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"My God, he needs help, he cannot come with us," I said, shocked through and through by our discovery.

There was a long moment's silence. It was all too easy to under­stand what thoughts were traversing the mind of the group. The ball which had struck Ciacconio had come from Dulcibeni's pistol. Without intending it, he had mortally wounded the unfortunate
corpisantaro.

"Gfrrrlubh," said Ciacconio, then, pointing out with one hand the road which we were following and gesturing that we should continue on our way. Ugonio knelt down and drew near to him. There followed a rapid and unintelligible parley between the two, during which Ugo­nio twice raised his voice as though to convince his companion of his own opinion. Ciacconio, however, repeated the same murmur again and again, each time more feebly and breathlessly.

It was then that Atto understood what was about to happen: "My God, no, we cannot leave him here. Call your friends," he said, turn­ing to Ugonio. "Let them come and fetch him. We must do some­thing, call someone, a chirurgeon..."

"Gfrrrlubh," said Ciacconio in a slight, resigned whisper, which fell among us as the most definitive human reasoning of which one could conceive.

Ugonio, for his part, laid his hand gently on his companion's shoul­der, then stood up as though the conversation were at an end. Polo- nio and Grufonio then approached the wounded man and exchanged confused and mysterious arguments with him in an uninterrupted murmur. At length, they all knelt down together and began to pray.

"Oh no," I wept, "it cannot, it must not be."

Even Atto, who had hitherto manifested so little sympathy for the
corpisantari
and their bizarre qualities, could not contain his emo­tion. I saw him draw aside and hide his face and I noticed that his shoulders were shaken by convulsive movements. In silent, liberat­ing sobs, the abbot was at last releasing his pain: for Ciacconio, for Fouquet, for Vienna, for himself; a traitor perhaps, but one betrayed, and alone. And, while I bethought myself of Dulcibeni's last myste­rious words about the death of Fouquet, I felt dark shadows gather between Atto and myself.

In the end, we all went down on bended knee to pray, while Ciacconio's breathing became ever shorter and more suffocated; until Grufonio left briefly, to warn (or so I surmised) the rest of the
corpisantari
who,
within a few minutes, arrived. Soon they would remove the poor body and accord it a decent burial.

It was then, before my eyes, that the last heartrending seconds of Ciacconio's life ran out. While his companions gathered around him, Ugonio compassionately supported the head of the dying man; with a gesture, he invited us all to keep silent and interrupt our prayers. The quiet of the night fell over the scene and we could heart the last words of the
corpisantaro:
"Gfrrrlubh."

I looked questioningly at Ugonio who, between sobs, translated:
"Lachrymae in pluvia."

Then the poor man ceased breathing.

There was no need for further explanations. In those words, Ciacconio had carved his own fleeting adventure on earth: we are as teardrops in the rain; hardly shed, and already lost in the great flow of mortality.

After Ciacconio's remains had been borne away by his friends, we went again on our way with our hearts weighed down by bitter, inde­scribable pain. I walked with bowed head, as though propelled by a force outside of me. My suffering was such that during the remainder of our march, I had not even the courage to look at poor Ugonio, fear­ing that I would be unable to hold back my tears. All the adventures which we had faced together with the two
corpisantari
returned to mind: our explorations of the subterranean maze, the beating of Sti­lone Priaso, the incursions into Tiracorda's house... I imagined then how many other vicissitudes he must have shared with Ciacconio, and, confronting his state of mind with my own, I understood how desperately he would miss his friend.

Such was our mourning that it overshadowed all my memories of the rest of the journey: the return underground, the exhausting march through the tunnels, the conveyance into the hostelry, then into his chamber, of Dulcibeni. In order to hoist him up, we had to cobble together a sort of stretcher, removing a few planks from the cart which we had used on the surface. The injured man, now fever­ish and semi-conscious, aware only of having suffered grave and per­haps irreversible wounds, was thus transported, tied up like a sausage in its skin, and raised from one trapdoor to another, from one stair to the next, and only at the cost of inhuman efforts by twelve arms: four
corpisantari,
Atto and I.

It was already dawn when the
corpisantari
took their leave of us, disappearing into the little closet. Obviously, I feared that Cristofano might hear the passing of our cortege, however quiet, above all when we hauled Dulcibeni up into the little room and then down the stairs of the hostelry to the first floor. When, however, we passed in front of his chamber, we heard only the peaceful, regular vibration of his snores.

I had also to bid Ugonio farewell. While Atto stood aside, the
corpisantaro
grasped my shoulders firmly with his clawed hands; he knew that it was hardly probable that we should ever meet again. I would no longer descend into his subterranean world, nor would he ever emerge under the dome of heaven, save under cover of night, when poor, honest folk (like myself) lie abed, sleeping away the exhausting labours of the day. Thus we left one another, with heavy hearts; nor indeed, did I ever see him again.

I needed urgently to retire to bed and to avail myself of the little time that remained to Atto and me in which to recuperate our strength. Yet, too shaken by events, I already knew that I would never be able to find sleep. I therefore decided to take advantage of the situation to note down in my diary the events which had just taken place.

The temporary leave-taking from Atto was a matter of a moment, and of a look which each of us read in the eyes of the other: several hours ago by now, Dulcibeni's pestiferous leeches would already have attacked the soft, tired flesh of Innocent XI.

Everything depended upon the course which the illness took: whether it was slow or, as in so many cases, fulminating.

Perhaps the new day would already bring with it the news of his death; and with it, perhaps, the outcome of the battle for Vienna.

*

The notes which I consigned to my little book that night were the last to be written. The events that followed left me no time (nor did they inspire any desire) to continue writing. Fortunately, those last days of our sequestration at the Donzello have remained very clear in my memory, at least in their essentials.

On the next day, Dulcibeni was found in his bed wretchedly soaked in his own urine, incapable of rising or even so much as mov­ing his legs. All our attempts to make him walk, or even to control his lower limbs, proved useless. He could not feel his feet anymore; one could even pierce his flesh without him experiencing any physical sensation. Cristofano warned of the gravity of the situation; he had, he said, met with many cases of the kind. Among the most similar was the case of a boy working in a marble quarry who fell from badly made scaffolding, striking the ground violently with his back; on the next day, he awoke in his bed in the same condition as Dulcibeni, and, alas, thereafter he was never to recover the use of his legs, remain­ing handicapped for life.

However, all hope was not lost, Cristofano insisted, digressing into a whole series of reassurances which seemed to me as vague as they were verbose. The patient, who remained feverish, did not seem to be aware of his grave condition.

Of course, the serious accident of which Dulcibeni was the victim provoked a string of questions from Cristofano, who was certainly not so foolish as not to understand that the Marchigiano—and those who had brought him back—had been able to leave and return to the inn.

The bruises, cuts and scratches which Atto and I had sustained in our fall from Tiracorda's carriage also called for an explanation. While Cristofano dispensed his cures—medicating the wounds with his specially prepared balsam and celestial water and anointing the bruises with
oleum philosophorum
and electuary of magisterial marsh mallow—we were constrained to admit that, yes, Dulcibeni had left the hostelry, seeking a way of fleeing the quarantine and, from the se­cret closet, had ventured forth into the network of tunnels under the inn. We two had, however, been watching him for some time, having guessed his intentions, and had followed him and brought him back. On returning, he had lost his balance and had fallen into the little well that led back to the inn, and this had caused the grave injury which now condemned him to his bed.

Dulcibeni was, moreover, in no position to deny the story: the day after the fall, his fever was exceedingly high, depriving him almost completely of his powers of both reasoning and speech. Only gradu­ally did he regain his wits, and then he would groan interminably, complaining of atrocious, unending pains in the back.

Perhaps that painful spectacle also inclined Cristofano to indul­gence; our tale was clearly full of gaps and improbabilities, nor would it have stood up to a serious interrogation, especially if conducted by two of the Bargello's men. Having regard, probably, to the extraor­dinary recovery of Bedfordi and to the likelihood of an early end to the quarantine, the doctor weighed up the risks and advantages and was kind enough to pretend that he believed our version, without informing the sentinel (who was still on guard before the doorway of the inn) of what had happened. At the end of our reclusion, he said, he would endeavour to ensure that Dulcibeni received all possible cures. These happy resolutions were probably inspired, too, by the festive atmosphere which was just then beginning to spread across the city, and of which I shall now speak.

Already, rumours had begun to circulate concerning the outcome of the battle of Vienna. The first to be heard were on the 20th, but only on the night of Tuesday 21st (and the details of this I obviously ob­tained later) did Cardinal Pio receive a note from Venice with news of the flight of the Turkish army from Vienna. Two days later, again at night, other letters arrived from the Empire announcing the Chris­tian victory. Gradually, the details had become more precise: the city of Vienna, so long besieged, had at last been relieved.

On the 23rd day of September, the official announcement of the victory reached Rome, borne in the dispatches of Cardinal Bonvisi: eleven days earlier, on 12th September, the Christian troops had routed the hosts of God's enemies.

The details were to arrive with the gazettes of the succeeding weeks, but in my memory the tales of that glorious triumph all blend into one moment: that of the exciting and exalting moment when we learned of the victory.

When the stars came out on the night of the 11th and 12th Sep­tember, the serried ranks of the Ottoman host were heard making their prayers, with piercing cries; this was also evident from the lamps and fires, lit in great symmetry, together with the double lights of the superb pavilions of the Infidel encampment.

Our men, too, had prayed long and hard: the Christian forces were far inferior to those of the Infidels. At the first light of dawn on 12th September, the Capuchin friar, Marco d'Aviano, a great arouser and inspirer of the Christian army, celebrated mass with the Christian commanders in a little Camaldolese convent on a height called the Kahlenberg, which dominates Vienna from the right bank of the Danube. Immediately af­terwards, our troops formed ranks, ready for victory or death.

On the left wing were Charles of Lorraine with the Margrave Hermann and the young Ludwig Wilhelm; Count von Leslie and Count Caprara; Prince Lubomirski, with his fearsome Polish armoured cav­alry; then Mercy and Tafe, the future heroes of Hungary. Together with dozens of other princes, the still unknown Eugene of Savoy pre­pared for his baptism by fire; like Charles of Lorraine, he had left Paris to flee the Sun King, and was subsequently to cover himself in glory, reconquering eastern Europe for the Christian cause. The Prince Elector of Saxony, too, prepared his troops, assisted by Field Marshal Goltz and the Prince Elector of Bavaria, with the five Wittelsbachs. In the centre of the Christian lines, next to the Bavarians, stood the Franconian and Swabian troops; besides them, the princes and rulers ofThuringia, from the glorious houses ofWelf and of Holstein; then came other great names like the Margrave of Bayreuth, Field Marshals and Generals Rodolfo Baratta, Dünewald, Stirum, Baron von Degenfeld, Karoly Palffy and many other heroic defenders of the cause of Christ. Finally, the right wing was held by the valorous Poles, King Jan Sobieski and his two lieutenants.

When they beheld that powerful deployment of friendly forces, the hard-pressed defenders of Vienna immediately gave way to jubi­lation, launching dozens of salvoes of rockets.

The army was sighted from Kara Mustapha's camp too; but when the Turks decided to react, it was too late: the attackers were already charging down the slopes of the Kahlenberg at breakneck speed. The Grand Vizir and his men then emerged precipitously from their tents and their trenches, in their turn, deploying in battle order. In the centre stood Kara Mustapha and the great mass of the Spahis; by his side, the impi­ous Infidel preacher Wani Effendi with their sacred standard; and before him, the Agha with his regiments of sanguinary janissaries. On the right wing, near the Danube, the cruel Voivodes of Moldavia and Walachia, Vizir Kara Mehmet of Diyarbakir and Ibrahim Pasha, from Buda; on the left wing, the Khan of the Tartars and a great number of pashas.

The gentle green heights outside the walls of Vienna, with their many vineyards, were the theatre of the battle. The first, memora­ble, clash took place in the narrows of the Nussberg, between the Christian left wing and the janissaries. After prolonged battling back and forth, the imperial troops and the Saxons succeeded at midday in breaking through and chasing the Turks back to Grinzing and Heiligenstadt. Meanwhile, the troops of Charles of Lorraine reached Dobling and approached the Turkish encampment, while Count Caprara's Austrian cavalry and Lubomirsky's armoured horsemen made the Moldavians bite the dust after bitter fighting, chasing their remnants back along the Danube. Meanwhile, from the heights of the Kahl­enberg, King Jan Sobieski hurled down the Polish cavalry, after the German and Polish infantry had cleared the way for them, chasing the janissaries from house to house, from vine to vine, from haystack to haystack, and, with cruel obstinacy, driving them from Neustift, from Potzleinsdorf and from Dornbach.

The Christians' hearts trembled when Kara Mustapha tried to take advantage of the enemy's moves and to drive wedges into the gaps created by their powerful advance. These attempts were, how­ever, short-lived: Charles of Lorraine sent his Austrians in to attack, making them converge on the right. In Dornbach, they cut off the retreat of the Turks, who were trying to withdraw towards Dobling. Meanwhile, the Polish cavalry smashed through all resistance, driving the enemy back as far as Hernals.

At the centre, in the front line, while the glorious Sarmatian mili­tary ensign fluttered above, the King of Poland rode with the falcon's wing raised on the tip of his lance, splendid and indomitable, alongside Prince Jakob, barely sixteen and already a hero, flanked by his knights with their armour marvellously ornamented by their multicoloured surcoats, by plumes and by precious stones. To the cry of "Jesumaria!" the lances of the hussars and of King Jan's heavy cavalry swept away the Spahis and charged towards the tent of Kara Mustapha.

The latter, observing the clash between his own men and the Polish cavalry from his command post, instinctively looked up to the green standard in the shade of which he stood. That sacred standard was precisely what the Christians were aiming at. He then yielded to fear, and decided to withdraw, dragging with him in his inglorious re­treat, first the Pashas, then the whole body of his troops. The centre of the Turkish host then gave way, too; the rest of the army panicked, and defeat turned to disaster.

The besieged Viennese at last took courage and dared to sally forth through the Scottish Gate, while the Turks fled, abandoning to the enemy their immense encampment, overflowing with incalculable treasures; not, however, without first cutting the throats of hundreds of prisoners and dragging with them as slaves six thousand men, eleven thousand women, fourteen thousand young girls and fifty thousand children.

The military victory was so complete and triumphant that no one thought of stopping the fleeing Infidels. For fear of a return of the Turks, the Christian soldiers, on the contrary, remained on guard through the night.

The first to enter the tent of Kara iMustapha was King Jan Sobieski, who took as booty the horsetail and the steed left behind by the defeated commander, as well as the many oriental treasures and marvels abandoned by the dissolute miscreant satrap.

On the next day, the dead were counted: the Turks had lost ten thousand men on the field of battle, three hundred cannon, fifteen thousand tents and mountains of arms. The Christians mourned two thousand dead, including, alas, General de Souches and Prince Potocki; but there was no time for sadness: all Vienna yearned to welcome the victors, who entered in triumph the city which they had saved from the Infidel hordes. King Jan Sobieski wrote humbly to the Pope, attributing the victory to a miracle:
venimus, vidimus, Deus vicit.*

It was, as I said, only later that we were to learn all this in detail. Yet, around the Donzello, jubilation was growing: on 24th September,

* We came, we saw, God conquered. (Translator's note.)

a notice was posted in all the churches of Rome ordering that the
Ave Maria
should be sounded that very evening by all bells to thank the Lord for the defeat of the Turks; gay lights were placed in all windows and with universal and excessive exultation the bells rang out, while rockets, Catherine wheels and little mortars went off all around. Thus, from our windows, one could hear not only the peo­ple giving vent to their joy but above all the loud explosions of the fireworks, whose flashes illuminated the roofs of embassies, the Castel Sant'Angelo, the Piazza Navona and the Campo di Fiore. Having flung open the shutters and glued ourselves to the bars of the hos­telry's windows, we witnessed in the street the burning in effigy of vizirs and pashas, amidst the uncontainable joy of the populace. We beheld entire families, groups of boys, clusters of young men and old, marching back and forth bearing torches, as though crazed, lighting up the sweet September night and accompanying, with their laugh­ter, the silvery counterpoint of the bells.

Even those who dwelled close to our hostelry and who had hither­to taken care not to approach our windows for fear of contagion, now shared with us their joy, their gibes, their cries of gladness. It seemed that they felt the approach of our liberation, almost as though the tri­umph of Christian arms in Vienna portended the release of our poor inn from the menace of the plague.

Although still sequestered, we too were overcome by immense joy; it was I myself who brought the news to each of the guests. We all celebrated together in the chambers on the ground floor, embracing each other and drinking toasts with the greatest and most cheerful exultation. I, above all, was in seventh heaven; Dulcibeni's plan to strike at the heart of Christian Europe had come too late, even if I was still anxious about the health of the Pope.

Besides all these genuine manifestations of joy, in the news which was circulating among the populace and which reached us from the street, there were two circumstances which I found somewhat unexpected and worthy of reflection.

First, from one of the watchmen (who were continuing to keep an eye on the inn, in the absence of further orders) we came to know that the Christian victory had been aided by an inexplicable series of errors on the part of the Turks.