Under the guidance of Baronio, the corpisantari found a handcart nearby, perhaps left there by some fruit vendor. It was old and rickety, but, thanks to the united forces of the corpisantari, we managed to use it to transport Dulcibeni's poor injured body. Of course, Atto and I could have abandoned the wounded man among the ruins of the Colosseum, but we at once agreed that so to do would be pointlessly cruel and dangerous; he would sooner or later be found and, what was more, would be missing from the roll-call at the inn, thus inevitably provoking an inquiry on the part of Cristofano, and then, by the authorities.
I felt relieved by our shared decision to save Dulcibeni: the melancholy and tragic history of his daughter had not left me indifferent.
The march back to the Donzello was interminable and funereal. We followed the most tortuous of routes and the strangest shortcuts in order to avoid once again being surprised by the Bargello's men. The corpisantari, taciturn and peevish, were disheartened by their failure to prevent Tiracorda from escaping with the leeches and mortified both by the bitterness of defeat and the fear that, by the morrow, the Pope might be mortally infected. On the other hand, Dulcibeni's desperate condition inspired no one with the idea of denouncing him; the savage assault which the corpisantari had just inflicted upon the Bargello's men counselled prudence and silence. It would be in all our best interests that there should remain in the minds of the guardians of order only memories of this night, but no traces.
In order not to form too large and visible a group, most of the corpisantari left us, not without a hurriedly grunted farewell. Seven of us remained: Ugonio, Ciacconio, Polonio, Grufonio, Atto, Dulcibeni (loaded onto the hand-cart) and myself.
We proceeded in a group, taking turns to push the cart. We were near to the Gesu church, in the vicinity of the Pantheon, where we were to regain the underground galleries in order to return to the Donzello. I noticed that Ciacconio was not keeping up with us and had fallen behind. I observed him: he was walking with difficulty and dragging his feet. I drew this to the attention of those at the front of the group and we waited for Ciacconio to catch up with us.
'All the haste leaves him windified,' commented Ugonio.
It did not seem to me that Ciacconio was merely exhausted. Hardly had he rejoined us than he leaned against the cart, then sat down on the ground, with his back to the wall, and remained motionless. His breathing was short and light.
'Ciacconio, what is wrong with you?'
'Gfrrrlubh,' he replied, pointing to the left-hand side of his belly.
'Are you tired, or unwell?'
'Gfrrrlubh,' he replied, repeating the same gesture, and seeming to have nothing to add to that.
Instinctively (and despite the fact that any bodily contact with the corpisantari was to be regarded as far from desirable) I touched Ciacconio's clothing at the place which he had indicated. It seemed damp.
I shifted the folds of material a little and became aware of a disagreeable but familiar odour. Everyone had meanwhile gathered round, and it was Abbot Melani who drew even closer. He touched Ciacconio's clothing and brought his hand to his nose.
'Blood. Good heavens, let us open his clothing!' he said, nervously undoing the cord which kept Ciacconio's old overcoat closed. He had a wound just halfway up his belly, from which blood was seeping continuously and had already stained a great patch of material. The wound was most grave, the haemorrhage copious, and I was astounded that Ciacconio should still have had the strength to walk until now.
'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
