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The trio, remembering Bedfordi's protests on the occasion of the previous roll-call, and being certain that they would not be under­stood, mocked him with great and vulgar amusement.

Bedfordi—or rather, his miraculous simulacrum—responded to the jokes of the officious trio with a symmetrical volley of insults and was immediately led away by Cristofano. All of our group then returned, some glancing incredulously at one another, astounded by the Englishman's inexplicable recovery.

Hardly had I entered the corridor than I sought out Atto Melani, in the hope of receiving some explanation. I caught up with him just as he was about to climb the stairs to the second floor. He looked at me with an air of amusement, guessing at once what I yearned to know, and mocked me, singing:

Fan battaglia i miei pensieri,

e al cor dan fiero assalto.

Cosi al core, empi guerrieri,

fan battaglia, dan guerra i miei pensieri...*

"Did you see how our Bedfordi has recovered?" he asked ironi­cally.

"But it is not possible," I said, protesting incredulously.

Atto stopped halfway up the staircase.

"Did you really believe that a special agent of the King of France would allow himself to be manipulated like a small boy?" he whis­pered derisively. "Bedfordi is young, small of stature and fair haired; and you just saw a small, fair young man. The Englishman has blue eyes and our Bedfordi this evening likewise had bright glaucous orbs. At the last roll-call, Bedfordi protested because he wanted to leave, and this time he did so yet again. Bedfordi speaks a language which the three from the Bargello do not understand, and indeed they un­derstood nothing of what he said this time either. So, where is the mystery?"

"But it could not be he who..."

"Of course it was not Bedfordi. He is still half-dead in his bed, and we pray that he may one day rise from it again. But if you had a good

* My thoughts do battle, / And proudly storm my heart. / Thus, to my heart, piti­less warriors / Give battle, my thoughts make war...

memory (and to become a gazetteer, you must have a good memory) you would recall that there was some confusion during the last roll- call: when I was called, Cristofano brought Stilone Priaso to the win­dow; when it was Dulcibeni's turn, Cristofano presented Robleda, and so on, all the time pretending that he was making mistakes. In your opinion, after that pantomime, could the Bargello's three men be sure of recognising all the guests at the inn? Bear in mind that the Bargello does not have our effigies, for none of us is the Pope or the King of France."

My silence answered for me.

"Of course, they could recognise no one," the abbot reaffirmed, "apart from the young gentleman with fair hair who protested in a foreign language."

"And so Bedfordi..."

I broke off and had a sudden illumination as I watched Devize disappear through the door of his chamber.

"... plays the guitar, speaks French, and sometimes pretends that he knows English," said Atto with a conspiratorial smile.

"But then Signor Devize went to the window a second time in the place of Bedfordi and I did not realise it!"

"You did not realise it because it was absurd, and absurd things, even when true, are the most difficult to see."

"But the Bargello's men called us one by one," I objected, "when the inn was closed down on suspicion of infection."

"Yes, but that first inspection was too confused and chaotic, be­cause the officials had to see to the blocking of the road and the board­ing up of the inn as well. And several days have passed since then. The visual obstacle, namely the grille over the first-floor window, did the rest. I myself, from behind that grille, would not be able to identify any of our jailers with any certainty in a day or two's time. And, speaking of eyes, pray, remind me again: what colour are Bedfordi's?"

I reflected for a moment, and a smile came to my lips: "They are... crossed."

"Exactly. If you think carefully on the matter, his squint is his most distinctive trait. When the three inspectors saw two converging blue eyes looking at them (and here, our Devize played his part well) they had no doubt: it was the Englishman."

I remained lost in silent amazement, turning the matter over and over in my mind.

"And now, go to Cristofano," said Atto, dismissing me. "He will certainly want you to be with him. Do not discuss with him the little tricks which he has helped me to put into effect: he is ashamed of them because he fears he may betray the principles of his art. He is mistaken, but we had better leave him to think as he will."

No sooner had I rejoined him than Cristofano gave me comforting news: he had conferred with the Bargello's men, whom he had assured that the condition of the entire group was good. He had then offered them his personal guarantee that any news of importance would be communicated to an emissary, who would call on the hostelry every morning in order to check on the situation with Cristofano himself. This would free us of the need to appear together for a roll-call, as we had indeed done (and miraculously) hitherto.

"At other times, such frivolity would not have been possible," opined the doctor.

"What do you mean?"

"I know what measures were taken in Rome during the Pestilence of 1656. Scarcely had news been received of suspected cases of in­fection in Naples, than all roads were closed between the two cities, and all movements of persons and goods with other bordering ter­ritories were prohibited. Commissioners were sent to the four parts of the Pontifical State to see to the implementation of public health measures. The coast guards were reinforced, so as to limit or prevent landings by ships, while in Rome a number of the city's gates were immediately barred, and those which remained open were subject to rigorous filtering in order to limit the passage of persons to what was strictly necessary."

"And all this was not sufficient to prevent the infection?"

It was already too late, explained the doctor sadly. A Neapolitan fishmonger, one Antonio Ciothi, had already come to Rome from Na­ples in the preceding month of March, to escape from an accusation of homicide. He had taken up lodgings in a hostelry at Trastevere, in the Montefiore quarter, when he was suddenly taken ill. The wife of the host (Cristofano had learned these details from conversations with a number of persons who had witnessed these events) had immediately arranged for the fishmonger to be transported to Saint John's Hospi­tal, where the young man died a few hours later. The post-mortem found no cause for alarm. A few days later, however, the wife of the host died, then her mother and her sister. In these cases, too, no to­kens were found of infection with the plague, but it was nevertheless decided, in view of the all too clear coincidence, to send the host and all his servants and apprentices to the pest-house. Trastevere was cordoned off from the remainder of the city and the special Congre­gation for Public Health was convened to deal with the emergency. Commissions were set up for every ward, consisting of prelates, gen­tlemen, chirurgeons and notaries, who carried out a census of the city's inhabitants, noting their trade, their material conditions and the state of their health, precisely so as to enable the Congregation for Public Health to have a clear view of the situation and to visit and succour such houses as might need assistance, on alternate days.

"But now all the city can think only of the battle for Vienna," observed Cristofano, "and our three inspectors told me that the Pope was seen recently prostrated before the crucifix, weeping in dismay and apprehension for the fate of all Christendom; and when the Pope weeps, so the Romans reason, we must all tremble."

The physician added that the responsibility which he had taken upon himself was extraordinarily grave, and that it fell also upon my shoulders. Henceforth, we must scrutinise with the closest attention every slight variation in our lodgers' health. Moreover, any shortcomings on the part of either of us (and he would certainly report any breaches I might com­mit) would entail grave penalties for us. In particular, we must at all costs ensure that no one should leave the inn before the end of the quar­antine. However, to ensure the necessary control, the two rounds of the watch would continue to make sure that no one would attempt to undo the boards or lower themselves from the windows.

"I shall serve you in all things," I said to Cristofano in order to ap­pease him; yet, I awaited nightfall impatiently.

The otherwise welcome suspension of the roll-call had the un­fortunate effect of compromising the plan, hatched out with Atto Melani, of looking into Padre Robleda's Bible. I informed the abbot discreetly of this, slipping a note under his door and returning at once to the kitchen, for I feared that Cristofano (who was moving from one chamber to the next in order to visit his patients) might surprise me in conversation with him.

It was Cristofano himself, however, who called me to the chamber of Pompeo Dulcibeni on the first floor. The gentleman from Fermo had suffered an attack of sciatica. I found him in bed, lying on one side, while he begged the doctor to set him back on his feet as soon as possible.

Cristofano manipulated Dulcibeni's legs pensively. He would raise the one and order me at the same time to bend the other one: with each such movement, the physician would stop and await the patient's reaction. Every now and then, he would cry out, and Cristofano would nod solemnly.

"I see. Here we need a magisterial cataplasm with cantharides. My boy, while I prepare this, anoint all his left side with this balm," said he, handing me a small jar.

He then informed Dulcibeni that he would have to wear a magis­terial cataplasm for eight days.

"Eight days! Do you mean that I must remain immobilised for that long?"

"Of course not: the pain will be attenuated a long time before that," retorted the doctor. "Obviously, you will not be able to run. But what does that matter to you? As long as the quarantine lasts, you will not be able to do more than while away the time."

Dulcibeni grumbled somewhat ill-temperedly.

"Take comfort," added Cristofano. "There is one here younger than yourself, yet full of infirmities: Padre Robleda does not show it, but for several days now he has been suffering from rheumatism. His must be a delicate constitution, for the inn does not seem damp to me and the weather these days is fine and dry."

I gave a start on hearing these words. My suspicions in regard to Robleda became yet more acute. I saw, meanwhile, that the doctor had taken from his bag a jar full of dead coleoptera. He drew out two of a golden-greenish colour.

"Cantharides, or the Spanish fly," said he, putting the beetles under my nose, "dead and desiccated. They are miraculous as vesi­cants—and as aphrodisiacs, too."

Saying this, he began to pulverise them carefully over a piece of saturated gauze.

"Ah, the Jesuit has rheumatism," exclaimed Dulcibeni after a while. "So much the better; that way he will leave off sticking his nose into everyone else's business."

"What do you mean?" asked Cristofano, busying himself on his beetles with a little knife.

"Did you not know that the Society of Jesus is a nest of spies?"

My heart leapt into my mouth. I must know more. But Cristofano did not seem to be drawn to the subject and Dulcibeni's assertion was thus on the point of dying unanswered.

"Surely you do not mean that seriously?" I asked forcefully.

"Very much so!" replied Dulcibeni with conviction.

In his opinion, not only were the Jesuits masters of the art of espionage, but they claimed it as a privilege of their order, and who­soever practised that art without their express permission was to be severely punished. Before the Jesuits came into the world, other re­ligious orders had also played a part in the intrigues surrounding the Apostolic See. But since the followers of Saint Ignatius had applied themselves to the exercise of espionage, they had outrun them all. This was because the pontiffs had always had an absolute need to penetrate the most recondite affairs of princes. Knowing that no one had ever succeeded in the business of spying as well as the Jesuits, they made heroes of them. They sent them to all major cities and favoured them with privileges and papal bulls, elevating them above all other orders.

"Excuse me," objected Cristofano, "but how could the Jesuits spy so well? They cannot frequent women, who always gossip too much; they cannot be seen in the company of criminals or persons of low station, and moreover..."

The explanation was simple, replied Dulcibeni: the pontiffs had assigned the sacrament of Confession to the Jesuits, not only in Rome but in all the cities of Europe. Through Confession, the Jesuits could insinuate their way into the minds of all, rich and poor, princes and peasants. But above all, they thereby scrutinised the inclinations and disposition of every counsellor and minister of state: with practised rhetoric, they mined the depths of men's hearts for all the resolutions and reflections which their victims were secretly nurturing.