy relics of the saints and martyrs which abounded in the catacombs and tombs of the martyrs of the Holy Roman Church, disseminated throughout the length and breadth of the city.
"I do not understand," I broke in. "Are they really allowed to take these holy relics from the tombs?"
"Not only is it permitted: I daresay that it is even necessary," replied Abbot Melani with a hint of irony. "The places frequented by the first Christians are to be regarded as fertile ground for spiritual questing, and sometimes even hunting, ut ita dicam, by elevated souls."
Saint Philip Neri and Saint Carlo Borromeo had indeed been in the habit of praying in the catacombs, so the abbot reminded me. And at the end of the last century, a courageous Jesuit, a certain Antonio Bosio, had descended into the most recondite and obscure crevices and had explored all the cavities under Rome, making many marvellous discoveries and publishing a book entitled Roma Subterranea, which had met with great and general plaudits. The good Pope Gregory XV had, around 1620, laid down that the remains of saints were to be removed from the catacombs so that these precious relics could be distributed to churches throughout all Christendom, and he had instructed Cardinal Crescenzi to see to the implementation of this holy programme.
I turned towards the two bizarre manikins who were fussing around these human remains, emitting obscene grunts.
"I know it seems curious to you that a mission of such high spirituality should be entrusted to two such beings," continued Atto. "But you must bear in mind that descending into the catacombs and artificial grottoes, of which Rome has so many, is not to everyone's taste. One must enter dangerous places, cross watercourses, face the risk of rock-falls and collapsing galleries. And it takes a strong stomach to go rummaging among the corpses..."
"But they are just old bones."
"That is all too easily said, yet how did you react a few moments ago? Our two friends had just completed their round, as they explained to me while you lay half dead on the ground. In this cavity, they keep their collection. The catacombs are a long way off and there is no danger of encountering one of their competitors around here. So they were not expecting to meet with a living soul; and when we surprised them, they panicked and started to run in all directions. In the confusion, you came too near to their pile of bones and disturbed it, and it collapsed on top of you. And then you fainted."
I looked down and saw that the two strange little men had by now separated their bones from the vomit and had given them a quick cleaning. The little mountain under which I had been buried must have been far higher than myself; and now it all lay spread out on the ground. In reality, the human remains (a skull, a few long bones, and three vertebrae) were few when compared with all the remaining matter: earth, potsherds, stones, wood splinters, moss and roots, rags, all manner of rubbish. What, fuelled by fear, I had experienced a
s a deluge of death was but the contents of a sack filled by a peasant who had scraped too much from the soil of his little field.
"To exercise a dirty trade like this," the abbot continued, "you need a couple of characters like those whom you see before you. These tomb robbers are called corpisantari, after the sacred relics of saints for which they are always searching. If fortune does not smile upon them, they sell some rubbish to the next simpleton they meet. Have you not seen them, in front of your inn, selling Saint John's shoulder-blade or the jaw of Saint Catherine, feathers from angels' wings, splinters from the one True Cross borne by Our Lord? Well, the suppliers are our two friends, or their companions in the trade. When they are in luck, they find the tomb of some presumed martyr. Of course, those who reap the honours of translating the relics of Saint Etcetera to some church in Spain are the cardinals, or that old windbag Father Fabretti, whom Innocent X appointed, if I am not mistaken, custos reliquiarum ac coemeteriorum, the Custodian of Relics and Cemeteries."
"Where are we, Signor Abbot?" I asked, confused by our hostile and shadowy surroundings.
"I have mentally retraced the way we have covered and asked these two one or two questions. They call it the Archives, because this is where they heap up their ordure. I would say that we are more or less inside the ruins of the old stadium of Domitian, where during the Roman Empire they held sea battles, with ships. To make matters easier for you, I can tell you that we are under the Piazza Navona, at the end nearest the Tiber. If we had covered the distance from the inn to the same point on the surface, at a good walking pace, it would have taken no more than three minutes."
"So these ruins are from Roman times."
"But of course these are Roman ruins. Do you see those arches? They must be the old structures of the stadium where they held games and naval battles, above which were built the palazzi which now surround the Piazza Navona, following the old oblong design."
"As in the Circo Massimo?"
"Exactly: except that there, everything has remained visible; whereas here it was all buried under the weight of centuries. But you will see, sooner or later, they will excavate here too. There are things that cannot remain buried."
While he told me of matters that were utterly new to me, I was astonished to see for the first time shining in Abbot Melani's eyes the spark of fascination with art and antiquity, despite the fact that he was at that moment deeply involved in what would appear to be very different affairs. I had no way of knowing it at the time, but this inclination was to have not unimportant consequences in this and later adventures.
"Well, well, we should so like to be able to mention, one day, the names of our two nocturnal acquaintances."
"I am Ugonio," said the less runted of the twain.
Atto Melani looked questioningly at the other one.
"Gfrrrlubh," came the sound issuing from under his hood.
"And he is Ciacconio," said Ugonio, hastening to translate Ciac-conio's gurglings.
"Can he not speak?" insisted Abbot Melani.
"Gfrrrlubh," replied Ciacconio.
"I understand," said Atto, reining in his impatience. "We humbly beg your pardon for having disturbed your perambulations. But, now that I come to think of it, may I avail myself of this opportunity to inquire whether you have, by any chance, seen someone pass this way, a little while before our arrival?"
"Gfrrrlubh!" broke in Ciacconio.
"He has invisioned a presence," announced Ugonio.
"Tell him that we want to know everything," said I, butting in.
"Gfrrrlubh," repeated Ciacconio.
We looked questioningly at Ugonio.
"Ciacconio entrified the galleria whence your worships emergen- cied, and was espied there by one who held a lamp-light; whereupon Ciacconio regressed upon his feetsteps. But the lamp-lifter must have entrified a trap-portal, for he disapparitioned like smoke, and Ciacconio sought sanctity here, most alarmified."
"Could he not have told us himself?" asked Abbot Melani, somewhat taken aback.
"But he has now descripted and confessated it," replied Ugonio.
"Gfrrrlubh," confirmed Ciacconio, vaguely piqued.
Atto Melani and I looked at one another in some perplexity.
"Gfrrrlubh," continued Ciacconio, becoming animated, and seeming by his grunts proudly to claim that even he, a poor creature of darkness, could render himself more than useful.
As his companion was most opportunely to interpret for us, Ciacconio had, after the meeting with the stranger, carried out a second minute investigation of the gallery, because his curiosity was stronger than his fear.
"He is a great miner of other people's busyness," explained Ugonio, in the tones of one reiterating an old and worn reproof, "which leads him only into troubleness and misfortunity."
"Gfrrrlubh," broke in Ciacconio, fumbling through his coat in search of something.
Ugonio seemed to hesitate.
"What did he say?" I asked.
"Naught, or only that..."
Triumphantly, Ciacconio produced a screwed-up piece of paper. Ugonio grabbed his forearm and with lightning speed tore it from his hand.
"Hand it over to me or I shall blow your head off," said Abbot Melani calmly, reaching into his right-hand pocket in which he had placed the device with which he had already threatened the two
corpisantari.
Ugonio slowly reached out and surrendered to my companion the paper which he had scrunched up into a ball. Then without warning he set to kicking and belabouring Ciacconio, calling him, "You sour saggy old scumskinned, batskinned, sow-skinned, scrunchbacked, sodomitic skinaflinter, you puking mewlbrat, you muddy-snouted, slavering, sarcophagous shitebeetle, you bumsquibcracking sicomoron, you slimy old scabmutcheon-shysteroo,you shittard, sguittard, crackard, filthard, lily-livered, lycanthropic, eunichon-bastradion-bumfodder-billicullion- ballockatso, you gorbellied doddipol, calflolly jobbernol, you grapple- snouted netherwarp, you clarty-frumpled, hummthrumming, tuzzle- wenching, placket-racket, dregbilly lepidopter, you gnat-snapping, weedgrubbing, blither-blather, bilge-bottled, ockham-cockam peder- aster," and other epithets which I had never heard before, yet which sounded somewhat grave and offensive to my ears.
Abbot Melani did not deign so much as to glance at these painful theatrics and spread out the sheet of paper on the ground, trying to restore it to its original appearance. I craned my neck and read with him. The left side and the right were, alas, badly torn and almost all of the title had been lost. Fortunately, the remainder of the page was perfectly readable:
"It is a page from the Bible," said I with complete assurance.
"I think so too," the abbot agreed, turning the paper in his hand. "I should say that it is..."
"Malachi," I guessed without hesitation, thanks to the fragment of a name in the upper margin which had almost completely survived recent events.
On the back there was no printing whatsoever but an unmistakable bloodstain (which I had already seen through the page). More blood covered what must be part of a title or heading.
"I think that I understand," said Abbot Melani, turning to Ugonio who was inflicting his last, listless kicks upon Ciacconio.
"What have you understood?"
"Our two little monsters thought they had made a good find."
He proceeded to explain to me that, for the corpisantari, the most precious booty came, not from the mere sepulchres of early Christians, but from the glorious tombs of saints and martyrs. It was, however, not easy to recognise these. The criterion for identifying such tombs had caused a never-ending dispute, which had dragged no few learned churchmen into endless controversies. According to Bosio, the bold Jesuit explorer of subterranean Rome, martyrs could be distinguished by symbols such as palms, crowns and vases containing grain or flames of fire, carved upon their tombs. But absolute proofs were glass or terracotta ampoules—found in tombs or sealed with mortar into their outer walls—containing a reddish liquid which was generally regarded as
the holy blood of the martyrs. This burning question was long-debated and a special commission eventually cleared the air of all uncertainties, ruling that pabnam et cas illorum sanguine tinctum pro signis certissimis habendas esse.
"In other words," concluded Atto Melani, "images of palms, but above all the presence of a small ampoule full of red liquid, were a sure sign that one was in the presence of the remains of a hero of the Faith."
"So these phials must be very valuable," I suggested.
"Of course, and not all of them are handed over to the ecclesiastical authorities. After all, any Roman can dedicate himself to the search for antiquities: all he needs is an authorisation from the Pope (Prince Scipione Borghese, for instance, did it, perhaps because the Pope was his uncle) and he can dig, and all he then needs is to find some obliging Doctor of the Church to authenticate any remains that are brought to light. After that, if he is not consumed by devotion, he will sell it. But there is no test to distinguish the true from the false. Whoever finds some fragment of a body can always claim that it is a relic of a martyr. If this were only a problem of money, one could pass over the matter. The fact is that these fragments are blessed and become objects of adoration, the object of pilgrimages, and so on."
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