Soon, moreover, I returned to graver considerations: Atto had still said nothing to me about the Spanish succession, yet his letters to the Connestabilessa spoke of nothing else (love apart). This I had realised from the day when the Abbot arrived at the villa. From that time until this, however, I had established nothing. I had not even managed to find out anything more about the Countess of Soissons, always supposing that she and the enigmatic poisoner, the Countess of S., were one and the same person.
I shook my head disconsolately: the enigma remained intact, nor was there any sign of the fog that surrounded it dispersing. One thing was certain: the Cardinal my master was in some way involved in the matter. Both the Connestabilessa and Melani reported that the Secretary of State had been to see the Spanish Ambassador about the King of Spain's request to Innocent XII and, in view of the Pontiff's dreadful state of health, the Cardinal was dealing with the matter personally on his behalf.
I therefore felt it to be all the more my bounden duty better to clarify my ideas about this series of mysteries. I therefore promised myself that I would, on the morrow, at last question Atto at least about the identity of the Countess of Soissons.
Il Roscio's directions were accurate enough. The place could not have been more uninviting; yet, according to the instructions we had received, we were to go there by night, so as not to be seen. This was an essential precaution: we were, after all, trying to take the inscrutable German by surprise.
To tell the truth, I was expecting some out-of-the-way, solitary place, perhaps in the midst of market gardens or woodland, far removed from men and merchandise. Instead, Il Roscio had sent us into the heart of the Holy City. 'I have never been there,' he had warned, 'but I do know from the others in my company that there's where he lies low.'
We did not have far to go: from the Villa Spada, we came to Monte Cavallo, passing before the sacred and imposing walls of the Apostolic Palace. There, we turned off to the right, then into Via San Vitale. To the left, behind the high walls which lined the way on either side, stood the campanile of the Jesuits of San Vitale. Its graceful outline reminded me of the little church which, on very clear days, one could sometimes, from our little field, catch sight of in the far distance; and I prayed God to keep me in good health, not only for my own sake but for that of my Cloridia, whom I mentally implored, seeing all the dreadful risks I had run in recent days and was likely to encounter in the coming ones, to pray not only for my soul's salvation but for that of my body.
We came at last to the Via Felice which, with its harmonious alternation of ups and downs, takes one from the steep pile that is Santa Maria Maggiore to the gentle heights of Monte Pincio.
There, we turned to the right, leaving the Quattro Fontane behind us. A little before the church of the monks of San Paolo L'Eremita and the Premonstratensi Fathers' church of San Norberto, a few paces away from Santa Maria della Sanita de' Benfratelli, a nameless side street ran off to the right. We took it, walking between a little group of houses on the right and an isolated house to our left. Beyond these habitations, the road bent leftwards, petering out into a track amidst uncultivated fields.
It was precisely at that point that, following Il Roscio's instructions, we left the road and turned right. Here the terrain became steep, almost vertical, forming a sort of great elongated mound which stretched out rather like the back of a buried giant. As we skirted this mound, we noticed in its flank, below and to our right, first, a slit, then a more generous opening, and lastly, a grotto, then yet another. It was a series of artificial caverns, originally faced with well-cut stones, but by now covered in earth and overgrown with trees, bushes, creepers, fungus, lichens and all kinds of mildew.
The caves were arranged in two parallel rows, one on a lower level, where we were. The other, consisting of larger grottoes, was higher up and set further back, so much so that before it there was a sort of corridor several yards wide. At the right-hand end of this group of caverns there was yet another group on a third level, above which rose a rustic house with a turret. Behind that, stood the convent of the nuns of San Francesco alle Therme. The name of the convent was no accident.
'Whoever could have imagined that?' said Atto, whose familiarity with antiquities I had known since the time of our first encounter. 'The Baths of Aggripina. I'd never have expected that I might have to look for people as foul as the cerretani in so noble a place.'
He was moving among those ancient imperial ruins almost on tiptoe, as though he feared that he might, by tripping up, damage some centuries-old brick; he looked all around him with caution and an imperceptible strain of melancholy in his voice. Seventeen years previously, I had seen him recognise and admire a subterranean Mithraeum and I knew that he had written a guide to Rome for lovers of fine antiquities. Despite all the time that had passed, he had not, it seemed, lost his former predilections.
'We have arrived,' said Sfasciamonti, pointing in front of us. 'Here is the place.'
At the end of the row of caves, before the last stretch of the convent wall, dark and impassive, there stood a tower.
This was one of the numerous pinnacles that had once made of Rome an Urbs turrita, in other words, a city adorned with many towers, steeples and turrets: lookout and defence positions from the Middle Ages, which gave the place an old-fashioned, warlike look. This one was not high: it must have been topped, as often happened during the barbarian invasions, or else the upper part had collapsed in some fire.
'No one will stop you,' Il Roscio had added enigmatically when furnishing us with details of the German's lair. 'If anything, it is you who will decide to go away.'
We had a first confirmation of these words when we arrived in front of the tower. We circled it, looking up at all the walls. The windows were all barred. At the foot of the structure, we found a sort of hut which contained the entrance. It was made of wood, creaking and decrepit. We pushed on the door. It was open.
Once inside, we found ourselves in a large, dark, evil-smelling space. Rats and strays of all sorts seemed from time immemorial to have chosen the place for their dejections. The light of our lantern enabled us to avoid the colossal cobwebs which hung throughout the length and breadth of that dungeon, and the foul matter (scrap, rubble, rubbish) that covered the floor.
Suddenly I came close to tripping heavily against a solid mass, well secured to the ground. I rubbed my sore toe. It was a step.
'Signor Atto, a staircase!' I announced.
I shone light on the place with the lantern. A stairway climbed the right-hand wall towards a door.
Here too, neither lock nor chain barred the way.
'Il Roscio was right,' observed Sfasciamonti, 'there are no obstacles or security measures to impede us. How very interesting.'
Behind the second door, another stairway awaited us; this time, exceedingly steep. Melani often stopped to catch his breath.
'But when are we going to get there?' he wondered disconsolately, trying in vain to look behind him and see how far we had come.
'We are climbing to the top of the tower,' I answered.
'That, I had surmised for myself,' retorted Atto acidly. 'But tell me where the deuce the German's lair could be. On the chimney-pots?'
'Perhaps the German is a stork,' joked Sfasciamonti, stifling a laugh.
I in the meanwhile was returning in memory to that time, years ago, when Atto and I had spent entire nights exploring galleries and catacombs in the dark underbelly of the city, encountering all manner of perils and fending off dangerous ambushes. Now we were back in the same pitch darkness, but climbing heavenward, not down into the bowels of the earth.
For several minutes, we continued in a straight line, by the faint light of our lantern, until we reached a little quadrangular cavity. The floor was covered with an iron plate. In front of us, a few steps led to a little door which looked very much as though it led to an even higher level. We looked at one another suspiciously.
'I do not like this one bit, corps of a thousand bombards,' commented Sfasciamonti.
'Nor I,' echoed Melani. 'If we go up there, it will be impossible to beat a quick retreat and get out again.'
'If only there were a window in this tower, even a slit, perhaps we might be able to work out how high we've climbed,' said I.
'Come, come, 'tis pitch dark outside,' retorted the Abbot.
'What are we to do?'
'Let us go on further,' said Atto, advancing into the little room. 'How strange, there's a smell here like…'
