Secretum am-2

by Rita Monaldi

  "Tell me just one thing, Monna Cloridia," Atto interrupted her. "What causes such monstrosities?"

  My wife explained that, if it was not to be defective, childbirth must satisfy five conditions: the infant must be born in the right position, at the right time, easily, with no sickness that cannot be cured by means of purges, and with complete, perfect limbs. Any delivery which fails to satisfy one of these conditions will be defective. If the infant is partially imperfect, it will be called a monster; if it is completely unsound, it will just be a formless piece of flesh.

  But the principal cause lies in the mother's imagination. If the woman imprints the vestige of something desired in the unborn infant's body, it will come to pass, because she desires that greatly. Yet, what foolish woman would ever desire to have monstrous children? The answer is that one does not need desire to generate monsters, it is enough that the expectant mother should see something monstrous, even without desiring it.

  "This comes of something natural which we see almost every day of our lives. If someone yawns, you too will yawn; if you see wine running from a barrel, you will want to urinate; if you see a red cloth, your nose will bleed; if you see someone else drinking medicine or buying it from the grocer, you will evacuate your bowels three or even four times. For the same reason, if you place a killer before the body of someone he has killed, more blood will gush from that corpse."

  Atto made no negative comment on Cloridia's discourse. After all, he too had attributed to a similar theory (that of flying corpuscles) the apparition of Fouquet, Maria and Louis at the Vessel. Why, then, should he not admit that a mother's imagination, which is so intimately involved with the fruit of her womb, could determine so many mutations in the foetus?

  "The midwife must, in any case, baptise monsters at once," continued Cloridia, "because most of them survive only a very short time. To be precise, a monster with two heads or two torsos should be baptised twice, but only once if it has only one face and four arms and four legs."

  If in the monster one can recognise one distinct body, said she, completing her explanation, but the other cannot be clearly discerned, the first to be baptised will be that which clearly belongs to the human race, then the other, but sub conditione, meaning that, for the baptism to be valid, God must recognise the second one as being endowed with a soul, which only He will be able to see beyond the appearance of the deformity.

  "As you have seen, I was not lying when I said to you that the subject of monstrous foetuses is somewhat curious," commented Cloridia; "and, what is more, rather an entertaining matter to tell of to women who have just given birth to fine, healthy infants. After all the travails of childbirth, while they are resting before the afterbirth and the purges, they'll be cheered up by tales and theories about monsters."

  "Cheered up?" muttered Atto, whose greenish pallor gave us cause to fear an attack of nausea.

  "But of course," trilled my little wife. "When they're resting under observation, we give them rather amusing descriptions of monstrous creatures, with dog's, calf's, elephant's, deer's, sheep's or lamb's heads or with goat's legs or other members resembling those of some animal. Or those with more members than usual, like two heads or four arms, as with your Tetrachion. Or monsters resulting from the crossing of two different species, like centaurs, half man and half horse, minotaurs, half bull, or onocentaurs, half donkey. Then there's the legend of Gerion, King of Spain, who had three heads, and…"

  "What's that?" Melani interrupted her again. "A King of Spain with three heads?"

  "Exactly," she confirmed, noticing Atto's interest. "It is said that they were triplets born joined together, and that they reigned in great concord."

  "Tell me more about this Gerion, Monna Cloridia," Atto requested, wiping the perspiration dripping from his forehead with a handkerchief.

  "There's no cause for surprise," said my wife. "Have not the kings of Spain a two-headed eagle on their arms? That is simply a memento of a defective birth of that kind which took place among the Habsburgs in long bygone days."

  I held my breath. This would have been the time to talk and tell Cloridia what had happened.

  But Atto said nothing. I understood that he was overcome by shame and even diffidence at the prospect of telling Cloridia of such an incredible event. In any case, in order to explain himself, the Abbot would be constrained to admit our dishonourable flight. For my part, I did not wish to break his silence: the secret belonged to us both.

  It was no accident that Spain, continued Cloridia, was a land where all manner of extraordinary and anomalous births had been thoroughly studied. The Iberian Antonio Torquemada, in his book, The Garden of Curious Flowers writes, for example, that from bears and baboons, if they mate with women, perfect men may be born with their wits well about them. He tells of a Swedish woman who mated with a bear and of a Portuguese one who, condemned to death and driven into the midst of a wilderness, was with child by a baboon: both gave birth to perfect men. The same thing happened between a woman and a dog who were the only survivors of a shipwreck in the East Indies. Marooned in a desert place infested with wild beasts by the name of Tartary, the dog defended the woman from attacks by the wild beasts and love grew up between them. She became pregnant and gave birth to a perfect boy. He in turn lay with his mother and they gave birth to so many perfect and wise men and women that they peopled the whole kingdom. The dog's descendants preserved the memory of their ancestor and to this day they can find no finer title for their emperor than the Great Khanine.

  "If this were the case," commented my wife, who was becoming more and more amused by the bewilderment she was causing me and Atto, "the Scaligeri, the lords of Verona, might also be of canine origin, for many members of that family are called Cane della Scala or even Cangrande della Scala."

  Soon, Abbot Melani dismissed us all. I looked at him. He had reached the limit of his strength. The tremendous vision we had seen at the Vessel had profoundly shocked him and he now urgently needed to rest. What was more, that evening was to be the final one in the series of festivities; and Albani would be present.

  When I was left alone with Cloridia, I was able to bring her up to date with the latest disconcerting events. She became pensive, and when I asked her for her opinion on the matter, she would only venture: "You are digging too deep: some matters are best left alone. You should rather be busying yourself with obtaining the girls' dowry from Abbot Melani."

  While awaiting the final spectacle, which was to begin only after dark, the afternoon had been dedicated to various amusements and entertainments.

  A real tennis court had been set up. For the players there had been acquired from Horatio at the Piazza di Fico, a noted real tennis player, the most perfect racquets and the best "flying balls". A short distance away, another space had been prepared for the game of bowls.

  The participants, however, were few. Many guests preferred to save their strength for the long night of entertainments and carousing ahead of them. Cardinal Spada had arranged for a number of Turkish pavilions to be set up decked in the finest, lightest, opalescent silk gauze which, it seems, was sent specially from Armenia (and was something that had never before been seen in Rome), all in the most vivid colours, richly ornate and most pleasant to behold. Those who so desired could open up the roof onto the starry sky. Meanwhile, braziers would be lit to fill the night with sweet-smelling smoke. Here, those guests who did not wish to abandon themselves to sleep could take their ease on generous day-beds where they would be served until the break of day with all manner of delicacies by lackeys attired in gorgeous Saracen uniforms, enjoying both the exotic decor and that rare opportunity capriciously to take their ease.

  In view of the small numbers of persons playing real tennis and bowls, Don Paschatio soon exempted me from serving those gentlemen and sent me instead to help prepare the Turkish pavilions: unrolling tapestries and carpets, setting up the braziers, polishing brass bowls and filling them with perfumed water for washing hands, providing each
pavilion with napkins and towels in abundance, etcetera, etcetera.

  While busying myself thus, I thought of Abbot Melani. As we had learned from Ugonio, his treatise on the Secrets of the Conclave was due on the morrow, Thursday, to pass from the hands of the cerretani into those of Cardinal Albani. What might the Secretary for Breves, who had clashed so bitterly with Atto, do with it? Perhaps he might approach the Abbot that very evening to propose some sordid exchange that would compromise him even more: I shall refrain from ruining you, provided that you do me this small favour…

  Or perhaps tomorrow, for instance, during the guests' visit to

  Palazzo Spada, he might take advantage of the situation to create a public scandal, casting the manuscript at the feet of the Pope's other ministers, starting with Cardinal Spada. Then, everyone would be able to read the most recondite information on conclaves, France's secret intentions, the Abbot's true opinion on dozens and dozens of cardinals, concerning whom Atto, in that secret report (intended for the eyes of the Most Christian King only), had revealed who knows what sins.

  Abbot Melani's career, an entire lifetime devoted to tricks, insults, threats and dissimulation, was on the point of coming to an end. His vocation as a political acrobat, walking a tightrope between espionage and diplomacy, was within a hair's breadth of failure. Within a few hours, at the very latest on the next day, all the discretion he had employed for decades, all the prudent stratagems, the subterfuges… Yes, everything would collapse under the weight of infamy and betrayal, as well as in the eyes of the senior hierarchy of the Church of Rome: those of whom he boasted that he knew them as well as the contents

  of his own pockets. Could one imagine a worse epilogue?

  Evening the Eighth

  14th July, 1700

  After so many celebrations and festivities, it had all come to an end. We were on the final evening of the entertainments which were, or so Cardinal Spada had ordered, to attain the highest peaks of gaiety and wonder. For the solemn leave-taking, a great pyrotechnic spectacle, or, as others would call it, a display of fireworks, had been laid on. Ephemeral machines, rockets and dazzling Catherine wheels were to light up the Roman night, arousing admiration and wonderment in the four corners of the Holy City. Had he been in good health, even the Holy Father would from his window have been able to admire the enchantments which the artificers hired by Don Paschatio were preparing on the lawns of the villa. The noble guests were already comfortably seated on the lawn, where plentiful chairs, armchairs and day-beds had been arranged so as to be able to seat even late arrivals.

  Despite all the adventures I had lived through that day with Atto, the huge number of questions in search of an answer, the knots to be loosed, and all the excitement to which that had given rise, I suddenly gave way to sadness and weariness. The fatigue caused by too many efforts consumed my limbs and my thoughts were tinged with the bitter ink of melancholy.

  On the next afternoon, the guests would have packed, I thought, and would be returning to their homes and business, some at the other end of Rome, some outside the city, some even beyond the confines of the states of the Church. That great event, the nuptials of Clemente Spada and Maria Pulcheria Rocci, was by now behind us. Two souls were concluding their existence as youngsters and setting out on a new life as spouses. However joyous the occasion, it was but one chapter giving way to the next. Thus every single thing in this world, mean or glorious, must pass, leaving in its wake only the volatile stuff of human memory. Once the lights had died, darkness would return to my modest life as a rustic and a servant.

  "Tenebrae factae sunt," I murmured to myself, greeting the coming of night, when a great explosion made me jump.

  The artificers had set off the deafening sarabande of fireworks. At a nod from Cardinal Spada, a whole series of cannon salvoes had begun which shook the whole company, to the great (but well dissimulated) amusement of the master of the house.

  After the salvo came the first scenic apparition. In those days, there had been brought to Rome from the Orient a being that had rarely been seen in the city, larger and more terrifying than any animal described in living memory: an elephant. He was led by his keepers through the streets of the centre, to the astonishment of the children, the fascination of natural philosophers and the terror of old women.

  Well, they all turned in amazement when such a colossus entered the gates of Villa Spada. This was another exemplar of the same race, no less mighty than its fellow, accompanied by four janissaries, and it was now advancing towards the spectators, panting savagely as it came.

  "His Lordship, the Elephant!" announced the Major-Domo proudly, while some ladies uttered little cries of dismay and a number even stood up to take flight. A moment before fear got the better of the amiable gathering, something unimaginable happened. A white, red and yellow flame burst from the back of the beast, then a series of little flames began to issue from the tip of its curved tusks; following which, a volley of firecrackers exploded from the tip of its trunk, almost as though it had been transformed into a musket. Everyone then knew: it was an artificial elephant made of wood and papier mache, a perfect imitation of the real thing, equipped to display fireworks. One could see that it was, after all, moving on a float, behind which the artificers were pushing, half hidden. Hearts beat more easily; as the great beast advanced along the main avenue, even the most fearful returned to their seats. All that huffing and puffing (one could now see) was produced by a small boy working a pair of bellows placed behind the sham monster, which released compressed air into a tube that emerged from its mouth. The company, however, especially the ladies, was still more fearful than entertained.

  "Poor ladies, what a scare! As the Cavalier Bernini put it, pyrotechnical machines are made to impress, not to amuse."

  It was Abbot Melani, who had discreetly come to my side as I helped a monsignor to his feet who had fallen as he attempted to flee. Atto was quivering and tense as a palfrey just before a race.

  "I have asked. Albani is not here. He will be coming tomorrow, perhaps," he whispered curtly.

  Just when it came near to where we stood, the luminous elephant was extinguished like a burnt-out taper. With perfect timing, the chaos of brilliant rockets began. First came a green comet, followed by three yellow shooting stars, then three red ones, then again a green one, after which came special ones which broke up into a stream of sparks, a deluge of light, a dazzling explosion of a thousand incandescent meteors.

  "Do you like the spectacle, Your Eminence?" Prince Cesarini asked Cardinal Ottoboni, who was that evening attending the celebrations for the first time, between one explosion and the next.

  "Oh, 'tis not bad. But I am not made for such noise. Just to give you an example, I recall with greater pleasure the silent light spectacle with torches on the cupola of Saint Peter's ten years ago, to be exact, when Saint John of God was canonised," replied the Cardinal with a hint of melancholy in his voice, perhaps because ten years ago his uncle, Alexander VIII, had been Pope.

  This amiable chatter was interrupted by the arrival of another float, on which was seated no less than Lucifer in person. The guests laughed. It was by now clear that each apparition, however frightening, was for their entertainment. The moving figure of the Devil, complete with horns and infernal sneer, was half hidden behind a bed of reeds and held coiled in his arms the malefic serpent of Genesis. Suddenly, from the reptile's mouth shot a tongue of fire that could not have been more real. Then the head of the Evil One exploded with a tremendous bang and his body rapidly caught fire, which gave rise to a great burst of applause even from the most fearful trembling ladies. To the guests' utter astonishment, when the smoke cleared, we saw in the place of Satan a noble angel, with shining wings and immaculate vestments, while at the four corners of the float joyful flames appeared, illuminating the victory of light over darkness; which everyone commented upon with great pleasure amidst great and general applause.

  In every corner of the garden, then, including the most
recondite, the Catherine wheels lit up: spirals of yellow, pink, violet and the colour of lightning, hanging from trees, hedges and the boundary wall, spitting fire everywhere and transforming the scene (except for those parts set aside for the guests) into an infernal forest, racked by Vulcan's darts. Hammering salvoes of firecrackers deafened the company and filled the air with acrid, stinging smoke, so that the eyes of many were filled with tears. At the same time, rockets were again launched, filling the sky with multicoloured flashes, so that all around us seemed to be a circle of hell from whose burning talons Atto and I, standing one beside the other like Dante and Virgil, miraculously escaped only by the will of the author who had brought us there.

  The deluge of fire and lightning, although breathtaking, was not without consequences. A spark from a Catherine wheel set fire to the periwig of Count Antonio Maria Fede, a resident of the Duchy of Tuscany. We all heard the Count's cries of horrified surprise and his impassioned complaints to Don Paschatio. The Major-Domo sent at once for the head of the artificers who, however (or so his acolytes said), had had to absent himself owing to a prior engagement.

  "So Count Arselick almost caught fire," commented Atto with a happy grin, his fun spoiled only by the wait for Albani's arrival.

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "That's Count Fede's nickname, for 'tis said that he made his career licking the arse of the Grand Duke of Tuscany, and later that of His Holiness. He did not deign to greet me because he knows that in April the Most Serene Republic of Venice granted me the status of Patrician, so that now we are both nobles, only he began life as a porter, and I did not, heh!"

  There was not much cause for laughter, I thought to myself, for Atto too had been born poor: he was the son of a humble bell-ringer at the cathedral of Pistoia, as I remember learning many years ago, at the time when we met. It was no accident that, of the seven brothers, no fewer than four were destined for castration by their father, in the hope of replenishing the family's coffers.