And laughing, he moved towards the half-open door behind which we were hiding.
We had a few seconds in which to act, and no choice. While Tiracorda opened the door, we flattened ourselves against the wall on either side of the door. The doctor passed between us, as between two sentries standing rigid and erect with fear. He crossed the whole ante-chamber and went out through the door at the far end.
It was then that the genius of Abbot Melani came to our aid, that and, perhaps, his insane inclination for disguises and ambuscades. He gave me a nod, and we both ran to the opposite wall, as silently and swiftly as two mice. Here, we again glued ourselves against the wall on either side of the doorway, this time with the advantage of being able to hide behind the open double doors.
'Here we are,' said Tiracorda, who had evidently found a cloth.
The Archiater returned to the ante-chamber, passing between myself and Atto. Had we remained at the opposite end, I then realised, he would have faced us and there would have been no escape.
Tiracorda returned to the chamber where his guest was waiting for him, and closed the door behind him. Just before the last sliver of light disappeared, I had time to catch sight of Dulcibeni, still seated, and turning his head toward the door. With a dubious frown, he stared into the darkness of the ante-chamber, looking, without knowing it, straight into my frightened eyes.
We remained immobile for a few minutes, during which I did not dare so much as to wipe the sweat from my forehead. Dulcibeni announced that he felt unusually tired and decided to take his leave and return to the Donzello. It was as though the failure of their toast had suddenly robbed his visit of all meaning. We heard the pair rise to their feet. We found no better solution than to run back to the first room, that which gave onto the staircase, and to hide behind the plaster statues. Tiracorda and Dulcibeni passed near us, unaware of our presence. Dulcibeni left with a lantern in his hand, the same one which he would use to return to the inn, while the physician kept apologising for breaking the flask, thus spoiling their evening.
They descended the stairs to the lobby. We did not, however, hear the main door of the house open. Surely, Atto whispered to me, Dulcibeni was returning to the Donzello by the underground route, the only possible one because of the watchmen who kept guard over the inn, day and night.
A little while later, Tiracorda returned up the stairs and went to the second floor. We were in utter darkness. With a thousand precautions, we descended to the kitchen and thence into the stables. We prepared to follow Dulcibeni.
'There is no danger: like Stilone Priaso, he will not escape us,' whispered Atto.
However, matters went otherwise. Very soon, in gallery D we caught sight of the light of Dulcibeni's lantern. The gentleman from the Marches, with his heavy and corpulent physique, was advancing at a moderate pace. The surprise came at the junction with gallery C: instead of turning to the right, in the direction of the Donzello, Dulcibeni proceeded to the left.
'But that is impossible,' Abbot Melani gestured to me.
We advanced a fair distance, until we were close to the watercourse which crossed the gallery. Beyond that, darkness reigned: it was as though Dulcibeni had extinguished his oil lamp. No point of reference remained to us and we advanced blindly.
We slowed down, fearing an encounter with our prey, and pricked up our ears. Nothing was to be heard save the rushing of the underground stream. We decided to proceed further.
Abbot Melani tripped and fell, fortunately without any consequences.
'The Devil with it, give me that wretched lantern,' he cursed.
He himself lit our lantern and we both remained utterly confounded. A few yards ahead of us, the gallery came to an end, cut off obliquely by the watercourse. Dulcibeni had disappeared.
'Where do we start from?' asked Abbot Melani, visibly piqued, as we returned to the inn. In a painful endeavour to discern some logical sequence in the latest events, I summarised all that we had learned.
Pompeo Dulcibeni had several times visited Giovanni Tiracorda, his fellow-citizen of Fermo and physician to the Pope, to discuss mysterious matters the essence of which we had not succeeded in understanding. Tiracorda had mentioned obscure questions concerning brothers and sisters, farms, 'number to dine, three', and other incomprehensible expressions.
Tiracorda also had a patient who seemed to be causing him some concern, but whom he hoped soon to restore to good health.
We had received important news concerning Pompeo Dulcibeni: he had (or, in his own words, had had) a daughter called Maria. The mother was a slave of whom he had soon lost all trace. The woman had been sold.
Pompeo Dulcibeni's child had, according to him, been abducted by a certain Huygens, the right-hand man of a certain Feroni (a name which, in truth, did not sound new to me) who seemed to have had a hand in the affair. Dulcibeni had not been able to prevent the abduction and believed that the girl was now dead.
'In all probability, it was to his lost daughter,' I observed, moved to pity, 'that Dulcibeni imagined he was speaking during his soliloquy, poor man.'
But the abbot was no longer listening to me.
'Francesco Feroni,' he murmured. 'I know the name: he enriched himself trafficking slaves to the Spanish colonies in the New World, and returned to Florence in the service of Grand Duke Cosimo.'
'A slaver, then.'
'Yes. He is said to be a man of few scruples: in Florence, much ill is told concerning him. And, now that I remember, it was about him and that Huygens that a rather ridiculous tale circulated,' said Atto with a little laugh. 'Feroni dreamed of an alliance with some Florentine nobleman, instead of which, his daughter and heiress quite literally lost her health for love of that Huygens. The problem was that Huygens was Feroni's trusted collaborator and managed all the most important and delicate affairs on his behalf.'
'What happened? Did Feroni dismiss him?'
'On the contrary: the old merchant neither would nor could do without him. Thus Huygens remained in the family business, while Feroni endeavoured almost obsessively so to exercise his power as to fulfil his young assistant's every caprice. In order to keep him away from his daughter, he arranged for him to have all the women he wanted, even the costliest ones.'
'And how did it all end?'
'I do not know, that is of no interest to us. But I think that Dulcibeni's little girl fell, poor creature, under the eyes of Huygens and Feroni,' sighed Atto.
Dulcibeni, I resumed, and this was the most surprising discovery, had in the past been a merchant in the service of the Odescalchi: the Pope's family.
'And now, put your questions to me,' said Melani, guessing that I had a long list of queries on the tip of my tongue.
'First of all,' I said as with a little jump down, we came to gallery D, 'what service will Dulcibeni have performed for the family of the Pope?'
'There are various possibilities,' replied Atto. 'Dulcibeni said 'merchant'. But the term is perhaps misleading: a merchant works on his own account, while he had a master. He may therefore have served the Odescalchi in the capacity of a secretary, an accountant, a treasurer or an agent buying for them. Perhaps he travelled for them. For decades, that family bought and sold grain and textiles throughout Europe.'
'Padre Robleda told me that they lend money with interest.'
'Did you speak of this too with Robleda? Bravo, my boy; well, yes. They subsequently withdrew from trading and dedicated themselves above all to moneylending. I know that in the end they invested almost everything, purchasing public offices and savings bonds.'
'Signor Atto, who can the patient be of whom Tiracorda spoke?'
'That is the easiest question to answer. Think about it: this is a patient whose illness must remain secret, and Tiracorda is physician to the Pope.'
'Good heavens, it must be…' I swallowed as I dared to draw the inference 'Our Lord Innocent XI.'
'I do believe so. Nevertheless, I was surprised. When the Pontiff falls ill, the news spreads like wildfire. Yet, Tiracorda wishes to keep it secret. Clearly, they fear in the Vatican that the time is too sensitive: it is still unclear who will win in Vienna. With a weakened Pope, there is in Rome a danger of discontent and disorder; abroad there is a risk of raising the morale of the Turks and sapping that of the Christian allies. The trouble is, as Tiracorda said, that the Pontiff is not recovering, so much so that it will soon be necessary to change his treatment. That is why
