Imprimatur

Memorials
Day the First

11th September, 1683

The men of the Bargello arrived in the late afternoon, just as I was about to light the torch that illuminated our sign. In their fists, they grasped planks and hammers; and seals and chains and great nails. As they advanced along the Via del Orso, they called out and gestured imperiously to the passers-by and knots of curious bystanders that they must clear the street. Truly, they were most wrathful. When they came level with me, they began to wave their arms about: "All inside, all inside, we must shut up the house," cried the man who gave the orders.

Barely had I time to descend from the stool onto which I had climbed than hard hands shoved me roughly into the entrance, while some began to bar the door with threatening mien. I was stunned. I came abruptly to my senses, jostled by the gathering which, drawn by the officers' cries, had piled up in the doorway as though a bolt of lightning had fallen from an empty sky. These were the lodgers at our inn, known as the Locanda del Donzello.

They were but nine, and all were present: waiting for supper to be served, as was their wont every evening, they wandered about the ground floor among the day-beds in the entrance hall and the tables of the two adjoining dining chambers, each feigning some business; but, in reality, all turning around the young French guest, the musician Robert Devize who, with great bravura, was practising the guitar.

"Let me out! Ah, how dare you? Remove your hands from me! I cannot remain here! I am perfectly healthy, understood? Perfectly healthy! Let me by, I tell you!"

He who thus cried out (and whom I could barely descry through the thicket of lances with which the men-at-arms held him at bay) was our guest Padre Robleda, the Spanish Jesuit, who, panic-stricken, began to groan and to pant, his neck all red and swollen. So piercing were his screams that they minded me of the squeals of swine, hanging head downwards before slaughter.

The noise resounded down the street and, it seemed to me, as far off as the little square, which had emptied in a trice. On the far side of the street, I caught sight of the fishmonger who, with two servants from the nearby Locanda dell'Orso, was observing the scene.

"They are shutting us in," I cried to them, trying to capture their attention, but the trio remained unmoved.

A vinegar-seller, a snow vendor and a group of little boys whose cries had, only moments earlier, enlivened the street, now hid fearfully round the corner.

Meanwhile, my master, Signor Pellegrino de Grandis, had placed a small bench on the threshold of the inn. One of the officers of the Bargello laid thereon the register of the lodgers at our inn, which he had just received, and began the roll-call.

"Padre Juan de Robleda, from Granada."

Since I had never been present at a closure for quarantine, and no one had ever spoken to me of such a thing, I thought at first that they meant to imprison us.

"A dreadful, dreadful business," whispered Brenozzi, the Venetian.

"Come out, Padre Robleda!" called the officer, growing impatient.

The Jesuit who, in his vain struggle against the men-at-arms, had fallen senseless to the ground, now rose to his feet and, once he had made sure that every escape was barred by lances, responded to the call with a sign of his hairy hand. He was at once pushed towards me. Padre Robleda had arrived from Spain a few days earlier, and ever since morning, because of the day's events, he had sorely tried our ears with his fearful screaming.

"Abbot Melani, from Pistoia!" called the official, reading from the register of guests.

Darting up from the shadows came the fashionable French lace ornamenting the wrist of our latest guest, who had arrived only at sunrise. He raised his hand diligently when his name was called, and his little triangular eyes shone like stilettos piercing the shade. The Jesuit did not move a muscle to make room when Melani, with tranquil gait and in silence, joined us. It was the abbot's cries that had raised the alarum that morning.

We had all heard them, they came from upstairs. Pellegrino, the host, my master, was the first to stir his long legs and run swiftly. But hardly had he reached the large chamber on the first floor, giving onto the Via dell'Orso, than he stopped. There, two guests had taken up lodgings: Signor di Mourai, an aged French gentleman, and his companion Pompeo Dulcibeni, who hailed from the Marches. Mourai, in an armchair, with his feet soaking in the basin for his customary bath, sprawled sideways, his arms hanging down, while the abbot held him upright and strove to revive him, shaking him by the collar. Mourai's attention seemed fixed upon his helper's shoulders and he appeared to be scrutinising Pellegrino with great astonished eyes, while an indistinct gurgle issued from his throat. It was then that Pellegrino realised that the abbot was not calling for help but, with great uproar and agitation, interrogating the old man. He was speaking to him in French, which my master could not understand; but imagined that he was enquiring of him what had happened. To Pellegrino (as he was later to recount to us all) it did, however, seem that Abbot Melani was shaking Mourai with excessive vigour in his attempts to revive him, and so he rushed to release the old man from that all-too- powerful grasp. It was at that instant that poor Signor di Mourai, with an immense effort, uttered his last words: "Alas, so it really is true," he gasped in Italian. Then he left off from panting. His eyes remained fixed upon his host and a greenish dribble ran from his mouth to his breast. And so he died.

"The old man, es el viejo," gasped Padre Robleda mixing languages in a terrorised whisper, no sooner than we had heard two men-at-arms murmur the words "pestilence" and "shutting up".

"Cristofano, physician and chirurgeon, from Siena!" called the officer.

With slow and measured gestures, our Tuscan guest stepped forward, holding the little leather bag containing all his instruments from which he was never parted.

"It is I," he responded in a low voice, after opening his bag, shuffling through a mass of papers and, with frigid dignity, clearing his voice. Cristofano was rotund and short of stature, careful of his appearance and with a jovial expression that set one at ease. That evening, his face was pale and dripping with perspiration, nor did he take the trouble to wipe it; his pupils focussed on something invisible in front of him and, before he moved, he made a quick gesture, smoothing his pointed beard. His every movement betrayed the extreme apprehensiveness behind his would-be phlegmatic calm.

"I wish to make it clear that, following a preliminary but careful examination of Signor di Mourai's body, I am by no means certain that this is a case of infection," began Cristofano. "The medical examiner of the Magistrate for Health, who asserts this with such confidence, spent very little time with the corpse. I have here," and he showed the papers, "my written observations on the case. I believe they could help you to reconsider the situation a little longer and delay any over-hasty decision on your part."

The Bargello's men, however, had neither the power nor the desire to enter into such points of detail.

"The Magistrate has ordered the immediate closure of this inn," said the officer who seemed to be in charge, adding that, for the time being, a proper quarantine had not been declared: the closure was for twenty days only, and without evacuation of the street; so long, of course, as there were no further deaths or suspected cases of distemper.

"Seeing as I too am to be locked up, and in order that I may the better arrive at my diagnosis," insisted Signor Cristofano with some irritation, "may I not at least know something more about the last meals on which the late Signor di Mourai supped, he being accustomed always to eat alone and in his chamber? It may have been no more than a simple congestion."

The objection had the effect of creating hesitancy on the part of the men-at-arms, who besought the innkeeper with their eyes. The latter had, however, not even heard the physician's request: slumped on a chair, plunged in dejection, he groaned and uttered imprecations, as was his wont, against the innumerable torments which life inflicted upon him. The last of these had been when, scarcely a week earlier, a small crack had appeared in one of the walls of the inn, no rare occurrence in the old houses of Rome. The fissure entailed no danger whatever, so we were told; yet it was more than enough to engender in my master both melancholy and rage.

Meanwhile, the roll-call continued. Evening shadows were lengthening and the officers had decided to admit of no further delay with the closure.

"Domenico Stilone Priaso, from Naples! Angiolo Brenozzi, from Venice!"

The two young men, the former a poet, the latter a glass-blower, stepped forward, looking at one another, seemingly relieved to be called up together, almost as though that lessened the apprehension. Brenozzi, the glass-blower-with fearful expression, his shining brown curls and small turned-up nose like a hillock between blushing cheeks-resembled a little porcelain Christ Child. What a pity that, as was his habit, he relieved himself of nervous tension by pinching obscenely the celery stem that lay between his thighs, almost as though he were plucking a one-stringed instrument. A vice which caught my eye more than anyone else's.

"May the Most High assist us," sobbed Robleda at that moment; whether in disapproval of the glass-blower's misplaced gesture or be- weeping our plight, I knew not; and he let himself collapse, purple in the face, onto a stool.

"And all the saints," added the poet, "for I have come from Naples to catch the infection."

"And you did not do well," responded the Jesuit, wiping the sweat from his brow with a handkerchief. "You had only to remain in your own city, where the opportunities for contagion are not lacking."

"Perhaps so. And here, now that there is a good Pope, we believed we enjoyed the favours of heaven. But first we must see what those think who are, as they say, behind the Porte," whispered Stilone Priaso.

Tight-lipped and sharp-tongued, the Neapolitan poet had struck where none wished so much as to touch.

For weeks now, the Turkish army of the Ottoman Sublime Porte had been pressing at the gates of Vienna, thirsty for blood. All the Infidel hosts were converging implacably (or so the bare accounts that reached our ears would have it) on the capital of the Holy Roman Empire, and threatened soon to burst through its bastions.

The warriors in the Christian camp, almost on the point of capitulating, resisted only thanks to the power of the Faith. Short of arms and victuals, reduced by famine and dysentery, they were moreover terrorised by the first signs of an outbreak of the plague.

All knew that if Vienna were to fall, the armies of Kara Mustapha would have free passage to the West. And they would spread everywhere with blind and terrible joy.

To ward off the threat, many illustrious kings, princes and captains had mobilised: the King of Poland, Duke Charles of Lorraine, Prince Maximilian of Bavaria, Margrave Ludwig-Wilhelm of Baden, and others too. Almost all had been convinced to fly to the assistance of the besieged by the one true Bulwark of Christendom, Pope Innocent XI.

The Pontiff had, indeed, struggled long and strenuously to league together, gather and strengthen the armies of Christendom. And this he had done, not only by political means but also through precious financial support. From Rome there departed continuously generous sums of money: over two million scudi to the Emperor, five hundred thousand florins to Poland, more than a hundred thousand scudi donated by the nephew of the Pontiff, other subscriptions by individual cardinals and, lastly, a generous extraordinary levy on the ecclesiastical tithes of Spain.

The Holy Mission which the Pontiff was desperately seeking to accomplish followed upon innumerable pious works wrought during the seven years of his Pontificate.

Now aged seventy-two, the successor of Saint Peter, born Benedetto Odescalchi, had above all set the example. Tall, very thin, broad of forehead, with an aquiline nose, severe of mien, his chin prominent yet noble, wearing goatee and mustachios, he had gained renown as an ascetic.

Shy and reserved in character, he was but rarely to be seen riding in a carriage through the city, and took care to avoid popular acclamations. It was noted that he had chosen for himself the smallest, barest and most inhospitable apartments that ever a Pontiff inhabited, and that he almost never descended into the gardens of the Quirinale or the Vatican. He was so frugal and parsimonious as only to wear the habits and vestments of his predecessors. From the time of his election, he always wore the same exceedingly threadbare white cassock, and changed it only when it was pointed out to him that too negligent a dress ill-befitted the Vicar of Christ on earth.

Likewise, he had acquired the highest merit in the administration of the Church's patrimony. He had restored order to the funds of the Apostolic Chamber which, since the bad times of Urban VIII and Innocent X, had suffered all manner of robbery and fraud. He had abolished nepotism: no sooner was he elected than he summoned his nephew Livio, warning him-so it was said-that he would not have him made a cardinal, nor would he be allowed near the affairs of state.

Moreover, he had at last recalled his subjects to more austere and temperate usages. The theatres, places of disorderly entertainment, were closed. The Carnival which, only ten years earlier, had attracted admirers from all over Europe, was all but dead. Musical festivities and divertissements were reduced to a minimum. Women were forbidden to wear dresses too open and decollete after the French fashion. The Pontiff had even sent forth bands of police spies to inspect the laundry hanging from the windows and confiscate any over-audacious bodices or blouses.

It was thanks to such austerity, both financial and moral, that Innocent XI had been able laboriously to raise money to combat the Turks, and great had been the succour given to the cause of the Christian armies.

But now the war had reached the critical moment. And all Christendom knew what to expect from Vienna: salvation or disaster.

So the people were in dire distress, at every sunrise looking to the East and wondering whether the new day would bring with it swarms of bloodthirsty janissaries and chargers thirsting to drink from the fountains of Saint Peter's.

This, then, was what the squabble between the Jesuit and the poet had touched upon: a terror that ran through the town like an underground river.

The repartee of Stilone Priaso had piled fear upon fear in the already sorely tried spirit of Padre Robleda. Grim and trembling, the Jesuit's round face was framed by the angry pressure of the cushion of fat that danced beneath his chin.

"Is someone here of the Turkish party?" he gasped maliciously.

All those present turned instinctively towards the poet, whom a suspicious eye might easily have taken for an emissary of the Porte: brown, pockmarked skin, small eyes like coals, and an owl-like frown. His dark silhouette reminded one of those robbers with thick, short hair who are, alas, all too often to be encountered on the road to the Kingdom of Naples.

Stilone Priaso had not the time to reply.

"Silence, once and for all!" hissed one of the gendarmes, continuing the roll call.

"Signor di Mourai, from France, with Signor Pompeo Dulcibeni from Fermo, and Roberto Devize, French musician."

The first name called was, as my master Signor Pellegrino hastened to explain, that of the old Frenchman who had arrived in the

Locanda del Donzello at the end of July and who had now died, allegedly of the infection. He was certainly a great nobleman, added Pellegrino, in very delicate health, and he had come to the inn accompanied by Devize and Dulcibeni. Signor di Mourai was in fact almost completely blind and needed to be accompanied. About the old gentleman, almost nothing was known: the moment he arrived, he announced that he was very tired and every day he had his meal brought to him in his chamber, issuing forth only rarely for a short walk in the environs of the hostelry. The men-at-arms took rapid note of my master's statements.

"It is simply not possible, gentlemen, that he should have died of the plague! He had excellent manners and was very well dressed; it must have been old age-that is all."

Master Pellegrino's tongue had loosened and he began to address the militia in that soft tone of his which, although he employed it but rarely, sometimes proved highly effective for achieving his ends. Despite his noble features and tall, slim figure-his gentle hands, the easy and slightly stooped carriage of his fifty years, his face framed by flowing white tresses caught up with a ribbon, his vague and languid chestnut eyes-my master was, alas, prey to a bilious and choleric temper and ornamented his discourse with a great wealth of oaths and profanities. Only imminent danger restrained him from giving free rein to his nature on this occasion.

But no one was listening to him any longer. The young Devize and Pompeo Dulcibeni were called up once again, and stepped forward at once. Our lodgers' eyes shone as the French musician, whose guitar had enchanted them only moments earlier, advanced.

The men of the Bargello were now eager to be gone and, without even giving Devize and Dulcibeni the time to reach the wall, pushed them to one side, while the officer called, "Signor Eduardus Bedfordi, Englishman, and the Lady… and Cloridia."

The hasty correction and the vague smile with which the latter name was proffered left no doubt as to the ancient profession exercised by the one and only feminine lodger at the Donzello. About her, I really knew very little, for my master had not housed her among the other guests, but in the little tower, where she enjoyed a separate entrance. In the brief month of her stay, I had only to bring her provisions and wine, and to deliver (in truth, with singular frequency) notes in sealed envelopes which almost never showed the writer's name. Cloridia was quite young; she must have been about my own age. I had sometimes seen her come down into the chambers on the ground floor, and converse-quite charmingly, I must say-with one or other of our lodgers. Judging by her interviews with Master Pellegrino, she seemed intent on taking our hostelry as her fixed dwelling.

Signor di Bedfordi could not pass unobserved: with fiery red hair and a mantle of little golden freckles over his nose and on his cheeks, and squinting sky-blue eyes such as I had never seen before, he came from the distant British Isles. From what I had heard, this was not his first sojourn at the Donzello: like the glass-blower Brenozzi and Priaso the poet, he had already stayed there in the days of the previous hostess, my master's late cousin.

Mine was the last name to be called.

"He is twenty years old and has not been long in my employ," explained Pellegrino. "At the moment, he is my only apprentice, for at this time of year we have few guests. I know nothing about him, I took him in because he was alone in the world," said my master hurriedly, giving the impression that he wished to distance himself from any responsibility for the infection.

"Just show him to us, we must close," interrupted the men-at- arms impatiently, unable to identify me.

Pellegrino caught me by the arm, almost lifting me off the ground.

"Young man, you're nothing but a sparrow!" sneered the guard, while his companions guffawed.

From the windows all around, meanwhile, a few heads poked out timidly. The people of the quarter had found out what had happened, but only the most curious tried to draw near. Most kept their distances, already fearing the effects of the contagion.

The men-at-arms had concluded their mission. The inn had four entrances. Two on the Via dell'Orso: the great main door and the broad entrance next to it-kept open on summer evenings-which gave onto the first of the two dining chambers.

Then there was the side door which led from the alley directly to the kitchen, and, finally, the little door which led from the entrance hall to the courtyard. All were thoroughly sealed with stout beech planks made fast with nails a half-span long. The same was done to the door that led from Cloridia's little tower to the roof. The windows on the ground floor and the first floor, and those vents that opened onto the pavement from the top of the cellars had already been fitted with grates, and any attempt to escape from the second floor or from under the eaves would have involved the risk of falling or being seen and captured.

The leader of the Bargello's men, a fat individual with a half- severed ear, gave us our instructions. We were to lower the corpse of poor Signor di Mourai from one of the windows of his chamber after sunrise, when the dead-cart from the Societas Orationis et Mortis would pass by to collect it, and they would see to the burial. We were to be under the surveillance of a Watchman by Day from six of the clock in the morning until ten at night, and a Watchman by Night for the remainder of the time. We would not be able to leave until the safety of the place was duly established and certified, and in any case not before twenty days had expired. During that time, we must periodically answer a roll-call from one of the windows giving on to the Via dell'Orso. We were left a few large goatskins of water, pressed snow, a few round loaves, cheeses, lard, olives, some herbs and a basket of yellow apples. We were to receive a sum with which to pay for our victuals, water and snow. The inn's horses would remain where they were, in the hostler's stables next door.

Anyone who left or who so much as attempted to flee would receive forty lashes with the knotted cord and be delivered to the Magistrate for punishment. At the entrance, they nailed the infamous placard with the inscription sanita — Health. We were then admonished to comply with whatever instructions might be given us thereafter, including the provisions adopted in times of infection, or plague; and whoever did not obey would be severely punished. From inside the hostelry, we heard dumbstruck that we were condemned to sequestration.

"We are dead, all dead," quoth one of the guests in colourless tones.

We were gathered in the long, narrow hallway of the hostelry, which had become dismal and dark since the barring of the door. We looked about ourselves, bewildered. None could make the decision to move to the adjoining rooms, where supper lay, already cold. My master, slumped on the great bench in the entrance, inveighed, holding his head in his hands. He uttered abuse and curses unfit to be repeated and threatened harm to anyone so bold as to venture near him. Suddenly, he began to rain down tremendous blows against the poor bench with his bare hands, causing the register of guests to jump up into the air. After that, he lifted the table and hurled it against the wall. We had to intervene and hold him back, clutching his arms and chest. Pellegrino tried to break free but lost his balance, dragging a pair of the guests to the ground with him, and dashing them one against the other with a great din. I myself managed to dodge out of the way a moment before the human heap threatened to bury me. My master was nimbler than his would-be controllers and almost at once was back on his feet, shouting and again unleashing his wrath on the bench with his fists.

I decided to abandon that narrow and now dangerous space and slipped away up the stairs. Here, however, after rushing up the first steps, I found myself face to face with Abbot Melani. He was coming down unhurriedly, stepping prudently.

"So they have really locked us up, my boy," said he, with that strange French roiling of his V.

"What are we to do now?" I asked.

"Nothing."

"But we shall die of the pestilence."

"We shall see," he said with an indefinable nuance in his tone that I had already come to recognise.

Then he changed direction and led me up to the first floor. We went right to the end of the corridor and entered the large chamber which the old man who had just died shared with his companion Pompeo Dulcibeni from the Marches. A curtain divided the room in two. We drew it aside and there, crouching on the floor and fumbling in his little bag, we found the chirurgeon Cristofano.

In front of him, sprawled across the armchair, was Signor di Mourai, still half-dressed as Cristofano and the medical examiner had left him that morning. The dead man was somewhat malodorous because of the September heat and the foot bath in which his flesh was already beginning to rot, the Bargello having ordered that nothing was to be moved until the end of the roll-call.

"Boy, I asked you this morning kindly to clean up that noisome water on the floor," ordered Cristofano, with a note of impatience in his voice.

I was about to reply that I had done so immediately after he had ordered me to; but glancing down, I saw that around the basin there were indeed still several small puddles. I did as I had been commanded without protesting, using cloth and mop and cursing myself for not having been more careful that morning. In fact, I had until then never seen a corpse in all my life and I must have been confused by the emotion.

Mourai seemed even more meagre and bloodless than when he had arrived at the Locanda del Donzello. His lips were slightly parted and from them still dripped a little of that greenish froth which Cristofano, wishing to open his mouth a little more, began to remove with a cloth. The chirurgeon took pains, however, to touch this only after wrapping his own hand in another piece of cloth. As he had already done that morning, he scrutinised the dead man's throat carefully and sniffed at the froth. Then he got Abbot Melani to help him arrange the body on the bed. Once removed from the basin, the feet were greyish and from them emanated a dreadful odour of death which took our breath away.

Cristofano donned a pair of gloves in brown material which he took from the little bag. He returned to his inspection of the oral cavity, then observed the thorax and the groin. First, however, he prodded delicately behind the ears; then turned his attention to the armpits, removing the clothing so as to be able to observe the soft flesh with its covering of sparse hairs. Lastly, he pressed repeatedly with his fingertips the soft skin halfway between the organs of generation and the beginning of the thighs. He removed his gloves carefully and placed them in a sort of little cage divided into two compartments by a horizontal grate. In the lower half, there was a small basin into which he poured a brownish liquid, then closed the door of the compartment in which he had placed the gloves.

"It is vinegar," he explained. "It purges the pestiferous humours. One never knows. That being said, I stand by my idea: this really does not seem to me to be the infection. For the time being, we may rest our minds."

"You told the Bargello's men that it might be a congestion," I reminded him.

"That was only an example, given to gain time. I already knew from Pellegrino that Mourai ate only broths and clear soups."

"That is true," I confirmed. "Even this morning at dawn, he asked for one."

"Ah yes? Tell us more," asked the physician, showing interest.

"There is not much to be said: he asked my master for a clear soup with milk when, as every morning, he went to wake up Signor di Mourai and the gentleman from the Marches with whom he shared his room. But Signor Pellegrino was busy and so he asked me to prepare it. I went down to the kitchen, made it and brought it to him."

"Were you alone?"

"Yes."

"Did anyone come into the kitchen?"

"No."

"Did you ever leave the milk unattended?"

"Not even one moment."

"Are you sure?"

"If you are thinking that something in the broth might have harmed Signor di Mourai, know that I administered it to him personally, for Signor Dulcibeni had already gone out; and I myself drank a beaker of it."

The chirurgeon asked no more questions. He looked at the corpse and added: "I cannot perform an autopsy here and now, nor do I believe that anyone will do so, given the suspicion of plague. However, I repeat, this does not look to me like the infection."

"But then," I asked, "why have we been placed in quarantine?"

"Through excess of zeal. You are still young, but I believe that in these parts they remember the last visitation all too well. If nothing new occurs, they will soon realise that there is no danger. This old gentleman who, in any case, already seems not to have been enjoying good health, was not infected. And what is more, I would say that neither you nor I are. However, we have no choice: we shall have to pass poor Signor di Mourai's body and clothing out through the window, as the Bargello ordered. Each one of us will, moreover, have to sleep in a separate chamber. There are enough apartments in this inn, if I am not mistaken," said he, questioning me with his eyes.

I nodded in agreement. On each floor, four chambers opened onto the two branches of the corridor: one rather spacious apartment just next to the stairs, followed by a very small one and then an L-shaped one, while at the end of the corridor was the largest room, the only one to give not only onto the alleyway but onto the Via dell'Orso. This would mean occupying all the apartments on the first and second floors, but I knew that my master would not complain too much about that, since no other guests could join us for the time being.

"Dulcibeni will sleep in my chamber," added Cristofano. "He certainly cannot remain here with the corpse. However," he concluded, "if there are no other cases, true or false, in the next few days, they will release us."

"In how much time exactly?" asked Atto Melani.

"Who can tell? If anyone in the neighbourhood should feel unwell, perhaps only because he has drunk bad wine or eaten fish that has gone off, they will at once think of us."

"Then we risk remaining here forever," said I, already feeling suffocated by the thick walls of the inn.

"Forever, no. But calm down now: have you not been here, night and day, for the past few weeks? I have rarely seen you leave the house; you are already used to being shut in."

That was true. My master had taken me into service out of pity, knowing that I was alone in the world. And I worked from morning till night.

It happened early last spring, when Pellegrino had come to Rome from Bologna, where he worked as a cook, to take over the activity of the Donzello after the misfortune which had befallen his cousin, the late innkeeper, Signora Luigia de Grandis Bonetti. She, poor woman, had given up the ghost following the physical consequences of an attack suffered in the street at the hands of two gypsy scoundrels, who were trying to rob her of her purse. The hostelry had for thirty years been run by Luigia, together with her husband Lorenzo and their son Francesco, and subsequently by Luigia alone, when she had been widowed and bereaved of her son. For a time, it was quite well known and received guests from all over the world. Such was Luigia's veneration for Duke Orsini, the owner of the little building in which the inn was situated, that she bequeathed to him all that she possessed. The Duke, however, made no objection when Pellegrino (who had to feed his wife, an unmarried daughter and a little girl) arrived from Bologna and begged His Grace to allow him to continue his cousin Luigia's flourishing activity.

This was a golden opportunity for my master, who had already squandered another such: after a difficult career in the kitchens of a wealthy cardinal, in which he had reached the enviable rank of deputy carver, he was dismissed because of his choleric character and his all- too-frequent intemperance.

Hardly had Pellegrino settled near the Donzello, waiting for the few passing guests to free the premises, than I was recommended to him by the parish priest of the nearby church of Santa Maria in Posterula. With the coming of the torrid Roman summer, his consort, who was indeed full of enthusiasm for the idea of becoming an innkeeper's wife, left for the Apennine mountains, where her parents still lived. They were due to return at the end of the month, and, in the meantime, I was the only remaining helper.

Of course, I could not be expected to be the best of apprentices: but I put my all into pleasing my master. Once I had finished the day's work, I willingly sought every opportunity to make myself useful. And since I did not care to venture out alone and face the dangers of the streets (above all the cruel jokes of those of my own age) I was, as the chirurgeon Cristofano had observed, almost always at work in the Inn of the Donzello. Nevertheless, the thought of being sequestered for a whole quarantine in those chambers, however familiar and welcoming, suddenly seemed to me an unbearable sacrifice.

In the meanwhile, the hubbub in the entrance had died down and we were soon rejoined by my master and all those who had engaged in that lengthy and useless waste of their strength. Cristofano's recent pronouncement was explained to them, which raised everyone's spirits, except my master's.

"I'll kill them, I'll kill them all," said he, again losing his temper.

He added that this misfortune had ruined him, for no one would ever again come to the Donzello, nor of course would it be possible to sell the hostelry's business, which had already been devalued by that accursed crack in the wall, and he would have to use up all his credit to obtain another such; in short, he would soon be poor and ruined, ruined forever, but first he would tell all to the College of Innkeepers, ah yes, even if they all knew that it was quite useless, quoth he, contradicting himself over and over, and I understood that he had unfortunately been at the Greco wine again.

The doctor continued: "We shall have to gather all the old man's blankets and clothing and tip them into the street when the dead- cart comes to collect the corpse."

He then turned to Pompeo Dulcibeni: "Did you meet or hear of infected persons coming from Naples?"

"Absolutely not."

The gentleman from the Marches seemed to be experiencing difficulty in hiding how deeply perturbed he was by his friend's death, which had, moreover, occurred in his absence. A veil of perspiration covered his forehead and his cheeks. The physician questioned him concerning a number of details: whether the old man had eaten regularly, whether his bodily functions were regular, whether he had been of melancholy humour; all in all, whether he had shown any signs of suffering other than those normally present in one of advanced age. But Dulcibeni was aware of no such thing. The man was rather massive, always wearing a black great-coat; but above all made to look awkward and cumbersome by a very old gorget of Flemish lace (as I believe must have been the fashion many, many years ago) and by his bulging paunch. This, together with his florid complexion, made one suspect a propensity for food not inferior to my master's for the Greco wine. Thick hair, now almost all white, a tendency to take umbrage, a slightly fatigued tone of voice and a grave and pensive expression conferred on him the semblance of an honest and temperate man. Only with the passing of time and closer observation was I to see in his severe blue-green eyes and ever-frowning eyebrows the reflection of a concealed and ineradicable bitterness.

Dulcibeni said that he had met the late Signor di Mourai quite by chance, in the course of a voyage, and he did not know much about him. Together with Signor Devize, he had accompanied him from Naples; for the old man, being almost completely blind, was in need of assistance. Signor Devize, the musician and guitar player, had, affirmed Dulcibeni (with Devize nodding agreement), come to Italy to acquire a new instrument from a Neapolitan lute-maker. Later, he had expressed the desire to stay in Rome in order to learn the most recent musical styles, before returning to Paris.

"What will happen if we go out before the end of the quarantine?" I asked.

"Attempting to flee is the least advisable solution," replied Cristofano, "since all the ways out are sealed, including the passage that leads from the tower where Monna Cloridia lives on to the roof. The windows are too high or have been covered with grating, and the watch is patrolling below. What is more, attempting to escape from quarantine incurs an exceedingly severe punishment, and one would be imprisoned under far worse conditions for years and years. The people of the quarter would help recapture any fugitive."

Evening shadows were falling, and I distributed lamps and oil.

"Let us endeavour to keep up our spirits," added the Tuscan chirurgeon, looking meaningfully at my master. "We must give the impression that all goes perfectly with us. If nothing changes, I shall not examine you-not unless you so request. Should there be other cases of ill health, I shall have to do so for the sake of us all. Warn me if ever you feel unwell, even if it seems to be a mere trifle. For the time being, however, it will do no good to worry, for this man," said he, pointing at the inert body of Signor di Mourai, "did not die of the plague."

"What, then, did he die of?" asked Abbot Melani.

"Not of plague, I repeat."

'And how do you know, Doctor?" responded the abbot, distrustfully.

"We are still in summer and it is quite hot. If this were plague, it would be of the summer variety, which is caused by the corruption of natural heat and provokes fevers and headaches. In such cases, the cadavers at once become black and hot, and present tokens that are also black and putrescent. But this man has not the shadow of a token, or an abscess, a botch, a swelling or whatever you might wish to call it; neither under the armpits, nor behind the ears, nor in the groin. There was no rise in temperature, nor burning. And, from what his companions have told me, he seemed quite well until within hours of his death. That, as far as I am concerned, is sufficient to rule out contagion with the plague."

"Then it is another illness," replied Melani.

"I repeat: in order to understand that, it would be necessary to have recourse to anatomy: to open up the body and examine it from the inside; in other words, as the chirurgeons do in Holland. On the face of it, I could diagnose an acute attack of putrid fevers, which shows no signs until it is too late for any remedy. Yet I can find no sign of putrefaction on the body or bad odours other than those of death or old age. I might perhaps suppose it to be the malady of mazzuco, or modoro, as the Spaniards call it: that causes an aposteme, which is to say, an abscess within the brain, and is thus invisible. And once that is present, death must ensue. If, on the other hand, the illness is at the stage of its initial symptoms, it can be easily remedied. Had I been informed of it even a few days ago, I might perhaps have been able to save him. It would have sufficed to bleed one of the two veins under the tongue, to administer in his beverage an infinitesimal quantity of oil of vitriol, and to anoint stomach and head with holy oil. But, as far as we can see, old Mourai showed no signs of being unwell. Besides…"

"Besides?" urged Melani.

"Mazzuco certainly does not cause a swelling of the tongue," concluded the chirurgeon with a telling grimace. Perhaps it is… something very like poison."

Poison. While the physician returned to his chamber, each of us contemplated the corpse in silence. For the first time, the Jesuit made the sign of the cross. Master Pellegrino renewed his imprecations, cursing the misfortune of having a dead man in his hostelry and, what is more, one who had perhaps been poisoned. And who would have the courage to hear what his wife would have to say, on her return?

Talk then spread among the guests about the most notorious cases of poisoning, real or presumed: prominent among these were sovereigns of former times: Charles the Bald, for example, or Lothar, the King of the Franks and his son Louis; or, approaching modern times, th e acqua tofana laced with arsenic, or the Spanish fly, both employed by the Borgias for their abominable crimes, as well as by the Valois and the Guises in their conspiracies. A shameful trembling ran through the group, for poison and fear are born of the same parents. Someone recalled how Henry of Navarre, before he became King Henry IV of France, was wont himself to go down to the banks of the Seine to draw the water which he drank at his meals, fearing that he might fall victim to toxic potions. Did not John of Austria die from wearing poisoned boots? Stilone Priaso recalled how Catherine de' Medici had poisoned Jeanne d Albret, the mother of Henry IV using perfumed gloves and collars, and how she had attempted to repeat the exercise by offering her own son a marvellous book on hunting, the pages of which were a little gummed together, so that he, licking his fingers to turn them, would imbibe the fatal Italian poison with which they were impregnated.

Such murderous preparations had, asserted another guest, been the province of perfumers and astrologers. And someone dusted off the tale of how Saint-Barthelemy, the servant of the ill-famed Prior of Cluny, had killed the Cardinal of Lorraine by paying him in poisoned gold coin. Henry of Luxembourg died-O subtle blasphemy! — of poison concealed in the consecrated host with which he took Communion.

Now, Stilone Priaso began to parley closely with one guest after another, admitting that so many fantastic things had always been said about poets and those who practised the art of fine writing; but he was only a poet, and born for poetry, may God pardon his immodesty!

They then all turned to me and began again to belabour me with questions about the broth which I had served Signor di Mourai that morning. I had to repeat several times that absolutely no one but myself had been near the dish. Only with difficulty were they at last convinced, and they then ceased paying attention to me.

I noticed all of a sudden that the only one to have left the company was Abbot Melani. It was late now, and I resolved to go down to the kitchen in order to wash up.

In the corridor, I almost collided with the young Englishman, Signor di Bedfordi, who struck me as being rather agitated; perhaps because, having transferred his effects to a new chamber, he had not been present for the chirurgeon's diagnosis. This guest was dragging himself along slowly and seemed unusually afflicted. When I stopped in front of him, he gave a start.

"It is I, Signor Bedfordi," I reassured him.

He looked dumbly, lost in his daydreams, at the lamp I bore in my hand. For the first time, he had abandoned his usual phlegmatic pose, which gave away his affected and haughty nature, one that caused him to be repelled (and he often gave me proof thereof) by my servant's simplicity. Born of an Italian mother, Bedfordi had no difficulty expressing himself in our language. On the contrary, his eloquence, in the conversations that accompanied their meals, was much appreciated by the other guests.

His silence that evening therefore struck me all the more. I explained to him that, in the doctor's opinion, there was no cause for anxiety, since this was certainly not a case of plague. It was, however, suspected that Mourai might have ingested a poison.

He stared at me, with his mouth hanging half open, and answered not a word. He retreated several paces, then turned round and returned to his chamber, where I heard him lock himself in.