Imprimatur (69 page)

Although confused by my lengthy peregrinations under the ground, I instinctively recognised our surroundings as the Via Tor di Nona which, parallel to the Tiber, leads to the Via dell'Orso: Abbot Melani's estimate of where we would emerge had proved correct.

"Quick. Let us get closer," murmured Atto, pointing at the car­riage.

The scene of violence which we were witnessing had almost paralysed me; I knew that, very nearby, at the end of the Sant'Angelo Bridge, a detachment of guards were usually stationed. The risk of being involved in so grave a crime did not dissuade me from following the abbot who, keeping prudently close to the wall, was approaching the scene of the robbery.

"Pompeo, help! Guards, help!" a voice whined from within the carriage.

The weak, stifled voice of the passenger belonged without the shadow of a doubt to Giovanni Tiracorda.

In a flash, I understood: the man in the driver's box, who uttered hoarse little cries as he vainly struggled against overwhelming forces, was certainly Pompeo Dulcibeni. Against our every expectation, Tiracorda had asked him to accompany him on his errand to serve the

Pope at the palace of Monte Cavallo. The physician, being too old and weak to drive his own carriage, had preferred to be accompanied by his friend, rather than by some anonymous coachman, on his deli­cate and secret mission. The
corpisantari,
however, had lain in wait nearby and had intercepted the carriage.

It was all over in a few moments. Hardly had the bag been ex­tracted from within the coach than the four or five
corpisantari
who were immobilising Dulcibeni released their prey and took to their legs; they passed very close and disappeared behind us in the direc­tion of the trap from which we had just emerged.

"The leeches, they must have taken the leeches," said I, excitedly

"Shhh!" warned Atto, and I understood that he had no intention of participating in what was taking place. Some of the inhabitants of the surrounding houses, hearing the noise of the brawl, had meanwhile come to their windows. The guards might arrive at any moment.

From within the carriage came Tiracorda's feeble complaints, while Dulcibeni descended from his box, probably in order to suc­cour his friend.

It was then that something incredible occurred. A fast-moving shadow, turning back from the trap into which the
corpisantari
had disappeared, approached in a zigzag and slipped back into the car­riage. He still seemed to be carrying under his arm the voluminous object which we had seen him snatch from poor Tiracorda.

"No, you wretch, no—not the crucifix! There is a relic..."

The physician's imploring voice echoed piteously in the night as, after a brief struggle, the shadow emerged from the opposite side of the carriage. A fatal error: here, Pompeo Dulcibeni awaited him. We heard the cruel, sharp crack of the whip which he had recovered and which he now used to hobble the marauder's legs, causing him to fall to the ground. As he struggled uselessly to rise from the dust, by the light of one of the torches, I recognised the clumsy hunchbacked figure of Ciacconio.

We drew a little closer, thus risking being seen. With our view partly obscured by the still open door of the carriage, we heard the whip crack once again, and then a third time, accompanied by Ciacconio's inimitable grunt, this time carrying a clear note of protest.

"Filthy dogs," said Dulcibeni, as he placed something back in the carriage, closed the door and jumped back into the box, urging on the horses.

Once again, the sheer speed of the sequence of events prevented me from considering the motives of prudence and of the intellect, and even the righteous fear of God, which should have persuaded me to escape from the perilous influence of Abbot Melani and not to involve myself in rash, criminal and violent deeds.

That was why, still set on our bold plan to save the life of Our Lord Innocent XI, I did not dare draw back when Abbot Melani, dragging me from the shadows, guided me towards the carriage just as it was moving away.

"Now or never," said he when, after a brief chase, we leapt onto the footmen's platform behind the body of the carriage.

Hardly had we grasped the great handles behind the coach when there was another thud on the platform and rapacious hands gripped me, almost causing me to fall into the road. Almost overcome by this last shock, I turned and found myself facing the horribly deformed and toothless grin of Ciacconio, who held in his hands a crucifix to which was tied a pendant.

Thus weighted down by a third unasked-for passenger, the car­riage meanwhile tilted sharply to one side.

"Filthy dogs, I shall kill you all," said Dulcibeni, while his whip cracked again and again.

The carriage turned left, along the Via del Panico, while on the far side the disorderly band of
corpisantari
watched impotently as our vehicle made off. Clearly they had all returned to the surface when Ciacconio failed to rejoin them. Three or four of them set out to follow us on foot, while we again veered to the right at the Piazza di Monte Giordano in the direction of the Santa Lucia sewer. Because of the ambush, Dulcibeni had been unable to take the road to Monte Cavallo and seemed now to be proceeding haphazardly.

"You've played another of your tricks, is that not so, you ugly beast!" cried Abbot Melani to Ciacconio as the carriage gathered speed.

"Gfrrrlubh," grunted Ciacconio in self-justification.

"Do you see what he has done?" replied Atto, turning to me. "As though winning were not enough, he had to turn back to rob the car­riage of the crucifix with the relic, which Ugonio already tried to filch the first time we entered Tiracorda's stables. And thus, Dulcibeni has recovered the leeches."

Behind us, the
corpisantari
did not abandon their chase, even if they were already losing ground. Just then (we had again turned left) we heard the tremulous, terrorised voice of Tiracorda, who was lean­ing out from the window: "Pompeo, Pompeo, they are following us, and there is someone here behind..."

Dulcibeni did not reply. An unexpected and exceedingly violent explosion deafened us, while a cloud of smoke momentarily de­prived us of our sight and our ears were pierced by a cruel, lacerating whistle.

"Down! He has a pistol," Atto exhorted us, crouching on the plat­form.

While I followed his example, the carriage again accelerated. Al­ready sorely tried by the assault of the
corpisantari
, the horses' nerves had been unable to withstand the sudden detonation.

Instead of taking shelter, Ciacconio opted as usual for the most insane solution and climbed on top of the carriage, crawling towards Dulcibeni and holding by some miracle onto that unsafe roof which bounced in every direction. A few moments passed and the crack of the whip compelled him at once to renounce his attack.

We were emerging at high speed from the Via del Pellegrino into the Campo di Fiore, when I saw Ciacconio, still clinging precariously to the carriage roof, remove the pendant with the relic and hurl the holy cross at Dulcibeni with all his might. The carriage tilted slightly to the right, which gave us the impression that the missile had found its target. Ciacconio tried again to advance, perhaps attempting to take advantage of the opportunity before Dulcibeni had time to re­load his pistol.

"If Dulcibeni does not stop the horses, we shall end up against a wall," I heard Atto say, his voice almost drowned out by the clatter of the wheels on the cobblestones.

Again, we heard the whip crack; instead of slowing down, our speed was increasing. I noticed that we were driving almost in a straight line.

"Pompeo, oh my God, stop this carriage!" we heard Tiracorda whine from within the carriage, his voice just audible despite the metallic screech and clatter of wheel-rims and horseshoes.

By now, we had crossed Piazza Mattei and even Piazza Campitelli; the wild charge of the coach through the night, leaving Monte Savello behind on our right, seemed utterly devoid of sense or any hope of safety. While the flames of the two side torches gaily streaked the darkness, the rare and furtive night wanderers, enveloped in their cloaks and unknown to all save the moon, speechlessly witnessed our noisy onrush. We even crossed the night watch on their rounds, but they had neither the time nor the means to stop and interrogate us.

"Pompeo, I beg of you," Tiracorda yet again implored, "stop, stop at once."

"But why does he not stop, and why does he keep driving straight on?" I screamed to Atto.

As we crossed the Piazza della Consolazione, Dulcibeni's whip and Ciacconio's grunting could no longer be heard. We peeked cau­tiously over the roof and beheld Dulcibeni, standing in his box, ex­changing with Ciacconio a wild, disorderly rain of blows and kicks. No one held the reins.

"My God," exclaimed Atto, "that is why we never turned."

It was then that we entered the long tetragonal esplanade of the Campo Vaccino—the Cows' Field—where one can see all that re­mains of the antique Roman Forum. To our left, the Arch of Septimius Severus, to our right, the ruins of the Temple of Jupiter Stator and the entrance of the Orti Farnesiani joined in the desperate frenzy harassing our eyes. Before us, drawing ever nearer, was the Arch of Titus.

Our ride became all the more hazardous, given the barbarously uneven terrain of the Campo Vaccino. Somehow, we avoided two Roman columns which lay on the ground. At last, we passed under the Arch of Titus and ran down the hill, ending the descent at a mad velocity. Nor did it seem that anything could stop us now, while Dul­cibeni's angry voice screamed, "Filthy dog, go to hell!"

"Gfrrrlubh," Ciacconio insulted him in turn.

Something large, greyish and ragged then rolled down from the carriage, just as the team of horses, exhausted yet triumphant, en­tered the ample space over which, for sixteen centuries, the ruins of the Colosseum have loomed in magnificent indifference.

As we approached the imposing amphitheatre, we heard a dry crack under our feet. The rear axle had yielded to the excessive de­mands of the long ride, causing our vehicle to skid and tilt violently to the right. Before the carriage turned over, screaming in terror and shock, Atto and I let ourselves fall and roll on the ground, miraculously escaping being smashed by the spokes of the great wheels spinning wildly just next to us; the horses fell heavily, while the carriage with its two passengers toppled, then slipped and slid sideways some way further over a broken patch of earth, stones and weeds.

After a few instants of comprehensible confusion, I rose to my feet. I was in a sorry state, but uninjured. The carriage lay on its side, with one wheel still spinning in the void, suggesting unenviable conse­quences for its passengers. The torches on either side were smoking, having gone out.

We knew that the grey thing which had been thrown down not long before must have been poor Ciacconio, hurled by Dulcibeni from the moving vehicle. But our attention was at once captured by something else. Atto pointed at one of the carriage doors, flung open and pointing heroically heavenward. We understood each other in­stantly: without a moment's hesitation, we leapt inside the carriage, where Tiracorda lay groaning, and in a swoon. Swifter than Atto, I seized a heavy little chest from the hands of the Chief Physician, within which clinking sounds betrayed the probable presence of a vase. It seemed beyond a doubt to be the same object which we had seen seized from Ciacconio: the container of the robust hermetic vase used by physicians for transporting leeches.

"We have it!" I exulted. "Now let us flee!"

But even before I could complete my sentence, a powerful grip tore me from within the carriage, dumping me on the hard flag­stones, where I rolled painfully like a little bundle of rags. It was Dulcibeni, who had perhaps recovered his wits at that very moment. Now he was trying to tear the little chest from my grasp; but I, clasping it in my arms with all the strength that remained in me, had closed around my prize, shielding it with my arms, chest and legs. Thus, every attempt by Dulcibeni ended up with him lifting me and my precious load together, without succeeding in separating us.

While Dulcibeni struggled thus, crushing me with his powerful weight and inflicting upon me many painful bruises, Abbot Melani attempted to turn away the fury of the ancient Jansenist. All in vain: Dulcibeni seemed to possess the strength of a hundred men. We all three rolled on the ground, in a furious, tumbling entanglement.

"Let me go, Melani," yelled Dulcibeni, "you do not know what you are doing!"

"Do you really mean to assassinate the Pope, all because of your daughter? All because of a little half-caste bastard?"

"You cannot..." gasped Dulcibeni, while Atto succeeded for a mo­ment in twisting his arm, thus stifling him.

"Did the daughter of a Turkish whore bring you to this?" contin­ued Atto scornfully, while, coughing hoarsely from the effort, he was forced to let go of Dulcibeni's arm.

Pompeo hit him hard on the nose, which caused the abbot to groan no little, and left him rolling semi-conscious on the ground.

Turning back to me, Dulcibeni found me still clasping the little chest. Paralysed by fear, I dared not even move. He grasped me by the wrists and, almost tearing me apart, freed the container of the vase from my grasp. He then ran back to the carriage.