Now all doors were open to their cunning. Yet none could do anything about them, because they were poor, or at least, so they seemed and, as Domingo de Soto teaches in his Deliberatio in causa pauperum, in case of doubt, one should nonetheless give one's coin to those who beg. In dubio pro paupere.
'Not only does the practice of charity cancel out sin but, as Saint John Chrysostom puts it: the poor beggars piled one on another in church porches are the physicians of the soul. Indeed, Peter Chrysologos preached that, when the poor man stretches out his hand to ask for charity, it is Christ Himself who does so.'
'But, if it is as you say, then roguery is the daughter of compassion and thus, indirectly, of the Church itself,' I deduced with no little surprise as I placed a few crumbs in a cage.
'Oh, come now…' Don Tibaldutio stumbled, 'I really did not intend to say such a thing.'
There was, he nonetheless admitted, something disquieting about all this. The Hospitalier Friars of Altopascio, for instance, who begged unrestrictedly at castles and in villages, were an official grouping authorised by the Church of Rome. By their preaching they frightened the people, threatening excommunication or promising indulgences. And, in exchange for money, they would absolve anyone.
Had not the pontiffs too succumbed to the ambiguous fascination of superstition and charlatanry? Boniface VIII always wore a talisman against the urinary calculus, while Clement V and Benedict XII were never separated from the cornu serpentinum, an amulet in the shape of a serpent which John XXII even went so far as to keep on his table, stuck into a loaf of bread and surrounded by salt.
'But, some say,' he added, lowering his voice by an octave, 'that even the cerretani themselves originally enjoyed official sanction.'
'Really? And what kind of sanction?'
'There's a tale that I heard from a brother originating in those parts. It would appear — but beware, there is no proof of this — that at the end of the fourteenth century, the cerretani had a regular authorisation to beg, at Cerreto itself, on behalf of the hospitals of the Order of the Blessed Antony. A permit, in other words, emanating from the ecclesiastical authorities.'
'But then the cerretani were officially tolerated. Perhaps they still are to this day.'
'If such a permit ever existed,' said he, prudently, 'it would have had to be registered in the statutes of the city of Cerreto.'
'And is it?'
'The pages concerning this begging for alms were torn out by someone,' he remarked impassively.
Besides, he added in the same breath, if one really wished to pay attention to gossip, it was even said that they had a friend in the Vatican.
'In the Vatican? And who could that be?' I exclaimed, matching my intonation to my incredulity.
On his face, I read regret at having pronounced one word too many, and displeasure at being unable to row back.
'Well… They speak of someone from the Marches. But perhaps it is all a matter of envy because he has an important post in Saint Peter's factory, so they slander him behind his back.'
So, I thought in astonishment, someone at Saint Peter's Factory (the permanent workshop for the repair and restoration of the most important church in Christendom) was in contact with the cerretani. This was obviously a matter to be looked into, but not with the chaplain, who had given himself away and would certainly provide me with no further details.
It was time for us to part. I had completed my task of setting out the birds which were to act as bait, and I had checked on the fixed arquebuses; furthermore Don Tibaldutio had answered quite exhaustively my questions concerning the links between the Church and the cerretani.
How much like the skilled and crafty trade of scoundrels and swindlers was all that proliferation of Holy Years, decade after decade, which had reduced the Jubilees from a rare act of collective devotion falling only every hundred years to a vehicle for constant money-making! Was this not perhaps a consequence, however distant, of the errors and misdeeds committed or tolerated when the cerretani first came into the world, even before the first Jubilee, born from a rib of Holy Mother Church and fed with the sacred milk of pity and charity? Sfasciamonti was right, said I to myself, we were surrounded. The seat of the papacy was a fortress into which the Trojan horse had long since been introduced.
Don Tibaldutio blew his nose in conclusion, staring at me thoughtfully through the folds of his handkerchief. He understood that I had on my mind something that I did not mean to reveal to him.
I thanked him and promised that, should I need further clarification on the subject, I would certainly seek his advice.
A moment before taking my leave of the chaplain, I remembered a question over which I had been brooding a long time:
'Excuse me, Don Tibaldutio,' said I with seeming nonchalance. 'Have you ever heard tell of the Company of Saint Elizabeth?'
'But of course, everyone knows it,' he answered, caught out by the ingenuousness of my question. 'It is the one that gives money to the catchpolls. Why do you ask?'
'I saw them passing the other day and… Well, it was the first time I had ever seen them, that's all,' said I, clumsily disguising the matter.
I simply could not see clearly into the doubt that was slowly gnawing away at my insides but had not yet reached my brain.
Thank heavens, the merry hunt turned out well and happily. After a few hours of lying in wait and laying ambuscades, the ladies and gentlemen had exhausted their lust for the chase and had returned to the great house, bearing almost empty baskets containing a meagre, pitiable haul (starlings, swallows, rooks, a few toads, two moles and even a bat) and with everyone falling about with laughter. In the end, once I had withdrawn all the cages with the bait, I could see that these were far more numerous than what had been caught.
Only a few minor incidents (all of them fortunately resolved by the prompt intervention of the servants, who had come running en masse) had momentarily disturbed the entertainment, causing poor Don Paschatio's heart to jump into his mouth. Prince Vaini, reckless as ever, had for a joke aimed his crossbow at the hat of Giovan Battista Marini, Bargello of the Campidoglio, whereupon the shot had gone off by accident. The arrow had narrowly missed Marini's cranium and had stuck into a nearby tree, taking his hat with it. Cardinal Spada, backed by his Major-Domo and a host of lackeys, had had to plead long and hard to avoid Vaini and his victim coming to blows. Challenges to fight a duel, several times uttered, had fortunately come to nothing.
In the meanwhile, Monsignor Borghese and Count Vidaschi, for want of nobler prey, had fired their arquebus at a large rook. The black (notoriously inedible) fowl had fallen to the ground, apparently badly wounded. When, however, the two aggressors had advanced to catch it, it had taken off, flying rather haphazardly among the other players and ending up perched on the fine, flowing tresses of Marchesa Grescenzi who exploded into screams of pain and panic. When at last the bird let go of her, the whole group took aim at it with arquebuses and crossbows. The poor creature, being wounded in one wing, could not gain height. When at last it landed on the ground, it was ingloriously finished off with a shovel.
The third incident was not the fruit of an excess of audacity, as in the case of Prince Vaini, but of total incompetence. Marchese Scipione Lancelotti Ginetti, who was notorious for his lack of wit, and even more so for his short-sightedness, shot a bolt from his crossbow at what he believed to be a bird perched on the topmost branch of a tall pine. The bolt struck a bough, causing it to shake violently. Out of the branches fell a whitish sphere which shattered on the ground.
'An egg,' exclaimed the first.
'One does not shoot at nests, it is both pointless and cruel,' exclaimed the other, turning to Marchese Lancelotti Ginetti.
Others gathered, all keen to stress the Marchese's error, at a time when the latter was pulling strings to be appointed Colonel of the Roman People (an ancient and noble office of the city's communal institutions), while many nourished the hope that he would fail in this. Moreover, any pretext was good for distracting attention from the hunt, which was yielding such meagre results. The Marchese tried to disculpate himself, claiming that he had been shooting at a big bird, while everyone was trying to hide their laughter, knowing full well that Lancellotti Ginetti could not see a yard beyond his own nose.
With their noses pointing skyward, many guests — all claiming themselves to be expert hunters — tried to understand to which bird the egg that had fallen to the ground might belong.
