Secretum am-2

by Rita Monaldi

  "You have doubts, I know. You would like to say to me: if what you say is really true, how do you know, and how do others like you know, that the police are not to be trusted and that judges too are sometimes corrupt, and at the service of the powerful?"

  "Well, if, among other things…"

  "These are clandestine truths, my boy, banished from the Republic of Verbiage and thus utterly worthless. And remember," said he with an admonitory grin, "if order is to be maintained in states and in kingdoms, the people must never know the truth about two things: what there really is in sausages and what takes place in the courts of law."

  I had no time to contradict him and prolong the discussion, for by then we had reached his doorway. He opened the door, telling me to wait outside a moment, then returned with a basket of soiled underwear.

  "Now I have an important meeting, I want to change my shirt. I must put myself in order, I am in a disastrous state. Count Lamberg, the Ambassador of the Empire, is on the point of returning to the villa and I shall approach him. He is a little late, soon he'll be here. I want to ask him to receive me. You, meanwhile, take these clothes and have them washed and ironed for me, otherwise I shall soon be left without any clean apparel. Now, leave me."

  As I made my way to the laundry with Atto's dirty clothing in my hands, a swarm of thoughts crossed my mind. Melani's words accused sovereigns and the highly select circle (counsellors, ministers of state…) to which he was so proud to belong. It was almost as though with those words he really did mean to excite, to provoke, to stir up rebellion, as Albani said. With the Cardinal's double reprimand, Atto had acquired for himself the reputation of a rash fellow and an agitator to boot, all of which was what he least needed to be able to manoeuvre in peace. He was a spy and spies need discretion. Whatever could have got into him that he should have made such an exhibition of himself while, what was more, bruiting abroad his connections with the French party? Surely, those who had been present during the second clash between him and Albani must have spread that tasty piece of gossip among the other guests. The damage was done.

  Strangely, Atto seemed oblivious of this. Hardly had we been alone than, instead of commenting on the humiliation he had suffered at Albani's hands when the latter had turned his back on him as he knelt at his feet, he had resumed his bizarre discourse on the Universal Republic of Verbiage.

  Perhaps I had got everything wrong, said I to myself. No longer was I to expect from Abbot Melani the implacable lucidity I had found in him seventeen years before. He had aged, that was all. With the loss of his intellectual and moral faculties, imprudence, poor judgment and intemperance had taken over. From being sharp-witted he had grown quarrelsome, from being prudent, he had become rash, instead of coldly calculating, confused. I knew that men rarely improve with age. That he should have worsened somewhat should not, I thought, come as a surprise to me.

  Meanwhile, I observed from afar a large company of persons entering the great house, accompanied by an impressive escort of men-at-arms. I heard the other servants being told that Cardinal Spada was coming to receive an important personage. I knew who this must be.

  Moments later, the guest made his entrance into the salon, while Fabrizio Spada, accompanied by the bridal couple, advanced to meet him with obsequious and benevolent pomp. Many among the guests were those who rushed to meet the new arrival: the Count von Lamberg, Ambassador of the Emperor.

  Cardinal Spada, so I subsequently learned, had sent one of his personal carriages to fetch him, preceded by that of the Cardinal de' Medici. In order to avoid grave problems of form, the other two representatives of the powers, the Spanish Count of Uzeda and the French Prince of Monaco, had tacitly arranged with their imperial counterpart that they were to be present at the same time only on the wedding day and to make a second visit on different days from one another. This would avoid conflicts of honour and precedence, as well as violence and brawls (such as occurred daily in Rome) between their respective lackeys, ever on the lookout for the best places to station their master's carriage.

  The ambassadors of the other two great powers (France and Spain) would therefore not be present on that day, so that all attention would focus on Lamberg.

  Because of my modest stature, obstructed as I was by the dense barrier of backs, heads and necks, I was obviously unable to witness the fatal moment of Lamberg's arrival in the salon. Nevertheless, the guests formed almost at once into two wings, between which the Imperial Ambassador made his way forward. He was accompanied by a great retinue of lackeys in yellow livery and men-at-arms in dress uniform. Cardinal Spada was at his side, respectfully leading him to the centre of the salon. Ladies and gentlemen, to show their respect, bowed as he passed, seeking to attract attention by paying tribute to him and heaping blessings upon his head.

  "Excellency…"

  "May God preserve you!"

  "May Your Excellency always keep as well."

  Amidst the psalmody of obsequious expressions accompanying bows and curtsies, an unexpected note however arose.

  ^“ Si Deus et Caesar pro me, quis contra?"

  I had no difficulty in recognising the voice which had pronounced that Latin phrase. It was Atto. He too must have knelt in homage to the powerful Austrian diplomat. "If God and the Emperor are with me, who'll be against me?" he had said. I tiptoed as far as I could, staring over some churchman's shining pate and at last I was able to witness the scene.

  Atto was indeed on his knees before Lamberg, but in an elegant, controlled posture which manifested the desire to be courteous without indulging in self-abasement.

  Before him stood the Imperial Ambassador, whose face I was able to see distinctly better than the day before. His eyes were coal-black; not deep, but cold and shifting. His expression was tenebrous, evasive and full of disquiet, as though indicative of a soul given to lies and dissimulation. The forehead was high enough, the oval of his face, regular, yet his complexion was ashen and dull, as though it had been rendered opaque by a surfeit of lugubrious cogitations. A slender, well-trimmed moustache gave his visage an airy touch of almost extreme elegance, designed only to mark off the distance from his inferiors. All in all, his presence inspired deference and respect but, above all, suspicion.

  "Those are wise words," replied Lamberg, visibly intrigued. "Who are you?"

  "An admirer, desirous of expressing to Your Excellency the most profound and sincere of praises," said Atto, handing him a note.

  Lamberg took it. A murmur of surprise and curiosity ran through the crowd of guests. The Ambassador opened the note, read it and closed it. He gave a little laugh.

  "Very well, very well," said he, nonchalantly returning the note to Atto and moving on.

  Abbot Melani promptly returned to his feet with a satisfied smile.

  I returned to my place, standing near the fireplace, in the hope of gleaning other interesting snippets of conversation from the lips of the two prelates I had overheard previously. Now, however, a different pair was seated beside me, in the same armchairs.

  "Now really, to have gone so far as to serve chocolate…" one young cleric was hissing through tight lips.

  "But you are unwilling to face up to the facts: this is a proSpanish Pope, he is a native of the Kingdom of Naples, which is a Spanish possession, and Spada is his Secretary of State," replied the other, a young man of excellent appearance who seemed to be of noble origin.

  "Agreed, Your Excellency, but to have offered chocolate at a time when there may be a conclave within the year, what a shameless piece of Spanishry. Why, 'tis the favourite beverage of King Charles II of Spain…"

  "It does seem like some partisan signal, I know, I know. You'll see that there will be talk of this in the next few days."

  I did not know that chocolate could be regarded as a political sign of Hispanophilia. I did, however, know that the idea of serving the cacao-based beverage had been Don Paschatio's and that Cardinal Spada had consented to it, going so far as to jest on the matter by declaimin
g a graceful sonnet. Yet, I thought, laughing to myself, once tidings of such criticism and suspicions reached his ears, it would be easy to foresee the Secretary of State's reaction and his latest reprimand to his unfortunate Major-Domo.

  Suddenly, my attention was caught by a movement on the right- hand side of the room. One of Cardinal Spada's lackeys was moving towards Cardinal Spinola, who was surrounded by a small knot of guests. I realised this only because in making his way through the assembly he had bumped into the back of the Marchesa Bentivoglio, Lady in Waiting to the Queen of Poland, who had spilled a good deal of still hot chocolate on her corsage. The lackey, bitterly rebuked by the Prince of Carbognano, had after a thousand apologies gone on his way and delivered a note to Spinola. The latter read the billet with ostentatious nonchalance, as though to stress its unimportance to those present, and returned it to the messenger. It was too far off for one to be able to hear, in that infernal hubbub, what the Cardinal said to the lackey, moving towards him in the most rapid of movements as he sent him on his way. With a supreme effort of all my senses, overcoming for an instant all that festive noise and my own impotent immobility, I somehow thought that I could read on Spinola's lips, taken together with his gesture of complicity in sending the lackey on his way, a few eloquent syllables: "… outside, on the balcony."

  Seeing and moving were as one single motion. The urgency could not have been clearer: a message, sent in all probability from Spada to Spinola, was now being sent on to a third recipient. On the terrace, I already knew who might be present, as he had been a few moments earlier: Cardinal Albani. Communications were running unseen between the three members of the Sacred College who had met at the Vessel.

  If we could only guess at the content of that message (for there could be no question of intercepting it), we should have made a considerable step towards understanding the manoeuvres taking place with a view to the conclave. We would perhaps be able to understand what point had been reached (and where and how) in the secret negotiations concerning the choice of the new pope, as suspected by Atto, and perhaps also why the three cardinals had chosen to meet at the Vessel, that place of a thousand mysteries. We must not fail.

  I moved away from the wall and, taking care not to attract the attention of the other lackeys, I too made my way towards the balcony. The sun's glare was still blinding. As I drew near to the great window giving onto the terrace, I could descry against the light, like those figures which it seems the Jesuits know so well how to project against the backcloth in their theatrical performances, the dark silhouettes of the guests conversing in the open. Intuition, that indispensable ally in all difficult situations, enabled me at once to identify Cardinal Albani. There he was, to the left, still in the place where he had humiliated Atto, surrounded by that little congregation of friends and boot-lickers which always accompany every cardinal, just as cows are surrounded by flies. The only person to leave the group was a servant of the Spada household who had just finished refilling the cups with piping hot chocolate.

  As I approached the door leading out from the salon, pushing my way between legs, chairs and tables, and praying the Most High that I should not be intercepted by Don Paschatio, I became aware that Melani had not missed what had transpired. Buvat who, giving up his usual attempts to find a glass of wine, was acting as lookout whenever Atto was engaged in conversation, had drawn close to him and whispered something in his ear. Atto had instantly taken his leave of a cordial trio of gentlemen, leaving them there without so much as a by-your-leave. Then, in his haste, he collided heavily with one of the secretaries in Lam- berg's retinue, somehow managing to avoid falling headlong.

  The lackey had too great a start on us for it to be possible to catch up with him. It was thus through the window, I to the left and Atto to the right, that we witnessed the delivery of the note. Unfortunately, the company surrounding the Cardinal hid from our sight the moment when he opened and read the billet. A moment later, we reached the threshold of the balcony, breathless but taking care not to betray any signs of haste. At that very moment, I saw all the guests present on the balcony turn towards me. Every one of them bore on his face an expression of hilarious, amused curiosity. The sun, whose rays struck me frontally, hurt my eyes cruelly, preventing me from seeing the features of those near to me.

  I turned towards Atto. He too looked at me in some surprise, but only for an instant, for at that precise moment Albani was folding the note and was irresistibly distracted from it. The look of wonderment on the faces of the others, still fixed on me, showed absolutely no sign of fading. Someone pointed at me, nudging his neighbour. I was purple with embarrassment. I dared not so much as ask what in my person might arouse such interest in them, but nor did I wish to move, now that I had reached Albani.

  "How graceful," said Cardinal Albani looking towards me. "Cardinal Spada truly has exquisite taste."

  Then he placed the cup of chocolate on the little wall of the balcony, using the hand in which he still held the note. As he did so, some chocolate spilled and wet the piece of paper. The Cardinal at once snatched back his diaphanous hand, unaccustomed to contact with vile kitchen matter, and boiling hot to boot. The note fell from his hand, ending up on the wall, next to the cup. At once I felt a familiar swishing above me, accompanied by a sort of caress on the top of my head. A swift shadow came between me and the sun. With just a couple of sharp movements of its feathers, the being skilfully swerved and landed on the wall, like some animated spinning top, just next to Albani's cup of chocolate. I was unable to restrain myself.

  "Caesar Augustus!" I exclaimed.

  The events of the following instants were among the most convulsive of the day and surely the strangest thing that the Villa Spada had ever seen.

  Until a few moments before, Cardinal Albani and his friends, together with all the guests present on the balcony had been rapt in admiration, not of myself but of the majestic plumage of Caesar Augustus, perched just above my head on a projection from the villa's outer wall.

  As I have had occasion to tell, the parrot was prone to an insane, overpowering passion for chocolate. Every now and then, I would procure him a little, filching it from the kitchen. It was, however, the first time that the whole Villa Spada had been invaded by that inebriating aroma. It was thus no accident that the bird had, that day, at last overcome its shy and retiring nature and come to join in the festivities, in the hope of finding something good to drink.

  At the very moment when Albani had lost control of his cup, the fowl had seen and, true to his haughty and scornful nature, seized the ideal solution: theft. Even before landing, he had dipped his beak into the Cardinal's cup. Albani and the others smiled, a little embarrassed.

  "How very charming, eh?… Really amusing," they just had time to comment before Caesar Augustus, under the somewhat shocked eyes of those who had just arrived on the scene and were gathering around, grasped the paper in one of his talons.

  Albani reached out and tried to regain possession of the note which was less than a foot away from him. Caesar Augustus bit the back of his hand. The Cardinal withdrew it with a cry of disappointment. All the other persons present took an imperceptible step back.

  "Your Eminence, let me help," I ventured, stepping forward in the hope that Caesar Augustus would not use violence against an old friend. I reached out with my hand and delicately took the note from him. Then came the terrible shock.

  Someone had thrown me to the ground, or rather had fallen on top of me. From the protests which I heard I understood confusedly that at least two or three of us had fallen. Someone took the billet from my hand while other hands shoved clumsily against my ribs.

  "Oh Your Eminence, excuse me, excuse me, I tripped," I heard Buvat's unmistakeable voice.

  "Stop this madman!" echoed another voice.

  I understood Atto's plan at once: to create confusion, perhaps even a brawl, by tripping that gangling Buvat so that he fell headlong against the group, while he himself got hold of the paper. />
  "Oh damnation, no!" I heard Melani utter immediately after that. I freed myself of someone's leg and rose to my feet.

  Almost everyone had got up, including Buvat, who was putting himself in order under the irate glares of about a dozen people. Caesar Augustus was still there, on the same little wall as before, but with one important difference: the note was in his beak. He had snatched it directly from Atto's hands. Melani now stood before him imploringly, without however daring to ask him to return the paper: Albani was staring with a glazed expression at the bird and his paper.

  "Caesar Augustus…" said I softly, hoping to catch his attention.

  He replied with a gurgling sound. He was sucking the note, with its coating of chocolate. Then he spread his wings, looking obliquely at me. At length, with a whirring of white feathers, he rose, flying off at great speed.

  Cardinal Albani flinched involuntarily.

  "Truly a strange bird," said he with an imperceptible break in his voice, struggling to recover his dignity.

  I noticed distractedly that the Cardinal was wiping pearls of sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief. My whole attention was focused on the direction in which the fowl was flying. There could be no doubt about it. As I had feared, he was leaving the villa in the direction of the San Pancrazio Gate.

  It was not easy for me to find a way of disengaging myself. Muttering an excuse, I left the balcony. Atto joined me almost at once in the salon, in which dozens of heads were still turned towards the curious scene that had just taken place outside. We succeeded in melting sufficiently into the crowd. I had, however, to calculate carefully when to slip out of the salon and then the villa without being seen by Don Paschatio or other members of the staff; all that, while taking the time to exchange the livery for my own clothes. For that purpose, I was able to take refuge in Abbot Melani's apartments.

  "Hurry, hurry, damn it, by now that wretched bird could be anywhere," said he as I hastily pulled on my breeches.

  To pass unobserved there was no other solution but to creep through the cane-brake behind the main avenue of the villa and then to double back through the part of the garden behind the house. Fortunately, the summer sun was already sheathing the fiery daggers with which it was so fond of tormenting both objects and living things; the pursuit was thus less disagreeable.