Instead of taking shelter, Ciacconio opted as usual for the most insane solution and climbed on top of the carriage, crawling towards Dulcibeni and holding by some miracle onto that unsafe roof which bounced in every direction. A few moments passed and the crack of the whip compelled him at once to renounce his attack.
We were emerging at high speed from the Via del Pellegrino into the Campo di Fiore, when I saw Ciacconio, still clinging precariously to the carriage roof, remove the pendant with the relic and hurl the holy cross at Dulcibeni with all his might. The carriage tilted slightly to the right, which gave us the impression that the missile had found its target. Ciacconio tried again to advance, perhaps attempting to take advantage of the opportunity before Dulcibeni had time to reload his pistol.
"If Dulcibeni does not stop the horses, we shall end up against a wall," I heard Atto say, his voice almost drowned out by the clatter of the wheels on the cobblestones.
Again, we heard the whip crack; instead of slowing down, our speed was increasing. I noticed that we were driving almost in a straight line.
"Pompeo, oh my God, stop this carriage!" we heard Tiracorda whine from within the carriage, his voice just audible despite the metallic screech and clatter of wheel-rims and horseshoes.
By now, we had crossed Piazza Mattei and even Piazza Campitelli; the wild charge of the coach through the night, leaving Monte Savello behind on our right, seemed utterly devoid of sense or any hope of safety. While the flames of the two side torches gaily streaked the darkness, the rare and furtive night wanderers, enveloped in their cloaks and unknown to all save the moon, speechlessly witnessed our noisy onrush. We even crossed the night watch on their rounds, but they had neither the time nor the means to stop and interrogate us.
"Pompeo, I beg of you," Tiracorda yet again implored, "stop, stop at once."
"But why does he not stop, and why does he keep driving straight on?" I screamed to Atto.
As we crossed the Piazza della Consolazione, Dulcibeni's whip and Ciacconio's grunting could no longer be heard. We peeked cautiously over the roof and beheld Dulcibeni, standing in his box, exchanging with Ciacconio a wild, disorderly rain of blows and kicks. No one held the reins.
"My God," exclaimed Atto, "that is why we never turned."
It was then that we entered the long tetragonal esplanade of the Campo Vaccino—the Cows' Field—where one can see all that remains of the antique Roman Forum. To our left, the Arch of Septimius Severus, to our right, the ruins of the Temple of Jupiter Stator and the entrance of the Orti Farnesiani joined in the desperate frenzy harassing our eyes. Before us, drawing ever nearer, was the Arch of Titus.
Our ride became all the more hazardous, given the barbarously uneven terrain of the Campo Vaccino. Somehow, we avoided two Roman columns which lay on the ground. At last, we passed under the Arch of Titus and ran down the hill, ending the descent at a mad velocity. Nor did it seem that anything could stop us now, while Dulcibeni's angry voice screamed, "Filthy dog, go to hell!"
"Gfrrrlubh," Ciacconio insulted him in turn.
Something large, greyish and ragged then rolled down from the carriage, just as the team of horses, exhausted yet triumphant, entered the ample space over which, for sixteen centuries, the ruins of the Colosseum have loomed in magnificent indifference.
As we approached the imposing amphitheatre, we heard a dry crack under our feet. The rear axle had yielded to the excessive demands of the long ride, causing our vehicle to skid and tilt violently to the right. Before the carriage turned over, screaming in terror and shock, Atto and I let ourselves fall and roll on the ground, miraculously escaping being smashed by the spokes of the great wheels spinning wildly just next to us; the horses fell heavily, while the carriage with its two passengers toppled, then slipped and slid sideways some way further over a broken patch of earth, stones and weeds.
After a few instants of comprehensible confusion, I rose to my feet. I was in a sorry state, but uninjured. The carriage lay on its side, with one wheel still spinning in the void, suggesting unenviable consequences for its passengers. The torches on either side were smoking, having gone out.
We knew that the grey thing which had been thrown down not long before must have been poor Ciacconio, hurled by Dulcibeni from the moving vehicle. But our attention was at once captured by something else. Atto pointed at one of the carriage doors, flung open and pointing heroically heavenward. We understood each other instantly: without a moment's hesitation, we leapt inside the carriage, where Tiracorda lay groaning, and in a swoon. Swifter than Atto, I seized a heavy little chest from the hands of the Chief Physician, within which clinking sounds betrayed the probable presence of a vase. It seemed beyond a doubt to be the same object which we had seen seized from Ciacconio: the container of the robust hermetic vase used by physicians for transporting leeches.
"We have it!" I exulted. "Now let us flee!"
But even before I could complete my sentence, a powerful grip tore me from within the carriage, dumping me on the hard flagstones, where I rolled painfully like a little bundle of rags. It was Dulcibeni, who had perhaps recovered his wits at that very moment. Now he was trying to tear the little chest from my grasp; but I, clasping it in my arms with all the strength that remained in me, had closed around my prize, shielding it with my arms, chest and legs. Thus, every attempt by Dulcibeni ended up with him lifting me and my precious load together, without succeeding in separating us.
While Dulcibeni struggled thus, crushing me with his powerful weight and inflicting upon me many painful bruises, Abbot Melani attempted to turn away the fury of the ancient Jansenist. All in vain: Dulcibeni seemed to possess the strength of a hundred men. We all three rolled on the ground, in a furious, tumbling entanglement.
"Let me go, Melani," yelled Dulcibeni, "you do not know what you are doing!"
"Do you really mean to assassinate the Pope, all because of your daughter? All because of a little half-caste bastard?"
"You cannot..." gasped Dulcibeni, while Atto succeeded for a moment in twisting his arm, thus stifling him.
"Did the daughter of a Turkish whore bring you to this?" continued Atto scornfully, while, coughing hoarsely from the effort, he was forced to let go of Dulcibeni's arm.
Pompeo hit him hard on the nose, which caused the abbot to groan no little, and left him rolling semi-conscious on the ground.
Turning back to me, Dulcibeni found me still clasping the little chest. Paralysed by fear, I dared not even move. He grasped me by the wrists and, almost tearing me apart, freed the container of the vase from my grasp. He then ran back to the carriage.
I followed him with my eyes in the moonlight. A little later, he emerged from the carriage, jumping nimbly to the ground. He held the chest under his left arm.
"Give me the other one. Yes, that is it, it is just behind," said he, speaking to someone within.
He then reached inside the carriage and drew out what appeared to be a pistol, unless my eyes betrayed me. Rather than reload his first arm, he had preferred to take a second pistol, ready for use. Meanwhile, Atto had risen and was rushing towards the carriage.
"Abbot Melani," said Dulcibeni, half scornful and half threatening, "since you enjoy stalking people so much, you may now complete your work."
He then turned and began to run in the direction of the Colosseum.
"Stop! Give me that bag!" called Atto.
"But Signor Atto, Dulcibeni..." I objected.
"... is armed. I am aware of that," replied Abbot Melani, crouching prudently near the ground. "But that is no reason to let him escape us."
I was struck by Atto's decisive tone and in a blinding insight, I understood what was agitating his heart and his thoughts and why, that evening, he had climbed without a moment's hesitation onto the back of Tiracorda's carriage, taking the mortal risk of following Dulcibeni.
Atto's natural predisposition to embroil himself in obscure intrigues and the potent pride which caused him to
puff up his chest when he detected the presence of plotters, all those things which he felt and wanted and tended naturally to desire, remained unsatisfied. Dulcibeni's half-unveiled revelations had drawn Melani into their vortex. And now the abbot could not, would not withdraw. He wanted to know, come what may. Atto was not running in order to tear the leeches from Dulcibeni's hands: he wanted his secrets.
While those images and those thoughts rushed before my eyes at a speed a thousand times greater than that of Tiracorda's carriage, Dulcibeni fled towards the Colosseum.
Dulcibeni disappeared in the twinkling of an eye behind the dark portico of the Colosseum. Atto dragged me to the right, as though he intended to follow the same route as the man he was pursuing, but outside the colonnade.
"We must surprise him before he reloads his pistol," he whispered to me.
Dodging from side to side, we drew near to the arches of the Colosseum. We stopped first by one of the mighty load-bearing columns, draping ourselves like ivy around the stone blocks. Then we slipped into the colonnade: of Dulcibeni, there was no trace or sound.
We advanced a few paces, listening intently. It was only the second time in my life that I found myself among the ruins of the Colosseum, but I did know that the place was often infested, not only by owls and bats, but by all manner of bawds, thieves and wrongdoers who hid there in order to avoid justice and to perpetrate their execrable practices. The darkness made it almost impossible to see anything; now and again, one could distinguish only whatever was open to the sky and the pale light of the moon.
We proceeded cautiously along the great arcade, almost more at pains to avoid stumbling on some half-buried lump of stone than to track down our prey. The vault of the portico and the wall to our right echoed our every sound; the latter separated the arcade from the interior of the amphitheatre, and was pierced at regular intervals by vertical slits which allowed one to peer into the great arena. Apart from the padding of our feet and the swishing sounds of such gestures as we inevitably made, there was silence. That was why we jumped when, clearly and directly, a voice came out of the dark: "Poor Melani, slave to your king unto the bitter end."
Atto stopped: "Dulcibeni, where are you?"
There followed a moment's silence.
"I am ascending to heaven, I want to see God from closer quarters," whispered Dulcibeni from an unidentifiable place, which sounded at once distant and near at hand.
We looked fruitlessly around us.
"Stop and let us talk," said Atto. "If you do so, we shall not denounce you."
"So you wish to know, Abbot. Well, then I shall give you satisfaction. But first, you must find me."
Dulcibeni was moving away; but neither behind, nor before us under the portico, nor outside the Colosseum.
"He is already inside," concluded Atto.
Only far later, a long time after these events, did I discover that the wall which separates the interior of the amphitheatre from the arcade, while allowing one to see into the great arena, was regularly penetrated by criminals. One could obtain lawful access to the arena only through the big wooden gates situated at either end of the edifice, and these were obviously closed at night. Thus, to make a useful secret hiding place of the ruins, men and women engaged in nefarious activities would open up breaches in the surrounding wall, which the authorities rarely repaired as swiftly as they should.
Clearly, Dulcibeni had passed through one of these gaps. Abbot Melani at once set about exploring the nearby part of the wall, in search of the passage.
"Come on, come on, Melani," Dulcibeni's voice derided us all the while, growing ever more distant.
"Damn it, I cannot... ah, here we are!" exclaimed Atto.
It was not so much a hole as a simple widening of one of the slits in the surrounding wall, reaching up to the waist of a person of normal height. We helped each other through this gap. As I lowered myself into the arena, I felt myself shaken by a powerful tremor of fear. From outside, a hand had gripped my shoulder. I thought with alarm that this must be one of the criminals who infest the area at night, and was about to cry out when a familiar voice invited me to remain silent: "Gfrrrlubh."
Ciacconio had retraced us, and now he was about to join forces with us in the difficult task of capturing Dulcibeni. While the corpisantaro slipped through the opening, I breathed a sigh of relief and passed the news on to Atto.
The abbot had already moved ahead to scout the place out. We were in one of the many corridors which extend round the central space, whose sands were, centuries ago, stained by the blood of gladiators, lions and Christian martyrs, all sacrificed to the delirium of the pagan mob.
We proceeded in single file under high stone walls sloping down towards the centre of the Colosseum, which once framed the central arena and which must once—as could readily be conjectured—have supported the tiers on which the public sat. The nocturnal hour, the damp and the stink of the walls, arches and half-ruined bridges, and the crazed fluttering of bats, all rendered the atmosphere gloomy and menacing. The stench of mould and organic waste made it difficult even for Ciacconio, with his miraculous sense of smell, to determine which direction we should take in order to find Dulcibeni. Several times, I saw the corpisantaro point his huge nose upwards, panting and sniffing like an animal, but all in vain. Only the moonlight, which was reflected even on the white stone of the highest tiers of the edifice, afforded us some partial comfort and enabled us to proceed, although we had no lamp, without falling into one of the many chasms that opened up between one ruin and another.
After yet more useless reconnoitring, Atto lost patience and halted.
"Dulcibeni, where are you?" he cried.
The unquiet silence of the ruins was the only response.
"Shall we try dividing our forces?" I asked.
"On no account," replied Atto. "By the way, where have all your friends gone?" he asked Ciacconio.
"Gfrrrlubh," replied the latter, gesticulating and making it clear that the rest of the corpisantaro rabble would soon be arriving.
"Good. We shall need reinforcements to collar..."
"Slave of crowned heads, are you not coming to catch me?"
Dulcibeni had once more called us to action. This time, the voice came unequivocally from above our heads.
"Stupid Jansenist," commented Atto in a low voice, clearly irritated by the provocation, then he called out: "Come closer, Pompeo, I only want to talk with you."
In response, we heard resounding laughter.
"Very well, then I shall come up," Atto retorted.
That was in truth more easily said than done. The interior of the Colosseum, between the central arena and the fagade, was a labyrinthine series of ruined walls, mutilated architraves and decapitated columns, in which the difficulty of orienting oneself was exacerbated by the lack of light.
Over centuries, the Colosseum had been, first, abandoned, then stripped of its marble and stone by many pontiffs for the (justified and sacrosanct) construction of many churches; as I have said, of the former terraces sloping down to the arena, there remained only the supporting walls. These radiated from the perimeter of the arena to the top of the curved outer wall. Parallel to these ran the narrow passages connecting the many concentric circular corridors which completely surrounded the stadium. The whole formed an inextricable maze through which we now moved.
We followed one of the circular corridors some way, endeavouring to draw nearer to the point from which Dulcibeni's voice had issued. The attempt proved useless. Atto looked questioningly at Ciacconio. The corpmntaro again explored the air with wide open nostrils, to no effect.
Dulcibeni must have realised our difficulties, because he almost immediately showed his presence again: "Abbot Melani, you are making me lose my patience."
Contrary to all our expectations, the voice was anything but far off; yet the echoes produced by the ruins made it impossible to detect from which direction the fugitive's mocking words came. Cu
riously, the moment that the sonorous reflections of his voice died out, I seemed to hear a brief and repeated whistling sound, which seemed familiar to me.
"Did you hear?" I asked Atto in a very small voice. "It seems that... I think that he is taking snuff."
"Strange," commented the abbot. "At a time like this..."
"I heard him doing that this evening, too, when he did not come down to dinner."
"In other words, when he was on the point of setting out to complete his plan," noted Abbot Melani.
"Precisely. I also saw him take snuff just before his soliloquy about crowned heads, when he went on about corrupt sovereigns and so forth. And I noticed that, after taking snuff, he seemed more awake and vigorous. It was as though he used it to think more clearly, or... to gain strength—yes, that is it."
"I think that I have just fathomed this," murmured Atto under his breath, but he suddenly broke off.
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