by Rita Monaldi
El Rey, for his part, wrote at once to his cousin Leopold, thanking him for having had nothing to do with the pact of partition and begging him to have no part in it in the future.
Pardon me if I have recounted here facts already known to you, but I must repeat that the situation is quite serious. If His Holiness Innocent XII is unable to bring the Most Christian King to reason, it will be the end for all of us.
Now, will the Holy Father be in a position to attend to so grave and delicate a task? We all know that he is seriously ill and that a conclave may be imminent. I have even heard that he may not wish to have anything to do with the matter. What do you know of that? It seems that he may no longer be very much his own master and that, to every question, he replies: "And what can we do about that? " It seems that even in those moments when he is most lucid, he likes to repeat: " We are denied the dignity which is due to the Vicar of Christ and there is no care for us."
It would be unheard offor someone to dare really to force the hand of His Holiness, taking advantage of his illness.
Silvio, 'tis right to pay the gods their homage due, but then I can't allow their ministers should be disturbed.
Lastly, courteous Silvio, why do you kneel to Dorinda since you're her lord? Or, if you be her slave, obey her words.
My spirit was weighed down by conjectures. I tried to take matters in order. In the first place, the Connestabilessa again spoke of a mediation. The King of Spain, or so she said, had requested the Pope's help so that he could make Archduke Charles his heir and have him brought from Vienna to Madrid without starting a war. The Most Christian King, however, was threatening to send the Archduke's ship to the bottom of the sea.
I did however recall that, in his first letter, Abbot Melani had clearly written that the Pontiff was to have provided the King of Spain with an opinion as to whom he should choose as his heir: the Duke of Anjou, nephew of the Most Christian King of France or the Archduke Charles, younger son of the Emperor of Austria. This was a very different matter from the mediation to which the Connestabilessa referred in a letter which closed on what looked like a veiled rebuke to the Abbot, whom as usual she addressed as Silvio, for the pressures which were said to be being exercised on the Pontiff.
Only, why ever should the Connestabilessa be angry with Atto? Was the old castrato then really so influential at the pontifical court?
Lastly, the Connestabilessa was answering Atto's earlier letter, in which 'midst a thousand reverences, the Abbot reminded her of his eternal platonic love. And here came the new mystery. Maria too was replying from behind a pseudonym: Dorinda.
Dorinda: now, where had I heard that name? Unlike Silvio, Dorinda was far from being a common name. And yet I seemed already to have heard it, or perhaps read it. But when?
At that juncture my soul was beset by too many questions. My curiosity was by now well and truly whetted and I hastened to read Abbot Melani's reply.
Here, however, I found myself having to read a honeyed and painfully interminable preamble of lamentations for the Connestabilessa's delays, which were said to endanger the Abbot's very life, and countless other such sickly-sweet protestations, as well as a description of the wedding between Maria Pulcheria Rocci and Clemente Spada, in which the Abbot did not spare the unfortunate bride with the most irreverent comments on her flatfish face.
Then at long last I came to what I was looking for:
Do all that you can to recover your health as soon as possible, I beg of you! Do not allow yourself to be beset by pointless worries. His Majesty King Charles II of Spain has rather wisely decided to defer to the Holy Father. The choice of the right pair of hands into which to confide his magnificent Kingdom, which unites no fewer than twenty Crowns, is surely one that calls for divine Counsel.
Fear not: Innocent XII is a Pignatelli. His is a family of faithful subjects of the Kingdom of Naples, and thus, of Spain. He will not fail to honour the Catholic Kings request, of that you may be sure. His decision, even if it may be slow in coming, will be carefully weighed up and will certainly be dictated by love for the Spanish Crown.
All of us here are sure that whatever His Holiness may decide will, for the King of Spain, be sacrosanct; nor will anyone in Europe dare disregard the Pope's opinion. Against the fulminations of Heaven the Po — tentates of this world can do nothing. The hand of the Almighty which extends its protection over the successors of Saint Peter in accordance with the words qui vos spernit, me spernit, will attribute a rightful triumph to the word of His Holiness.
I could not understand a thing. It was as though Abbot Melani and the Connestabilessa were conversing together in two different languages, caring not whether they understood one another. Had the Catholic King not decided for the Archduke, as the Connestabilessa said, and was he not imploring the Pope's support? Or did he not know which heir to back and was accordingly making his decision dependent upon the Papal opinion? Melani's letter ended thus:
And you, most clement one, do not worry about the Pontiff's health: he is surrounded by excellent persons who take good care of him and his needs, but would never dare to interfere with the pastoral role which His Holiness holds in his grasp by divine right. First among these is the Cardinal Secretary of State Fabrizio Spada, whom you too appreciate so greatly and who is anxiously awaiting your arrival at this his marvellous Villa on the Janiculum.
My friend, from this hill one dominates Rome, all Rome and perhaps a little beyond. Tarry no more.
Shalt we not be meeting in two days time, then?
And, at the foot of the letter:
So, be Dorinda. You, Silvio, what more can you expect? What can Dorinda afford you more? But you, Dorinda, goddess who dwell'st on heav'n's high summit, show Silvio now eternal pity, not eternal anger.
Atto yielded to the Connestabilessa's invitation not to bow down before her, even symbolically; indeed, said he to himself, whatever could he lay claim to any more? His love for her was hopeless. Nevertheless, Abbot Melani, replied with gentle supplication to the rebukes which the Connestabilessa regularly reserved for him when she called him Silvio. He begged her henceforth to show pity, not fury.
I had to admit that Abbot Melani had a rather fine poetic vein, in the matter of love.
I again turned over the name Dorinda in my mind but was still unable to remember where I had seen or heard it before.
Soon, moreover, I returned to graver considerations: Atto had still said nothing to me about the Spanish succession, yet his letters to the Connestabilessa spoke of nothing else (love apart). This I had realised from the day when the Abbot arrived at the villa. From that time until this, however, I had established nothing. I had not even managed to find out anything more about the Countess of Soissons, always supposing that she and the enigmatic poisoner, the Countess of S., were one and the same person.
I shook my head disconsolately: the enigma remained intact, nor was there any sign of the fog that surrounded it dispersing. One thing was certain: the Cardinal my master was in some way involved in the matter. Both the Connestabilessa and Melani reported that the Secretary of State had been to see the Spanish Ambassador about the King of Spain's request to Innocent XII and, in view of the Pontiff's dreadful state of health, the Cardinal was dealing with the matter personally on his behalf.
I therefore felt it to be all the more my bounden duty better to clarify my ideas about this series of mysteries. I therefore promised myself that I would, on the morrow, at last question Atto at least about the identity of the Countess of Soissons.
Il Roscio's directions were accurate enough. The place could not have been more uninviting; yet, according to the instructions we had received, we were to go there by night, so as not to be seen. This was an essential precaution: we were, after all, trying to take the inscrutable German by surprise.
To tell the truth, I was expecting some out-of-the-way, solitary place, perhaps in the midst of market gardens or woodland, far removed from men and merchandise. Instead, Il Roscio had sent us i
nto the heart of the Holy City. "I have never been there," he had warned, "but I do know from the others in my company that there's where he lies low."
We did not have far to go: from the Villa Spada, we came to Monte Cavallo, passing before the sacred and imposing walls of the Apostolic Palace. There, we turned off to the right, then into Via San Vitale. To the left, behind the high walls which lined the way on either side, stood the campanile of the Jesuits of San Vitale. Its graceful outline reminded me of the little church which, on very clear days, one could sometimes, from our little field, catch sight of in the far distance; and I prayed God to keep me in good health, not only for my own sake but for that of my Cloridia, whom I mentally implored, seeing all the dreadful risks I had run in recent days and was likely to encounter in the coming ones, to pray not only for my soul's salvation but for that of my body.
We came at last to the Via Felice which, with its harmonious alternation of ups and downs, takes one from the steep pile that is Santa Maria Maggiore to the gentle heights of Monte Pincio.
There, we turned to the right, leaving the Quattro Fontane behind us. A little before the church of the monks of San Paolo L'Eremita and the Premonstratensi Fathers' church of San Norberto, a few paces away from Santa Maria della Sanita de' Benfratelli, a nameless side street ran off to the right. We took it, walking between a little group of houses on the right and an isolated house to our left. Beyond these habitations, the road bent leftwards, petering out into a track amidst uncultivated fields.
It was precisely at that point that, following Il Roscio's instructions, we left the road and turned right. Here the terrain became steep, almost vertical, forming a sort of great elongated mound which stretched out rather like the back of a buried giant. As we skirted this mound, we noticed in its flank, below and to our right, first, a slit, then a more generous opening, and lastly, a grotto, then yet another. It was a series of artificial caverns, originally faced with well-cut stones, but by now covered in earth and overgrown with trees, bushes, creepers, fungus, lichens and all kinds of mildew.
The caves were arranged in two parallel rows, one on a lower level, where we were. The other, consisting of larger grottoes, was higher up and set further back, so much so that before it there was a sort of corridor several yards wide. At the right-hand end of this group of caverns there was yet another group on a third level, above which rose a rustic house with a turret. Behind that, stood the convent of the nuns of San Francesco alle Therme. The name of the convent was no accident.
"Whoever could have imagined that?" said Atto, whose familiarity with antiquities I had known since the time of our first encounter. "The Baths of Aggripina. I'd never have expected that I might have to look for people as foul as the cerretani in so noble a place."
He was moving among those ancient imperial ruins almost on tiptoe, as though he feared that he might, by tripping up, damage some centuries-old brick; he looked all around him with caution and an imperceptible strain of melancholy in his voice. Seventeen years previously, I had seen him recognise and admire a subterranean Mithraeum and I knew that he had written a guide to Rome for lovers of fine antiquities. Despite all the time that had passed, he had not, it seemed, lost his former predilections.
"We have arrived," said Sfasciamonti, pointing in front of us. "Here is the place."
At the end of the row of caves, before the last stretch of the convent wall, dark and impassive, there stood a tower.
This was one of the numerous pinnacles that had once made of Rome an Urbs turrita, in other words, a city adorned with many towers, steeples and turrets: lookout and defence positions from the Middle Ages, which gave the place an old-fashioned, warlike look. This one was not high: it must have been topped, as often happened during the barbarian invasions, or else the upper part had collapsed in some fire.
"No one will stop you," Il Roscio had added enigmatically when furnishing us with details of the German's lair. "If anything, it is you who will decide to go away."
We had a first confirmation of these words when we arrived in front of the tower. We circled it, looking up at all the walls. The windows were all barred. At the foot of the structure, we found a sort of hut which contained the entrance. It was made of wood, creaking and decrepit. We pushed on the door. It was open.
Once inside, we found ourselves in a large, dark, evil-smelling space. Rats and strays of all sorts seemed from time immemorial to have chosen the place for their dejections. The light of our lantern enabled us to avoid the colossal cobwebs which hung throughout the length and breadth of that dungeon, and the foul matter (scrap, rubble, rubbish) that covered the floor.
Suddenly I came close to tripping heavily against a solid mass, well secured to the ground. I rubbed my sore toe. It was a step.
"Signor Atto, a staircase!" I announced.
I shone light on the place with the lantern. A stairway climbed the right-hand wall towards a door.
Here too, neither lock nor chain barred the way.
"Il Roscio was right," observed Sfasciamonti, "there are no obstacles or security measures to impede us. How very interesting."
Behind the second door, another stairway awaited us; this time, exceedingly steep. Melani often stopped to catch his breath.
"But when are we going to get there?" he wondered disconsolately, trying in vain to look behind him and see how far we had come.
"We are climbing to the top of the tower," I answered.
"That, I had surmised for myself," retorted Atto acidly. "But tell me where the deuce the German's lair could be. On the chimney-pots?"
"Perhaps the German is a stork," joked Sfasciamonti, stifling a laugh.
I in the meanwhile was returning in memory to that time, years ago, when Atto and I had spent entire nights exploring galleries and catacombs in the dark underbelly of the city, encountering all manner of perils and fending off dangerous ambushes. Now we were back in the same pitch darkness, but climbing heavenward, not down into the bowels of the earth.
For several minutes, we continued in a straight line, by the faint light of our lantern, until we reached a little quadrangular cavity. The floor was covered with an iron plate. In front of us, a few steps led to a little door which looked very much as though it led to an even higher level. We looked at one another suspiciously.
"I do not like this one bit, corps of a thousand bombards," commented Sfasciamonti.
"Nor I," echoed Melani. "If we go up there, it will be impossible to beat a quick retreat and get out again."
"If only there were a window in this tower, even a slit, perhaps we might be able to work out how high we've climbed," said I.
"Come, come, 'tis pitch dark outside," retorted the Abbot.
"What are we to do?"
"Let us go on further," said Atto, advancing into the little room. "How strange, there's a smell here like…"
He broke off. It all began at that moment and happened too fast for us to have any control over events. As we followed Melani, we felt the platform resound slightly and, with a discreet but quite distinct click, descend about half a palm.
We started, aware of imminent danger.
"Get back! 'Tis a trap…" screamed Sfasciamonti.
It was already too late. A massive and immensely heavy wooden and iron trapdoor slammed thunderously behind us, cutting us off from the stairway from which we had come and brutally striking the ground, like a peasant's hoe biting into the bare and arid earth. Fortunately, the lantern had not gone out, but what the light was about to reveal to us was enough to make us wish for the blackest darkness.
Tongues of infernal fire flickered before and around us, illuminating us with their horrid light and making our faces seem like those of damned souls. Once they touched our skin those fiery daggers would surely inflict unspeakable suffering upon us.
"God Almighty help us! We have ended up in hell," I exclaimed, overcome by panic.
Atto said nothing: he was trying to keep those demonic fireflies from his face, hitting out a
t them as one strikes at mosquitos, but with thrice the force and thrice the desperation.
"Damnation, my feet!" cried Sfasciamonti.
At that moment, I felt it too: unbearable heat burned as though within my shoes. I had to raise one foot, then the other, then again the first, for keeping them on the ground was quite intolerable. Atto, too, and the catchpoll were leaping like madmen, brushing off the tongues of fire and struggling to keep each foot on the ground as little as possible.
"Out of here, damn it!" screamed Atto, rushing with Sfasciamonti towards the little door that we had not wished to pass through but which had now become our only way out.
Fortunately, like the other doors before it, this too was open. This time we were confronted by a series of rusty iron rungs. The catchpoll entered first. The opening was so tight that we had to bend almost until our noses touched our knees. We advanced breathlessly, one stuck to the other, our feet still half burned, while some of the malignant droplets of fire mockingly invaded our little hole. Thus, I found myself caught between Sfasciamonti's powerful bulk and Atto's more scrawny and weary body, trembling with fear and imploring Our Lord to have pity on my soul.
"No!!"
It was then, just when Sfasciamonti let forth that desperate scream, that I saw him disappear, engulfed by a sudden abyss and felt him grasp at my right arm, dragging me down the precipice with prodigious force.
The invisible and natural mechanism that governs human actions in such upheavals moved of its own accord and caused me, willy-nilly, to grasp at Atto, who thus fell with me. Hanging onto one another in a wretched bundle of flesh and bones, we were sucked by an invincible force into a vertiginous and endless fall.
"Et libera nos a malo" I had the presence of mind to gasp as the alien vortex almost robbed me of my breath.
The fall seemed to last forever. We were piled up one on top of the other as though Lucifer's pitchfork had cast us among the damned and was bringing us before the judges of the Inferno.
