Secretum am-2

by Rita Monaldi

  The adepts responded to the Maggiorengo's joke with a chorus of laughter.

  "To do his dirty little things with Antiope, Jove dressed up as a goatherd; and when he wanted to screw Alcmene, he got himself up like a boatman to look like her husband, who plied that nasty trade. When he coupled with Danae, he dressed as a stonemason and with that huge prick of his drilled a hole in her roof, and once he'd got into her house, he reverently fut- tered her. When he wanted to piss into Aegeria, he dressed as a chimney-sweep. And to debauch Calisto, he had to dress up as a washerwoman, which was easy enough for him because in those days he was still as imberb as any nancy-boy of an ephebe, or as my dear old rascal Biagio, who sits here before me."

  Biagio was the nickname of a beardless fatty with a bald, shiny pate who responded to the Maggiorengo's call with hoarse and hearty laughter, echoed by the uncontrollable screeches of the cerretano multitude.

  "Although Jove's relatives were privileged, being his cousins, nephews and nieces, to get up to their dirty tricks, they all ended up embracing the Canters' way. How? They were gods, you tell me? Yet everyone knows that Vulcan was the lousiest failed blacksmith of all time — worse even than Bratti Old-Iron!"

  Bratti was a toothless old man standing a few yards away from us who had been nicknamed after the well-known Tuscan popular figure of fun. I saw him snigger proudly when he was pointed out as an example to the rest of the company.

  The Maggiorengo-General's harangue was really most effective and perfectly suited to that kind of gathering. Citing all manner of examples of mythical iniquity, adapted to meet the needs of the cerretani, he galvanised his listeners incomparably. I looked once more: this time, I could not see the half-naked canter.

  "I've lost sight of him," I told Atto.

  "That's a bad sign. Let's hope he hasn't gone off to spy on us."

  "And Apollo? He was an even lousier hunter after other people's business than our arch-canter Olgiato," said the orator, winking at another fellow lost in the crowd. "Mars, when he was young, was a great bandit and assassinated thousands. Mercury was a sturdy, baby-minding steward, courier and ambassador or squire or summoner; meaning that he was in the business of extortion. Pluto was a baker and his Proserpine looked after the ovens. Neptune was a fishmonger, Bacchus, a wine merchant, Cupid, a little pimp. As for their womenfolk, some looked after the hen run, like Juno, some were washerwomen, like Mistress Diana. Of Venus, everyone knows she was an even bigger whore than that Pullica from Florence, and she'd let any man sow and plough her fields."

  The vile mass of cerretani roared with boorish laughter, tickled by their new leader's obscenities.

  "Plato, the granddad of all scribblers, lived and died a canter. Aristotle was born the son of a common-or-garden physician and never strayed from the Way of the Canters. Pythagoras came from the codpiece of a bankrupt merchant; that oid tramp Diogenes slept in a barrel without any straw. But let's move on now from the Greek and barbarian kingdoms and talk of the Latins. Was not Romulus, the glorious founder of Rome, the wretched son of a common soldier who extorted his pay from the rich? His mother, as is public knowledge, was a nun who'd been thrown out of her order, and he himself was nothing but a lousy bricklayer who did a job or two on the walls of Rome. As long as he lived by the Canters' code, he was a great man and highly esteemed; when he betrayed it, as we all know, he ended up badly. A long, long time after Romulus, the Roman people became the masters of the world. But what does 'people' mean? The people are the Canters, the plebs and the ne'er-do-wells! And who were the captains of the Roman armies?"

  "The canters!" the assembly thundered.

  "And so, who fought, who smashed and subjugated the world?"

  "The Canters!"

  A burst of acclamations and applause followed the last exclamation. Calm returned only a while later. The Maggiorengo skilfully chose exactly the right moment to resume his harangue.

  "Virgil, the imitator of Homer, was born in a shack near Mantua from the finest canters who ever lived in Piedmont; when he came to Rome, his only desire was to stay a Canter till he died, so he worked in the imperial stables, until the Emperor Augustus took him from there. And that was because the Emperor loved him, precisely for his virtues as a great rogue. Cicero was a canter; he always loved the canters and hated all forms of gentility and all things high class. Mucius Scevola was a baker and he never put his hand heroically into the fire to save Rome, as they tell you now. He was branded on the palm of the hand by the judges because, during the siege of the city, he mixed bean flour in with wheat flour to make his loaves weigh more. Marcus Marcellus was a lousy butcher, and Scipio, the one who killed him and took over from him, was a poultry farmer."

  "What an erudite speech," commented Atto sarcastically. "Worthy of a real ruined gentleman. 'Tis no surprise he's a Mumper."

  The words of the new Maggiorengo-General did indeed suggest that he had known better times. Meanwhile, he continued:

  "And what of the great families? The Fabi sold beans, the Lentuli sold lentils, the Pisoni, peas; and the Papinii take their name from the candlewicks they sell on the market. Even Caesar, for as long as he stayed a canter like his peers, was feared and revered. But when he abandoned that way of life to become a tyrant and command all the others, they killed him like a dog. Augustus, born to a baker from Velletri, as the prophet Virgil was to tell him, followed the holy Way of the Canters, and the humbler he was and the better a companion, the higher he rose. His stepson was Tiberius, and as long as he followed in his stepfather's footsteps, all went well for him, because he who holds to the Way will be successful in all he undertakes and cannot possibly end up badly. However, he who despises and departs from it will become a vicious ingrate, bizarre and odious in everyone's eyes, and after his death he will fall into the greater hell!"

  New rounds of applause arose, whistles, some raspberries and a belch. I saw Atto stand on tiptoe to scan the hellish horde of cerretani.

  "It is time," said he to Buvat as the turmoil of acclamations continued to rage. "Take care not to be seen, or we're done for."

  The secretary moved off towards the middle of the amphitheatre which, as I had seen, was full of old firewood and other rubbish and happened at that moment to be almost deserted, since almost all those present at the meeting had gradually gathered around the dais where the new Maggiorengo-General sat. It seemed to me that there was a kind of bulge under Buvat's cassock and I remembered that I had noticed something of the sort under his usual tail coat when we sat in the carriage.

  "Caligula was more of a scoundrel than a canter," the Maggiorengo continued undaunted, "and that was his ruination. Nero was the great canter whose renown we all know, but as he was above all a glutton, he's not of much interest to us. Needless to say, all those other great emperors, the Tituses, the Vespasians, the Ottos, the Trajans, right down to our own day, were born and lived as canters. And the better they were at canting, the more dignified and valiant they were as emperors. He who is not, has not been and will not be a canter will never enjoy power, wealth or dignity. One cannot be virtuous nor can one excel in any science unless one follow the Way of the Canters. It is holy, because in it there is faith, love and charity; it is divine because it renders men immortal; it is blessed because it makes men rich and powerful. From the Way, all pleasures derive, all consolations and all amusements, right down to games like tarot and piastrelle. Remember! The real canter is loved, revered, courted, and desired by all, even if they don't all want to show it. Let everyone therefore embrace the Way of the Canters, place their trust in it and make it their capital. Let everyone exercise and refine how he does his canting, as does the rascal Lucazzo who's sprawling here just next to me, who cheats, steals and begs with the same art as the Cavalier Bernini designed his statues. Through the Way of the Canter, each of us can become a poet, an orator, a philosopher and, in principle, a gentleman, even a king or an emperor. Long live the canters! And you will see that destiny will soon send us a sign of its favours!"
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br />   "Don't worry, I'll send you that now," said Atto, as a deafening burst of cries, clapping and whistles greeted the conclusion of the speech.

  "What's Buvat gone off to do?" I asked in a whisper.

  "Telemachus."

  Too late I understood what was about to happen; and that was just as well. The suspense of waiting might have been too much for me.

  It all happened in a matter of moments. First came a terrifying explosion, almost like the rumble of an earthquake. I glanced at Ugonio, who was still perched on the platform, and our gazes met somewhere above the multitude of the cerretani, all excited by the speech which had just ended, then suddenly paralysed. Then came another, even more tremendous deflagration.

  The noisome greyish mass of the cerretani spilled out in all possible directions, some jumping in the air for shock, some throwing themselves to the ground, the others scattering to the four winds.

  Came the third explosion, which prevented the sordid mob from recovering their senses. This time, however, as well as the thunderous bang, there opened above our heads a marvellous purple flower, illuminating the cerretano horde, quite unworthy of such dazzling beauty, with great flashes of carmine and vermilion. The reddish globes which had multiplied in flight above the amphitheatre opened up into as many luminous corollas which descended gently to the ground, at last forlornly dying.

  The name of the first two infernal machines said it all: Earthquake.

  Before leaving, Atto had sent Buvat to Don Paschatio to ask whether any fireworks remained from the evening before. He had been far-sighted. Buvat had got the Major-Domo to explain to him in detail how to light the fireworks (fortunately, there was no lack of fire at the meeting of the cerretani) and how to handle them before use: no dampness, no excessive movement, and keep them upright at all times (as I had heard Don Paschatio say when we were on the point of leaving). Usually, the Earthquake is used to bring the pyrotechnical display to a triumphant close, by which time the ears are accustomed to the thundering noise of explosions. Buvat, however, had shattered the eardrums of the gathering, taking them by complete surprise, and the shock was redoubled by the funnel shape of the amphitheatre. After the two Earthquakes, Buvat had set off a real multicoloured firework.

  Abbot Melani's technique, as he himself had just announced to me, had been that of Telemachus, the son of Ulysses who — according to what Albicastro had reminded us of the day before — had feigned madness before the assembly of his mother's suitors and thus had delivered them helpless and unprepared into his father's vengeful hand.

  Atto's calculations had proved completely accurate. The cerretani were behaving just like the suitors of Homeric lore: despite the confusion, no one had come down from the dais, neither the Maggiorengo-General, nor his two colleagues, nor Drehmannius, the Dutch bookbinder. Faced with the fireworks, they were plainly unsure whether this was a joke, a pleasant surprise spectacle or a threat. Ugonio obviously was by their side and he was as rapid as he was precise. When the red rocket rose in the sky, followed by all the noses in the amphitheatre, the corpisantaro's clawed hands were already deep in the bookbinder's bag, removing his book and replacing it with the one which Melani had handed him in the carriage. The two small volumes were identical: it can not have been difficult for Atto and Buvat to find another book of similar dimensions with an unmarked vellum cover, just like the one which the Abbot had commissioned poor Haver to make for his treatise.

  "Use one Dutchman to hunt the other," Abbot Melani had said enigmatically not long before. Now I understood: thanks to the words of Albicastro, we had taken the treatise on the Secrets of the Conclave from Dremannius's bag.

  In the festive but still somewhat stunned crowd of th e cerretani, everyone was asking his neighbour who had had the fine idea of setting off fireworks.

  "Let's go, Signor Atto."

  "We can't yet. We must wait until… Buvat! There you are, damn it! Let's get out of here."

  "What about Ugonio?" I asked.

  I looked at the platform. The corpisantaro had turned his back on us. The message could not have been clearer. We must leave the amphitheatre on our own; he would take another route.

  We hastened towards the secret door.

  "Not like that, not like that," whispered Atto. "Look at me."

  Instead of turning his head in the opposite direction from the crowd, Abbot Melani was walking backwards, with his face directed towards the platform, so as to merge in with all those around us.

  Too late. The half-naked cerretano who had been keeping an eye on us had seen me and Buvat and was now trying to point out our position to a pair of ugly great brutes. The two stared intensely into the teeming multitude in search of our trio. In the end, they identified us and I saw them set off determinedly after us.

  "Signor Atto, they've sent two fellows to catch us," I announced, as we continued our difficult task of making our way through the crowd while showing no signs of haste.

  The distance between us and the pair who were hunting us down decreased rapidly. Forty paces. Fifteen. The door leading to the secret passage through the rock was in sight. Ten paces from the brutes. Eight.

  A sudden violent movement caught my attention. It was behind the pair following us and a little to the right. The outline of Ugonio, advancing with great difficulty, tugged back from behind — then turning to free himself — a hand taking Atto's tome away from him — but he resists, grabs it back, again begins to flee — other hands grasping the book, the binding is torn…

  "Buvat!" commanded Atto, apparently referring to something already agreed.

  I did not understand what he meant. Meanwhile, we were only some six yards from the bully boys. Now I could see them better. They were as dirty as all the others but quite muscular and obtuse-looking. I could tell instinctively that they knew very well how to inflict pain.

  "But where am I to… Ah, here!" exclaimed Buvat, practically throwing himself at a cerretano bearing a torch.

  The flame was incredibly intense: red, white and yellow as well as some shades of light blue, then the Catherine wheel became animated and spun wildly, flying towards Ugonio and those chasing after him. Buvat had worked most skilfully, hurriedly lighting the fuse at just the right point and aiming the firework perfectly. The crowd split into two like the Red Sea dividing to let the children of Israel pass.

  Meanwhile, after the ceremony and the sermon, the time had come for Bacchus to take to the stage. An enormous vat was being transported towards the speakers' rostrum, to enable the revellers to give full rein to their baser instincts. The container, which must have weighed as much as a pair of buffaloes, was being carried by a group of cerretani who were already tipsy and was just in the way of the pair who were after us.

  I just had time, as we disappeared into the secret passage, to catch a glimpse of the first of the two brutes, his face contorted with pain and his leg shattered under the huge vat, while the other screamed at the bearers terrorised by our rocket, and tried to co-ordinate their efforts so as to extricate his injured mate. The smoke from the Catherine wheel, which had ended up goodness knows where, was making those nearest to it weep and adding to the confusion. The chaos was total, the panic of the cerretani, too.

  I could see nothing else. As the door closed behind us, there blew on my face for the last time, like the breath of a sleeping dragon, the rank, foul stench of the cerretano gathering.

  The next sensory impression was the invigorating caress of the night breeze as we took the road back: a long march across fields, on the bare grass, avoiding the path so as to spare ourselves any disagreeable encounters. We kept our ears pricked and our eyes alert for any sign of whether Ugonio had made it to the exit: an all-too-faint hope, as he had been found out. In fact, we heard and saw nothing.

  Atto was swearing. His treatise on the Secrets of the Conclave, which had perhaps already caused Haver's death, was still in Ugonio's hands and the last time that we had seen him, he had been in those of the cerretani. The tomb-robber
had betrayed them for Atto's money. They would by now have found it on his person and torn him to pieces.

  We came to the place where we had left Sfasciamonti, by now exhausted, our nerves shattered by the danger from which we had just escaped, and depressed by the defeat we had suffered. For the last few minutes, Atto had trailed behind us, fiddling with something in his waistcoat, so much so that Buvat and I had had to incite him to catch up with us.

  Sfasciamonti came towards us.

  "Let's get a move on, it will soon be daybreak," he urged.

  "Look out! Behind you!" Atto yelled at him.

  The catchpoll spun around, fearing an attack from behind.

  Atto approached and pulled something from his waistcoat. The report of the little pistol resounded sharply, almost stridently, in the night.

  Sfasciamonti fell forward onto his face with a blind scream of pain.

  "Let us go," was all that Abbot Melani said.

  I had not the courage to look back and see the sad, corpulent figure of the catchpoll disappear amidst the grass of the field, covered in blood right down to his ankles.

  We were five when we left, only three returned. Ugonio was at that moment probably being murdered by the crowd in the amphitheatre, while Sfasciamonti must be dragging himself in search of help in a desperate attempt to survive.

  At last, we reached the carriage which was waiting for us behind the haystack, and were on our way. In response to the questioning glance of the coachman, when he noticed the absence of Sfasciamonti (who had hired him) and Ugonio, Atto responded laconically: "They preferred to stay overnight."