“Let’s try again,” repeated Simonis, paying no attention to the offer. “Ugonio, the one who talks a little weirdly . . . Make an effort.”
“I’ll take you to my house, if you like, I’ve got more money there . . .” answered the castrato, merely earning himself a series of six or seven raps on his head and face.
“At least ask him if he knows where he lives,” suggested Opalinski.
“You’re right. Did you hear my friend?”
Silence. Orsini was weeping. To make absolutely certain, Jan delivered a few more thumps, which had the opposite effect to the one desired: the castrato, clearly out of control, began to pray in a low voice. The reaction seemed too spontaneous not to be true.
“For this time we’ll let you go. But if we find out you’ve been lying, and especially if you tell anyone about this conversation, well, you’ll be in for a nasty surprise.”
Orsini had now dropped to the ground. I felt a pang for the poor musician, whom I had seen yield to the fairly restrained violence of the three students like a piece of butter to a red-hot knife. Then I thought of the dead lads, of Ugonio, and my pity for Orsini diminished.
The three now came running in my direction. They ran on past me, giving me a quick nod as they went by. I followed them almost at once, running as lightly as possible on the pavement so as not to let Orsini know that a fourth man (and one well-known to him!) had observed the solemn thrashing.
“There are two possibilities: either he’s a sly one, and tough to boot, or you’ve made a mistake,” remarked Jan Janitzki Opalinski before setting off.
We also took our leave of Penicek. Then my assistant and I made our way back to Porta Coeli.
“Let’s wait until tomorrow,” I said before separating for the night. “If Ugonio hasn’t got in touch by the afternoon, we’ll go to the Cathedral of St Stephen. We’ll look for the deacon he was going to talk to about the Archangel Michael’s message. Ugonio told us he’s a collector of relics – maybe that will help us trace him. But . . . what is it? Ah, yes, here you are: your book.”
At that moment I had found Doctor Abelius’s little handbook in my pocket. The Greek took it without saying a word. Then we took leave of one another.
Day the Seventh
WEDNESDAY, 15TH APRIL 1711
5.30 of the clock: first mass. From now on the bells will ring in succession throughout the day, announcing masses, processions, devotions. Eating houses and alehouses open.
“Tomorrow night, do you understand? They’re going to do it tomorrow night,” said Cloridia, her voice eager and anxious.
“And so? What’s the problem?”
Cloridia had once again been urgently summoned during the early hours of the day to the palace of the Prince of Savoy. The Agha would return that morning for a new audience, but not at midday as usual, but before dawn.
But just a short while later my dear wife returned from the palace. She had stolen a few minutes from her job to tell me the red-hot news she had heard.
As we already knew, the Most Serene Prince had been supposed to leave for the front the previous day, Tuesday. As His Caesarean Majesty’s condition still seemed to be improving, the condottiero had finally resolved to leave the day after tomorrow, Thursday 16th April. He had written a letter to the Emperor officially announcing his intention to leave Vienna. This last piece of news could be traced back to one of Eugene’s scribes, and so seemed more than certain. But this was not what was agitating Cloridia.
Before leaving, Eugene was to meet the Turkish Agha again. To talk about what (and at that hour, when the nobles were snoring), was a mystery, since they had seen each other just two days earlier. But nor was that the main reason for Cloridia’s anxiety.
She had had a good deal to do that morning. First, to accompany two soldiers in the Agha’s retinue to the kitchens to negotiate the unofficial purchase of liquors. Then to provide explanations for another pair of Turkish soldiers, who, beguiled by the sight of some couples behaving fairly freely during an Andacht, were asking for information about the habits of the local females (Cloridia had warned them against any harassment, which might provoke a diplomatic incident). Then she had had to obtain pen and paper for another Ottoman, a young man of a sad and contemplative temperament, who wanted to take home a sketch of Eugene’s palace. After that she had had to resolve a row over prices between the two soldiers she had earlier taken to the kitchen to buy alcoholic beverages and one of the Most Serene Prince’s cooks. Finally, Cloridia had been requested by the palace staff to remind some of the gentle guests (if the grim soldiery of the Orient could be so termed) at His Highness’s residence that it was forbidden to make souvenirs of such items as ornaments, curtains, candelabra, the precious damask upholstery of the armchairs or the stucco from the walls. Cloridia had seen to all this while the Agha made his arrival at the palace and engaged in conversation with Eugene, this time in private audience, accompanied only by the official interpreters and the closest, most trusted counsellors.
At this point my sweet little wife had heard, as she passed in the corridor, a conversation between a small group of Turks (it was impossible to tell exactly how many, perhaps three or four, including the dervish) and another, German-speaking, person. One of those present acted as interpreter: why had they not engaged Cloridia? The matter under discussion seemed to be highly confidential. And indeed it was.
Prudently putting her ear to the door, she learned that the German-speaking person was none other than the Caesarean Proto-Medicus: Doctor Mathias von Hertod.
“The Caesarean Proto-Medicus!” I exclaimed. “And what was he doing with the Turks, in Eugene’s palace, at such an antelucan hour?”
This was not the first parley between Ciezeber and the Proto-Medicus of Joseph I, Cloridia explained. The two of them, and the rest of the group, had referred to earlier conversations that they had had.
“Eavesdropping like that, of course, I couldn’t understand everything they said, but I heard the most important news almost immediately – and very clearly. Tomorrow evening the dervish will tend to Joseph.”
“Tend to him?”
“Yes, he’ll give him a treatment – that’s what I heard.”
“So he is responsible for the improvement in his condition!” I said in amazement.
“Tomorrow will be just a repetition of the treatment, and it should be decisive. Von Hertod reported that Joseph’s condition is improving continually, and so the treatment must be concluded tomorrow at all costs. If the people were to find out that the Infidels are collaborating on the Emperor’s treatment, it could give rise to a great scandal.”
As she had already said, the lion’s share of the treatment was to be carried out by Ciezeber. In the conversation at Eugene’s palace, they had talked about the dervish’s instruments, his knowledge of such procedures and of the most suitable hour to do the operation.
“Do you think the Caesarean Proto-Medicus has realised that someone is plotting the Emperor’s death?”
“I believe so, given the hour they met and the confidential nature of the meeting. The Proto-Medicus said that that at this point he could only trust Ciezeber.”
“So that was what those rituals were for, the ones the dervish carried out in the woods near the Place with No Name,” I said. “Ugonio told us they were for therapeutic purposes, but I would never have guessed who they were intended for! But,” I objected, in a more doubtful tone, “when you think about it, it’s an absurd story. We began by suspecting the Turks of wanting to poison the Emperor, and now we discover they’re actually curing him . . .”
“It’s simple,” answered Cloridia, “if the Emperor died, his brother Charles would ascend the throne and the war would be over. It sounds paradoxical, but in fact the Sultan has every interest in Joseph remaining in good health. The conflict will continue, wearing out the Empire and the other Christian powers. Isn’t it an excellent deal for the Ottomans?”
“But Abbot Melani told me that Charles has a wea
k character and Prince Eugene will persuade him to continue the war, and also that Joseph I is thinking of coming to terms with France, leaving them with Spain and keeping just Catalonia for his brother Charles. If that’s really the case, it’s more likely that the war will finish under Joseph than under Charles.”
“Maybe the Turks don’t know this.”
“That seems unlikely, at least as far as the Emperor’s peaceful intentions are concerned.”
“Then perhaps they don’t believe that Joseph’s idea is likely to succeed. You know what the French are like: they want everything, or else it’s war,” said Cloridia, miming French intransigence with a wave of her hand.
“It’s possible,” I agreed. “But if that’s the way things are, what happens to all Atto’s theories about Prince Eugene conspiring against the Emperor to replace him with Charles, who is indecisive and would let him go on with the war? It would be very strange if the saviour of Joseph I were hiding in the Prince’s palace.”
“Quite. So Eugene might have nothing to do with it.”
Cloridia was right. I was used to the notion that Atto’s hypotheses and deductions were always correct, but this time he had clearly got hold of the wrong end of the stick! Besides, had not his conviction that the Turks were hired killers in the pay of Europe’s warring factions been proved miserably wrong by the facts?
While Cloridia left me to go to back to the palace, urging me over and over again to look after the Abbot, Simonis came and knocked at my door as agreed. Now that I knew for certain that the Emperor was about to recover completely, I devoted myself with renewed zeal to the most important job that His Caesarean Majesty had entrusted me with: the Place with No Name awaited us.
I went with my little boy and Simonis to the usual eating house for breakfast. Abbot Melani was with us. He was not used to waking up so early, and now he sprawled on his chair, listlessly nibbling at the abundant meal of sausages and mustard. In a coffee shop he would have found a breakfast more to his tastes. However, after what had happened to Dragomir Populescu and the things we had heard about the Armenians, the thought of setting foot in a coffee shop was a little unnerving.
I was about to tell the Abbot the devastating news reported by Cloridia but I held back. Atto had shown that he did not greatly trust Simonis. So I decided to say nothing. Instead I told him about the fruitless interrogation of Gaetano Orsini.
“Would you ask the host to bring me the latest gazette?” Atto asked my assistant as soon as I had finished my account.
“This is not a coffee shop, Signor Abbot: they don’t have gazettes. But I happen to have the Diary of Vienna, hot off the press,” answered Simonis, wondering at Melani’s timing: on arriving in the eating house the Greek had set down on the table the newspaper he had just bought at the little palace of the Red Porcupine. “It’s the issue covering the last three days.”
What could the blind old Abbot want with a gazette in German, I asked myself, while I asked the host for some water for my son.
“Good. I imagine it is a newspaper that contains an obituary page for the city,” said Melani.
“Certainly.”
“Could you read it to me?”
The Greek looked at me questioningly. I signalled to him to proceed.
He opened the gazette and read:
“List of all deaths within and without the walls,” he began in his slightly foolish voice, reading the title of the column. “On 11th April 1711 died the little daughter –”
“No, no, please, just the male adults.”
“Let’s see . . . here you are: Christof Lang and Matthias Koch, aged sixty-five and seventy-six, both at the poor people’s home; Franz Zintel, aged thirty-two, brewer at the Spittelberg; Georg Schraub, aged forty-eight, cloth-cutter at the Windmill; Adam Kugler, aged forty, soldier of the Neubau guard; Michael Wißhoffer, aged forty, stone mason at the Liechtenthal.”
“It’s clear that these Viennese stuff themselves like pigs,” broke in Atto, with a disgusted air. “Only those two at the old people’s home died at an advanced age. The others all died very young, and I bet it was from indigestion.”
“Shall I go on?” asked Simonis.
Atto nodded.
“On 12th April died Franz Johannes, aged seventy-four; Kaspar Wolff, aged forty; and Johann Graßberger, aged fifty-eight, both in hospital. On 13th April . . .”
While Simonis dutifully read the list of deaths, I gazed wonderingly at Atto, who was listening attentively, his neck taut like a bloodhound’s.
“. . . Carl Dement, aged thirty, student, at Landstrasse; Andre Treberitz, aged forty-five, soldier on leave at Wieden; Philipp Brixner, aged fifty-eight, fishmonger . . .”
“Are you looking for someone in particular?” I asked.
“Shhh! Just a moment,” Atto hushed me.
“On 14th April,” Simonis went on, “died Melchior Plaschky, aged fifty-four, on the Leopoldine Island; Rietter Blasi, aged thirty-eight, tailor on the Munich ramparts; Leopold Löffler, guard on the Carinthian ramparts; Lorentz Kienast, aged thirty-six, dyer on the Leopoldine Island . . .”
“Just as I thought. They’re not there,” commented Melani when Simonis had finished reading.
“Who?”
“Can’t you guess? Your murdered friends. And it’s not a mere oversight, or a decision not to include them: students are always dying like flies on account of their intemperate behaviour . . .”
“It’s true,” Simonis confirmed, looking at the gazette again, “for example, there’s the death of this Carl Dement, a student.”
“Populescu’s body was disposed of by those colleagues of your cart driver, that what’s his name . . . Penicek. All right. But Koloman and the first two?”
“It’s true, damn it,” I nodded, while my mouth gaped in amazement and Simonis furrowed his brows in thought. Koloman’s body at the Heuriger had been handed over to the guards directly by the host; Dànilo Danilovitsch had been stabbed on the night of 11th April: a corpse on the ramparts certainly could not have escaped the soldiers’ eyes. Hristo Hadji-Tanjov had died in the Prater on the 13th, two days earlier: the snow had certainly all melted by now and the guards must have found him.
“But how is it possible?” I asked.
“Simple. Someone made sure their deaths were not registered in the mortuary protocols.”
“I don’t see how: the guards will have called the city’s medical officer and –”
“Exactly,” he anticipated me, making me understand that he did not wish to talk in front of my assistant. “Now I must go back to my rooms a moment, I have forgotten something.”
“Do you think that –” I persisted.
“I think what you think,” he cut me off curtly. “So will you accompany me or do I have to go back by myself?”
Leaving my boy with Simonis to finish his breakfast, I noticed that my assistant was once again carrying the little bag that I had seen around his neck the previous day.
Atto and I set off towards Porta Coeli Street. He resumed the conversation:
“Whoever ordered this, shall we say, little cleansing operation is very powerful, and the person who carried it out is no mere pawn either. Do you know what this means?”
I shook my head.
“It means that behind those boys’ deaths there is something big – very big.”
“So why have you always laughed whenever I’ve tried to talk to you about these students’ deaths and my fears?” I asked, barely restraining my acrimony.
“I told you this before and I’ve even repeated it, but apparently that isn’t enough: I still do not believe they died because of their research into the Golden Apple, but I never said that their deaths were not linked to one another.”
“Don’t start shifting your position, Signor Atto. I remember clearly: you told me that Hristo was an Ottoman subject, as was Dragomir, and you let me believe that this was connected with their deaths.”
“I spoke a little loosely, I admit. Actually, since the
Sublime Porte invaded them, the Bulgarians have lived as refugees in their impregnable mountains and have practically no contact with their conquerors. And Romania is not entirely under the Ottoman Empire.”
“What? And you’ve only just remembered this?”
“Shhh! Speak quietly, for goodness’ sake,” he hushed me, turning his head instinctively to left and right, as if his blind eyes could intercept any hidden spies. “I needed you to make contact with the Pálffy woman and I didn’t want you to be distracted, racking your brains over the deaths of those good-for-nothings,” answered the old castrato with brisk candour.
When we reached the convent, Atto struck the door of his room with the pummel of his stick.
The door was opened by Domenico, who was still weak from the fever of the last few days and the fluxion of the chest. He went straight back to cough in bed.
“I beg your pardon, boy,” concluded Atto in a suddenly grim tone, seizing my arm. “I thought that, whatever the matter was, it only concerned the Empire, whereas I am here to serve France. And then
I was confident that if my letter reached Joseph I, all would turn out for the best. I would be ahead of anyone else. Instead . . .” And here he paused.
Oh yes, I reflected as he let me into his room, Abbot Melani would never believe that the interests of France and the Empire could be the same. In the theatre of war they seemed to be the two enemy captains. But the Emperor and the Grand Dauphin were at that moment on the same sacrificial altar, while the dagger raised over their hearts was in the grip of an unknown hand . . . Their hearts?
“By the way, Signor Atto,” I said. “What were you doing the other evening in the alleyway behind the convent with that Armenian?”
Melani gave a start.
“What are you doing now, following me about?”
“I would never do such a thing. I overheard it by chance, on my way back from the eating house. The Armenian was talking about some people that had sold you, at a high price apparently, their master’s heart.”
Veritas (Atto Melani) Page 58
