Secretum

Evening the Eighth

14th July, 1700

After so many celebrations and festivities, it had all come to an end. We were on the final evening of the entertainments which were, or so Cardinal Spada had ordered, to attain the highest peaks of gaiety and wonder. For the solemn leave-taking, a great pyrotechnic spectacle, or, as others would call it, a display of fireworks, had been laid on. Ephemeral machines, rockets and dazzling Catherine wheels were to light up the Roman night, arousing admiration and wonderment in the four corners of the Holy City. Had he been in good health, even the Holy Father would from his window have been able to admire the enchantments which the artificers hired by Don Paschatio were preparing on the lawns of the villa. The noble guests were already comfortably seated on the lawn, where plentiful chairs, armchairs and day-beds had been arranged so as to be able to seat even late arrivals.

Despite all the adventures I had lived through that day with Atto, the huge number of questions in search of an answer, the knots to be loosed, and all the excitement to which that had given rise, I suddenly gave way to sadness and weariness. The fatigue caused by too many efforts consumed my limbs and my thoughts were tinged with the bitter ink of melancholy.

On the next afternoon, the guests would have packed, I thought, and would be returning to their homes and business, some at the other end of Rome, some outside the city, some even beyond the confines of the states of the Church. That great event, the nuptials of Clemente Spada and Maria Pulcheria Rocci, was by now behind us. Two souls were concluding their existence as youngsters and setting out on a new life as spouses. However joyous the occasion, it was but one chapter giving way to the next. Thus every single thing in this world, mean or glorious, must pass, leaving in its wake only the volatile stuff of human memory. Once the lights had died, darkness would return to my modest life as a rustic and a servant.

"Tenebrae factae sunt," I murmured to myself, greeting the coming of night, when a great explosion made me jump.

The artificers had set off the deafening sarabande of fireworks. At a nod from Cardinal Spada, a whole series of cannon salvoes had begun which shook the whole company, to the great (but well dissimulated) amusement of the master of the house.

After the salvo came the first scenic apparition. In those days, there had been brought to Rome from the Orient a being that had rarely been seen in the city, larger and more terrifying than any animal described in living memory: an elephant. He was led by his keepers through the streets of the centre, to the astonishment of the children, the fascination of natural philosophers and the terror of old women.

Well, they all turned in amazement when such a colossus entered the gates of Villa Spada. This was another exemplar of the same race, no less mighty than its fellow, accompanied by four janissaries, and it was now advancing towards the spectators, panting savagely as it came.

"His Lordship, the Elephant!" announced the Major-Domo proudly, while some ladies uttered little cries of dismay and a number even stood up to take flight. A moment before fear got the better of the amiable gathering, something unimaginable happened. A white, red and yellow flame burst from the back of the beast, then a series of little flames began to issue from the tip of its curved tusks; following which, a volley of firecrackers exploded from the tip of its trunk, almost as though it had been transformed into a musket. Everyone then knew: it was an artificial elephant made of wood and papier mache, a perfect imitation of the real thing, equipped to display fireworks. One could see that it was, after all, moving on a float, behind which the artificers were pushing, half hidden. Hearts beat more easily; as the great beast advanced along the main avenue, even the most fearful returned to their seats. All that huffing and puffing (one could now see) was produced by a small boy working a pair of bellows placed behind the sham monster, which released compressed air into a tube that emerged from its mouth. The company, however, especially the ladies, was still more fearful than entertained.

"Poor ladies, what a scare! As the Cavalier Bernini put it, pyrotechnical machines are made to impress, not to amuse."

It was Abbot Melani, who had discreetly come to my side as I helped a monsignor to his feet who had fallen as he attempted to flee. Atto was quivering and tense as a palfrey just before a race.

"I have asked. Albani is not here. He will be coming tomorrow, perhaps," he whispered curtly.

Just when it came near to where we stood, the luminous elephant was extinguished like a burnt-out taper. With perfect timing, the chaos of brilliant rockets began. First came a green comet, followed by three yellow shooting stars, then three red ones, then again a green one, after which came special ones which broke up into a stream of sparks, a deluge of light, a dazzling explosion of a thousand incandescent meteors.

"Do you like the spectacle, Your Eminence?" Prince Cesarini asked Cardinal Ottoboni, who was that evening attending the celebrations for the first time, between one explosion and the next.

"Oh, 'tis not bad. But I am not made for such noise. Just to give you an example, I recall with greater pleasure the silent light spectacle with torches on the cupola of Saint Peter's ten years ago, to be exact, when Saint John of God was canonised," replied the Cardinal with a hint of melancholy in his voice, perhaps because ten years ago his uncle, Alexander VIII, had been Pope.

This amiable chatter was interrupted by the arrival of another float, on which was seated no less than Lucifer in person. The guests laughed. It was by now clear that each apparition, however frightening, was for their entertainment. The moving figure of the Devil, complete with horns and infernal sneer, was half hidden behind a bed of reeds and held coiled in his arms the malefic serpent of Genesis. Suddenly, from the reptile's mouth shot a tongue of fire that could not have been more real. Then the head of the Evil One exploded with a tremendous bang and his body rapidly caught fire, which gave rise to a great burst of applause even from the most fearful trembling ladies. To the guests' utter astonishment, when the smoke cleared, we saw in the place of Satan a noble angel, with shining wings and immaculate vestments, while at the four corners of the float joyful flames appeared, illuminating the victory of light over darkness; which everyone commented upon with great pleasure amidst great and general applause.

In every corner of the garden, then, including the most recondite, the Catherine wheels lit up: spirals of yellow, pink, violet and the colour of lightning, hanging from trees, hedges and the boundary wall, spitting fire everywhere and transforming the scene (except for those parts set aside for the guests) into an infernal forest, racked by Vulcan's darts. Hammering salvoes of firecrackers deafened the company and filled the air with acrid, stinging smoke, so that the eyes of many were filled with tears. At the same time, rockets were again launched, filling the sky with multicoloured flashes, so that all around us seemed to be a circle of hell from whose burning talons Atto and I, standing one beside the other like Dante and Virgil, miraculously escaped only by the will of the author who had brought us there.

The deluge of fire and lightning, although breathtaking, was not without consequences. A spark from a Catherine wheel set fire to the periwig of Count Antonio Maria Fede, a resident of the Duchy of Tuscany. We all heard the Count's cries of horrified surprise and his impassioned complaints to Don Paschatio. The Major-Domo sent at once for the head of the artificers who, however (or so his acolytes said), had had to absent himself owing to a prior engagement.

"So Count Arselick almost caught fire," commented Atto with a happy grin, his fun spoiled only by the wait for Albani's arrival.

"I beg your pardon?"

"That's Count Fede's nickname, for 'tis said that he made his career licking the arse of the Grand Duke of Tuscany, and later that of His Holiness. He did not deign to greet me because he knows that in April the Most Serene Republic of Venice granted me the status of Patrician, so that now we are both nobles, only he began life as a porter, and I did not, heh!"

There was not much cause for laughter, I thought to myself, for Atto too had been born poor: he was the son of a humble bell-ringer at the cathedral of Pistoia, as I remember learning many years ago, at the time when we met. It was no accident that, of the seven brothers, no fewer than four were destined for castration by their father, in the hope of replenishing the family's coffers.

"Oh!" exclaimed the Abbot at that moment, "what a pleasant surprise!"

An elegant and rather stiff gentleman was moving towards Atto, accompanied by his fine lady and a servant.

'"Tis Niccolo Erizzo, Ambassador of the Republic of Venice," Melani whispered to me before going to exchange greetings.

"Prince Vaini has just been seen running like mad from a little wood," Erizzo announced with a wink after the ritual salutations. "He was amusing himself there in the bushes with a beautiful lady, married to a marchese whose name we unfortunately don't know."

"Ah yes, and what were the two conversing about amidst all that verdure?"

"That, I leave to your imagination. Suddenly a giant Catherine wheel lit up and Vaini was so scared that he was almost reduced to ashes."

"Vaini the vain reduced to ashes or to… vanilla?" Atto replied, causing all three to burst out laughing. "Oh, please do excuse me, here is an old friend…"

I understood the subterfuge at once. Pretending that he had seen some other influential personage, he took his leave of the couple, who were already joining others. From behind a bush, Sfasciamonti had been gesturing to him. They spoke briefly, whereupon Atto turned back and came to fetch me.

"Sfasciamonti has obtained that information," said he, passing me a piece of paper.

I opened it at once and read.

Nicola Zabaglia.

Saint Peter's Factory. Head of the School.

"There can be no question of this, Signor Atto. I am telling you for the last time."

Abbot Melani said nothing.

"Do you know Saint Peter's? Have you been there?"

"Of course I have been there, but…"

"Then you will know that the undertaking you propose is utterly insane!" I exclaimed, quite beside myself.

We met again at a late hour in Atto's apartments, when the smoke from the fireworks had cleared and the guests were busy feasting in the Turkish pavilions.

"Albani did not put in an appearance," the Abbot began, with his mien somewhat restored. After that, we discussed the information obtained from the catchpoll.

"There is no point in insisting, Signor Atto, you will never succeed in convincing me."

Thus far, I had resisted his insistent pleas with success. Then, however, came the argument I feared.

"Even if you will not do it for me, if I were in your place I'd do it for my daughters."

"Our agreement laid down explicitly that I was not to risk my skin."

"But that you would do all that was possible to favour my interests."

"And how about you?" I retorted. "The festivities are over: tell me when you intend to keep your promises. Where is my daughters' dowry? Let us hear that!"

"I have already instructed a Capitoline notary," Abbot Melani answered tersely. "He is drawing up the deeds. We shall go and see him the day after tomorrow."

A smile of embarrassment and relief escaped me.

"If you respect our agreement," he added icily.

I felt cornered. Here was a veiled threat that he would not pay the dowries if I refused to do what he asked of me.

"I do not understand," I murmured disconsolately. "What makes you think they are in that place? Just because we now know that this friend of the cerretani, this fellow called Zabaglia, is employed by Saint Peter's Factory."

Atto explained. I had to admit that the idea made sense. I did not argue the point; and that was a sign of my giving in.

"In any case, I shall not be able to accompany you," Atto concluded.

"And why not? The treatise on the Secrets of the Conclave is yours, it is you above all who…"

"This will call for agility, swift reflexes, the ability to hide promptly," said he with a rather hoarse voice.

Without saying it, he had nevertheless said it: for an undertaking such as that which he was proposing, Atto was simply too old.

"Then I shall go with Sfasciamonti," said I resignedly.

Atto thought for a moment.

"Take Buvat with you, too. And above all, take these."

"I had already thought of that, Signor Atto," said I, taking from his hands Ugonio's heavy, jangling bunch of keys.

We departed not long before daybreak to minimise the risk of being seen by guards or catchpolls of any sort. Abbot Melani had told Sfasciamonti and Buvat that they were to climb up high, but without specifying how high.

The Sacred Ball: as we moved away from Villa Spada, I laughed to myself at that rather clumsy name used by the corpisantari and the cerretani. It was, however, a name which, once one knew the object to which it referred, turned out to be quite accurate. There were many tales about that ball and even I had heard some of them, since it was famed for being almost impossible of access, and brave was he who made it that far.

The undertaking was absurd. But for that very reason, I knew that I should need all the courage I could muster. Not only must I prove bold and reckless like Abbot Melani, I must feel myself so to be. Like Saint George, a dragon stood before me, which I must slay. The fear that might prevent me, however, lay within me. The most redoubtable adversary sleeps between our two ears.

I could already hear my lovely Cloridia's voice when the time would come to tell her of this venture, and she would interrogate me about all that had taken place, pulling me to pieces with her steely logic, forcing me to tell of all the difficulties, hazards and madcap schemes planned by Atto but executed by myself.

At first, she would be overcome by pity: she would embrace me and cover me with kisses at the thought of all that I had risked. Soon, however, her invincible lucidity would get the better of her; she would hear me out with her eyes bulging from their sockets and her hair standing up on her head like some new Gorgon, commenting with growing scorn on my account of what I had done. Finally, holding back her deadly anger, she would call me irresponsible, a bad husband and father, a beast and a megalomaniac and, what was worse, an idiot. True, the future of our little daughters was at stake, and I had agreed to a lavish recompense for my services; but for death there can be no recompense.

While I received this dressing-down from Cloridia, our two daughters would nod in agreement with severe expressions on their little faces, before laughing behind my back. Perhaps my spouse would even banish me for a few days from the family home, to save herself from the temptation of hitting me over the head with a ladle or striking me with one of her massive and dangerous obstetrical instruments.

The risk was there, nor was there any use denying it; but if the venture were to succeed, I could claim a bonus from Atto, and a big one too. Now, however, it was premature to think of all that. We must place our trust in Sfasciamonti's massive shoulders and in the merciful hands of the Saviour, whom I implored to watch over me and keep me from harm.

Ugonio the corpisantaro had said that until Thursday the treatise would be kept in the Sacred Ball. Don Tibaldutio had added that the cerretani were said to have a friend at Saint Peter's. The information from Sfasciamonti completed the picture, giving a name to the friend of the ragged scoundrels.

Nicola Zabaglia was a member of the venerable factory of

Saint Peter's, the centuries old institution that looked after the construction, maintenance and restoration of the basilica built over the tomb of the first Pope. He even enjoyed a position of some eminence, being regarded as a genius in the construction of machines for the transport of large objects (stones, columns, etcetera) and he had been appointed director of the school for future members of the factory, who were known as sampietrini.

Only the sampietrini had access to the most secret places of the basilica: from the mysterious crypts (where Peter's tomb lies) to the aery pinnacles of the cupola.

All this had suggested to Atto where we should find his treatise on the Secrets of the Conclave. The problem was only how to get there, especially at that hour.

The way from the villa to Saint Peter's, skirting the northern slopes of the Janiculum Hill, was rapid and free from difficulties. After crossing the crowded streets of the suburbs approaching the piazza, we slipped under the great colonnade with its two mirrored semicircles, decorated with no fewer than one hundred and forty statues of saints, which extends around the great Saint Peter's Square in a faithful image of the merciful arms of Mother Church, offering shelter and consolation to her beloved children.

The square was constantly watched over by guards and it was obvious that, sooner or later, we must encounter them, ideally as late as possible. We therefore penetrated the great complex of the basilica through an arch on the far right of the facade, leaving to our left the great entrance portico and the adjoining Door of Death. We then passed through a small courtyard which led through a narrow corridor open to the sky to yet another little courtyard under the north face of the sacred edifice, next to the Vatican gardens.

Thence, through a great door, we passed through the sacred walls of the basilica. We found ourselves in a small, dark vestibule. To our right was a wide spiral staircase. At the foot of this, we were, however, stopped by a guard. Fortunately, Sfasciamonti knew what to do. With easy, brisk explanations he confused our interrogator, using the banal pretext that he was looking for one of the sampietrini, which was, after all, almost the truth (as it was Zabaglia's name that had brought us there). We passed the guard nonchalantly and disappeared rapidly up the stairs.

Thus, we climbed the great spiral. The curving vault of the rising shaft was dimly lit by torches and punctuated by great windows behind robust iron grilles. We advanced cautiously, almost clinging to the fine balustrade. Every now and then there would be little doorways leading from the outer wall of the staircase with inscriptions above them that remained obscure to us, such as "First Corridor", "Second Corridor", "Octaves of St Basil and St Jerome", presumably leading to passages used by the sampietrini to gain access to the most secret anfractuosities of the enormous construction.

A few minutes later, we encountered another individual, who in turn asked what we were doing there at that hour. This time, Sfasciamonti made use of his sergeant's title, making it clearly understood that he was under no obligation to say a thing. The other nodded and did nothing to oppose our passage. We could breathe again.

After no little climbing, already panting from fatigue and anxiety, we came to a long level corridor, then a short spiral staircase. This we climbed.

At the end of this came the surprise. These stairs had brought us to a terrace, indeed to the one real terrace in Saint Peter's: the great flat area behind the statues of the Redeemer and the Twelve Apostles which dominate and embellish the facade. Before us, we found a colossus: the great drum and then the monumental ogive of the cupola.

I looked behind me. We had emerged onto the terrace from a cupola with an octagonal base, which seemed minuscule beside its great companion. Since the plan of the basilica is that of a great cross, the terrace covered the surface of the longer arm from the end all the way up to the point of intersection with the shorter arm. The space was punctuated by cupolas terminating in the great lanterns which give light to the side chapels, and was divided in the middle by a long shed with a sloping roof.

Above our heads, night spread its dark veil. The moon gave only the vaguest of glimmers from a fine crescent; just enough, I thought, to distinguish the colossal outline of the basilica and to instil a true fear of God, so that, whatever might happen, our visit would not be in vain. But while these thoughts were crossing my mind, events took the turn I most feared.

"There they are," we heard clearly pronounced in the dark. I knew at once: the second guard we had met had not trusted us. Someone had been sent to intercept us.

I could distinguish a small group of persons, at least two and not more than four advancing from the end of the terrace giving onto the square, where the statue of Our Lord turns his holy face towards the multitudes of the faithful.

"What shall we do?" I asked Buvat.

"I could try to persuade them by throwing them a coin," said Sfasciamonti, "even if I don't really think that…"

But I already lacked the ears to hear and the patience to wait. I had made my own calculations. If I was quick enough, I had a good chance of making it.

"Eh, boy, look here…" I heard Sfasciamonti say as I ran like mad and took a stairway with two separate flights which climbed up the outside of the drum of the cupola and led to an entrance.

Then there were no more words: to my rapid footfalls responded those of Buvat and Sfasciamonti and those of the surprised and angry people on our heels.

"Dear Cloridia," I murmured with my voice broken by breathlessness, "when I tell you of this, I hope you'll forgive me."

The disadvantage was our scant, indeed non-existent knowledge of the place. The advantage was surprise, and the head start that had given me. My small stature seemed, on the face of it, to be a drawback, but I was later to find that, all in all, this was not the case.

I was running at breakneck speed, but with the secret (unreasonable) hope that I was not taking excessive risks: the worst thing that could happen to me would be to end up being caught by the guards of Saint Peter's, but I could always attribute the whole thing to audacity. I was stealing nothing, I was damaging nothing. To avoid trouble with the law, Sfasciamonti would make use of his many acquaintances, and Buvat would be able to get help from Atto who could get me out of trouble through his wide network of influential connections: all silly ideas mechanically repeated, only to urge me on.

Once I had entered the drum, another spiral staircase took me even higher. 1 could hear Sfasciamonti's wild footsteps closer and closer behind me, and behind him, those of Buvat and the guards. No one spoke: our lungs were for running, the guards' for pursuit.

At the top of the spiral staircase, I found myself at a junction; I chose at random and went to the left. I crossed a threshold with no door and suddenly found myself suspended above infinity.

I was inside the cupola, facing a chasm of incalculable immensity. A corridor ringing the vast drum stretched to the right and to the left: at my feet, a fathomless vision of the inside of the basilica. There lay the colossal central nave of Saint Peter's, precisely at the point where it intersects with the transept. Just there, but many, many yards below, I knew there stood the Cavaliere Bernini's grandiose baldaquin, the glory of the basilica and of all Christendom. Above me, the immeasurable vault of the cupola, an abyss standing over an abyss, made me feel like an atom of dust lost in interstellar space.

At my height, on the walls of the great tambour supporting the cupola, were colossal mosaics with tender little cherubs the size of five men seated on cornucopias as big as two carriages.

All that, I could, however, see only with the eyes of the imagination: the interior of the church was dimly lit by a handful of torches; a boundless dark cavern echoing only to the desperate rhythm of my feet.

The threshold whence I had emerged into that vertiginous observatory was one of the four entrances to the annular corridor, which were placed diametrically opposite one another at the cardinal points.

Right or left? Left again. This time, the threshold contained a door. I pushed: it was open. Left again: I banged my nose against the handle of a door, which was closed. Now there was no light at all, only moonless night. Left again, then.

A stairway. Stairs going straight up, then winding, but the broadest of steps. From the wall on the left, a glimmer of light, almost none. There was a large window giving onto the outside. Through it one could descry the roofs of the basilica, tranquil and indifferent to my desperate agitation. The spiral staircase kept climbing, then became rectilinear. Once again I collided with an obstacle: before me was a tight, airless little spiral staircase climbing vertically. I took it. The others, too, must have been in some difficulties; 1 heard a cry. I appeared to be going fast. The noise from them seemed a little further away. But, where was I? I prayed that my calculations would not run up against hard facts. Escape was even more important than attaining my goal. Negotiating the labyrinth of the cupola was like dismantling a delicate piece of clockwork, but Atto had shown me all the details. Fortunately, in the library of Villa Spada we had found all we needed and we had made use of the night hours before my departure to refine our tools. The tome we studied was The Vatican Temple and its Origin by the learned Carlo Fontana, rich in tables and illustrations and published in Rome six years earlier, in 1694. It contained plans, sections and prospects of the basilica and, of particular interest to me, the cupola. In a couple of hours' close study, I had memorised the arrangement of corridors and stairways in the upper part of the basilica. Although approximate, my memory had guided me well.

The stairs again began to wind. Strangely, both walls, the outer and the inner, leaned frighteningly to one side, leaving hardly any room to advance. I wondered how Sfasciamonti would manage to get through those absurd bowels: the air was dense, heavy, almost unbreathable. Every now and then a window provided a little relief and less torrid air, but there was no time in which to stop for breath.

Only then did I understand: I was in the cavity between the two layers of the cupola. The spiral stairs were installed between the outer surface and the inner one, which was only visible from within the basilica. But almost at once the vertiginous sensation of walking inside a body suspended over the void came to an end. The spiral no longer led upward, there was a brief level passage. From below, more cries.

"Sfasciamonti, Buvat, where are you?" I called.

In response, only voices and vague noises. My legs trembled a little, not only from fatigue. I tried to go faster, but slipped and fell heavily. I tumbled down several steps, hurting my thighs and knees severely. I stood up, still in one piece. I returned to the horizontal corridor, dragging myself forward who knows how far. No stairs, no way out, nothing.

Then I sensed it: something was missing, two or three paces in front of me: the floor. I tried to stop, lost my balance, held on with my right arm to the inner wall. And I felt it.

It was a stone step, an absolutely enormous one, almost up to my neck. I stretched out my arms and touched it. Yes, there was another step above it, and one above that, too. It was more or less as I had imagined it, and I felt confident: from that point on one climbed further. It was one of four stairways with huge steps, one at each cardinal point leading to the summit of the cupola within its cavity wall. The stairs began again. At last I realised with joy that being small meant one weighed little, and those who are light can move fast.

Initially, the huge steps were higher than they were wide; then, gradually, as one approached the very top of the cupola, the proportions were inverted. In the end there were only three more steps, then two, then one. Exhausted, but again on my feet, I pulled myself onto a horizontal platform, while from above a weak gleam of light came down to me — or perhaps one might better describe it as darkness less total. I fumbled to the right, to the left, in all directions, finding, first, a wall, then an opening. I stumbled, perhaps on a step, and my right hand found a banister. I no longer knew where I was going but I followed through without hesitation and at last I felt fresh air on my skin, found the outside world, the sky: I had emerged into the open.

My feet were treading the circular walkway that runs all around and above the cupola. On the inside, there was a double row of columns, under which one could pass through a series of arches. On the outside, however, the paving sloped downwards to allow rain water to run off, and this made the visitor feel continuously drawn towards the abyss. The only protection was a handrail, beyond which my eyes reeled, intoxicated by the invisible panorama of nocturnal Rome, lethargic and sunk in passivity. Wherever I looked, a plunge to death threatened.

"My sweet wife, from this point on I shall tell you nothing," I murmured, as my legs stiffened with fear and emotion.

Again I heard the panting of the guards. Whoever was hunting me down could not be far off now.

There was almost no time left. I looked for it, knowing from the book I had read with Atto at Villa Spada that it did exist. Halfway around the platform, I found it. A dark corner, an iron grate, two hinges: there it was. A little doorway that seemed almost to have been scraped with fingernails from the hard stone of the cupola. I pulled off my sweat-soaked shirt and drew from my breeches Ugonio's jingling bunch of keys. I looked for the right one. A big one, a slightly smaller one, another, the right size. Seconds passed, I was losing my advantage. I turned the key in the lock, needlessly: the door was already open. No time for cursing; a few rapid strides and I was inside.

The moment I passed through that door, I found myself on a narrow circular platform very similar to that which I had just left, but far smaller, with a handrail surround punctuated by great mushroom-shaped stone supports, even more perilously clinging to the top of the cupola. If only I had had the time, I would have delighted in the sprinkling of lights which the stars scattered across the black vault of heaven, indulging the fantasy that I could reach out and touch them with my hands.

In the midst of that disc-like upper platform, there was a small circular building. I immediately looked around it; there was no door. I was on the point of despairing, for I had heard any number of times that one could get in there, and then I saw it: a sort of low window was set into the wall at about the height of my stomach. I bent down and entered, and just as I did so I heard footsteps on the platform below.

Surprisingly, it was not completely dark inside this structure: a faint dawn light glimmered through the window I had just entered.

I heard a slight reverberation above my head. A ladder stretched upward towards the goal: the bronze ball that rises above the very highest point of Saint Peter's, immediately beneath the great cross which surmounts the basilica.

Leaping forward, I grasped a rung and hauled myself up, giving the wall a few kicks to help me on my way. As I clambered up, I saw that the vague light was growing stronger.

It is said that the ball of Saint Peter's can hold up to sixteen people, so long as they are suitably placed. However numerous those chasing us might be, there would, I knew, be no chance to put that report to the test.

At last, I poked my head into the ball, then my shoulders, at last resting on my elbows inside the great bronze sphere. Only then did I realise that I was not alone.

Perched with his great backside on the concave inner surface of the ball was Sfasciamonti, sweating like a donkey and panting, utterly winded. He had made it before me, probably taking another of the four stairs with huge steps that reach up to the top of the cupola within its cavity wall. In one hand, he was holding a little tome: the treatise on the Secrets of the Conclave; in the other, a pistol.

In the middle of the spherical cavity in which we stood, just next to the hole through which one gained access to it, there was a stool. The book must have been deposited on it and the catchpoll had been quicker than me in getting to it. Suddenly, he handed it to me.

"Put it in your breeches, they're coming!"

I heard a noise coming from below. Sfasciamonti's finger curved around the trigger. We seemed to have no way out.

"We can't fire, we are in a church… And besides, they'll arrest us," I observed, in my turn gasping for breath.

"If anything, we're on top of a church," the catchpoll sniggered.

It was pointless to try getting down from the ball: someone had entered the little structure and was about to climb the ladder. Sfasciamonti and I looked at one another, uncertain what to do next.

Then it all happened: our eyes were struck by a blinding flash which burned our faces like a whip, while our bodies contorted in shock.

Suddenly I understood why. As I penetrated, first, the little building, then the ball itself, I had been vaguely aware of a diffuse glimmer, growing ever clearer. Years back, I had known an old butcher whose son was employed in Saint Peter's Factory, and he had described to me what was now happening. The ball in which we stood had four slits in its sides, placed as high as a man at the four cardinal points: thrusting an incandescent blade into that facing east and flooding all with its presence, the sun had made its joyous introitus among us.

It was dawn.