Wherever the interrogations went too far, the omissions desired by the Pope came into effect: 'I know many who understand astrology. Vincenzo Bottelli was my master. He told me that many in the palace understood astrology, such as Cardinals***,*** and***, as well as ***,***,*** and also*** and***.'
'In other words, cardinals galore,' exclaimed Stilone. 'The judge was shocked to hear so many distinguished names; he knew perfectly well that those astrological dealings were being carried out on behalf of the cardinals themselves; and that the latter ran the risk, if one single word too many were to be uttered by their servants, of being covered in dishonour. And farewell then to all hopes, for whoever might have nourished them, of ever being elected pope.'
'And how did it all end?' I asked, impatient to hear what all this story had to do with poison.
'Oh, providence… saw to that,' replied Stilone with a meaningful grimace. 'On the 7th of November, 1630 Abbot Morandi was found dead in his cell, lying on his bed, in the modest robe and sandals which he had worn all his life.'
'Killed!'
'Well, seven days later, the physician of the prison of Tor di Nona submitted his report: Morandi had died following twelve days of illness. He had caught a sextan fever which had become malignant and, in the end, fatal.''I neither have nor saw any evidence of poison,'' confirmed the physician, supported by two other colleagues. They all, however, passed over in silence the fact that only two days previously, another prisoner detained with Morandi had died in identical circumstances after eating a cake of unknown provenance.'
Persistent rumours and suspicions of poisoning circulated for months, insistent and impossible to uproot. But what did all that matter now? Father Morandi was dead, and he alone had shouldered the tremendous burden of the vices of the entire pontifical court. To the great relief of all, the veil, which had been so incautiously lifted, was hastily lowered once more.
Urban VIII, in a brief hand-written note, ordered the judge to suspend the case, granting impunity to all copyists and to the astrologers and monks, and ordering that there should be no further judicial action concerning them.
Stilone Priaso fell silent and looked at me. He had dried himself and slipped into bed, awaiting my reaction to the story.
So, in the case of Abbot Morandi, as in that of Signor di Mourai- thus I reflected as I replaced the brushed apparel on the chair-poison was concealed under the guise of illness.
'But were not all the others equally guilty?' I objected, gripped by the sad tale.
'In truth, the copyists had copied, the monks had hidden the evidence, the astrologers had speculated on the death of the Pope; and, above all, the cardinals had been involved. It would not have been unjust to punish them, but to do so it would have been necessary to reach a verdict,' observed Stilone Priaso, 'which would have caused a scandal. And that was precisely what the Pope wished to avoid.'
'So Urban VIII did not die in that year.'
'No, indeed he did not. Morandi was completely mistaken in his prophecy.'
'And when did he die?'
'In 1644.'
'But was that not precisely the date calculated by Father Visconti, the mathematician?'
'It was,' replied Stilone Priaso. 'If only the abbot of Santa Prassede had heeded the word of his friend the professor, he would truly have predicted the death of Urban VIII. Instead, he foretold his own death.'
'And what happened to the astrologers after the death of Morandi?' I asked, dejected by that lugubrious observation.
'That tale is soon told: Galileo recanted, Argoli went into exile, Centini went to the stake; all this in the space of a very few years. And astrology ended up crushed under the weight of papal bulls.'
Here, Stilone fell silent, as though observing a moment of mourning.
'However,' he resumed, 'when Abbot Morandi's prophecy of his imminent death was circulating, the Pope became very afraid that it would come true.'
'So, even Urban VIII, who did so much to combat astrology, believed in it!'
'But of course! I have already told you that everyone, but everyone, in every epoch, has paid tribute to Dame Astrology,' laughed Stilone Priaso, bitterly.
'Pope Barberini, so it was said, was beset by the blackest terror when the prediction of his death began to do the rounds. While he publicly professed scorn for Abbot Morandi's prophecy, in secret, he summoned a Dominican friar, Tommaso Campanella and, fearful and trembling, begged him to dispel the threat. The Dominican did what he could, sprinkling aromas and perfumes against malefic effluvia, making the Pontiff wear white vestments in order to cancel out the effects of eclipses, lighting lamps which symbolised the seven planets, and so on and so forth. But now I had better break off. Thanks be to heaven, I am again feeling a little drowsy.'
It was dawn. I greeted the ending of this discussion with silent relief. I again blamed myself for having initially encouraged it. Not only had I discovered nothing about the poisoning of Signor di Mourai, or the theft of my little pearls; but, at the end of such a long an interview, I was now more confused than ever.
Day the Fifth
15th September, 1683
After leaving Stilone Priaso, I returned exhausted to my chamber. I do not know where I found the strength to complete my diary, but I did succeed in so doing. Then, I read swiftly through the pages which I had already written. Dejectedly, I went over the results of the tentative investigations which I had conducted concerning the guests at the Donzello: and what had I discovered? Practically nothing. Every apparent breakthrough had proved to be a false dawn. I had learned of facts and circumstances which had little to do with the sad end of Signor di Mourai, and which had thrown my ideas into even greater confusion.
But what, I wondered, did I know about Mourai? At my table, I lay my head on one arm, asking myself that question. Enveloped in the blanket of sleep, my thoughts receded into the distance, but did not disappear entirely.
Mourai was French, old and ill, and his eyesight had become very weak. He was between sixty and seventy years of age. He was accompanied by the young French musician Devize and by Pompeo Dulcibeni. He seemed to be of elevated rank and more than merely prosperous, which contrasted with the very poor state of his health: it was as though he had in the past undergone long-drawn-out sufferings.
But then, why would a gentleman of his rank lodge at the Donzello?
I knew from Pellegrino that the Ponte quarter, where our hostelry was situated, had long since ceased to house the great inns, which were now to be found in the environs of the Piazza di Spagna. To sojourn at the Donzello was perhaps more fitting for a person of limited means; or perhaps for someone desiring to avoid the company of neighbours of high rank; but why?
Mourai, moreover, never left the inn, save at nightfall; and even then, only for the shortest of walks in the immediate environs; certainly not beyond the Piazza Navona or Piazza Fiammetta.
Piazza Navona, Piazza Fiammetta: suddenly, my temples began to throb painfully, and, rising with great difficulty from the chair, I let myself collapse onto my couch like a marionette.
I awoke in the same position the next morning, in broad daylight. Someone had knocked at the door. It was Cristofano, angry that I had still not fulfilled any of my duties.
I sat up in the bed with extreme indolence, having had only a few hours of sleep. In my breeches, I espied the gazette of horoscopes which the tomb robbers had purloined from Stilone Priaso. I was still affected by the extraordinary events of the previous night: the peregrination through the underground passages full of uncertainties and surprises, the stalking of Stilone and, lastly, the terrible affairs of Abbot Morandi and Campanella, which the Neapolitan had narrated to me in the last hours before dawn. That abundant harvest of sensory and spiritual impressions was still very much alive in me, despite the fatigue that assailed me, when I lazily opened the little book. Perhaps also because of a powerful headache, I did not resist the temptation to lie down once again; at least for a few minutes, thought I. And I began to peruse the book.
