Imprimatur

Events Between The 20th amp; 25th September, 1683

The notes which I consigned to my little book that night were the last to be written. The events that followed left me no time (nor did they inspire any desire) to continue writing. Fortunately, those last days of our sequestration at the Donzello have remained very clear in my memory, at least in their essentials.

On the next day, Dulcibeni was found in his bed wretchedly soaked in his own urine, incapable of rising or even so much as moving his legs. All our attempts to make him walk, or even to control his lower limbs, proved useless. He could not feel his feet anymore; one could even pierce his flesh without him experiencing any physical sensation. Cristofano warned of the gravity of the situation; he had, he said, met with many cases of the kind. Among the most similar was the case of a boy working in a marble quarry who fell from badly made scaffolding, striking the ground violently with his back; on the next day, he awoke in his bed in the same condition as Dulcibeni, and, alas, thereafter he was never to recover the use of his legs, remaining handicapped for life.

However, all hope was not lost, Cristofano insisted, digressing into a whole series of reassurances which seemed to me as vague as they were verbose. The patient, who remained feverish, did not seem to be aware of his grave condition.

Of course, the serious accident of which Dulcibeni was the victim provoked a string of questions from Cristofano, who was certainly not so foolish as not to understand that the Marchigiano-and those who had brought him back-had been able to leave and return to the inn.

The bruises, cuts and scratches which Atto and I had sustained in our fall from Tiracorda's carriage also called for an explanation. While Cristofano dispensed his cures-medicating the wounds with his specially prepared balsam and celestial water and anointing the bruises with oleum philosophorum and electuary of magisterial marsh mallow-we were constrained to admit that, yes, Dulcibeni had left the hostelry, seeking a way of fleeing the quarantine and, from the secret closet, had ventured forth into the network of tunnels under the inn. We two had, however, been watching him for some time, having guessed his intentions, and had followed him and brought him back. On returning, he had lost his balance and had fallen into the little well that led back to the inn, and this had caused the grave injury which now condemned him to his bed.

Dulcibeni was, moreover, in no position to deny the story: the day after the fall, his fever was exceedingly high, depriving him almost completely of his powers of both reasoning and speech. Only gradually did he regain his wits, and then he would groan interminably, complaining of atrocious, unending pains in the back.

Perhaps that painful spectacle also inclined Cristofano to indulgence; our tale was clearly full of gaps and improbabilities, nor would it have stood up to a serious interrogation, especially if conducted by two of the Bargello's men. Having regard, probably, to the extraordinary recovery of Bedfordi and to the likelihood of an early end to the quarantine, the doctor weighed up the risks and advantages and was kind enough to pretend that he believed our version, without informing the sentinel (who was still on guard before the doorway of the inn) of what had happened. At the end of our reclusion, he said, he would endeavour to ensure that Dulcibeni received all possible cures. These happy resolutions were probably inspired, too, by the festive atmosphere which was just then beginning to spread across the city, and of which I shall now speak.

Already, rumours had begun to circulate concerning the outcome of the battle of Vienna. The first to be heard were on the 20th, but only on the night of Tuesday 21st (and the details of this I obviously obtained later) did Cardinal Pio receive a note from Venice with news of the flight of the Turkish army from Vienna. Two days later, again at night, other letters arrived from the Empire announcing the Christian victory. Gradually, the details had become more precise: the city of Vienna, so long besieged, had at last been relieved.

On the 23rd day of September, the official announcement of the victory reached Rome, borne in the dispatches of Cardinal Bonvisi: eleven days earlier, on 12th September, the Christian troops had routed the hosts of God's enemies.

The details were to arrive with the gazettes of the succeeding weeks, but in my memory the tales of that glorious triumph all blend into one moment: that of the exciting and exalting moment when we learned of the victory.

When the stars came out on the night of the 11th and 12th September, the serried ranks of the Ottoman host were heard making their prayers, with piercing cries; this was also evident from the lamps and fires, lit in great symmetry, together with the double lights of the superb pavilions of the Infidel encampment.

Our men, too, had prayed long and hard: the Christian forces were far inferior to those of the Infidels. At the first light of dawn on 12th September, the Capuchin friar, Marco d'Aviano, a great arouser and inspirer of the Christian army, celebrated mass with the Christian commanders in a little Camaldolese convent on a height called the Kahlenberg, which dominates Vienna from the right bank of the Danube. Immediately afterwards, our troops formed ranks, ready for victory or death.

On the left wing were Charles of Lorraine with the Margrave Hermann and the young Ludwig Wilhelm; Count von Leslie and Count Caprara; Prince Lubomirski, with his fearsome Polish armoured cavalry; then Mercy and Tafe, the future heroes of Hungary. Together with dozens of other princes, the still unknown Eugene of Savoy prepared for his baptism by fire; like Charles of Lorraine, he had left Paris to flee the Sun King, and was subsequently to cover himself in glory, reconquering eastern Europe for the Christian cause. The Prince Elector of Saxony, too, prepared his troops, assisted by Field Marshal Goltz and the Prince Elector of Bavaria, with the five Wittelsbachs. In the centre of the Christian lines, next to the Bavarians, stood the Franconian and Swabian troops; besides them, the princes and rulers ofThuringia, from the glorious houses ofWelf and of Holstein; then came other great names like the Margrave of Bayreuth, Field Marshals and Generals Rodolfo Baratta, Dunewald, Stirum, Baron von Degenfeld, Karoly Palffy and many other heroic defenders of the cause of Christ. Finally, the right wing was held by the valorous Poles, King Jan Sobieski and his two lieutenants.

When they beheld that powerful deployment of friendly forces, the hard-pressed defenders of Vienna immediately gave way to jubilation, launching dozens of salvoes of rockets.

The army was sighted from Kara Mustapha's camp too; but when the Turks decided to react, it was too late: the attackers were already charging down the slopes of the Kahlenberg at breakneck speed. The Grand Vizir and his men then emerged precipitously from their tents and their trenches, in their turn, deploying in battle order. In the centre stood Kara Mustapha and the great mass of the Spahis; by his side, the impious Infidel preacher Wani Effendi with their sacred standard; and before him, the Agha with his regiments of sanguinary janissaries. On the right wing, near the Danube, the cruel Voivodes of Moldavia and Walachia, Vizir Kara Mehmet of Diyarbakir and Ibrahim Pasha, from Buda; on the left wing, the Khan of the Tartars and a great number of pashas.

The gentle green heights outside the walls of Vienna, with their many vineyards, were the theatre of the battle. The first, memorable, clash took place in the narrows of the Nussberg, between the Christian left wing and the janissaries. After prolonged battling back and forth, the imperial troops and the Saxons succeeded at midday in breaking through and chasing the Turks back to Grinzing and Heiligenstadt. Meanwhile, the troops of Charles of Lorraine reached Dobling and approached the Turkish encampment, while Count Caprara's Austrian cavalry and Lubomirsky's armoured horsemen made the Moldavians bite the dust after bitter fighting, chasing their remnants back along the Danube. Meanwhile, from the heights of the Kahlenberg, King Jan Sobieski hurled down the Polish cavalry, after the German and Polish infantry had cleared the way for them, chasing the janissaries from house to house, from vine to vine, from haystack to haystack, and, with cruel obstinacy, driving them from Neustift, from Potzleinsdorf and from Dornbach.

The Christians' hearts trembled when Kara Mustapha tried to take advantage of the enemy's moves and to drive wedges into the gaps created by their powerful advance. These attempts were, however, short-lived: Charles of Lorraine sent his Austrians in to attack, making them converge on the right. In Dornbach, they cut off the retreat of the Turks, who were trying to withdraw towards Dobling. Meanwhile, the Polish cavalry smashed through all resistance, driving the enemy back as far as Hernals.

At the centre, in the front line, while the glorious Sarmatian military ensign fluttered above, the King of Poland rode with the falcon's wing raised on the tip of his lance, splendid and indomitable, alongside Prince Jakob, barely sixteen and already a hero, flanked by his knights with their armour marvellously ornamented by their multicoloured surcoats, by plumes and by precious stones. To the cry of "Jesumaria!" the lances of the hussars and of King Jan's heavy cavalry swept away the Spahis and charged towards the tent of Kara Mustapha.

The latter, observing the clash between his own men and the Polish cavalry from his command post, instinctively looked up to the green standard in the shade of which he stood. That sacred standard was precisely what the Christians were aiming at. He then yielded to fear, and decided to withdraw, dragging with him in his inglorious retreat, first the Pashas, then the whole body of his troops. The centre of the Turkish host then gave way, too; the rest of the army panicked, and defeat turned to disaster.

The besieged Viennese at last took courage and dared to sally forth through the Scottish Gate, while the Turks fled, abandoning to the enemy their immense encampment, overflowing with incalculable treasures; not, however, without first cutting the throats of hundreds of prisoners and dragging with them as slaves six thousand men, eleven thousand women, fourteen thousand young girls and fifty thousand children.

The military victory was so complete and triumphant that no one thought of stopping the fleeing Infidels. For fear of a return of the Turks, the Christian soldiers, on the contrary, remained on guard through the night.

The first to enter the tent of Kara iMustapha was King Jan Sobieski, who took as booty the horsetail and the steed left behind by the defeated commander, as well as the many oriental treasures and marvels abandoned by the dissolute miscreant satrap.

On the next day, the dead were counted: the Turks had lost ten thousand men on the field of battle, three hundred cannon, fifteen thousand tents and mountains of arms. The Christians mourned two thousand dead, including, alas, General de Souches and Prince Potocki; but there was no time for sadness: all Vienna yearned to welcome the victors, who entered in triumph the city which they had saved from the Infidel hordes. King Jan Sobieski wrote humbly to the Pope, attributing the victory to a miracle: venimus, vidimus, Deus vicit.*

It was, as I said, only later that we were to learn all this in detail. Yet, around the Donzello, jubilation was growing: on 24th September, * We came, we saw, God conquered. (Translator's note.) a notice was posted in all the churches of Rome ordering that the Ave Maria should be sounded that very evening by all bells to thank the Lord for the defeat of the Turks; gay lights were placed in all windows and with universal and excessive exultation the bells rang out, while rockets, Catherine wheels and little mortars went off all around. Thus, from our windows, one could hear not only the people giving vent to their joy but above all the loud explosions of the fireworks, whose flashes illuminated the roofs of embassies, the Castel Sant'Angelo, the Piazza Navona and the Campo di Fiore. Having flung open the shutters and glued ourselves to the bars of the hostelry's windows, we witnessed in the street the burning in effigy of vizirs and pashas, amidst the uncontainable joy of the populace. We beheld entire families, groups of boys, clusters of young men and old, marching back and forth bearing torches, as though crazed, lighting up the sweet September night and accompanying, with their laughter, the silvery counterpoint of the bells.

Even those who dwelled close to our hostelry and who had hitherto taken care not to approach our windows for fear of contagion, now shared with us their joy, their gibes, their cries of gladness. It seemed that they felt the approach of our liberation, almost as though the triumph of Christian arms in Vienna portended the release of our poor inn from the menace of the plague.

Although still sequestered, we too were overcome by immense joy; it was I myself who brought the news to each of the guests. We all celebrated together in the chambers on the ground floor, embracing each other and drinking toasts with the greatest and most cheerful exultation. I, above all, was in seventh heaven; Dulcibeni's plan to strike at the heart of Christian Europe had come too late, even if I was still anxious about the health of the Pope.

Besides all these genuine manifestations of joy, in the news which was circulating among the populace and which reached us from the street, there were two circumstances which I found somewhat unexpected and worthy of reflection.

First, from one of the watchmen (who were continuing to keep an eye on the inn, in the absence of further orders) we came to know that the Christian victory had been aided by an inexplicable series of errors on the part of the Turks.

The armies of Kara Mustapha had, in fact, by means of the novel technique of mines and trenches, reduced the city walls of Vienna and, in the opinion of the victors themselves, could unquestionably have carried out a concentrated and victorious assault long before the arrival of King Jan Sobieski's reinforcements. Yet, instead of rapidly unleashing the decisive attack, Kara Mustapha had, quite inexplicably, made no move, wasting several precious days. Nor had the Turks taken the trouble to occupy the heights of the Kahlenberg, which would have given them a decisive tactical advantage. Not only that: they had neglected to confront the Christian reinforcements before they crossed the Danube, thus allowing them to draw irremediably close to the beleaguered city.

Why all this had happened, no one could tell. It was as though the Turks had been waiting for something… Something which made them feel sure of victory. But, what could that be?

Secondly, another strange circumstance: the outbreak of the plague, which had been ravaging the city for months, suddenly died out, for no apparent reason.

To the victors, this series of miracles was seen as a sign from divine providence, the same benign providence which had to the last sustained the desperate forces of the besieged and Jan Sobieski's liberating troops.

The culmination of the festivities in Rome took place on the 25th day; of that, I shall recount more later, since my concern here is to tell of other important facts which came to my acquaintance during those days of sequestration.

The strange manner in which the plague in Vienna had suddenly been extinguished gave me no little cause for reflection. After terrorising the besieged even more than the Ottoman foe could, the pestilence had rapidly and mysteriously petered out. This factor had been decisive: had the infection persisted and spread among the population ofVienna, the Turks would certainly have prevailed without the slightest difficulty.

It was impossible not to consider that news in the light of what Atto and I had so laboriously uncovered or deduced, all of which I strove to sum up in my mind. Louis XIV hoped for a Turkish victory in Vienna, the better to carve up Europe with the Infidels. In order to achieve his dreams of dominion, the Sun King counted upon using the infectious principle of the secretum pestis, in other words the secretum morbi, which he had at last succeeded in extracting from Fouquet. At the same time, however, the consort of the Most Christian King, Maria Teresa, was striving to achieve a diametrically opposed design. Proudly attached to the destiny of the House of Habsburg which occupied the imperial throne and of which she herself was a scion, the Queen of France strove secretly to impede her husband's plans. Indeed, according to the theory advanced by Atto, Fouquet had succeeded in delivering to Maria Teresa, through Lauzun and Mademoiselle (both of whom detested the Sovereign no less than Maria Teresa herself), the only antidote capable of countering the secret weapon of the plague: the secretum vitae, that is, the rondeau with which Devize had beguiled us during those days at the Donzello, and which seemed even to have cured Bedfordi.

Nor was it by chance that the antidote should have been in the hands of Devize; the rondeau, although probably composed by Kircher in its original, crude form, had been perfected and consigned to paper by the guitarist Francesco Corbetta, a past master of the art of enciphering secret messages in musical notes.

Even thus simplified, the picture was as hard on the intellect as on the memory. Yet, if the method which Atto Melani had taught me held water (to act on suppositions, where one has not the benefit of knowledge), then everything fell into place. One must use one's powers of reasoning persistently in order to uncover what was needed to explain patent absurdities.

I therefore asked myself: if Louis XIV had wished to deliver the coup de grace to the dreaded Habsburgs, who flanked him on either side in Austria and in Spain, and above all to the hated Emperor Leopold, where would he have unleashed the plague? Why, in Vienna; the answer astounded me with its simplicity.

Was that not the decisive battle for the fate of Christianity? And was I not aware, ever since I had overheard the conversation between Brenozzi and Stilone Priaso, that the Most Christian King was secretly playing on the side of the Turks in order to catch the Empire in the teeth of an infernal trap set between East and West?

Nor was that all. Was it not true that there had for months been an outbreak of the plague in Vienna, which had spread apprehension amongst all the heroic, beleaguered warriors? And was it not also true that the infection had died out, or had been mysteriously tamed by some arcane invisible agent, thus saving the city and all Western Europe?

Although deeply immersed in such meditations, I myself found it difficult to accept the logical conclusions to which they gave rise: the plague in Vienna had been unleashed by agents of Louis XIV or by anonymous cut-throats in their employ, thus putting into effect the occult science of the secretum morbi. That was why the Turks had not moved for days and days, despite the fact that Vienna was in their grasp: they were awaiting the dreaded effects of the infection sent by their secret ally, the French sovereign.

The infamous sabotage had, however, encountered no less powerful adverse forces: the emissaries of Maria Teresa had arrived in Vienna in time to dispel the threat, activating the secretum vitae and thus overcoming the infection. How this was done, I would never know. What is, however, certain is that the vain hesitations of the Turkish army were to cost Kara Mustapha his head.

This summary, so overcrowded with events, risked seeming too fanciful, indeed almost fantastical. Did not all the interweaving of the affairs of Kircher and Fouquet, Maria Teresa and Louis XIV Lauzun and Mademoiselle, Corbetta and Devize also smack of folly? Yet, I had spent entire nights in Atto Melani's company reconstructing, piece by piece, in a sort of divine madness, all that senseless intrigue, which had become more real for me than the life which continued outside the walls of the Donzello.

My imagination was peopled by the shadowy agents of the Sun King, intent upon spreading the pestilence throughout poor Vienna when the city was already in extremis, on the other side, the defenders, the shadow-players of Maria Teresa. All of them were investigating secret formulae concealed in the pentagrams of Kircher and Corbetta, agitating retorts and alembics and other obscure instruments (like those seen on Dulcibeni's island) and reciting incomprehensible hermetic phrases in some abandoned cloister. Thereafter, some would have poisoned-and others cleansed-waters, orchards, streets. In the invisible struggle between the secretum morbi and the secretum vitae the vital principle had in the end triumphed: the same one which had enthralled my heart and my mind as I listened to the rondeau played on Devize's guitar.

From the latter, of course, I would not be able to draw so much as a syllable. Yet his role was almost completely clear, and so were the images which it conjured up in my mind: Devize receives from the Queen the original copy of the "Barricades Mysterieuses"; he is then ordered to go to Italy-to Naples-there to seek out an aged traveller with a double identity… In Naples, he finds Fouquet, already in Dulcibeni's company. Perhaps he shows the old Superintendent the rondeau which, years before, he had placed in the trusted hands of Lauzun for delivery to the Queen. But Fouquet is blind; he will have taken those sheets of paper in his bony hands, caressed and recognised them. Devize will then have played the rondeau, and the old man's last uncertainties will have vanished amidst tears of emotion: the Queen has succeeded; the secretum vitae is in good hands, Europe will not succumb to the madness of a single sovereign. And she, before taking her leave of this earth, has, by the hand of Devize, obtained this last reassurance.

Devize and Dulcibeni, by common accord, decide to bring their protege to Rome where, in the shadow of the Pope, the threatening emissaries of the Sun King are hampered in their movements. Of course, Dulcibeni has other designs… And, still in Rome, while playing his "Barricades Mysterieuses" for us, Devize knows that Maria Teresa has sent to Vienna the enigmatic quintessence of those notes, to bar the way to the plague which threatens to result in a Turkish triumph.

Now, of all this, Devize would never breathe a word. His devotion to Maria Teresa, if genuine, would surely not have been exhausted with the Sovereign's death. Moreover, the consequences of being identified as a plotter against the Sun King would certainly be lethal. Here again, I applied the rule which Atto Melani had taught me, thus relieving Devize of so perilous a task. I, a humble apprentice to whom no one accorded the least importance, would speak in his place, only a few, well-turned phrases. Not by his speech would I judge him, but by his silence.

A favourable opportunity was soon to arise. He had called me late in the afternoon, requesting a further light meal. I brought him a modest basket with a little salami and a few slices of bread, which he devoured voraciously. No sooner had he set to than I took my leave and made for the door.

"By the way," said I carelessly, "I hear, Sir, that Vienna is indebted to Queen Maria Teresa for having been spared by the plague."

Devize grew pale.

"Mmm," he mumbled in alarm, with his mouth full, rising to look for a sip of water.

"Oh, has it gone down the wrong way? Do have something to drink," said I, handing him a little jug which I had brought with me but had not placed near to him.

As he drank, he screwed up his eyes in puzzlement.

"Do you want to know who told me that? Well, you will be aware that, since his unfortunate accident, Signor Pompeo Dulcibeni has suffered greatly from fevers, and during one such crisis he spoke at great length when I happened to be present."

This was a great lie, but Devize swallowed it as eagerly as the water which he had just gulped down.

"And what… what else did he say?" he stammered, wiping his mouth and chin with his sleeve and endeavouring to remain calm.

"Oh, so many things which I have not perhaps even understood. The fever, you know… If I am not mistaken, he did mention a certain Fooky, or something of the sort and, I think, a certain Lozen," said I, deliberately distorting the names. "He spoke of a fortress, of the plague, of a secret of the pestilence or something like that, then, of an antidote, of Queen Maria Teresa, of the Turks, and even of a plot. In other words, he was delirious, you know how that happens. At the time, Doctor Cristofano was worried, but now poor Signor Dulcibeni is no longer in danger and has only to worry about his back and his legs, which…"

"Cristofano? Did he hear too?"

"Yes, but you know how it is when a physician is at work: he hears yet he does not hear. I also spoke of this to Abbot Melani, and he…"

"You did what?" roared Devize.

"I told him that Dulcibeni was sick and feverish and that he was raving."

"And did you tell him… everything?" he asked, overcome by terror.

"How am I to remember, Signor Devize?" I replied, politely piqued. "I only know that Signor Pompeo Dulcibeni was so far gone as no longer to be much with us, and Abbot Melani shared my concern on that account. And now, Sir, if you will excuse me," said I, slipping through the door and taking my leave.

Besides checking upon Devize's knowledge, I had allowed myself to take a little revenge on him. The panic which had seized the guitarist could not have been more eloquent; not only did he know what I and Atto knew but-as expected-he had been one of those most deeply involved. That was why I chuckled at the dreadful suspicion which I had sown in his mind: that Dulcibeni's delirious outburst (which had, of course, never happened) might, through me, have reached the ears, not only of Cristofano but of Abbot Melani. And, that if Atto so desired, he could denounce Devize as a traitor to the King of France.

My spirit was still oppressed by all the scornful treatment which the guitarist had always heaped upon me. Thanks to a few well-chosen lies, tonight I would at last enjoy the rich sleep of a gentleman, while his lot would be the troubled sleep of the outcast.

I must confess there was still one person with whom I would and should have liked to share that extreme intellectual solace, but those times had passed. I could no longer ignore the fact that, since his confrontation with Dulcibeni on the wall of the Colosseum, all was changed between Atto Melani and myself.

Certainly, he had unmasked Dulcibeni's criminal and blasphemous plot. Yet, at the moment of truth, I had seen him vacillate-and not on his legs, like his adversary. He had climbed the Colosseum as an accuser, he came down accused.

I had been stunned by his indecision in responding to Dulcibeni's allusions to the death of Fouquet. I had known him to hesitate before, but always only for fear of obscure, impending dangers. When he faced Dulcibeni, however, it was as though his stammerings arose, not from fear of the unknown, but from what he knew perfectly well and must keep hidden. Thus, Dulcibeni's accusations (the poison poured into the foot-bath, the order to kill received from the King of France), although unsupported by any evidence, sounded more final than any sentence.

Then, there was that strange, suspicious coincidence: as Dulcibeni had recalled, Fouquet's last words were "Ahi, dunque e pur vero"- "Alas, so it is really true"-a verse from an aria by Maestro Luigi Rossi which I had one day heard Atto sing in the most heartbroken tones. "Alas, so it is really true… that you have changed your mind." Thus the verse ended, like an unambiguous act of accusation.

Again, I had heard those same words murmured when, almost drowning in the Cloaca Maxima, we in our turn came close to leaving this world. Why, even then, in the face of death, had that verse come to his lips?

With the eyes of fantasy, I imagined that I had traitorously taken the life of a dear friend, and tried to immerse myself in the guilt that would surely consume me after such an act. If I had heard my friend's last words, would they not perhaps resound forever in my ears, until they found an open echo in my mouth?

And when Dulcibeni had accused him, reproaching him with that heartbreaking, lamenting verse, I had heard Melani's voice break under the weight of guilt, whatever the cause of that guilt might be.

No longer was he the Atto Melani I had known; neither the same fascinating mentor, nor the same trusted leader. He was again Atto Melani, the castrato, whom I had come to know when I overheard the talk of Devize, Cristofano and Stilone Priaso: Abbot of Beaubec by the prerogative of the King of France, intriguer, liar, traitor, spy of exceptional skill; and perhaps an assassin, too.

I remembered then that the abbot had never given me a satisfactory explanation as to why, in his sleep, he had murmured the words "barricades mysterieuses": and I at last understood that he must have heard them repeated, without understanding their meaning, when he was shaking the dying Fouquet by the shoulders and-as Cristofano had reported-crying out questions which were destined to remain forever unanswered.

In the end, I felt great pity for the abbot, deceived, as Dulcibeni had said, by his own King. By now I knew that Atto had omitted something from his account of his search through Colbert's study: he had shown to Louis XIV the letters which revealed Fouquet's presence in Rome.

I was utterly at a loss to comprehend: how, how could he have had the nerve thus to betray his former benefactor? Perhaps Atto had wished once more to demonstrate his unfailing devotion to his Most Christian Majesty. It would be an important gesture: offering the King on a silver platter the man whose friendship had, some twenty years previously, condemned him to exile far from France. Yet, this had been a fatal error, and the King had repaid the faithful castrato with yet another betrayal. He had dispatched him to Rome precisely to assassinate Fouquet, without revealing to him the true reasons for that terrible command, or the abyss of death and hatred within his own heart. Who knows what absurd tale the King concocted, or what shameful lies he employed to besmirch once more the trampled honour of the old Superintendent.

During those last days which I spent in the Donzello, I was beset by the shameful image of Abbot Melani selling the life of his poor old friend to the Sovereign, and then knowing not how to avoid carrying out that cruel despot's atrocious commands.

How had he had the gall to act out for me the part of the brokenhearted friend? He must have needed to draw upon all his art as a theatrical castrato, so spoke my raging thoughts. Or perhaps those tears were real; but they were tears only of remorse.

I do not know whether Atto wept when, constrained by his Sovereign's commands, he was preparing his hasty departure for Rome in order to put an end to Fouquet's life, or whether he executed his orders like an obedient servant.

He must have been unnerved by the last weary words of the blind old Superintendent when he was dying by his hand; by those laboured phrases which babbled of mysterious barricades and obscure secrets, but perhaps even more by those opaque and honest eyes. He must then have understood that he was the victim of his King's lies.

Once the irremediable had taken place, he could but try to understand. That was why he had undertaken all those investigations, with my unwitting collaboration.

Soon, my thinking could take me no further. Nor could I escape from the throes of my disgust for Abbot Melani. I ceased to speak to him. With my reflections, the old trust between us had dissolved, and along with it, the familiarity which had so swiftly grown between us during those few days of life together at the Donzello.

Yet, no one more than he had been a master and an inspiration to me. I therefore strove to maintain, at least outwardly, the obliging solicitude to which I had accustomed him. From my eyes and voice, however, the light and warmth which only friendship can confer, had departed.

I observed the same transformation in him; now we were strangers to one another, and he knew it. Now that Dulcibeni was bedridden and all his plans had been foiled, Abbot Melani had no longer any foe to overcome, any ambush to set, any enigma to solve; and now that the imperatives of action had all fallen away, he no longer sought to justify himself in my eyes or to offer me explanations of his behaviour, as he had hitherto done in response to my repeated remonstrances. In the last few days, he had withdrawn into an embarrassed silence, one which only guilt could have erected around him.

Only once, one morning, while I was in the kitchen, preparing luncheon, did he take my arm and squeeze my hands in his. "Come to Paris with me. My house is spacious, I shall arrange for you to receive the best instruction. You shall be my son," said he in grave and heartfelt tones.

I felt something in my hand; I opened it, and there were my three marguerites, the little Venetian pearls given to me by Brenozzi. I should have realised: he had stolen them from under my nose, that first time we visited the little closet, in order to induce me to take part in his investigations.

And now he was returning them to me, thus putting an end to his last deception. Was this perhaps an attempt at reconciliation?

I thought one moment, then decided: "You wish me to become your son?!" I exclaimed, with a cruel laugh for the castrato who could never have any.

And, opening my fist, I let the pearls fall to the floor.

That vain little act of revenge placed a tombstone on our relations; with those three little pearls, there rolled away our pacts, our trust, our affection and all that had brought us so close in the past few days. It was all over.

All was not, however, resolved. Something was still missing from the picture which we had built up: what could be the real reason behind the atrocious hatred which Dulcibeni bore the Odescalchi and, in particular, Pope Innocent XI? A motive did indeed exist: the abduction and disappearance of Dulcibeni's daughter. Yet, as Atto had correctly noted, this did not seem to be the only motive.

It was when I was racking my brains over this question, a couple of days after the night of the Colosseum, that I received, blinding and unexpected, one of those rare insights which, like lightning bolts, illuminate one's life. (At the time of writing, I speak from experience.)

Once again, I turned over in my memory what I had learned from the reconstruction which Abbot Melani had presented to Dulcibeni. The latter's twelve-year-old daughter, a slave of the Odescalchi, had been abducted and carried off to Holland by Huygens and Francesco Feroni, a slave merchant.

Where was Dulcibeni's daughter now? A slave in Holland, since Feroni's right-hand man had been besotted with her; or sold in some other land. I had, however, heard that some of the most beautiful slave girls did, sooner or later, succeed in gaining their freedom: by means of prostitution, obviously, which I knew to be a flourishing trade in those lands reclaimed from the sea.

What would she have looked like? If she were still alive, she would now be about nineteen years old. From her mother, whose skin was dark, she would certainly have inherited a similar complexion. It was difficult to imagine her face, without having known her mother's. She would surely have been ill-treated, imprisoned, beaten. Her body, I thought, must bear the signs of this.

"How did you know?" was Cloridia's only question.

"From your wrists-the scars on your wrists. And also, your talk of Holland, the Italian merchants whom you so abominate, the name of Feroni, the coffee which reminds you of your mother, your way of always asking after Dulcibeni, your age and the colour of your skin, your search with the divining rod, which brought you here. And then there was the Arcana of Justice, do you remember?: the reparation of past wrongs, of which you spoke to me. Lastly, the sneezes of Abbot Melani, who is sensitive to Dutch materials. And you and your father are the only persons to wear those in this hostelry."

Naturally, Cloridia was not satisfied with these explanations, and, in order to justify my intuition, I had to recount to her a great part of my adventures during the preceding days. Initially, she did not, of course, believe many of my revelations, despite the fact that I had omitted many events which I myself would have found fantastic or improbable.

Obviously, it was rather difficult to prove to her that her father had plotted an attempt on the life of the Pope, and of this she became convinced only a long time afterwards.

In the end, however, after lengthy and patient explanations, she believed in my good faith and in most of the facts with which I had acquainted her. The narration, interspersed with her many questions, took almost a whole night, during the course of which we naturally paused at times to rest and, during those pauses, it was I who requested and she who instructed.

"And did he never suspect it?" I asked her at the end.

"Never, I am sure of that."

"Will you tell him?"

"At first, I wanted to do so," she replied after a brief silence. "I had sought him so long… But now I have changed my mind. In the first place, he would not believe me; and then, the news would not even make him happy. And then, you know, there is my mother: I cannot forget that."

"Then we two shall be the only ones to know," I observed.

"It will be better that way."

"That no one else should know?"

"No, better that you too should know," said she, caressing my head.

At this juncture, one last item of news was impatiently awaited, and not only by myself. The universal jubilation for the victory at Vienna filled the city with joyous festivities. Dulcibeni's efforts to destroy the True Religion in Europe had come too late. But, what of the Pope? Had Tiracorda's leeches already taken effect? Perhaps the author of the victory over the Turks was at that very moment tossing and turning feverishly under his blankets, stricken by the plague. We certainly would not have been able to know this then; certainly not from the prison of our chambers. Soon, however, we were to be overtaken by events which at long last freed us from our imprisonment.

I have already had cause to mention that, in the days before the beginning of the quarantine, strong reverberations had been heard, coming from the ground under the inn, and immediately afterwards Master Pellegrino had discovered a fissure in the wall of the staircase on the first floor. The phenomenon had, of course, given rise to no little concern; but that had, however, been overshadowed by the death of Fouquet, the imposition of the quarantine and many successive events. However, Stilone Priaso's astrological almanack had, as I had been able to read with my own eyes, predicted for those days "earthquakes and subterranean fires". If this had been a mere coincidence, it seemed designed to perturb even the calmest of spirits.

The memory of those subterranean rumblings still instilled a certain disquiet in my soul, made all the greater by the crack in the staircase which-I could not decide whether this was the work of my imagination-seemed every day to grow longer and deeper.

It was perhaps because of that state of anxiety that, on the night of the 24th and 25th September, I awoke in the small hours. I opened my eyes, finding my dark, damp chamber even narrower and more suffocating than usual. What had disturbed me? I had no need to relieve my bladder, nor had I been awoken by some loud noise. No: it was a sinister, diffuse creaking, coming from I knew not where. It was like the groan of pebbles grinding against each other, as though they were being slowly crushed by a gigantic millstone.

Thought and action were one: I flung open my door and rushed into the corridor, then down to the lower floors, yelling at the top of my voice. The inn was about to collapse.

Cristofano, with praiseworthy presence of mind, at once warned the night watchman, so that he should let us escape to the safety of the street. The evacuation of the Donzello, observed with a mixture of curiosity and unease by some neighbours who had at once rushed to their windows, was neither easy nor devoid of perils. The creaking came from the stairs, where the fissure had, in the space of a few hours, grown into a chasm. As usual, it required the courage of a few (Atto Melani, Cristofano and myself) to bear the helpless Dulcibeni to safety. The convalescent Bedfordi managed on his own. Thus, too, my master, although confused, found the usual presence of mind to utter imprecations against his misfortune. Once we were all outside, it seemed almost as though the peril had ceased. It would not, however, have been wise to return, and that was emphasised by the noise of a great fall of rubble within. Cristofano consulted closely with the watchman.

This led to the decision that we should turn to the nearby monastery of Celestine fathers who would surely take pity on our sad condition and be willing to offer us succour and shelter.

And so they were; awoken in the middle of the night, the fathers welcomed us without great enthusiasm (perhaps also because of the suspicion of pestilence during the preceding days) but with pious generosity, assigning us to little cells, in which each of us could find the most dignified and comfortable refuge.

The great news of the following day, Saturday 25th September, arrived as soon as we awoke. The city was still immersed in the festive climate of the Viennese victory celebrations, and hardly had I poked my nose out from my little cell than I saw how this carelessly relaxed attitude had affected even the Celestine fathers. None of them was keeping any special watch over us, and the only supervisory visit that I received was that of Cristofano, who had slept in the same cell as Dulcibeni, in order to be able to assist him with any nocturnal difficulties. He confirmed with a trace of surprise that we seemed not to be subject to restrictions of any kind and that whoever wished to do so could walk out from any of the monastery's many doors. In the coming days, he thought that some would inevitably make their way out. He did not, however, know that the first such escapade would take place within only a few hours.

It was an indiscreet conversation between two Celestine fathers outside my door that brought to my attention the event which was to take place that very evening: in the Basilica of Saint John Lateran, the victory at Vienna was to be celebrated with a great Te Deum\ and this solemn rite of thanksgiving was to be conducted by His Beatitude Pope Innocent XI in person.

I spent almost the entire day in my cell, apart from a couple of visits to Dulcibeni and Cristofano, and one to Pellegrino. My poor master was now beset by sufferings of both body and mind: it had been explained to him that the inn was in danger and that in the early hours of the morning, the stairs had completely collapsed, together with the landings and walls giving onto the inner courtyard. I myself gave a start upon hearing that news: it meant that in all probability the secret closet through which one could gain access to the galleries beneath had been lost. I would have liked to share that news with Abbot Melani, but it was too late.

When the afternoon light was already eroded by the soft embrace of twilight, it was not difficult for me to slip out from my cell and from the monastery, through an unguarded side door. For a modest sum (which I took from the few savings I had salvaged during our flight from the Donzello), I gained the complicity of a young servant of those friars, so as to be certain of finding the same door open on my return.

I was not fleeing; I had only one aim, and once I had satisfied that I would again retire to the monastery of the Celestines. It took no little time to reach the basilica of Saint John, where a huge crowd of people was gathering. From the monastery, I went first to the Pantheon, then to the Piazza San Marco and thence to the Colosseum. Within a few minutes, after proceeding down the street that leads straight from the amphitheatre to the basilica, I found myself at last in the Piazza of Saint John Lateran, surrounded by an anxious, febrile multitude which was growing by the minute. I therefore approached the entrance of the basilica, where I saw that I had arrived only just in time: flanked by two wings of the jubilant crowd, His Holiness emerged at just that moment.

As I tiptoed to see him better, I received a blow on the ear from the elbow of an old man who was trying to barge past me.

"Hey, take care, boy," he said rudely to me, as though it was he who had been struck.

Despite the many necks and heads towering above me, by slipping with difficulty through the crush, I managed at last to catch sight of His Beatitude, just before he mounted his carriage, retreating from the plaudits and attention of the multitude. I saw him, just when he saluted the faithful and, with a smiling, amiable gesture, blessed us once, twice, three times. Taking advantage of my youthful agility, I had managed to come within a few feet of the Holy Father; thus I could scrutinise his countenance from nearby and discern the colour in his cheeks, the light in his eyes and even his complexion.

I am not a physician, nor am I a seer. It was perhaps only my hunger to know the truth that stimulated my faculties of observation to an almost supernatural degree, beyond the confines of common experience, thus enabling me to see that there was not a trace of sickness in him. He had the face of one who has suffered greatly, that is true; but his suffering was of the soul, long wracked by anxiety for the fate of Vienna. Just next to me, I heard two aged prelates whisper that, upon receiving the joyous news of the victory, Innocent XI had been seen weeping like a child, kneeling on the ground and wetting the tiles of his chamber with his compassionate tears.

But sick, no, that he was not; this was clear from his luminous expression, his rosy complexion, and lastly from the brief but vigorous movement with which he mounted the step to his carriage before disappearing into it. Not far off, I suddenly descried the placid face of Tiracorda. He was surrounded by a group of young men (perhaps his students, I thought). Before the strong hand of a pontifical guard pushed me back, I had time to overhear Tiracorda: "But no, you are too kind. It is through no merit of mine… It was the hand of the Lord: after the happy victory, I no longer needed to do anything."

Now I was certain. Once he had learned of the victory at Vienna, the Pontiff had felt better and leeching had become pointless. The Pope was safe and sound. Dulcibeni had failed.

I remarked that I was not alone in knowing this. A little way off in the crowd, I recognised, without myself being seen, the agitated and suspicious visage of Abbot Melani.

I returned to the monastery on my own, lost in the crush of people swarming homeward in disorder, without catching sight of Abbot Melani or making any attempt to retrace him. All around me, exuberant comments abounded: on the ceremony, the health of the Pope, and his glorious work for Christendom. Quite by chance, I found myself in the midst of a group of Capuchin friars, who wended their way cheerfully, waving torches and thus perpetuating the rejoicings of the Te Deum. From their conversation I gleaned a number of curious details (the truth of which I was to ascertain during the months that followed) of what had taken place during the siege of Vienna. The fathers spoke of reports received from Marco d’Aviano, the Capuchin friar who had so valiantly dedicated himself to the League against the Turks. At the end of the siege-I heard them tell this with their tongues loosened by emotion-the Polish king had disobeyed the orders of Emperor Leopold and had made his solemn entry into Vienna, acclaimed as victor by all the Viennese. The Emperor, as he himself had confessed to Marco d’Aviano, envied him not for his triumph, but for the love his subjects bore him; all Vienna had seen Leopold abandon the capital to its fate, escaping like a thief, and now they were enthusiastically cheering a foreign king who had just risked his life, that of his people, and even that of his firstborn son, to save it from the Turks. Obviously, the Habsburg monarch would now exact payment from Sobieski for what he had done. When they did at last meet, the Emperor was peevish and icy. "I am petrified," Sobieski confessed to his people.

"But then the Lord has so arranged matters that all will be for the best," concluded one of the Capuchins, conciliatingly.

"Yes, indeed, if God so wills it," echoed one of his brothers. "In the end, all is for the best."

Those wise words still echoed in my head when, on the next day, I was informed by Cristofano that within a few days we would all be freed from the restrictions of the quarantine. Taking advantage of the festive spirit, the doctor had succeeded in persuading the authorities that there was no longer the slightest danger of any infection. The only person still in need of assistance was Pompeo Dulcibeni, whose condition was explained to the guards by an accidental fall down the stairs of the Donzello. As for Dulcibeni himself, he was, alas, a candidate for perpetual immobility. Cristofano would be able to help him for a few more days; then he too would be returning to the Grand Duchy of Tuscany. Who would take care, I thought to myself with a bitter smile, of the man who had attempted to assassinate the Pope?