Imprimatur (30 page)

"For as long as the Most Christian King's mania for conquest remains unassuaged," insisted Brenozzi, "there will be no peace in Europe. And do you know when that will come to pass? When the Imperial Crown shines on the head of the King of France."

"You are, I imagine, referring to the Holy Roman Empire."

"But of course! To become Emperor, that is what he wants! That is why France is so much at ease with the Turkish invasion: if they press on Vienna, the eastern flank of the Empire is broken while France expands into its western flank."

"True! A pincer manoeuvre."

"Precisely that."

That was why, Brenozzi continued, when Innocent XI called upon the European powers to rally their forces against the Turks, the Most Christian King and first-born son of the Church refused to send troops, although he was begged to do so by all Christian leaders. Louis XIV had even tried to impose upon the Emperor in Vienna an odious agreement: making his neutrality conditional upon recognition of the conquests such as Alsace and Lorraine gained by his banditry on the western borders of the Habsburg Empire.

"He even had the gall to describe his claims as 'moderate'. Yet, the Emperor, although up to his neck in trouble, did not acquiesce. Now the Most Christian King is abstaining from hostilities: and do you think that is out of scruple? No! It is a tactical decision. He is waiting until Vienna is exhausted. Then he will be able to resume his invasions with all ease. Already, at the end of August, it was being said that the French troops were on a war footing."

If only Brenozzi could have read on my face the grave thoughts which these words inspired! Perched above the pair and eavesdrop­ping on their conversation, I was biting on a bitter pill: to what man­ner of monstrous sovereign had Atto Melani sworn his services? I could not deny that I had grown inexorably attached to the abbot; and despite all the ups and downs between us, I had not yet ceased to regard him as my master and guide.

Thus, yet again the victim of my own mania for investigation and the discovery of knowledge, I found myself condemned to learn
no­lens volens
things of which I would have preferred never to hear a word breathed.

"Ah, but that is nothing," added Brenozzi with a viperous hiss. "Have you heard the latest news? Now the Turks are protecting the French merchant fleet from pirates. So now trade with the Orient is in the hands of the French."

"And what will the Turks gain in exchange?" asked Stilone.

"Oh, nothing," sneered Brenozzi ironically, "perhaps only... vic­tory in Vienna."

Hardly had the inhabitants barricaded themselves within the city, explained Brenozzi, than the Turks excavated a network of trenches and tunnels which went under the walls and placed very powerful mines, several times breaching the fortifications. Now, this was the very technique of which the French engineers and sappers were past masters.

"You are saying, in other words, that the French are in league with the Turks," concluded Priaso.

"It is not I who am affirming that; this was the opinion of the mili­tary experts in the Christian camp in Vienna. The armies of the Most Christian King had learned the art of using trenches and tunnels from two soldiers in the service of Venice, during the defence of Candia. The secret then reached Vauban, a military engineer in the service of the Most Christian King. Vauban perfected it: vertical trenches, with which to bring mines forward, and horizontal trenches to move troops from one point to another in the camp. This is a deadly strata­gem: hardly has the right breach been made than the troops enter the besieged city. Now, suddenly, the Turks have become masters of this technique, in Vienna. Do you think that is a coincidence?"

"Speak more softly," warned Stilone Priaso. "Do not forget that Abbot Melani is just next door to us."

"Ah yes, that French spy who's no more an abbot than Count Donhoff. You are right. Let us leave off here," said Brenozzi, and after exchanging salutations, the two withdrew.

Now other long shadows were being cast over Atto. What was the meaning of that observation which aimed a shot at some unknown personage? While closing the window, I turned over in my mind the mat­ter of Melani's ignorance of the Bible. Curious, I thought, for an abbot.

"Guitar, salt and cat," laughed Cloridia, much amused. "Now we have something better."

I had tidied up the kitchen with only one thought in my mind: to return to her. Brenozzi's grave statements surely called for a later confrontation with Abbot Melani: but the night was there for such matters, when he himself would come to my door to lead me back into the underground galleries. I had hurriedly brought their victuals to the other prisoners, using various pretexts to leave those who, like Robleda and Devize, tried to retain me. It was, however, far more ur­gent that I should once again be able to enter into colloquy with the fair Cloridia, and this I did with the excuse that I wanted to interpret the second curious dream I had had since the doors of the inn had been sealed by the hand of the Bargello's men.

"Let us begin with the scattered salt," said Cloridia, "and I warn you that it is not a good sign. It means assassination, or opposition to our designs."

She read the disappointment on my face.

"But each case must be carefully weighed up on its own merits," she added, "because it is not said that this meaning refers to the dreamer. In your dream, for instance, it could refer to Devize."

"And the guitar?"

"It means: great melancholy, or work without recognition: like that of a peasant who labours all the year round without ever gaining any satisfaction. Or an excellent painter, or architect, or musician, whose work no one knows and who is always neglected. You see that it is almost synonymous with melancholy."

I was deeply upset. Two rather bad symbols in the same dream, to which, Cloridia announced, a third was to be added.

"The cat is a very clear sign: adultery and lust," she declared.

"But I have no wife."

"For the exercise of lust, matrimony is not necessary," retorted Cloridia, maliciously twisting a tress of her hair on her cheek, "and as for adultery, remember: every sign must be carefully valued and weighed up."

"But how? If I am not married, I am a bachelor and that is that."

"But then you really know absolutely nothing," Cloridia gently re­proved me. "Dreams can also be interpreted in a manner completely opposed to their appearance. Thus, they are infallible, because one can just as easily conjecture the pro and the contra."

"But if that is so, a dream can mean everything and its contrary..." I objected.

"You think so?" she replied, arranging the tress behind her neck and, with a wide circular movement of her arms, raising the round and firm cupolas of her breasts.

She sat upon a stool, leaving me standing.

"Please," said she, untying a velvet ribbon ornamented with a cameo, which she kept tied around her neck, "be so kind as to adjust this properly, for I cannot manage with the mirror. Place it a little lower, but not too much. Do it gently, my skin is so delicate."

As though it was necessary to facilitate my task, she spread her arms wide behind her head, thus exposing immoderately the bosom which spilled from her
decolletage,
a hundred times more flowery than the meadows of the Quirinale and a thousand times more perfect than the dome of Saint Peter's.

Seeing me colour at the sudden spectacle, Cloridia took the op­portunity to evade my objection. She continued imperturbably, while I busied myself around her neck.

"Some hold that dreams which precede sunrise relate to the fu­ture; those which come while the sun is rising refer to the present, and those which follow the sun's appearance concern the past. Dreams are surer in summer and in winter than in autumn and spring, and at sunrise, rather than at any other hour of day. Others claim that dreams made at Advent or the feast of the Annunciation augur solid and lasting things; while those which occur on moveable feasts (such as Easter) designate variable things, on which one may not count. Yet others... Ouch! no, that will not do, it is too tight. How come your hands are trembling?" she asked with a cunning little smile.

"Really, I have almost done it, I did not mean..."

"Calm down, calm down, we have all the time that we want," she winked, seeing that I had failed to tie the knot for the fifth time. "Yet others," resumed Cloridia, uncovering her neck unduly and rais­ing her breasts even closer to my hands, "say that in Bactriana there is a stone called Eumetris which, if placed under the head during sleep, will convert dreams into solid and certain predictions. Some utilise only chemical preparations: perfume of mandrake and myr­tle, water of verbena and powdered laurel leaves applied behind the head. But there are also those who recommend cats' brains with bats' dejections, seasoned in red leather, or who stuff a fig with pigeon's droppings and coral dust. Believe me, for nocturnal visions, all these remedies are very, very stimulating..."

Suddenly, she took my hands between hers and looked at me in amusement: I still had not succeeded in tying the knot. My fingers, clumsily entangled with the ribbon, were icy; hers were boiling. The little ribbon fell into her corsage and disappeared. Someone would have to retrieve it.

"In sum," she resumed, squeezing my hands and fixing me in her gaze, "it is important to have clear, certain, lasting, true dreams, and where there's a will there's a way. If you dream that you are not mar­ried, that may perhaps mean the exact opposite, in other words, that you soon will be. Or perhaps it means you are not, and that is that. Have you understood?"

"But in my case, is it not possible to understand whether the ap­pearance of the dream is true, or the contrary?" I asked in a very small voice and with my cheeks burning.

"Of course it is possible."

"And why will you not tell me, then?" I implored, involuntarily lower­ing my gaze to the perfumed cleft which had swallowed up the ribbon.

"Simple, my dear: because you have not paid."

She ceased smiling, pushed my hands brusquely away from her bosom, retrieved the little ribbon and tied it around her neck in a flash, as though she had never needed help.

I went down the stairs with as sad a soul as a human soul can be, cursing the whole world, which was so incapable of bending to meet my desires, and wishing myself in hell for having been so inept an in­terpreter of that world. I being miserably impoverished, the dreams which I had confided to Cloridia had fallen naked and defenceless into the lap of a courtesan: how could I have so lost touch with real­ity? How could I have imagined, dolt that I was, that I could win her favours without paying royally for them? And how could I hope, sim­pleton that I was, that she might,
liberaliter
, open her mind, and what is more, to me rather than to others a thousand times more talented and more deserving and admirable? And should I not also have been suspicious of her request, on the occasion of both her consultations concerning dreams, that I should lie down on her bed, while she sat on a chair by the bedhead, close to my shoulders? Such an incompre­hensible and dubious request should have reminded me of the sadly mercenary nature of our brief encounters.

Because of my sad thoughts, it was a pleasant accident to encoun­ter Abbot Atto Melani before my door at the foot of the stairs, already impatient at having been kept briefly waiting. The latter risked be­traying our appointment to Cristofano when, on my arrival, he was unable to hold back a resounding sneeze.

*

This time we traversed the series of galleries under the Donzello more swiftly and more safely. I had brought with me Pellegrino's broken fishing rod, but Abbot Melani was opposed to inspecting the ceiling of the tunnels, as we had done when we had discovered the trapdoor to the upper cavity. We were, he reminded me, due at an important meeting; and in view of the circumstances of that encounter, there could be no question of delay. He then noticed my surly face and remembered that he had seen me descending from Gloridia's little tower. An amused smile played on his lips and he intoned:

Speranza, al tuo pallore

so che non speripiu.

E pur non lasci tu

di lusingarmi il core...*

I had no desire to be entertained and decided to silence Atto by putting to him the question which had been on my mind ever since I had overheard Brenozzi. The abbot stopped abruptly.

"Am I an abbot? But what kind of question is that?"

I begged his pardon and said that never would I have wished to put such inappropriate queries to him, but Signor Angiolo Brenozzi had spoken at great length with Stilone Priaso from his window and in the course of that conversation, many things had been recounted and many considerations touched upon, amongst which, the conduct of the Most Christian King in his dealings with the Sublime Porte and the Holy See; and among the many words exchanged, the Vene­tian had expressed the opinion that Melani was no more an abbot than Count Donhoff.

* Hope, from your pallor /I know you hope no more. / And yet you do not cease / From flattering my heart...

"Count Donhoff... How clever of him!" hissed Atto Melani sar­donically, hastening at once to explain. "Obviously, you have no idea who Donhoff is. It should suffice for your purposes to know that he is the Diplomatic Resident of Poland in Rome, and that during these months of war with the Turks, he has been very, very busy. To give you an idea, the money which Innocent XI is sending to Poland for the war against the Turks also passes through his hands."

"And what would that have to do with you?"

"It is no more than a low and offensive insinuation. Count Jan Kazimierz Donhoff is indeed not an abbot: he is a Commander of the Order of the Holy Spirit, Bishop of Cesena and Cardinal with the ti­tle of San Giovanni a Porta Latina. I, on the other hand, am Abbot of Beaubec with letters patent from His Majesty Louis XIY confirmed by the Royal Council. What Brenozzi means is that I am an abbot only by the will of the King of France, and not the Pope. And how did they come to this question of abbots?" he asked, as we moved on once more.

I gave him a brief account of the conversation between the pair: how Brenozzi had represented the growing power of the King of France and how the Sovereign intended to ally himself with the Sub­lime Porte in order to put the Emperor in difficulties and to have a free hand to pursue and consolidate his conquests, and how such designs had made him an enemy of the Pontiff.

"Interesting," commented Melani. "Our glass-blower detests the French Crown and, judging by his hostile remarks, his feelings for yours truly can scarcely be sympathetic. I shall do well to bear that in mind."

Then he looked at me with narrowed eyes, showing clear signs of annoyance. He knew that he owed me an explanation concerning his abbot's title.

"Do you know what the Right of Regalia is?"

"No, Signor Atto."

"It is the right to appoint bishops and abbots and to have title to their property."

"Therefore it is one of the Pope's rights."

"No, no... One moment!" broke in Atto. "Listen carefully, for this is one of those things which will serve you well in the future, when you are a gazetteer. The question is a sensitive one: who owns church property, when it is on French soil? The Pope or the King? Remem­ber: this concerns not only the right to appoint bishops and to grant ecclesiastical benefices and prebends, but the material ownership of convents, abbeys and land."

"Indeed... it is hard to tell."

"I know. In point of fact the pontiffs and the kings of France have been squabbling over this for the past four hundred years or so be­cause, obviously, no king will voluntarily cede a piece of his kingdom to a pope."

"And has the issue been resolved?"

"Yes, but the peace was broken with the arrival of this pope, Innocent XI. In the last century, the jurists finally came to the con­clusion that the right of regalia belonged to the King of France. And, for a long time, no one queried that decision. Now, however, two French bishops (note the coincidence: both Jansenists) have reopened the matter with Innocent XI immediately extending his support to them. Thus, the dispute has resumed."

"In other words, were it not for Our Lord the Pope, there would be no discussion whatsoever concerning the question of regalia."

"Of course not. Only he could have hatched the idea of so clum­sily disturbing relations between the Holy See and the Firstborn Son of the Church."

"If I understand correctly, you, Signor Atto, were appointed abbot by the King of France and not by the Pope," I concluded, scarcely concealing my surprise.

He replied with a mumbled assent, stepping up his pace.

I gained the distinct impression that Atto Melani did not desire to wish the matter any further. I, however, had at last rid myself of a doubt, which had taken hold when I was in the kitchen, listening to Cristofano, Stilone Priaso and Devize recount Atto's obscure past to one another. That doubt had deepened when we examined the torn page from the Bible found by the
corpisantari.
His scant familiarity with the Holy Scriptures now coincided with his revelations concern­ing the right of regalia, which permitted the King of France to make an abbot of whomsoever he wished.

I was, then, not in the presence of a true churchman, but of a mere castrato singer who had received a title and a living from Louis XIV

"Do not place overmuch trust in Venetians," resumed Atto, break­ing in on my thoughts at that very moment. "To understand their nature, one need only observe how they behave with the Turks."

"What do you mean to say?"

"The truth is that the Venetians, with their galleys full of spices, fabrics and all manner of goods, have always maintained a rich com­merce with the Turks. Now, their trade is falling off, with the arrival on the scene of superior competitors, among them the French. And I can well imagine what else Brenozzi will have told you: that the Most Christian King hopes Vienna will fall so that he can then invade the German Electorates and the Empire and share all the spoils with the Sublime Porte. That is why Brenozzi mentioned Donhoff: he meant that perhaps I was in Rome to lend a hand to some French plot. It is indeed from this city that, by the will of Innocent XI, money is con­voyed for the relief of besieged Vienna."

"While in fact that is not the case," I added, almost as though I were demanding some confirmation.

"I am not here to set traps for Christians, my boy. And the Most Christian King does not conspire with the Divan," was his grave reply.

He then added solemnly: "Remember: crows fly in flocks; the ea­gle flies alone."

"What does that mean?"

"It means: use your head. If everyone tells you to go to the right, you go to the left."

"But, in your opinion, is it or is it not legitimate to form an alli­ance with the Turks?"

There followed a long pause, until Melani, without once raising his eyes to meet mine, pronounced these words: "No scruple should prevent His Majesty from renewing today the alliances which so many Christian kings before him have formed with the Porte."

There had, he went on to explain, been dozens of cases in which Christian kings and princes had made pacts with the Ottoman Porte. Florence, to name only one example, had sought Mehmet II's assistance against Ferdinand I, King of Naples. Venice, in order to expel from the Levant the Portuguese who were disturbing its trade, had used the forces of the Sultan of Egypt. Emperor Ferdinand of Habsburg had not only allied himself with but become a vassal and tributary of Soliman, of whom he had, as a humble supplicant, begged to be granted the throne of Hungary. When Philip II set out to conquer Portugal, in order to obtain the good offices of the king of nearby Morocco, he had made a present to him of one of his possessions, thus placing Christian lands in the hands of the Infidels: and this, for the sole purpose of despoiling a Catholic monarch. Even Popes Paul III, Alexander VI and Julius II had, when necessary, gone to the Turks for assistance.

Naturally enough, the question had been raised several times among the casuist fathers and in the Catholic schools as to whether those Christian princes had sinned in so doing. However, almost all the Italian, German and Spanish authors considered that this was not the case, and they had arrived at the conclusion that a Chris­tian prince might succour an Infidel in war against another Christian prince.

"Their opinion," the abbot expounded, "is grounded in authority and in reason. The authority is drawn from the Bible. Abraham fought for the King of Sodom, and David against the children of Israel; not to mention the alliances formed by Solomon with King Hiram, or that of the Maccabees with Sparta and with Rome—in other words, with pagans."

How well Atto knows the Bible, I thought, when it deals with politics.

"Reason, however," continued the abbot with an expression of firm conviction, "is founded on the notion that God is the author of nature and of religion: therefore, it cannot be said that what is just in nature is not just in religion, unless some divine precept obliges us to consider it so. Now, in this instance, there are no divine precepts which condemn such alliances, especially where they are necessary, and the right of nature renders honest all reasonable instruments upon which our preservation depends."

Having thus concluded his diatribe, Abbot Melani scrutinised me again from under didactically raised eyebrows.

"Do you mean to say that the King of France may form an alliance with the Divan for purposes of legitimate self-defence?" I asked, still a trifle dubious.

"Of course: in order to defend his states and the Catholic religion from the Emperor Leopold I whose base scheming runs contrary to all laws, both human and divine. Leopold in fact formed an alliance with the heretical Dutch, and was thus the first to betray the True Faith. But in that event, no one uttered so much as a word of com­ment or condemnation. Everyone is, however, always ready to inveigh against France, which is guilty only of having rebelled against the constant threat of the Habsburgs and the other princes of Europe.

Louis XIV has, since the beginning of his reign, fought like a lion in order not to end up being crushed."

"Crushed by whom?"

"By the Habsburgs, in the first place, who surround France on the east and the west; on the one hand, the Empire of Vienna, on the other, Madrid, Flanders and the Spanish dominions in Italy. While, from the north, heretical England threatens, together with Holland, which commands the seas. And, as though all that were not enough, the Pope himself is France's enemy."

"But if so many states say that the Most Christian King endangers Europe's liberty, there must surely be some truth to the assertion. You too told me that he..."

"What I said to you about the King is completely irrelevant. Never, never make irrevocable judgements, and consider every single case as though it were the first you had ever encountered. Remember that, in relations between states, absolute evil does not exist. Above all, never assume that condemnation of one party implies the honesty of the other: in most cases, both are guilty. And the victims, once they have changed places with their tormentors, will commit the same atrocities. Remember all this, otherwise you will play into the hands of Mammon."

The abbot paused, as though to reflect, and heaved a melancholy sigh.

"Do not chase after the mirage of human justice," he continued, with a bitter smile, "for when you reach it, you will find only that from which you hoped to flee. God alone is just. Be wary especially of whoever loudly proclaims justice and charity, while accusing his adversaries of being creatures of the devil. That is no king, but a tyrant; no sovereign, but a despot; he is faithful not to the gospel of God but to that of hatred."

"It is so difficult to judge!" I exclaimed disconsolately.

"Less than you think. I told you, crows fly in flocks, the eagle flies alone."