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Night the Fourth

Between the 14th and 15th September, 1683

This time we traversed the series of galleries under the Donzello more swiftly and more safely. I had brought with me Pellegrino's broken fishing rod, but Abbot Melani was opposed to inspecting the ceiling of the tunnels, as we had done when we had discovered the trapdoor to the upper cavity. We were, he reminded me, due at an important meeting; and in view of the circumstances of that encounter, there could be no question of delay. He then noticed my surly face and remembered that he had seen me descending from Gloridia's little tower. An amused smile played on his lips and he intoned:

Speranza, al tuo pallore so che non speripiu.

E pur non lasci tu di lusingarmi il core…*

I had no desire to be entertained and decided to silence Atto by putting to him the question which had been on my mind ever since I had overheard Brenozzi. The abbot stopped abruptly.

"Am I an abbot? But what kind of question is that?"

I begged his pardon and said that never would I have wished to put such inappropriate queries to him, but Signor Angiolo Brenozzi had spoken at great length with Stilone Priaso from his window and in the course of that conversation, many things had been recounted and many considerations touched upon, amongst which, the conduct of the Most Christian King in his dealings with the Sublime Porte and the Holy See; and among the many words exchanged, the Venetian had expressed the opinion that Melani was no more an abbot than Count Donhoff. * Hope, from your pallor /I know you hope no more. / And yet you do not cease / From flattering my heart…

"Count Donhoff… How clever of him!" hissed Atto Melani sardonically, hastening at once to explain. "Obviously, you have no idea who Donhoff is. It should suffice for your purposes to know that he is the Diplomatic Resident of Poland in Rome, and that during these months of war with the Turks, he has been very, very busy. To give you an idea, the money which Innocent XI is sending to Poland for the war against the Turks also passes through his hands."

"And what would that have to do with you?"

"It is no more than a low and offensive insinuation. Count Jan Kazimierz Donhoff is indeed not an abbot: he is a Commander of the Order of the Holy Spirit, Bishop of Cesena and Cardinal with the title of San Giovanni a Porta Latina. I, on the other hand, am Abbot of Beaubec with letters patent from His Majesty Louis XIY confirmed by the Royal Council. What Brenozzi means is that I am an abbot only by the will of the King of France, and not the Pope. And how did they come to this question of abbots?" he asked, as we moved on once more.

I gave him a brief account of the conversation between the pair: how Brenozzi had represented the growing power of the King of France and how the Sovereign intended to ally himself with the Sublime Porte in order to put the Emperor in difficulties and to have a free hand to pursue and consolidate his conquests, and how such designs had made him an enemy of the Pontiff.

"Interesting," commented Melani. "Our glass-blower detests the French Crown and, judging by his hostile remarks, his feelings for yours truly can scarcely be sympathetic. I shall do well to bear that in mind."

Then he looked at me with narrowed eyes, showing clear signs of annoyance. He knew that he owed me an explanation concerning his abbot's title.

"Do you know what the Right of Regalia is?"

"No, Signor Atto."

"It is the right to appoint bishops and abbots and to have title to their property."

"Therefore it is one of the Pope's rights."

"No, no… One moment!" broke in Atto. "Listen carefully, for this is one of those things which will serve you well in the future, when you are a gazetteer. The question is a sensitive one: who owns church property, when it is on French soil? The Pope or the King? Remember: this concerns not only the right to appoint bishops and to grant ecclesiastical benefices and prebends, but the material ownership of convents, abbeys and land."

"Indeed… it is hard to tell."

"I know. In point of fact the pontiffs and the kings of France have been squabbling over this for the past four hundred years or so because, obviously, no king will voluntarily cede a piece of his kingdom to a pope."

"And has the issue been resolved?"

"Yes, but the peace was broken with the arrival of this pope, Innocent XI. In the last century, the jurists finally came to the conclusion that the right of regalia belonged to the King of France. And, for a long time, no one queried that decision. Now, however, two French bishops (note the coincidence: both Jansenists) have reopened the matter with Innocent XI immediately extending his support to them. Thus, the dispute has resumed."

"In other words, were it not for Our Lord the Pope, there would be no discussion whatsoever concerning the question of regalia."

"Of course not. Only he could have hatched the idea of so clumsily disturbing relations between the Holy See and the Firstborn Son of the Church."

"If I understand correctly, you, Signor Atto, were appointed abbot by the King of France and not by the Pope," I concluded, scarcely concealing my surprise.

He replied with a mumbled assent, stepping up his pace.

I gained the distinct impression that Atto Melani did not desire to wish the matter any further. I, however, had at last rid myself of a doubt, which had taken hold when I was in the kitchen, listening to Cristofano, Stilone Priaso and Devize recount Atto's obscure past to one another. That doubt had deepened when we examined the torn page from the Bible found by the corpisantari. His scant familiarity with the Holy Scriptures now coincided with his revelations concerning the right of regalia, which permitted the King of France to make an abbot of whomsoever he wished.

I was, then, not in the presence of a true churchman, but of a mere castrato singer who had received a title and a living from Louis XIV.

"Do not place overmuch trust in Venetians," resumed Atto, breaking in on my thoughts at that very moment. "To understand their nature, one need only observe how they behave with the Turks."

"What do you mean to say?"

"The truth is that the Venetians, with their galleys full of spices, fabrics and all manner of goods, have always maintained a rich commerce with the Turks. Now, their trade is falling off, with the arrival on the scene of superior competitors, among them the French. And I can well imagine what else Brenozzi will have told you: that the Most Christian King hopes Vienna will fall so that he can then invade the German Electorates and the Empire and share all the spoils with the Sublime Porte. That is why Brenozzi mentioned Donhoff: he meant that perhaps I was in Rome to lend a hand to some French plot. It is indeed from this city that, by the will of Innocent XI, money is convoyed for the relief of besieged Vienna."

"While in fact that is not the case," I added, almost as though I were demanding some confirmation.

"I am not here to set traps for Christians, my boy. And the Most Christian King does not conspire with the Divan," was his grave reply.

He then added solemnly: "Remember: crows fly in flocks; the eagle flies alone."

"What does that mean?"

"It means: use your head. If everyone tells you to go to the right, you go to the left."

"But, in your opinion, is it or is it not legitimate to form an alliance with the Turks?"

There followed a long pause, until Melani, without once raising his eyes to meet mine, pronounced these words: "No scruple should prevent His Majesty from renewing today the alliances which so many Christian kings before him have formed with the Porte."

There had, he went on to explain, been dozens of cases in which Christian kings and princes had made pacts with the Ottoman Porte. Florence, to name only one example, had sought Mehmet II's assistance against Ferdinand I, King of Naples. Venice, in order to expel from the Levant the Portuguese who were disturbing its trade, had used the forces of the Sultan of Egypt. Emperor Ferdinand of Habsburg had not only allied himself with but become a vassal and tributary of Soliman, of whom he had, as a humble supplicant, begged to be granted the throne of Hungary. When Philip II set out to conquer Portugal, in order to obtain the good offices of the king of nearby Morocco, he had made a present to him of one of his possessions, thus placing Christian lands in the hands of the Infidels: and this, for the sole purpose of despoiling a Catholic monarch. Even Popes Paul III, Alexander VI and Julius II had, when necessary, gone to the Turks for assistance.

Naturally enough, the question had been raised several times among the casuist fathers and in the Catholic schools as to whether those Christian princes had sinned in so doing. However, almost all the Italian, German and Spanish authors considered that this was not the case, and they had arrived at the conclusion that a Christian prince might succour an Infidel in war against another Christian prince.

"Their opinion," the abbot expounded, "is grounded in authority and in reason. The authority is drawn from the Bible. Abraham fought for the King of Sodom, and David against the children of Israel; not to mention the alliances formed by Solomon with King Hiram, or that of the Maccabees with Sparta and with Rome-in other words, with pagans."

How well Atto knows the Bible, I thought, when it deals with politics.

"Reason, however," continued the abbot with an expression of firm conviction, "is founded on the notion that God is the author of nature and of religion: therefore, it cannot be said that what is just in nature is not just in religion, unless some divine precept obliges us to consider it so. Now, in this instance, there are no divine precepts which condemn such alliances, especially where they are necessary, and the right of nature renders honest all reasonable instruments upon which our preservation depends."

Having thus concluded his diatribe, Abbot Melani scrutinised me again from under didactically raised eyebrows.

"Do you mean to say that the King of France may form an alliance with the Divan for purposes of legitimate self-defence?" I asked, still a trifle dubious.

"Of course: in order to defend his states and the Catholic religion from the Emperor Leopold I whose base scheming runs contrary to all laws, both human and divine. Leopold in fact formed an alliance with the heretical Dutch, and was thus the first to betray the True Faith. But in that event, no one uttered so much as a word of comment or condemnation. Everyone is, however, always ready to inveigh against France, which is guilty only of having rebelled against the constant threat of the Habsburgs and the other princes of Europe.

Louis XIV has, since the beginning of his reign, fought like a lion in order not to end up being crushed."

"Crushed by whom?"

"By the Habsburgs, in the first place, who surround France on the east and the west; on the one hand, the Empire of Vienna, on the other, Madrid, Flanders and the Spanish dominions in Italy. While, from the north, heretical England threatens, together with Holland, which commands the seas. And, as though all that were not enough, the Pope himself is France's enemy."

"But if so many states say that the Most Christian King endangers Europe's liberty, there must surely be some truth to the assertion. You too told me that he…"

"What I said to you about the King is completely irrelevant. Never, never make irrevocable judgements, and consider every single case as though it were the first you had ever encountered. Remember that, in relations between states, absolute evil does not exist. Above all, never assume that condemnation of one party implies the honesty of the other: in most cases, both are guilty. And the victims, once they have changed places with their tormentors, will commit the same atrocities. Remember all this, otherwise you will play into the hands of Mammon."

The abbot paused, as though to reflect, and heaved a melancholy sigh.

"Do not chase after the mirage of human justice," he continued, with a bitter smile, "for when you reach it, you will find only that from which you hoped to flee. God alone is just. Be wary especially of whoever loudly proclaims justice and charity, while accusing his adversaries of being creatures of the devil. That is no king, but a tyrant; no sovereign, but a despot; he is faithful not to the gospel of God but to that of hatred."

"It is so difficult to judge!" I exclaimed disconsolately.

"Less than you think. I told you, crows fly in flocks, the eagle flies alone."

"Will knowing all these things help me to become a gazetteer?"

"No. It will be a hindrance to you."

We proceeded for a while without another word being uttered. The abbot's maxims had left me speechless, and silently I turned them over in my mind. I was especially surprised by the ardour with which Melani had defended the Most Christian King, whom he had presented to me in a dark and arrogant guise when narrating the Fouquet affair. I admired Atto, even if my youth did not yet enable me fully to comprehend the precious teachings which he had just imparted to me.

"Know, in short," added Abbot Melani, "that the King of France has no need to plot against Vienna: if the Empire should fall, it will have been brought down by the cowardice of the Emperor Leopold himself: when the Turks drew too close to Vienna, he fled like a thief in the night, while the desperate and angry populace rained blows against his carriage. Our Brenozzi should know this perfectly well, since the Venetian ambassador to Vienna was also a witness to that wretched scene. Hearken to Brenozzi's words, if you will; but do not forget that when Pope Odescalchi enjoined Europe to resist the Ottomans, apart from France, only one power ignored the call: Venice."

I was thus doubly silenced. Not only had Atto Melani convincingly refuted Brenozzi's accusations against France, diverting them against Leopold I and Venice; he had also clearly understood the mistrust which the glass-blower had tried to engender against him. I was, however, allowed no time in which to reflect upon my companion's sagacity for we had already reached the dark lair in which, a day or so before, Ugonio and Ciacconio had tried to ambush us. A few minutes later, as promised, the pair of tomb robbers appeared.

As I had occasion to observe later, it was never possible to know with any certainty where these two obscure beings had emerged from. Their arrival was generally heralded by a pungent odour of goat, or of mildewed food, or of damp straw, or more simply by that fetid smell typical of the beggars who slouched through the streets of Rome. Then, in the dark, their curved profile would be gradually revealed. Anyone seeing this for the first time would take it for the epiphany of some creature out of the Underworld.

"And do you call this thing a map?" raged Abbot Melani. "You are two beasts, that is what you are. Boy, take this and use it to wipe Pellegrino's fundament."

Scarcely had all four of us sat down around the lantern to conclude the business which had been settled the night before than abbot Melani gave vent to his fury. He passed me the piece of paper which Ciacconio had given him, on examining which I was unable to withhold a gesture of disappointment.

We had made a pact with the corpisantari: we would return to them the scrap of Bible, which they so coveted, only if they prepared for us an accurate plan of the passages which they knew stretched through the bowels of the city, from under the locanda. We were ready to honour our commitment (partly because Atto thought that the corpisantari might be useful to us on other occasions) and we had brought the blood-soaked paper with us. In exchange, however, we had received nothing but that dirty little scrap, which a long time previously must have been paper. On it was visible only a crazed tangle of hundreds of tremulous, indeciperable lines, of which one could often find the beginning but not the end, and which it was barely possible to distinguish from the natural folds of the paper. The latter, on closer examination, could not hold together for long before crumbling into a thousand pieces. Atto was beside himself and spoke to me as though the pair before us, swept aside by his scorn, did not even exist.

"We should have thought of this. Those who spend their lives rooting around under the earth like beasts cannot be capable of anything else. Now; if we are to be able to move around down here, we shall need their help."

"Gfrrrlubh," protested Ciacconio, clearly offended.

"Silence, animal! Now you are to listen to me: you will get back your page from the Bible only when I decide to give it. I know your names: I am a friend of Cardinal Cybo, the Pope's Secretary of State. I can so arrange matters that the relics which you find will not be authenticated, and that no one will buy any more of the rubbish which you gather down here. I shall therefore avail myself of your services, Malachi or no Malachi. And now show me how one gets out into the open air."

The corpisantari were shaken by a tremor of alarm. Then Ciacconio placed himself despondently at the head of our quartet and gestured to a vague point in the dark.

"I do not know how they manage," murmured Atto Melani, understanding my concern, "but they always find their way in darkness, like rats, without any lantern. Have no fear, let us follow them."

The way out to the Piazza Navona, which we took thanks to the guidance of the two corpisantari, emerged from under the ground more or less opposite the stairway which one must descend when coming from the Donzello. To get there we had, however, to pass through a hole so suffocatingly tight that even Ugonio and Ciacconio, whose horribly twisted and deformed backs rendered the task easier for them, had clumsily to crouch and scramble in order to get through. Atto cursed at the effort, and because he had just soiled his cuffs and his fine red stockings with the damp earth against which we had to squeeze.

The abbot was most curious to behold, he who spent his days cloistered in his chamber and his nights under the ground, clothed always in the most precious materials: Genoese satin, serge, ratteen from Spain, silk bourette, striped poplin, camlet from Flanders, drugget, Irish linen; and all stitched with the finest embroidery, with gold and silver thread and plaques, pleated, and garnished with fringes, lace, tassels, bows, ribbons and braiding. In truth, he had no ordinary apparel in his portmanteau, and thus these splendid creations were doomed to a wretched, premature end.

Beyond the narrow tunnel, we found ourselves in a gallery similar to those which came from the Donzello. Just as I was emerging (more easily than the others) from that tight passage, a question began to gnaw at me. Abbot Melani had, until that moment, shown himself to be most keen to surprise the thief of the keys and of the marguerites, who might perhaps have something to do with the death of Signor di Mourai. To me he had subsequently confided how he had come to Rome in order to resolve the mystery of Fouquet's alleged presence in the city. I suddenly found myself wondering whether the first justification was sufficient cause for his zeal in the pursuit of our nocturnal peregrinations. And thus I came very close to doubting the second pretext. Too flattered by the possibility of close acquaintance with that individual, who was as extraordinary as the circumstances under which I had come to know him, I decided that the time had not yet come to follow up such questionings. At that moment, we set off into the darkness, barely assisted by the weak light of our two lanterns.

A few dozen yards along the new gallery, we came to a bifurcation: to our left, a second passage of the same dimensions led away from the main one. A few steps further, and we found yet another fork: a sort of cavern opened up to our right, without revealing what it concealed in its depths.

"Gfrrrlubh," said Ciacconio, breaking the silence which had descended upon the group since we began our march.

"Explain!" Atto commanded harshly, turning to Ugonio.

"Ciacconio says that one may also exitate via this egression."

"Very well. Then why are we not doing so?"

"Ciacconio knows not whether you desiderate to exitate to the surface via that egression or, decreasing the scrupules so as not to increase one's scruples,* you would rather be gratified to benefit from a less hazardous itinerary."

"You would like to know whether we would prefer to emerge from here or elsewhere. And how am I to know? Let us do it this way: let us take a look down here and try to work out what we should best attempt. It will not take us long to gain an idea of these accursed galleries."

"Gfrrrlubh?" inquired Ciacconio curiously, turning to his companion.

"Ciacconio dubitates whether he has correctally comprehensified," announced Ugonio, translating for Atto.

"I said: let us take a quick look at the galleries down here, as that should not be too complicated. Are we all agreed?" * This means: "By decreasing the dosage of medicine rather than increase the doubts about the Tightness of one's course of action." A scruple (or scrupule) is, among other things, a small unit of weight. The point is to do as little harm as possible. (Translator's note.)

It was then that Ugonio and Ciacconio exploded into thick, bestial, almost demonic laughter, emphasised by obscene and joyous rolling in the filthy mud on which we were walking and by guttural grunting and explosive peptic exhalations. Grotesque and almost painful blubbering completed the picture of our two corpisantari, utterly incapable of any self-restraint.

Once the beast-like wallowing had come to an end and the two relic- hunters had calmed down somewhat, we obtained a few clarifications.

In his own highly coloured jargon, Ugonio explained that he and his companion had found the idea of exploring breviter et commoditer the passages in that area, or indeed throughout the city, most surprising, seeing that for many years the two corpisantari had, along with innumerable others, been endeavouring to understand whether the ways of the buried city had a beginning, a middle or an end; and whether the human mind could reduce them to a rational order or, more modestly, whether there so much as existed any certain way of reaching safety, if one were to become lost in its depths. That was why, continued Ugonio, the map of underground Rome which the two corpisantari had prepared for us would have been invaluable and we should have appreciated it. No one had hitherto attempted the audacious undertaking of representing the whole of subterranean Rome; and few, apart from Ugonio and Ciacconio, could boast so detailed a knowledge of the network of tunnels and caverns. Yet so precious a repository of subterranean intelligence (to which in all probability no one else was privy, as Ugonio was once more at pains to stress) had not met with our favour, and so…

Atto and I glanced at each other.

"Where is the map?" we asked in unison.

"Gfrrrlubh," said Ciacconio with a half-suffocated voice, opening his arms disconsolately.

"Ciacconio respectifies the cholerical rejection proffered by your most sublimated and cosmical decisionary," said Ugonio impassively, while his companion lowered his head and, with a horrid regurgitation, vomited into the palm of his hand a mush in which, alas, were recognisable a few fragments of the scrap on which the map had been drawn.

No one came forward to save what remained of the map.

"Being more padre than parricide, whensoever Ciacconio (or one of his acquaintances) finds a matter not to his approbriation, he avails himself of his mandibles."

We were confounded. The map (of which we had only now learned the importance) had been devoured by Ciacconio who, according to his colleague, was in the habit of swallowing whatever was disagreeable to himself or to his acquaintances. The precious drawing, now almost digested, was lost forever.

"But what else does he eat?" I asked, appalled.

"Gfrrrlubh," said Ciacconio, shrugging his shoulders, and indicating that he really did not care too much what crossed the threshold of his jaws.

Ciacconio informed us that the second bifurcation, the one which at first resembled a little grotto and turned off to the right, certainly led up to the surface, but the way was rather long. Atto decided that it would be worth exploring the first turning, which led to the left. We turned back and entered the gallery. We had walked only a few score yards when Ugonio caught Atto's attention by pulling hard at his sleeve.

"Ciacconio has scented a presence in the galleria."

"The two monsters think that there is someone in the vicinity," murmured Atto.

"Gfrrrlubh," confirmed Ciacconio, pointing to the tunnel from which we had emerged.

"Perhaps we are being followed. I and Ciacconio shall wait here, in the dark," decided Abbot Melani. "You two, however, will proceed slowly with both lanterns lit. Thus, we shall be able to intercept him when he follows your light."

I did not welcome the prospect of remaining alone with Ugonio, but we all obeyed without a murmur. Melani and Ciacconio stayed hidden in the dark. Suddenly, I felt my heart beating harder, while my breath became shorter.

Ugonio and I advanced for twenty or thirty paces, then we stopped and listened intently. Nothing.

"Ciacconio has scented a presence and a foliage," Ugonio muttered to me.

"Do you mean to say a leaf?"

Ugonio nodded in affirmation.

A figure could be vaguely discerned in the gallery. I tensed all my muscles for I knew not what: to attack, to face an attacker; more probably, to flee.

It was Atto. He gestured that we should join him.

"The stranger was not following us," he announced as soon as we had rejoined him. "He is proceeding alone, and he has taken the main gallery, that which goes straight, after the narrow hole. It is we who shall follow him. We must make haste, or we may lose him."

We caught up with Ciacconio, who was waiting for us, motionless as a statue, leaning forward into the darkness with the tip of his nose.

"Gfrrrlubh."

"Mascular, juvenilious, robustious, scarified," pronounced Ugonio.

"Male, youthful, in good health, frightened," translated Atto under his breath. "I cannot bear them, those two."

We turned to the left, again taking the main conduit and keeping a single lantern lit with as small a flame as possible. After advancing for a few minutes, we at last glimpsed before us a faint and distant glimmer. It was the lamp borne by our prey. Atto gestured to me to extinguish our own lantern. We walked on tiptoe, striving to move noiselessly.

For a good stretch, we followed the mysterious traveller, without, however, being able to catch sight of him, because the gallery curved slightly to the right. If we were to move too far forward he in turn might catch sight of us, in which case there was a risk that he might flee.

Suddenly, from under my foot there came a slight crackling. I had trodden on a dry leaf.

We halted with bated breath. The individual stopped, too. Absolute silence enveloped the gallery. We heard a rhythmic rustling grow steadily nearer. A shadow cast by the light of the man we were following stretched out towards us. We prepared for a clash. The two corpisantari remained motionless, impenetrable behind their cowls. In the penumbra, I descried a faint gleam in Atto's hand. Despite my fear, I managed a smile: it was surely his pipe. Then, where the gallery curved, came the revelation.

We had been following a monster. On the left-hand side of the cavity, the light of the stranger's lantern revealed the shadow of a horrible hooked arm. There followed a pointed, oblong cranium, from which sprouted disgustingly thick and robust fur. The body was formless and out of proportion. An infernal being, which we had imagined we could surprise, crawled forward menacingly as it approached our little group. We stood as though frozen. The silhouette of the monster took one, two, three paces forward. It was on the point of appearing round the corner of the gallery. It stopped.

"Go away!"

We all gave a start, and I felt my strength drain away from me. The shadow on the wall became enormous, deformed beyond any logical expectation. Then it shrank, regaining normal proportions, while the being itself appeared before our eyes in flesh and blood.

It was a rat the size of a little dog, with a clumsy, uncertain gait. Instead of springing away rapidly upon seeing us (like the sewer rat which I and Atto had run into during the course of our first incursion into the subterranean world), the big creature advanced laboriously, indifferent to our presence. The lantern had projected its silhouette onto the wall of the gallery, magnifying it enormously.

"Disgusting brute, you frightened me!" said the voice again. The light began to move away from us again. Before darkness descended upon us once more, I exchanged a glance with Atto. Like me, he had no difficulty in recognising the voice of Stilone Priaso.

Having left the dying rat behind us, we patiently continued on our way. The surprising revelation had provoked in me a turmoil of suppositions and suspicions. I knew very little about Stilone Priaso, beyond what he had let slip. He called himself a poet, yet it was clear that he did not live by verse alone. His clothing, although not luxurious, revealed a degree of affluence far beyond that of a mere poetaster of circumstance. I had immediately suspected that the true source of his income must be very different. And now, his inexplicable presence in those underground passages rekindled my every doubt.

We followed him for another stretch, to a stairway which led upwards and which suddenly became narrow and suffocating. We were now in darkness. We moved in single file, led by Ciacconio, who had no difficulty in following in the tracks of Stilone Priaso. At the same time, he sensed the variations in the terrain and communicated them to me, who came second in the group, by means of rapid taps on my shoulder.

Suddenly, Ciacconio halted, then moved on again. The steps had come to an end. I felt a new air caressing my face. From the faint echo of our footfalls, I surmised that the space we had entered was quite vast. Ciacconio hesitated. Atto asked me to light the lantern.

Great was my confusion when, half-blinded by the light, we looked around us. We were in an enormous artificial cavity, the walls of which were entirely covered with frescoes. In the middle, there stood a great marble object, which I was unable as yet to distinguish clearly. Ugonio and Ciacconio too seemed out of their element in this unknown place.

"Gfrrrlubh," complained Ciacconio.

"The malodour conceals the presence," explained Ugonio.

He referred to the strong odour of stale urine which reigned in this room. Atto stared transfixed at the paintings which looked down on us. One could distinguish birds, the faces of women, athletes, rich floral decorations and everywhere a gay abundance of ornamentation.

"We have no time," said he, immediately breaking the spell. "He cannot just disappear like this."

We quickly found two exits. Ciacconio had regained his composure and showed us which, judging by his nose, was the right one to take. He guided us at a frenetic pace through a maze of other rooms, which we were unable to take in, because of our haste and the weak light of our lantern. The absence of windows, of fresh air and of any human presence proved that we were, however, still under the ground.

"These are Roman ruins," said Atto with a hint of excitement. "We may be under the Palace of the Chancellery."

"Have you ever been in there?"

"But of course. I knew the Vice-Chancellor, Cardinal Barberini, very well; he requested a number of favours of me, too. The palace is magnificent and the halls grandiose, even the travertine fagades are not bad, although…"

He had to break off, because Ciacconio was making us climb a staircase which rose, perilously devoid of any handrail, through the dull emptiness of another great cavity. We all joined hands. The stairs seemed endless.

"Gfrrrlubh," exulted Ciacconio at the top, pushing open a door that led to the street. Thus, half-dead with fear and fatigue, we again found ourselves in the open.

Instinctively I filled my lungs, heartened, after five days of quarantine inside the Donzello, by the fine, refreshing night air.

For once, I could make myself useful. I immediately recognised at once where we were, having been there several times with Pellegrino who purchased provisions for the Donzello at this place. It was the

Arco degli Acetari, near to the Campo di Fiore and Piazza Farnese. Ciacconio, his nose in the air once more, immediately dragged us towards the broad open space of Campo di Fiore. A light drizzle silently swept over us. In the piazza we saw only two beggars curled up on the ground near to their poor possessions, and a boy who was pushing a hand cart towards an alleyway. We came to the opposite end of the piazza and suddenly Ciacconio pointed out a small building to us. We were in a familiar street, the name of which escaped me. No light came from the windows of the building. At ground level, however, a door was ajar. The street was empty, but in order to exercise the greatest possible caution, Ugonio and Ciacconio mounted guard on either side of us. We drew near: the muffled sound of a distant voice reached us. With extreme caution, I pushed the door open. A little staircase led down to where, behind another half-open door, light seemed to be issuing from a room. The voice came from there, joined now by that of the person addressed.

Atto preceded me until we reached the foot of the stairs. There, we realised that we were walking on a veritable carpet of scattered leaves. Atto was gathering some of these up, when suddenly the voices drew nearer, just behind the half-closed door.

"… and here are forty scudi," we heard one of the pair say.

We rushed up the stairs and went out of the street door, taking care, however, to leave it ajar, so as not to raise any suspicions. With Ugonio and Ciacconio we hid by the corner of the building.

Our aim had been true: Stilone Priaso emerged from the door. He glanced around him and walked rapidly towards the Arco degli Acetari.

"And what now?"

"Now let us open the cage," replied Atto. He murmured something to Ugonio and Ciacconio, who replied with a sordid and cruel smile. And off they trotted on the trail of Stilone.

"And what about us?" I asked, covered in confusion.

"We are going home, but calmly. Ugonio and Ciacconio will await us underground, after completing a certain little errand."

We returned by a more circuitous route, avoiding crossing the middle of the Campo di Fiore, so as not to be seen by anyone. We were, Atto mentioned in passing, not far from the French embassy and there was a risk of being surprised by the night guard. Thanks to his acquaintances, he could even have asked for asylum. But at that hour, rather than arrest us, the embassy's Corsican guards might perhaps have preferred to rob us and cut our throats.

"As you may know, in Rome there exists 'the freedom of the quarter': meaning that the Pontiff's men and the Bargello can arrest no one in the quarter of the embassies. This arrangement is, however, becoming all too convenient for fugitive assassins. That is why the Corsican guards do not waste much time on subtleties. My brother Alessandro, who is maestro di cappella to Cardinal Pamphili, has absented himself from Rome at the present time. Otherwise he could have provided us with an escort."

We returned under the ground. Thanks be to heaven, our lanterns were undamaged. We walked through the subterranean labyrinth in search of the hall with the frescoes, and we were on the point of giving ourselves up for lost when, from some unknown passageway, the corpisantari appeared at our side.

"Did you have a pleasant conversation?" asked Atto.

"Gfrrrlubh!" answered Ciacconio with a smug grin.

"What did you do to him?" I asked with concern.

"Gfrrrlubh."

His grunt calmed my fears. I had the bizarre impression that I was, by some obscure means, beginning to understand the corpisantaro monochord language.

"Ciacconio has but affrighted him," assured Ugonio.

"Suppose that you had never seen our two friends," explained Atto, "then imagine them both jumping upon you screaming, in a dark underground passage. Next, suppose that they asked you a favour, in exchange for which they would leave you in peace, what would you do?"

"I should certainly do whatever they asked!"

"There you are, they merely inquired of Stilone what he had just been up to, and why."

Ugonio's account, briefly, ran as follows. Poor Stilone Priaso had visited the shop of a certain Komarek, who from time to time worked in the printing press of the Congregatio De Propaganda Fide, and at night undertook a few clandestine jobs on his own to supplement his earnings. Komarek printed gazettes, anonymous letters, perhaps even books placed on the Index: all prohibited material, for which he ensured that he was very well paid. Stilone Priaso had commissioned him to print a few letters containing political predictions, on behalf of a friend in Naples. In exchange, the two were to share the profits. That was why he was in Rome.

"And the Bible, then?" asked Atto.

No, said Ugonio, Stilone knew absolutely nothing about any Bibles. And he had taken nothing from Komarek's shop, not even a single page.

"So it was not he who lost the bloodstained page underground. Are you sure that he told the truth?"

"Gfrrrlubh," sniggered Ciacconio.

"The scarified presence did pissify upon himself," explained Ugonio gleefully.

To complete their good work, the pair had searched Stilone Priaso, finding on him a minuscule and much fingered booklet which he probably always kept under his clothing. Atto scrutinised it by the light of the lantern, as we were setting out on our return journey:

ASTROLOGICALL TREATISE CONCERNING THE INFLUENCES OF THE HEAVENLY BODIES

Pro, and Contra Matters Sublunary for the entire Year 1683

CALCULATED FOR THE LONGITUDE, AND LATITUDE

of the Most Serene City of Florence

BY BARTOLOMMEO ALBIZZINI OF FLORENCE

and by the Same Dedicated to the most Illustr. Lord, and most Ven. Patron Sig.

GIO: CLAUDIO BUONVISI

Ambassador of the Most Illustrious amp; Excellent Republic of Lucca to His Most Serene Highness Cosimo III. Grand Duke of Tuscany

"Tut tut, an astrological gazette," exclaimed Atto with great amusement.

Son faci le Stelle che spirano ardore…*

He trilled melodiously, arousing in Ciacconio grunts of admiration.

"Ooohh, castricated cantor!" applauded Ugonio, with a servile expression.

"A gazetteer, that much I had understood," continued Atto without paying any attention to th e corpisantari. "But that Stilone * The Stars are torches / Which inspire ardour…

Priaso should be a judicial astrologer, no, that I could not have imagined."

"Why did you suspect that Stilone was a gazetteer?"

"Intuition. However, a poet he could surely not be. Poets are of melancholy humour, and, unless they have a prince or a cardinal to protect them, I can recognise them at once. They will read you their doggerel on the slightest pretext, they are poorly dressed, and they invariably try to get themselves invited to one's table. Stilone, however, had the apparel, the words and the eyes of one who 'has a well-lined belly', as they say in his part of the world. At the same time, however, his is a reserved character like, for example, that of Pompeo Dulcibeni, nor does he talk out of place, as Robleda is wont to do."

"What does judicial astrology mean?"

"You will of course know more or less what astrologers do?"

"Yes, more or less: they try to foretell the future by means of the stars."

"In general, that is so. But that is not all. You would do well to bear in mind what I am about to tell you, if you really intend to become a gazetteer. Astrologers are divided into two categories: astrologers pure and simple and judicial astrologers. Both are agreed that the stars and planets, besides producing light and heat, have mysterious qualities, whereby they exercise a number of effects upon inferior bodies."

We were now moving through the long curved gallery in which we had been terrorised by the rodent's shadow.

"But judicial astrologers go beyond that, engaging in a highly perilous game," said Abbot Melani.

Not content with asserting the influence of the stars and planets upon natural things, they maintained that this extended to mankind too. Thus, knowing only the place and date of birth of an individual, they endeavoured to determine what would be the celestial effects upon that person's life, including, for instance, his character, health, fortune and misfortune, time of death, and so on and so forth.

"What does that have to do with gazetteers?"

"It has very much to do with them. For some astrologers are also gazetteers, and on the basis of the influences of the stars, they devise their political prophesies. Just like Stilone Priaso, who goes about imprudently with an almanack of horoscopes in his pocket and by night has forecasts printed."

"And is this prohibited?"

"Absolutely prohibited. It is not at all unusual for judicial astrologers and their friends, including ecclesiastics, to be meted out severe punishments. A few years ago, the problem caught my attention and I read something on the matter. Pope Alexander III, for example, suspended for one year a priest who had had recourse to astrology, despite the fact that the priest's purpose had been to recover the spoils of a theft perpetrated in his church."

Anxiously I turned the little volume confiscated from Stilone over and over in my hands, raising it to the light of the lantern.

"Almanacks like this," said Atto "I have already seen by the dozen. Some bear titles like Astrological Jests ox Astrological Phantasies, in order to allay the suspicion that they might deal with more serious matters, like judicial astrology, which is, however, capable of influencing political decisions. In themselves, admittedly, these are innocuous manuals containing advice and speculation about the current year, but certainly our Stilone can be no model of shrewdness," mocked the abbot, "if, with the dangerous trade he is plying, he haunts clandestine printing presses with such material upon his person!"

Frightened, I immediately returned the slender booklet to Atto.

"No, no, of course you can keep it," he reassured me.

Out of prudence, I nevertheless slipped it into my breeches, under my clothing.

"Do you yourself think that astrology can really be of use?" I asked.

"No, I do not. But I do know that many physicians take it seriously. I know that Galen wrote an entire book De diebus criticis, on the cures to be applied to the sick depending upon the positions of the planets. I am no astrologer, but I do know that some argue, for instance, that in order to cure bile, it is good that the moon should be in…"

"In Cancer."

We were both taken short by Ugonio's interjection.

"With the moon in Cancer, where it is domiciled, (or with Mercury) in trine," continued the corpisantaro's viscous, inspissated muttering, "the bile may felicitously be purged; with the sun in sextile, or trine, the phlegm; where there is an aspect of Jupiter, melancholy; in the sign of Draco, in Capricorn and in Aries, ruminant signs, subversion will be provoked the closer one approaches the septentrional, or austral constitution (for the vitiated humours flow in pairs) and in those boreal, increased impression and compression will provoke flux and distillation, wherefore evacuation is not to be attempted in those who are beset by the fluxes; it will therefore be beneficial and necessary to observe the aspects signified, if one is not to be a rustic physician, and would obtain more benefice than malefice, and be more padre than parricide, appeasing one's conscience, for by fulfilling one's obligations the Christian's jubilations are increased, and by decreasing the scrupules so as not to increase one's scruples, and applying the most appropriate, and indigent remedies: if, for example, one has recourse to magisterial julep."

We both remained speechless.

"Well, well, here we have a veritable expert on medical astrology," commented Abbot Melani an instant later. "And where did you learn all these precious notions?"

"Gfrrrlubh," interjected Ciacconio.

"We have multiplicated our knowingness by the lecture and memorisation of foliables."

"Foliables?" asked Atto.

Ciacconio indicated the little book in his hand.

"Ah, you mean books. Come along, boy, let us not tarry: I fear that Cristofano may take a look around the inn. It would be difficult to explain our absence."

"Stilone Priaso, too, was absent."

"No longer, I trust. After his encounter with our two little monsters he will surely have regained the hostelry as fast as his legs will carry him."

Stilone Priaso, Atto continued, had come to Rome in pursuit of his trade of judicial astrologer, in other words a nefarious business. He therefore needed a discreet way out of the Donzello at night. He must previously have discovered the underground route, since he said he had already stayed at the Donzello.

"Do you think that Stilone had something to do with the assassination of Signor di Mourai and the theft of my little pearls?"

"It is too early to tell. We must think a little about him. He will surely have visited the underground galleries any number of times. We have no such good fortune. Curses! If only we had the map prepared by Ugonio and Ciacconio, however messy and confused, that would give us an immense advantage. Fortunately, we had at least one other advantage: we knew that Stilone had been in the underground galleries, whereas he did not know about us.

"Meanwhile," added the abbot, "before you go to bed, go and take a look at him. I do not trust these two individuals," said he, turning to indicate the grinning faces of the corpisantari who followed us.

We returned all the way along the subterranean passage until we reached the mouth of the narrow hole which led to the ruins of Domitian's stadium, under the Piazza Navona. Atto dismissed the two corpisantari, making an appointment with them for an hour after nightfall the next evening, and promising a reward.

"Gfrrrlubh," protested Ciacconio.

The two corpisantari demanded the return of the page from the Bible. Atto, however, decided to keep it, since he had still not established its provenance, and indeed he handed it over to me to keep carefully. He did, nevertheless, offer the corpisantari monetary compensation.

"Fair is fair, after ail, you did prepare the plan," said he cordially as he took out the money.

Suddenly, Abbot Melani's eyes narrowed. He bent down and picked up a lump of earth which he threw at Ciacconio's shoulder, while the latter remained petrified with surprise. Then he took the page from the Bible, opened it and pressed it against Ciacconio's rustic cloak, at the point where he had just soiled it.

"Beasts, animals, bastards," said he, looking at them disdainfully. Motionless, the pair meekly awaited punishment. On the sheet of paper, a sort of dense labyrinth remained imprinted, the shape of which was all too familiar.

"Remember: never again try that kind of thing on me. Never."

He then fell silent, returning to his pocket the money which he had prepared for Ugonio and Ciacconio.

"Do you understand?" he asked me later, after their departure. "They wanted to cheat us like two idiots. They pressed the sheet of paper onto that sort of goatskin they wear. They then added a couple of scribbles, and there is your precious plan of subterranean Rome. But I-oh no! — I am not so easily duped. The figure in the middle of the map was an exact mirror image of a piece of patching on Ciacconio's shoulder: that is how I found them out!"

Exhausted, we returned to the Donzello in silence, in the depths of night.

1 was climbing the stairs after leaving Atto when, on the second floor, I glimpsed a faint gleam coming from Stilone Priaso's chamber. I remembered Abbot Melani's recommendation that I should keep an eye on the young Neapolitan. I approached the door which was slightly ajar, trying to look in.

"Who is there?" I heard him ask in a trembling voice.

I announced myself and entered. He huddled in his bed, pale and dirt-stained. In the semi-darkness, I pretended not to notice this.

"What are you doing awake at this hour, my boy?"

"My master wanted to relieve himself," I lied. "And you?"

"I… I have had a terrible nightmare. Two monsters attacked me in the dark, and then they robbed me of my books and of all the money I had on me."

"Your money too?" I asked, remembering that Ugonio and Ciacconio had made no mention of that.

"Yes, and then they asked me… well, they tortured me and gave me no quarter."

"That is terrible. You should rest."

"Impossible, I can still see them before my eyes," said he, shivering, fixing an indefinite point in the dark.

"I too have had some strange dreams recently," said I, in order to distract him, "the meaning of which was incomprehensible."

"The meaning…" repeated Stilone Priaso in a daze. "You cannot understand the meaning of dreams. You would need an expert in oneiromancy; but a real one, not a charlatan or a harlot trying to extort money from you."

I blushed on hearing these words and tried to change the subject.

"If you are not tired, I could keep you company for a while. I, too, have no desire to return to sleep tonight," I suggested, in the hope of being able to converse with the Neapolitan and perhaps to obtain from him some information useful to Abbot Melani's inquiries.

"That would not displease me. Indeed, it would be a great help to me if you could brush my clothes while I wash."

He rose and, after undressing, went to the wash-bowl, where he began to rinse his muddy hands and head. On his bed, where he had left me his clothing and a brush, I discovered a notebook on which a number of strange signs were drawn. Nearby, a number of old books, of which I scanned the titles: Myrotecium, Reverberant Chemicall Proto- Light and, finally Horoscopant Physicka/lAnti-Lampion.

"Are you interested in alchemy and horoscopes?" I asked, struck by these obscure titles.

"No, no," exclaimed Stilone turning round with a start. "It is just that they are written in rhyme and I was consulting them for inspiration. You are aware that I am a poet?

"Ah yes," said I, pretending to believe him, while 1 laboured with the brush. "And besides, astrology, if I am not mistaken, is forbidden."

"That is not exactly the case," he retorted crossly. "Only judicial astrology is prohibited."

In order not to alarm him, I pretended to be completely ignorant of the matter and thus Stilone Priaso, while rubbing his head energetically, repeated to me in doctoral tones all that Atto had already told me.

"Finally, about half a century ago," he concluded "Pope Urban VIII, in the very middle of his pontificate, unleashed the full force of his fury against judicial astrologers who, for some thirty years, had enjoyed ever-increasing tolerance and renown, even among cardinals, princes and prelates desirous of obtaining forecasts of their fortunes. It was like an earthquake, so much so that even today whoever reads destinies in the stars runs the gravest of risks."

"A pity, as it would be very useful to us now to know what end we shall come to at the Donzello: whether we shall perish in a lazaretto or come out safe and sound," I provoked him.

Stilone Priaso did not respond.

"With the help of an astrologer, we could perhaps understand whether di Mourai died of the plague or whether he was poisoned, as Cristofano maintains," I assayed once more. "Thus we protect ourselves from any further threats from the assassin."

"Forget it. Poison, more than any other lethal weapon, is concealed from the vigilant eye of the stars. It is stronger than any attempt at divination or prediction: frankly, if I had to kill someone, I would choose poison."

I felt my blood draining away on hearing those words; and here, it seemed to me, was a clue with which to follow up my suspicions.

Astrologers and poison: suddenly I recalled the conversation about poisons which had exercised our guests around the body of poor Signor di Mourai on the very evening of our incarceration. Was it not asserted that astrologers and perfumers were notably expert in the preparation of mortal poisons? And Stilone Priaso, I thought with a shiver, was a gazetteer and an astrologer, as Abbot Melani had just discovered.

"Really?" I replied, feigning candid interest. "Perhaps you already know of cases of suspected poisoning which it was impossible to foresee in the stars."

"One above all: Abbot Morandi," said Stilone, anticipating me. "That was the most compelling case."

"Who was Abbot Morandi?" I asked, ill concealing my anxiety.

"A friar, and the greatest astrologer in Rome," came his curt reply.

"How is that possible? Friar and astrologer?" I retorted, feigning incredulity.

"I shall tell you: until the end of the last century, Bishop Luca Gaurico was official astrologer to the court of no fewer than four popes. A golden age!" he sighed, "alas, gone forever."

I saw that his tongue was loosening.

"After the affair of Father Morandi?" I prompted.

"Exactly. You must know that Father Orazio Morandi, abbot of the monastery of Santa Prassede, owned-some sixty years ago-the best astrological library in Rome: a real landmark for all the astrologers of the time. He corresponded with the most noted men of letters of Rome, Milan, Florence, Naples and other cities, even outside Italy. Many were the men of letters and of science who asked his opinion on the stars, and even the unfortunate Galileo Galilei, when he sojourned in Rome, had been his guest."

At the time when these events took place, Abbot Morandi, continued Stilone, was just over fifty years of age: he was eloquent, always gay, rather tall, with a fine chestnut-coloured beard, and was onlyjust beginning to lose his hair. Astrology then enjoyed no little tolerance. Laws did exist against it, but in practice they were ignored.

Orazio Morandi's fame was at its height when (it was 1630) the abbot thought fit to state, on the basis of his astrological calculations, that Pope Urban VIII Barberini would die within the year. The abbot, before divulging this calculation, consulted with other renowned astrologers, who redid the calculations and obtained the same results.

The sole dissenter was Father Raffaello Visconti, who taught mathematics in Rome, and who thought that the Pope, so long as he did not expose himself to dangers, would not die for at least another thirteen years, in other words in 1643 or 1644. The professor was, however, not heeded by his colleagues, who all agreed on the imminent demise of Pope Barberini. The abbot of Santa Prassede's prophecy spread through Rome and the other capitals at lightning speed. Such was the abbot's renown as an astrologer that a number of Spanish cardinals made haste to leave for Rome in order to take part in the conclave, which was seen as imminent. The rumour also spread through France, so much so that Cardinal Richelieu had to beg the court of Rome to take urgent measures to put an end to this embarrassing situation.

Thus, the word reached the ears of the Pontiff himself, who was not pleased to learn, in this manner, that his last hour was approaching. On 13th July, Pope Urban VIII ordered that proceedings be opened against Abbot Morandi and his accomplices. Two days later, Morandi was gaoled in the prison of Tor di Nona, and his library and chambers sealed and searched. Soon afterwards, all twelve monks of Santa Prassede were arrested. The friars confessed and in the end Morandi himself, under pressure from the judge, revealed the names of his colleagues and friends, who in their turn gave away others' names.

"And thus the trial was concluded," said I.

"By no means," replied Stilone Priaso. "It was just at that point that matters started to become complicated."

In the concatenation of denunciations, there was a risk of embarrassing names coming to light, especially cardinals who, with their secretaries and entourages, having heard of the prediction of the coming death of Urban VIII, had requested further astrological consultations in order to know what their chances were of obtaining the Tiara. At his very first interrogation, Morandi had given his accusers a number of important names, including even that of the Pope's nephew, Cardinal Antonio Barberini.

The Pope understood at once what loomed on the horizon: a scandal which would besmirch the whole Consistory, and above all, his own family. Urban VIII therefore took preventive measures, requiring that the names of pontiffs, cardinals, prelates and even lay persons be omitted from the charges and marked in cipher in the margin, or simply left blank in the text. The decision as to whether such names should be entered would rest with him in person.

Wherever the interrogations went too far, the omissions desired by the Pope came into effect: "I know many who understand astrology. Vincenzo Bottelli was my master. He told me that many in the palace understood astrology, such as Cardinals***,*** and***, as well as ***,***,*** and also*** and***."

"In other words, cardinals galore," exclaimed Stilone. "The judge was shocked to hear so many distinguished names; he knew perfectly well that those astrological dealings were being carried out on behalf of the cardinals themselves; and that the latter ran the risk, if one single word too many were to be uttered by their servants, of being covered in dishonour. And farewell then to all hopes, for whoever might have nourished them, of ever being elected pope."

"And how did it all end?" I asked, impatient to hear what all this story had to do with poison.

"Oh, providence… saw to that," replied Stilone with a meaningful grimace. "On the 7th of November, 1630 Abbot Morandi was found dead in his cell, lying on his bed, in the modest robe and sandals which he had worn all his life."

"Killed!"

"Well, seven days later, the physician of the prison of Tor di Nona submitted his report: Morandi had died following twelve days of illness. He had caught a sextan fever which had become malignant and, in the end, fatal.'"I neither have nor saw any evidence of poison,'" confirmed the physician, supported by two other colleagues. They all, however, passed over in silence the fact that only two days previously, another prisoner detained with Morandi had died in identical circumstances after eating a cake of unknown provenance."

Persistent rumours and suspicions of poisoning circulated for months, insistent and impossible to uproot. But what did all that matter now? Father Morandi was dead, and he alone had shouldered the tremendous burden of the vices of the entire pontifical court. To the great relief of all, the veil, which had been so incautiously lifted, was hastily lowered once more.

Urban VIII, in a brief hand-written note, ordered the judge to suspend the case, granting impunity to all copyists and to the astrologers and monks, and ordering that there should be no further judicial action concerning them.

Stilone Priaso fell silent and looked at me. He had dried himself and slipped into bed, awaiting my reaction to the story.

So, in the case of Abbot Morandi, as in that of Signor di Mourai- thus I reflected as I replaced the brushed apparel on the chair-poison was concealed under the guise of illness.

"But were not all the others equally guilty?" I objected, gripped by the sad tale.

"In truth, the copyists had copied, the monks had hidden the evidence, the astrologers had speculated on the death of the Pope; and, above all, the cardinals had been involved. It would not have been unjust to punish them, but to do so it would have been necessary to reach a verdict," observed Stilone Priaso, "which would have caused a scandal. And that was precisely what the Pope wished to avoid."

"So Urban VIII did not die in that year."

"No, indeed he did not. Morandi was completely mistaken in his prophecy."

"And when did he die?"

"In 1644."

"But was that not precisely the date calculated by Father Visconti, the mathematician?"

"It was," replied Stilone Priaso. "If only the abbot of Santa Prassede had heeded the word of his friend the professor, he would truly have predicted the death of Urban VIII. Instead, he foretold his own death."

"And what happened to the astrologers after the death of Morandi?" I asked, dejected by that lugubrious observation.

"That tale is soon told: Galileo recanted, Argoli went into exile, Centini went to the stake; all this in the space of a very few years. And astrology ended up crushed under the weight of papal bulls."

Here, Stilone fell silent, as though observing a moment of mourning.

"However," he resumed, "when Abbot Morandi's prophecy of his imminent death was circulating, the Pope became very afraid that it would come true."

"So, even Urban VIII, who did so much to combat astrology, believed in it!"

"But of course! I have already told you that everyone, but everyone, in every epoch, has paid tribute to Dame Astrology," laughed Stilone Priaso, bitterly.

"Pope Barberini, so it was said, was beset by the blackest terror when the prediction of his death began to do the rounds. While he publicly professed scorn for Abbot Morandi's prophecy, in secret, he summoned a Dominican friar, Tommaso Campanella and, fearful and trembling, begged him to dispel the threat. The Dominican did what he could, sprinkling aromas and perfumes against malefic effluvia, making the Pontiff wear white vestments in order to cancel out the effects of eclipses, lighting lamps which symbolised the seven planets, and so on and so forth. But now I had better break off. Thanks be to heaven, I am again feeling a little drowsy."

It was dawn. I greeted the ending of this discussion with silent relief. I again blamed myself for having initially encouraged it. Not only had I discovered nothing about the poisoning of Signor di Mourai, or the theft of my little pearls; but, at the end of such a long an interview, I was now more confused than ever.