by Rita Monaldi
"Let us do as follows," proposed Atto. "First, tell us the names of the companies, so that we can have an idea of them. Then explain to us what they do."
The young cerretano obeyed and began to rattle off a list, including the companies already mentioned:
Chop-churches
Swooners
Clapperclogeons
Brothers of the Buskin
Tawneymen
Abram Coves
Hedge Priests
Dommerers
Swaddlers
Basket Ants
Watchdogs
Puppets
Bayardeers
Kinchins
Autem morts
Doxies
"Enough, that will do. Which company do you belong to?" asked Atto.
"To the Swooners."
Then Il Roscio spelt out all the infamous deeds of which the cerretano companies were capable but which he had not yet specified. He spoke of the Hedge Priests who disguise themselves as Austin Friars; of the Tawneymen, who pretend to be lunatics, frenzied madmen or possessed by devils, frothing at the mouth and rolling on the ground after eating a soapy mixture. He revealed the tricks of the Dommerers, who bear heavy iron chains around their necks and pretend to speak Turkish, forever repeating "Bran-bran-bran" or "Bre-bre-bre" and claiming to have been prisoners of the infidels. The Swaddlers always go about two by two, pretending to be soldiers, and when they meet some poor defenceless person in the street, they rob him. The Basket Ants are bandits who have fallen on hard times, while the Watchdogs are constables who have likewise been ruined; the Puppets pretend their bodies are shaken by tremendous convulsions, like puppets, because, so they claim, they descend from sinners who were unwilling to kneel before the Most Holy Sacrament, and that is why they are being punished. The Bayardeers rob farm bailiffs when they are delivering bread in the countryside (their name comes from a cant word for a horse, after the famous Bayard). The Kinchins are little boys who live in the streets and sing songs like "O Maria Stella!" while shamelessly begging. Lastly, the Autem Morts and Doxies are women who beg with infants in their arms, with their faces covered: the Autem Morts are married, while the Doxies are single.
"Heavens, what chaos," Atto Melani commented in the end.
"But these cerretani are all beggars after all," I observed.
"And did I not tell you that from the start?" replied Sfasciamonti. "Only, they use mendicancy as a cover for other nefarious activities, such as violence, cheating and robbery…"
"Excuse me, we have an interrogation to complete," said Buvat, calling us to order with the inflexible dignity of a true notary, as he began to transcribe the customary formula.
"Interrogates an pecuniae acquistae sint ipsius quaerentis an vero quilibet teneatur illas consignare suo superiori secundum cuiusque sectam illorum, respondit… So, young man, I repeat: do you keep the money which you earn through mendicancy or other criminal activities for yourself or do you hand it over to your superiors in every company?"
"Sir, whoever earns money, at least among us Swooners, keeps it for himself. Our chief is Gioseppe da Camerino, and he on the contrary gives money to everyone. I have heard it said that the Hedgers and Puppets hold things in common and often meet up at inns or in other places, and that they elect their principals and officers. My companion, who fled in order not to be taken, told me that last week he was in the company of four Brothers of the Buskin, two Hedgers and two Puppets. They all met at a tavern in the Ponte quarter to have a good time together. They had all manner of good things brought to them by mine host, excellent wines and many things to eat. In other words, a meal fit for the nobility. And after the feasting, the host presented the bill and said that the whole meal came to twelve scudi, which the elder of the Hedge Priests paid in coin without uttering a word. And they enjoyed themselves together because they are never short of money, least of all the heads of the companies."
"Where do the members of your company meet?"
"At Piazza Navona, Ponte, Campo di Fiore and in the Piazza della Rotonda."
"Now, tell me whether you go to Confession, take Communion or attend mass?"
"Sir, among us there are few who do so, because, to tell the truth, most are worse than the Lutherans. Apart from that, I swear I know nothing."
"Do you gentlemen have any further questions?" said Buvat, turning to us.
Once again, Sfasciamonti drew near to Buvat in order to whisper in his ear that the next question was not to be placed on the record.
"Ah, yes, yes," the pseudo-notary reassured him. "Very well, my boy, within your company, have you heard of the theft of certain documents, a relic and a telescope from the Villa Spada?"
"Yes, Sir."
We all four looked at one another and this time even Buvat was unable to conceal a look of surprise.
"Go on, go on, for goodness' sake," said Atto with his eyes almost bursting out of his head.
"Sir, I know only that this thing was done by the German. Why, I know not. Since the Jubilee began he has been doing excellent business, mining money in all the streets of Rome."
"And where the Devil are we to find this German?" asked Atto.
The cerretano explained everything.
"I think that is quite clear," commented Sfasciamonti in the end.
All that Il Roscio had spilled out concerning the German related to the search for Atto's personal effects and was therefore omitted from the record, together with many other things said by the young canter that evening.
"If anyone should find this statement on me, I shall be in real trouble," said Sfasciamonti out of the prisoner's hearing. "I shall, for safety's sake, put a fictitious date on it, say, 4th February 1595.
Then I shall place it in the Governor's archives. Only I shall know where to find it, because no one now looks at the documents of the past century. I shall produce it if and when I want to: what's more, with that date, it will prove that the cerretani have existed for a long time, and I shall at last be able to wave this under the noses of all those who've been mocking me."
The next decision was the most difficult, but there was no choice in the matter. The cerretano could not be kept in prison without an arrest summons, or at least a permit from the Bargello; Sfasciamonti had in fact mentioned such a possibility to one of the gaolers, a good friend of his, who had been unwilling so much as to discuss the possibility. There are, said he, so many innocent people in gaol, and so many guilty ones at liberty; but matters such as these must be handled in the right way. Usually, they are organised by the judges, or by those in power, whose orders the former carry out, unbeknownst to the people.
It was, moreover, impossible to hold the criminal (if such he could be called) elsewhere: Villa Spada, which did of course have plenty of space in its cellars, could obviously not be used for this purpose. Nor, it was plain enough, could our private residences.
In order to make the decision seem less improvised, we made Il Roscio wait in a little side-room and pretended to confer together for a while. Then we brought him back, taking care to show long, disappointed faces.
"The notary has spoken with His Excellency the Governor," lied Sfasciamonti, "who has been so good as to reward your willingness to collaborate."
The cerretano cast confused glances in all directions, not understanding what was about to happen.
"Now you will be accompanied to the door. You are free."
Day the Fourth
10th J ULY, 1700
"Give me alms, boy."
The old man was naked. His sole covering, a great iron chain which he had borne around his neck since who knows how long and which crushed his right shoulder, biting into and infecting the poor decrepit flesh. Bent and skeletal, he held out his filthy hooked hand imploringly. Not only could his every rib be counted, but every single tendon. If he had held a scourge in his hand he would have made the perfect image of a flagellant. He leaned against a wall, and he stank. His pudenda were covered only by the immensely long grey
beard reaching down almost to his feet.
I looked at him without saying a word, nor did I offer him even an obole. I was overcome by the crudity of that image of misery, unhappiness and dispossession.
"For pity's sake, my boy," the wretch repeated, first bending, then sitting on the ground, exhausted.
"Forgive me, but I have not…" I stammered while the old beggar stretched out, then turned onto one side.
"Teeyouteelie," he hissed, and I seemed to sense in his voice a subtle and melancholy note of reproof.
He turned again to one side, then to the other, and in the end he began to rock rhythmically ever more rapidly. He was having convulsions. I had decided to help him rise, when he was shaken by a most violent spasm, recovered briefly, then was seized by unstoppable trembling. His mouth tightly closed, the muscles of his neck so tense it seemed they might snap, he appeared to be on the point of suffocating. Without warning, he sat up and opened wide his jaws from which flowed a thick yellowish froth which horribly fouled his chest and belly; I drew back in shock and disgust. His pupils rolled back in his eye sockets, as though to turn his gaze towards some parallel universe of desperation and solitude which only he truly understood. He again held out his trembling and wrinkled hand. I felt in my pocket: there was nothing but a one scudo piece in it: a disproportionately large sum for almsgiving. I was about to tell him that I had nothing to give him when, as though he had read my thoughts, he again growled:
"Teeyouteelie."
It was then that the unthinkable happened. On the wall behind the old man I saw a rapid, rapacious shadow suddenly lengthen. A flying creature (a vampire or perhaps a demon come to punish my avarice?) was above our heads and on the point of attacking. I had no time to turn around and already I felt the air turbulent above me, the tips of the creature's wings brushing my ears, its claws sinking painfully into the soft flesh of my shoulders. I turned, but this was an ill-judged move: the flying beast was firmly ensconced on my shoulder and any attempt to distance myself from it would have been as useless as to try to bite my own ear. I struggled to drive it off with my hands but it left my shoulder and this time sank its talons into my face. I had by now forgotten the old man with his tortured body and his mouth vomiting forth its foul froth. I tried to scream, but the sharp claws of the flying beast were clamped over my lips. Yet, I could hear a voice, a strangled sound:
"Arrest him! ARREST HIM!"
It was only at that point in the dream (or rather nightmare) that I came to my senses. I brushed my face with my forearm and thought it had not been such a good idea to sleep with the window open. I felt his body, halfway between a chicken's and a little owl's, beat a hasty retreat, seeking to perch elsewhere. It was day; sunlight filled the room, flooding it with its beneficent rays.
He had found a perch on the back of a chair. I stared angrily at him. Not only had he entered without permission but while I was sleeping he had walked, first on my shoulder, then on my face, thus invading not only my bedchamber but my dream, disagreeable as it already was. He gazed obliquely at me, with his usual mixture of effrontery and doubt.
"My dream was true. You really are a monstrous being. How could you wake me up like this?"
Caesar Augustus did not answer.
Our return from the Ponte Sisto prison the night before had been swift and had passed without a word of comment; all three of us — Atto, the catchpoll and I — were too tired to utter another word. What was more, we knew that we would not be able to resume our investigations before the following evening, so that our taste for action was distinctly cooled by the inevitable wait.
Fatigued as I was, I did not need to wait long to fall asleep. The all-too-brief repose 1 gained was soon spoiled by the dream vision of that decrepit beggar, obviously suggested by Il Roscio's confession. Ah yes, said I to myself, that old man reminded me of the Tawneymen who, to obtain alms, feign lunacy, frenzy and possession by devils; and roll on the ground after eating a mixture containing soap; but also the Dommerers who wear heavy iron chains around their necks…
"De minimis non curat Papa? screeched the parrot, interrupting my reminiscences.
"I know^that the Pope does not deal with trifles… Ha, ha, and thanks for comparing me to His Holiness. I know, I know, I must provide feed for the aviary, nor do I regard that as a trifle," I retorted while rising and seeking my clothes. "If you'll only give me time to get ready."
Caesar Augustus glided lazily towards the still open window. I noticed that in his right talon he held a little bundle of twigs, something which I had often noticed in recent times. Obviously, it was not given to me to know what he was up to.
He stood a few more minutes on the windowsill, then flew off towards the villa's vineyards. While I was closing the shutters before leaving the room, I noticed another sign of Caesar Augustus's unusual behaviour: a half-liquid ochre-coloured mess in the middle of which were fragments of grain and apple pips. He was by no means in the habit of defecating in such an unsuitable place, on the window-sill. Caesar Augustus must really be very nervous.
After attending to my regular duty in the aviary, I decided to take advantage of the state of semi-liberty which the service of Atto Melani accorded me and took a short break. Atto and Buvat had not yet come to look for me, and Sfasciamonti was probably busy at his usual work as guardian of the Villa Spada's security. I sought Cloridia but learned that she was in the apartments of the Princess of Forano; the Princess was dressing and it was not for the time being possible to free my consort from her duties. Somewhat frustrated by this impediment, I filched an apple from the kitchens, chewing which I moved surreptitiously away from the Villa Spada.
As I was entering the avenue leading to the front gate, I heard a familiar voice in the distance.
"The Master of the Fowls, find me the Master of the Fowls! Is no one working here today?"
Don Paschatio, doubtless let down once more by some of his workmen, was seeking me to fill in for them.
This was, I decided, not the right day on which to make myself available. Last night's sounds and images still echoed in my head; Sfasciamonti's assault on the old beggar in the Piazza della Rotonda; the imprudent inspection of the beggars' dormitory at Termine; lastly, the chase after the cerretano and the interrogation of his accomplice, II Roscio, at the prison of Ponte Sisto; all of which events, quite apart from giving rise to the nightmare visions which had met me at dawn, had left marks of anxiety even during my first waking hours. To forget all those misadventures, said I to myself, there could be no better remedy than a calm promenade in town.
I did not, however, wish to go too far and so I first walked downhill towards the Via della Scala, turning right there and then left, wandering between Piazza de' Rienzi and Santa Maria in Trastevere.
A company of pilgrims, preceded by the standard of their city and attired in long black cloaks, was advancing towards the Basilica of St Paul chanting a hymn of praise to the Virgin.
The little procession wended its way through narrow streets and damp alleyways where small shops overflowing with every kind of merchandise and taverns reeking of cheap wine and roast meat opened wide their inviting doors, as though almost tugging at the arm of the passer-by. The fagades of the surrounding houses hid their shame and wretchedness behind long rows of white cloths, hanging from window to window and dripping icy water onto the heads of pedestrians, while Trastevere's sleepy thoroughfares were trampled by cartwheels, the feet of children at play and the hooves of donkeys resignedly heaving their burdens.
On entering Piazza San Callisto, I heard what I can only describe as some miaowing music gradually draw nearer, while a great multitude of people came towards me. At the head of the crowd were two middle-aged men, dirty and badly dressed, who advanced painfully, leaning on walking sticks. I noticed with a certain disquiet that both had their eyeballs turned inwards, like the old man of whom I'd dreamed at dawn. Between the pair and holding each by the arm was a companion no less filthy and unpresentable, also using a stick an
d displaying a very obvious limp. Immediately behind, there followed a fiddler, filling the street with the insinuating melancholy of a chaconne. There followed other ragged tramps, almost all blind or crippled. Beggars, always beggars. For years I had lived in Rome in their company, without ever paying much attention to them. Now, since the return of Atto Melani, they had suddenly become not only important, but very important to me! I therefore stood aside, the better to observe the procession. The two blind men at the head of the group held a snuff box and a bowl respectively, both made of silver, and chanted in lamentable counterpoint with the sound of the fiddle.
"Charity for Saint Elizabeth, make an offering to Saint Elizabeth!"
Every now and then a benefactor would break away from the indistinct mass of passers-by, to throw some coin into the bowl. The other blind man would then offer him a pinch of snuff, which the kind person offering charity would take from the snuff box with a sort of tiny glass measure.
The rest of the procession, as I was able to observe when they turned to the right into the Vicolo de' Pazzi, was one long line of people, all muffled up and miserable-looking, every single unfortunate among them apparently eyeless, legless or armless. The cortege was surrounded by a collection of poor children begging for charity, rather like seagulls following a ship in the hope of some refuse from the vessel's stores.
A young cleric approached the head of the procession. He threw a grosso coin into the bowl and took a small pinch of tobacco, which caused him to cough and sneeze. When he had moved away from the cortege, I followed and accosted him.
"Excuse me, Father, what procession is this?"
"It is the Company of Saint Elizabeth. Normally they come out on Sundays, while today is Saturday. But in Jubilee time an exception or two is allowed them too."
