Secretum am-2

by Rita Monaldi

  Atto's memoir was, I thought once more, to be brought "ad Albanum": thus, behind all these shady affairs there was a cardinal, no less! What malign force, what infernal ladle was capable of mixing in the cauldron of the Holy City a highly placed cardinal, the right-hand man of His Holiness, and the diabolical sects of the cerretani. I then remembered that the cerretani had originally been defrocked priests. How was that possible? Only an ecclesiastic could enlighten me on this point.

  As a good pastor, Don Tibaldutio listened to my questions without batting an eyelid. I pretended that I had heard rumours in the street concerning the religious origins of the sects of mendicants.

  "Age-old is the scourge, and wrapped in mystery, its origins," the Carmelite began gravely.

  It all began after the barbarian invasions which put an end to nine centuries of Roman domination of the world. In those days, men were for the most part poor peasants and lived in small, isolated rural communities. The roads were unsafe, many the bandits and masterless soldiers, and the bears and wolves on the lookout for prey. Friars and monks remained in the safety of their monasteries, often built on inaccessible heights. Apart from the merchants, who had to travel for their trade, everyone lived in villages, working the land and praying God for the next harvest. But they were not alone: regularly, visitors would arrive.

  They were dressed in rags, haggard and dirty, and they asked for charity. They came from obscure places on the edge of villages, abandoned lazarets, little gaggles of hutments, almost a parallel civilisation devoted to filth. They were known as vagrants, degenerates, knaves, rascals, or tricksters and swindlers, if you prefer. But they were not poor: their poverty was only a disguise. They knew well how to profit from the words of the Evangelist, which call on all good Christians to practise charity: "Give alms of such things as ye have; and, behold, all things are clean unto you."

  "Some, perhaps, had been priests," said Don Tibaldutio, "but instead of honouring the Lord with prayer, they had given their souls to the Evil One."

  They would choose the humblest among the peasantry, ignorant of the world and its snares, and present themselves to them in unusual guises, with wild eyes halfway between folly and wisdom. They pretended to be all at once healers, magi and prophets, saviours of body and soul. They sold talismans, relics, miraculous orations, magic spells against the evil eye, ointments and panaceas; they announced miracles or divine punishments; they interpreted dreams; they miraculously found hidden treasures and rich inheritances which had been concealed; they exorcised and cast anathemas, thundering against sinners and promising heaven to the just. In the course of all this, they asked for and invariably received offerings in money.

  Begging for alms (which was thus both their purpose and their method) they were past-masters of suggestion, illusion and swindling, as the learned Gnesius Basapopi tells so well. When they practised flagellation, from their wounds gushed false blood — that of cats and chickens. But invariably they took alms and tribute in plenty from the credulous and simple, who were legion. Besides, did not the Sophists, too, have a reputation for being jugglers and charlatans, and, moving beyond them, even Socrates and Plato? None of those peasants remembered the admonition of the Bishop of Hippo, that one should give to the poor, but. not to play-actors.

  "But were they never unmasked?" I objected, as I took a goldfinch from a cage, tied its foot to a piece of twine and secured this with a nail to the trunk of a young acacia.

  "Of course, from time to time, a victim would react. But this was rare, and in any case, when it did happen, those rascals would change their skins like serpents and return to their former trades as tumblers, rebeck players, even tooth-pullers because, as that verse ofTheocritus puts it, paupertas sola est artes quae suscitat omnes: poverty alone gives rise to invention.

  Then he sang:

  By lies and by tricks You can live half a year; By tricks and by lies, Live the other half too.

  "What's that?" I asked, as we moved on to the area where the arquebuses had been placed.

  "An old rhyme of false beggars: just to help you understand how corrupted their minds are."

  But there was more to it. Insistent rumours had it that the cerretani had all united in a single sect. Following this, their high priest had founded the various subdivisions, not so much in order to organise them according to their specialisations as for a Satan ic purpose: the imitation of the religious orders of the Catholic Church.

  This hypothesis was not to be underestimated, for Bernardino of Siena tells how one day Lucifer, surrounded by all his demons, manifested to them his desire to start a church in contraposition to that of Christ, an Ecclesia malignantium wherewith to cancel out or at least mitigate the effectiveness of the other, celestial Church, upon which it was modelled. Even Agrippa of Nettesheim, who did not much believe in witches' spells, was so certain of the malefic powers of the canters that he went so far as to accuse them of practising black magic.

  With time, matters got worse, explained the chaplain, as I checked on one of the arquebuses planted in the ground, to make sure that it was indeed well aimed. Even the genuine religious orders were infected by the scandal. The monasteries got wind of the freedoms enjoyed in the world: it was necessary only to serve up a little nonsense to the ingenuous. The body came then to prevail over the spirit, eating and drinking over prayer, sloth over works consecrated to the Lord.

  "Wearing black vestments, as Libanius writes in Pro Templis, the monks ate more than elephants. They were men in appearance, yet they lived like pigs, and they publicly tolerated and committed acts of the foulest, most unspeakable turpitude. As Saint Augustine well knew, the enclosed orders of friars were reduced to an ignoble, muddy Gehenna," he exclaimed, casting a compassionate glance at a robin I had found dead in one of the cages, perhaps killed by the strain of being carted around thus.

  Monks and pseudo-monks, excommunicated by their own bishop, swarmed out from the cloister and began to wander unpunished on the highways, perturbing the peace of the Church and spreading further corruption amongst the good people. They joined the multitudes of true and false tramps, ragamuffins, layabouts, lepers, gypsies, vagabonds, cripples and paralytics lying in front of church doors, and made them their impure flocks.

  Now all doors were open to their cunning. Yet none could do anything about them, because they were poor, or at least, so they seemed and, as Domingo de Soto teaches in his Deliberatio in causa pauperum, in case of doubt, one should nonetheless give one's coin to those who beg. In dubio pro paupere.

  "Not only does the practice of charity cancel out sin but, as Saint John Chrysostom puts it: the poor beggars piled one on another in church porches are the physicians of the soul. Indeed, Peter Chrysologos preached that, when the poor man stretches out his hand to ask for charity, it is Christ Himself who does so."

  "But, if it is as you say, then roguery is the daughter of compassion and thus, indirectly, of the Church itself," I deduced with no little surprise as I placed a few crumbs in a cage.

  "Oh, come now…" Don Tibaldutio stumbled, "I really did not intend to say such a thing."

  There was, he nonetheless admitted, something disquieting about all this. The Hospitalier Friars of Altopascio, for instance, who begged unrestrictedly at castles and in villages, were an official grouping authorised by the Church of Rome. By their preaching they frightened the people, threatening excommunication or promising indulgences. And, in exchange for money, they would absolve anyone.

  Had not the pontiffs too succumbed to the ambiguous fascination of superstition and charlatanry? Boniface VIII always wore a talisman against the urinary calculus, while Clement V and Benedict XII were never separated from the cornu serpentinum, an amulet in the shape of a serpent which John XXII even went so far as to keep on his table, stuck into a loaf of bread and surrounded by salt.

  "But, some say," he added, lowering his voice by an octave, "that even the cerretani themselves originally enjoyed official sanction."

  "Really? And
what kind of sanction?"

  "There's a tale that I heard from a brother originating in those parts. It would appear — but beware, there is no proof of this — that at the end of the fourteenth century, the cerretani had a regular authorisation to beg, at Cerreto itself, on behalf of the hospitals of the Order of the Blessed Antony. A permit, in other words, emanating from the ecclesiastical authorities."

  "But then the cerretani were officially tolerated. Perhaps they still are to this day."

  "If such a permit ever existed," said he, prudently, "it would have had to be registered in the statutes of the city of Cerreto."

  "And is it?"

  "The pages concerning this begging for alms were torn out by someone," he remarked impassively.

  Besides, he added in the same breath, if one really wished to pay attention to gossip, it was even said that they had a friend in the Vatican.

  "In the Vatican? And who could that be?" I exclaimed, matching my intonation to my incredulity.

  On his face, I read regret at having pronounced one word too many, and displeasure at being unable to row back.

  "Well… They speak of someone from the Marches. But perhaps it is all a matter of envy because he has an important post in Saint Peter's factory, so they slander him behind his back."

  So, I thought in astonishment, someone at Saint Peter's Factory (the permanent workshop for the repair and restoration of the most important church in Christendom) was in contact with the cerretani. This was obviously a matter to be looked into, but not with the chaplain, who had given himself away and would certainly provide me with no further details.

  It was time for us to part. I had completed my task of setting out the birds which were to act as bait, and I had checked on the fixed arquebuses; furthermore Don Tibaldutio had answered quite exhaustively my questions concerning the links between the Church and the cerretani.

  How much like the skilled and crafty trade of scoundrels and swindlers was all that proliferation of Holy Years, decade after decade, which had reduced the Jubilees from a rare act of collective devotion falling only every hundred years to a vehicle for constant money-making! Was this not perhaps a consequence, however distant, of the errors and misdeeds committed or tolerated when the cerretani first came into the world, even before the first Jubilee, born from a rib of Holy Mother Church and fed with the sacred milk of pity and charity? Sfasciamonti was right, said I to myself, we were surrounded. The seat of the papacy was a fortress into which the Trojan horse had long since been introduced.

  Don Tibaldutio blew his nose in conclusion, staring at me thoughtfully through the folds of his handkerchief. He understood that I had on my mind something that I did not mean to reveal to him.

  I thanked him and promised that, should I need further clarification on the subject, I would certainly seek his advice.

  A moment before taking my leave of the chaplain, I remembered a question over which I had been brooding a long time:

  "Excuse me, Don Tibaldutio," said I with seeming nonchalance. "Have you ever heard tell of the Company of Saint Elizabeth?"

  "But of course, everyone knows it," he answered, caught out by the ingenuousness of my question. "It is the one that gives money to the catchpolls. Why do you ask?"

  "I saw them passing the other day and… Well, it was the first time I had ever seen them, that's all," said I, clumsily disguising the matter.

  I simply could not see clearly into the doubt that was slowly gnawing away at my insides but had not yet reached my brain.

  Thank heavens, the merry hunt turned out well and happily. After a few hours of lying in wait and laying ambuscades, the ladies and gentlemen had exhausted their lust for the chase and had returned to the great house, bearing almost empty baskets containing a meagre, pitiable haul (starlings, swallows, rooks, a few toads, two moles and even a bat) and with everyone falling about with laughter. In the end, once I had withdrawn all the cages with the bait, I could see that these were far more numerous than what had been caught.

  Only a few minor incidents (all of them fortunately resolved by the prompt intervention of the servants, who had come running en masse) had momentarily disturbed the entertainment, causing poor Don Paschatio's heart to jump into his mouth. Prince Vaini, reckless as ever, had for a joke aimed his crossbow at the hat of Giovan Battista Marini, Bargello of the Campidoglio, whereupon the shot had gone off by accident. The arrow had narrowly missed Marini's cranium and had stuck into a nearby tree, taking his hat with it. Cardinal Spada, backed by his Major-Domo and a host of lackeys, had had to plead long and hard to avoid Vaini and his victim coming to blows. Challenges to fight a duel, several times uttered, had fortunately come to nothing.

  In the meanwhile, Monsignor Borghese and Count Vidaschi, for want of nobler prey, had fired their arquebus at a large rook. The black (notoriously inedible) fowl had fallen to the ground, apparently badly wounded. When, however, the two aggressors had advanced to catch it, it had taken off, flying rather haphazardly among the other players and ending up perched on the fine, flowing tresses of Marchesa Grescenzi who exploded into screams of pain and panic. When at last the bird let go of her, the whole group took aim at it with arquebuses and crossbows. The poor creature, being wounded in one wing, could not gain height. When at last it landed on the ground, it was ingloriously finished off with a shovel.

  The third incident was not the fruit of an excess of audacity, as in the case of Prince Vaini, but of total incompetence. Marchese Scipione Lancelotti Ginetti, who was notorious for his lack of wit, and even more so for his short-sightedness, shot a bolt from his crossbow at what he believed to be a bird perched on the topmost branch of a tall pine. The bolt struck a bough, causing it to shake violently. Out of the branches fell a whitish sphere which shattered on the ground.

  "An egg," exclaimed the first.

  "One does not shoot at nests, it is both pointless and cruel," exclaimed the other, turning to Marchese Lancelotti Ginetti.

  Others gathered, all keen to stress the Marchese's error, at a time when the latter was pulling strings to be appointed Colonel of the Roman People (an ancient and noble office of the city's communal institutions), while many nourished the hope that he would fail in this. Moreover, any pretext was good for distracting attention from the hunt, which was yielding such meagre results. The Marchese tried to disculpate himself, claiming that he had been shooting at a big bird, while everyone was trying to hide their laughter, knowing full well that Lancellotti Ginetti could not see a yard beyond his own nose.

  With their noses pointing skyward, many guests — all claiming themselves to be expert hunters — tried to understand to which bird the egg that had fallen to the ground might belong.

  "Riparian swallow."

  "Pheasant, in my view," proposed Monsignor Gozzadini, Secretary for His Holiness's Memorials.

  "But, Excellency, on top of a tree…"

  "Ah yes, that is true."

  "A partridge," said another.

  "A partridge? Too small."

  "Excuse me, it must be a turtle dove, or at most a pigeon, that's quite clear."

  "But even a white dove…"

  "Perhaps it is a jay," ventured Marchese Lancellotti Ginetti, who seemed to regard it as somehow dishonourable not to pronounce his opinion on the egg which he himself had brought down.

  "Come, come, Marchese!" butted in Prince Vaini with his usual insolence. "Can you not see that the egg is white, while jays' eggs are speckled? Even the dogs in the street know that!"

  The entire group ganged up on poor Lancellotti Ginetti, stressing the gravity of his mistake with a series of "Ah, yes!", "But what's got into his head?", "Utterly absurd" and so on and so forth, all accompanied by allusive little coughs and the clearing of throats.

  Suddenly, the ear-splitting report of an arquebus was heard. Everyone, including Lancellotti Ginetti, immediately ducked to the ground to avoid any further shots.

  Fortunately, there were no dead or wounded. A quick check revealed that non
e of the gentlemen present had an arquebus. Moving further afield, none of those handling one admitted to having fired in the previous few minutes. Some of those present still had goose pimples from the experience, and moved away to resume the beat.

  This incident, which I had fortuitously witnessed as I was in the process of moving one of the cages to a better position, filled my soul with a dense cloud of disquiet. At point blank range, an arquebus shot could only kill.

  Out of a sense of duty, I at once reported what had happened to Don Paschatio; his face was marked in equal measure by anguish and terror. The one thing not needed at the festivities which he was overseeing was a dead man, perhaps one high born. He began lamenting that this hunting party was most inappropriate at the present time when a conclave was imminent, with so much mutual detestation in the air. Someone might give in to the temptation to settle old accounts.

  I had, however, cooled down after the initial shock. I had my suspicions; but I could not yet imagine whether there were any grounds for them, nor did I know whether it would be wise to investigate the matter. In any case, urgent business now occupied my mind, calling me to action.

  The business of spying, to be quite precise.

  Evening the Seventh

  13th J ULY, 1700

  I found Atto in his lodgings. He had not taken part in the merry hunt: the hunt for Caesar Augustus had been quite enough for him, said he. In fact, he was too busy replying to the letter from the Connestabilessa. Now that he had accomplished that task, it was time for him to go down with Buvat for dinner in the gardens of the villa. I told him what I had learned from Don Tibaldutio: the cerretani even had a friend at Saint Peter's, whose name the chaplain had not, however, revealed.

  "Ah yes? Very good, very good," he commented, "I shall ask Sfasciamonti to check up on this at once."

  Half an hour later, after making sure that the Abbot and his secretary were at table, I again plunged my hands into his dirty linen and took out the little envelope of secret correspondence.