Imprimatur

by Rita Monaldi;Francesco Sorti

  "Do not worry," I lied, "for I retained little of our conversation."

  "Oh, really?" exclaimed Robleda, momentarily vexed. "Well, so much the better. After reconsidering all that was said between us, I felt almost oppressed by the weight of such grave discourse: as when one enters the catacombs and, suddenly, being underground, one feels out of breath."

  As he moved towards the door to dismiss me, I was astounded by that sentence, which I saw as being highly revealing. Robleda had be­trayed himself. I strove swiftly to devise some argument that might prompt him further to expose himself.

  "While standing by my promise not to speak again of these mat­ters, I did in truth have one question on my mind concerning His Beatitude Pope Innocent XI, and indeed all popes in general," said I, the moment before he opened the door.

  "Speak on."

  "Well, that is..." I stammered, trying to improvise, "I wondered whether there exists a way of determining who, among past pontiffs, were good, who were very good and which ones were saints."

  "It is curious that you should ask me this. It was just what I was meditating on last night," he replied, almost as though speaking to himself.

  "Then I am sure that you will have an answer for me too," I add­ed, hopeful that this might prolong the conversation.

  So the Jesuit asked me again to be seated, explaining to me that there had, over the centuries, been an innumerable succession of statements and prophecies concerning the pontiffs, present, past and future.

  "This is because," he explained, "especially in this city, everyone knows or thinks that they know the qualities of the reigning pope. At the same time, they lament past popes and hope that the next one will be better, or even that he will be the Angelic Pope."

  "The Angelic Pope?"

  "He who, according to the prophecy Apocalipsis Nova of the Blessed Amedeo, will restore the Church to its original holiness."

  "I do not understand," I interrupted with feigned ingenuousness. "Is the Church, then, no longer holy?"

  "I beg of you, my son... Such questions are not to be asked. Rome has always been the target of the propaganda of the papacy's heretical enemies: ever since, a long time ago, the Super Hieremiam and the Oraculum Cyrilli foresaw the fall of the city and Thomas of Pavia announced visions which foretold the collapse of the Lateran Palace, and both Robert d'Uzes and Jean de Rupescissa warned that the same city in which Peter had laid the first stone was now the City of the Two Columns, the seat of the Antichrist. Such prophe­cies have one aim: to instil the idea that the Church is to be com­pletely demolished and that the pope is not worthy to remain in his post."

  "Which pope?"

  "Well, unfortunately, such blasphemous attacks have been direct­ed against all the pontiffs."

  "Even against His Beatitude, our own Pope Innocent XI?"

  Robleda grew solemn, and in his eyes I noted a shadow of suspicion.

  "They include all popes, including indeed His Beatitude Pope Innocent XI."

  "And what do they foretell?"

  I noticed that Robleda was returning to the subject with a bizarre mixture of reluctance and self-indulgence. He resumed in slightly graver tones, and explained to me that, among many others, there existed a prophecy which claimed to know the whole sequence of popes from about the year 1100 until the end of time. And as though for many years he had had nothing else on his mind, he recited from memory an enigmatic series of Latin mottoes: "Ex castro Tiberis, Inimicus expulsus, Ex magnitudine montis, Abbas suburranus, De rure albo, Ex tetro carcere, Via transtiberina, De Pannonia Tusciae, Ex ansere custode, Lux in ostio, Sus incribro, Ensis Laurentii, Ex schola exiet, De rure bovensi, Comes signatus, Canonicus ex latere, Avis ostiensis, Leo sabinus, Comes laurentius,

  Jerusalem Campaniae, Draco depressus, Anguineus vir, Concionator gallus, Bonus comes..?

  "But these are not the names of popes," said I, interrupting him.

  "On the contrary, they are. A prophet read them in the future, before they came into the world, but he identified them by the sym­bolic mottoes which I have just been reciting for you. The first was Ex castro Tiberis, meaning 'from a castle on the Tiber'. Well, the Pope designated by that motto was Celestine II who was indeed born at Citta di Castello on the banks of the Tiber."

  "So the prediction was accurate."

  "Indeed, it was. But so was the next one, Inimicus expulsus, which surely indicated Lucius II of the Cacciaenemici family, a precise translation of the Latin which speaks of expelling enemies. The third pope is Ex magnitudine montis this is Eugene III, born in the city of Grammont, which in French is an exact translation of the motto. Number four..."

  "These must be very ancient popes," I interrupted. "I have never heard of them."

  "They are of great antiquity, it is true. But even the modern ones were foretold with the greatest of exactitude. Jucunditas cruris, number 82 in the prophecy, was Innocent X. And he became pope on the 14th of September, the Feast of the Holy Rood. Montium custos, the guard­ian of the mountains, number 83, was Alexander VII, who founded the Montes Pietatis* Sydus olorum, or the star of the swans, number 84, is Clement IX. He in fact lived in the Chamber of the Swans in the Vatican. The motto of Clement X, number 85, was De flumine magno or 'from the great river', and he was in fact born in a house by the Tiber, just where the river overflowed its banks."

  "So, the prophecy has always come true."

  "Let us say that some, indeed many, maintain that," said Robleda indulgently.

  At that juncture, he fell silent, as though awaiting a question. In the list of popes foretold by the prophecy, he had stopped at Pope Clement X, number 85. He knew that I would not be able to resist the temptation to ask about the next one: this was His Beatitude Pope Innocent XI, our Pope.

  "And what is the motto of number 86?" I asked excitedly.

  * Monti di Pieta: a system of pawn offices, now run by the Italian State. (Translator's note.)

  "Very well, since you ask me..." said the Jesuit with a sigh, "his motto is, shall we say, rather curious."

  "And what is it?"

  "Belua insatiabilis," said Robleda with a colourless voice, '"insatia­ble beast'."

  I struggled to hide my surprise and dismay. While all the mottoes of the other popes were innocuous enigmas, that of our beloved pon­tiff was atrocious and menacing.

  "But perhaps Our Lord's motto does not refer to his moral quali­ties!" I objected indignantly, as though seeking reassurance.

  "That is unquestionably possible," agreed Robleda tranquilly. "Now that I come to think of it, the arms of the Pope's family include a lion passant gardant and an eagle: in other words, two insatiable beasts. That could be, indeed it must be, the explanation," concluded the Jesuit with a calmness more conniving than any smile.

  "In any case, you need lose no sleep over this," he added, "for according to the prophecy, there will be 111 popes all in all, and today we are only at number 86."

  "But who will be the last pope?" I insisted.

  Robleda frowned and seemed thoughtful.

  "From Celestine II, the series includes 111 popes. Towards the end, will come the Pastor angelicus or the Angelic Pope of whom I spoke to you earlier, but he will not be the last. Five popes will in­deed follow, and, at the end, says the prophecy, in extrema persecution Sacrae Romanae Ecclesiae sedebit Petrus romanus, qui pascet oves in multis tribulationibus; quibus transactis, civitas septicollis diruetur, et judex tremendus judicabit populum."

  "In other words, Saint Peter will return, Rome will be destroyed and the Last Judgement will come."

  "Bravo, that's it exactly."

  "And when will that happen?"

  "I told you: according to the prophecy, there is still much time to run. But now it would be in order if you were to leave me: I would not wish you to neglect the other guests listening to these unimportant fables."

  Disappointed by the sudden ending of the colloquy, and without having succeeded in obtaining any other useful clue from the mouth of Robleda, I was a
lready on the threshold when I realised that I wanted to satisfy one last, this time genuine, curiosity.

  "By the way, who is the author of the prophecy of the popes?"

  "Oh, a holy monk who lived in Ireland," said Robleda hurriedly, while closing the door. "He was, I seem to remember, called Malachy."

  Excited by the unexpected and alarming news, I ran straight to Atto Melani's chamber at the other end of the same floor, to inform him of it. Hardly had I opened the door than I found the room submerged in a sea of papers, books, old prints and packets of letters, all spread in disorder over the bed and the floor.

  "I was studying," said he, welcoming me.

  "It is he," said I breathlessly.

  And I told him of the colloquy with Robleda in which the latter had without any apparent reason referred to the catacombs. The Jes­uit had then (but only because I had encouraged him to talk) begun a lengthy discourse in which he spoke of vaticinations concerning the coming of the Angelic Pope, and then, a prophecy concerning the end of the world after a series of 111 pontiffs, which speaks of an "insatia­ble beast," who is said to be Our Lord Pope Innocent XI, and in the end he had admitted that the prediction had been made by the Irish prophet Malachy...

  "Calm down, calm down," broke in Atto. "I fear that you are be­coming somewhat confused. I know that Saint Malachy was an Irish monk who lived a thousand years after Christ, quite different from the Prophet Malachi in the Bible."

  I assured him that I knew that perfectly well too, nor was I con­fusing anything, and I repeated the facts, this time setting them out more calmly.

  "Interesting," commented Atto at the end. "Two different proph­ets called Malachi cross our path in the space of a few hours: too much to be pure coincidence. Padre Robleda mentioned to you that he was meditating on Saint Malachy's prophecy just last night, while we found the chapter from the Book of Malachi in the underground galleries. He claims not to remember the Saint's name with any cer­tainty, yet it is known universally. And then he comes out with the catacombs. That the thief of the keys should be a Jesuit would come as no great surprise to me: they have done far worse than that. I would, however, like to know what he might have been looking for under the ground. Now, that would be really interesting."

  "To be quite sure that it was Robleda, we should check on his Bible," I observed, "and see if the torn page comes from it."

  "Correct. And, to do that, we have but one opportunity. Cristofano has warned us that there will soon be another roll-call for the quaran­tine: you will have to take advantage of Robleda's absence from his chamber to sneak in and look for his Bible. I think you know where to find the Book of Malachi in the Old Testament."

  "After the Book of Kings, among the twelve minor prophets," I promptly replied.

  "Bravo. I can do nothing, since Cristofano will be keeping an eye on me. He must have got wind of something: he asked me whether by chance I left my chamber last night."

  It was just then that I heard the physician's voice calling my name. I quickly joined him in the kitchen where he informed me that he had heard the Bargello's men announcing from the street that they were ready to make their second roll-call. The hope which all of us had secretly been nourishing, namely that the inspectors might have been distracted by the wait for the outcome of the battle of Vienna, had vanished.

  Cristofano was in a state of great anxiety. If Bedfordi did not pass the test, we would almost certainly be transferred to a pest-house.

  Following Cristofano's instructions, the whole group assembled in trepidation on the first floor, before the chamber of Pompeo Dul­cibeni. I felt a tender twinge when I saw sweet Cloridia smiling at me, sadly too (or at least so I fondly imagined) at the thought that no verbal or other intimacy would be possible at that time. I saw the doctor arrive last, with Devize and Atto Melani. Contrary to what I had hoped, they were not carrying Bedfordi's almost inert body with them: the Englishman (and this was plain from the consternation on Cristofano's face) was absolutely in no condition to stand on his feet, let alone to reply to the roll-call. While they approached, I saw Atto and the guitarist terminate an intense conversation with nods of agreement.Cristofano made way for us in the chamber and leaned first out of the window below which the Bargello's ruffians were already cran­ing their necks to observe us. The physician introduced himself and showed at his side the youthful and obviously healthy face of Devize. Abbot Melani, Pompeo Dulcibeni and Padre Robleda were then called and briefly observed. There was a short pause, during which the inspectors conferred among themselves. I saw that Cristofano and Padre Robleda were almost beside themselves with fear. Dulci­beni, however, stood by impassively. I noticed that, of all the group, only Devize had left the room.

  The inspectors (who even to a layman like myself did not seem very expert in the art of medicine) put a few more generic questions to Cristofano who had in the meanwhile hastened to lead me too to the window, so that I could be duly observed. Then came Cloridia's turn, and she immediately met with some coarse banter on the part of the inspectors, together with allusions to unspecified diseases of which the courtesan might be a carrier.

  Our fears were at their height when Signor Pellegrino's turn came at last. Cristofano led him firmly to the window, but without any humiliating tugging or jerking. We all knew that Cristofano was trem­bling: the very fact of leading my master into the presence of the authorities without expressing any prior reservations meant that he was the first to attest his good health.

  Pellegrino smiled weakly at the three strangers. Two of them ex­changed questioning glances. A few rods' distance now separated Cristofano and my master from their inquisitors. Pellegrino tottered.

  "I warned you!" exclaimed Cristofano angrily, extracting an empty bottle from my master's breeches. Pellegrino belched.

  "He has been talking too much with the Greek," jested one of the three from the Bargello, alluding to my master's now notorious weakness for wine. Cristofano had succeeded in passing Pellegrino for drunk rather than ill.

  It was then (and I shall never forget the scene) that I saw Bed­fordi appear miraculously among us.

  He strode towards the window, affectionately greeted by Cristo­fano, and offered himself to the view of the fearsome triumvirate. I was, like everyone, terrified and confused, almost as though I had witnessed a resurrection. I could have believed that I was seeing his spirit, so utterly did he seem free from the sufferings of the flesh. The trio from the Bargello were not so surprised, being ig­norant of the illness that had struck him down in the preceding hours.

  Bedfordi uttered something in his own language, which the three ruffians showed with some vexation that they did not understand.

  "He is again saying that he wants to be free to leave," explained Cristofano.

  The trio, remembering Bedfordi's protests on the occasion of the previous roll-call, and being certain that they would not be under­stood, mocked him with great and vulgar amusement.

  Bedfordi—or rather, his miraculous simulacrum—responded to the jokes of the officious trio with a symmetrical volley of insults and was immediately led away by Cristofano. All of our group then returned, some glancing incredulously at one another, astounded by the Englishman's inexplicable recovery.

  Hardly had I entered the corridor than I sought out Atto Melani, in the hope of receiving some explanation. I caught up with him just as he was about to climb the stairs to the second floor. He looked at me with an air of amusement, guessing at once what I yearned to know, and mocked me, singing:

  Fan battaglia i miei pensieri,

  e al cor dan fiero assalto.

  Cosi al core, empi guerrieri,

  fan battaglia, dan guerra i miei pensieri...*

  "Did you see how our Bedfordi has recovered?" he asked ironi­cally.

  "But it is not possible," I said, protesting incredulously.

  Atto stopped halfway up the staircase.

  "Did you really believe that a special agent of the King of France would allow himself
to be manipulated like a small boy?" he whis­pered derisively. "Bedfordi is young, small of stature and fair haired; and you just saw a small, fair young man. The Englishman has blue eyes and our Bedfordi this evening likewise had bright glaucous orbs. At the last roll-call, Bedfordi protested because he wanted to leave, and this time he did so yet again. Bedfordi speaks a language which the three from the Bargello do not understand, and indeed they un­derstood nothing of what he said this time either. So, where is the mystery?"

  "But it could not be he who..."

  "Of course it was not Bedfordi. He is still half-dead in his bed, and we pray that he may one day rise from it again. But if you had a good

  * My thoughts do battle, / And proudly storm my heart. / Thus, to my heart, piti­less warriors / Give battle, my thoughts make war...