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.
I followed him with my eyes in the moonlight. A little later, he emerged from the carriage, jumping nimbly to the ground. He held the chest under his left arm.
'Give me the other one. Yes, that is it, it is just behind,' said he, speaking to someone within.
He then reached inside the carriage and drew out what appeared to be a pistol, unless my eyes betrayed me. Rather than reload his first arm, he had preferred to take a second pistol, ready for use. Meanwhile, Atto had risen and was rushing towards the carriage.
'Abbot Melani,' said Dulcibeni, half scornful and half threatening, 'since you enjoy stalking people so much, you may now complete your work.'
He then turned and began to run in the direction of the Colosseum.
'Stop! Give me that bag!' called Atto.
'But Signor Atto, Dulcibeni…' I objected.
'… is armed. I am aware of that,' replied Abbot Melani, crouching prudently near the ground. 'But that is no reason to let him escape us.'
I was struck by Atto's decisive tone and in a blinding insight, I understood what was agitating his heart and his thoughts and why, that evening, he had climbed without a moment's hesitation onto the back of Tiracorda's carriage, taking the mortal risk of following Dulcibeni.
Atto's natural predisposition to embroil himself in obscure intrigues and the potent pride which caused him to puff up his chest when he detected the presence of plotters, all those things which he felt and wanted and tended naturally to desire, remained unsatisfied. Dulcibeni's half-unveiled revelations had drawn Melani into their vortex. And now the abbot could not, would not withdraw. He wanted to know, come what may. Atto was not running in order to tear the leeches from Dulcibeni's hands: he wanted his secrets.
While those images and those thoughts rushed before my eyes at a speed a thousand times greater than that of Tiracorda's carriage, Dulcibeni fled towards the Colosseum.
Dulcibeni disappeared in the twinkling of an eye behind the dark portico of the Colosseum. Atto dragged me
