all the difficulties, hazards and madcap schemes planned by Atto but executed by myself.
At first, she would be overcome by pity: she would embrace me and cover me with kisses at the thought of all that I had risked. Soon, however, her invincible lucidity would get the better of her; she would hear me out with her eyes bulging from their sockets and her hair standing up on her head like some new Gorgon, commenting with growing scorn on my account of what I had done. Finally, holding back her deadly anger, she would call me irresponsible, a bad husband and father, a beast and a megalomaniac and, what was worse, an idiot. True, the future of our little daughters was at stake, and I had agreed to a lavish recompense for my services; but for death there can be no recompense.
While I received this dressing-down from Cloridia, our two daughters would nod in agreement with severe expressions on their little faces, before laughing behind my back. Perhaps my spouse would even banish me for a few days from the family home, to save herself from the temptation of hitting me over the head with a ladle or striking me with one of her massive and dangerous obstetrical instruments.
The risk was there, nor was there any use denying it; but if the venture were to succeed, I could claim a bonus from Atto, and a big one too. Now, however, it was premature to think of all that. We must place our trust in Sfasciamonti's massive shoulders and in the merciful hands of the Saviour, whom I implored to watch over me and keep me from harm.
Ugonio the corpisantaro had said that until Thursday the treatise would be kept in the Sacred Ball. Don Tibaldutio had added that the cerretani were said to have a friend at Saint Peter's. The information from Sfasciamonti completed the picture, giving a name to the friend of the ragged scoundrels.
Nicola Zabaglia was a member of the venerable factory of
Saint Peter's, the centuries old institution that looked after the construction, maintenance and restoration of the basilica built over the tomb of the first Pope. He even enjoyed a position of some eminence, being regarded as a genius in the construction of machines for the transport of large objects (stones, columns, etcetera) and he had been appointed director of the school for future members of the factory, who were known as sampietrini.
Only the sampietrini had access to the most secret places of the basilica: from the mysterious crypts (where Peter's tomb lies) to the aery pinnacles of the cupola.
All this had suggested to Atto where we should find his treatise on the Secrets of the Conclave. The problem was only how to get there, especially at that hour.
The way from the villa to Saint Peter's, skirting the northern slopes of the Janiculum Hill, was rapid and free from difficulties. After crossing the crowded streets of the suburbs approaching the piazza, we slipped under the great colonnade with its two mirrored semicircles, decorated with no fewer than one hundred and forty statues of saints, which extends around the great Saint Peter's Square in a faithful image of the merciful arms of Mother Church, offering shelter and consolation to her beloved children.
The square was constantly watched over by guards and it was obvious that, sooner or later, we must encounter them, ideally as late as possible. We therefore penetrated the great complex of the basilica through an arch on the far right of the facade, leaving to our left the great entrance portico and the adjoining Door of Death. We then passed through a small courtyard which led through a narrow corridor open to the sky to yet another little courtyard under the north face of the sacred edifice, next to the Vatican gardens.
Thence, through a great door, we passed through the sacred walls of the basilica. We found ourselves in a small, dark vestibule. To our right was a wide spiral staircase. At the foot of this, we were, however, stopped by a guard. Fortunately, Sfasciamonti knew what to do. With easy, brisk explanations he confused our interrogator, using the banal pretext that he was looking for one of the sampietrini, which was, after all, almost the truth (as it was Zabaglia's name that had brought us there). We passed the guard nonchalantly and disappeared rapidly up the stairs.
Thus, we climbed the great spiral. The curving vault of the rising shaft was dimly lit by torches and punctuated by great windows behind robust iron grilles. We advanced cautiously, almost clinging to the fine balustrade. Every now and then there would be little doorways leading from the outer wall of the staircase with inscriptions above them that remained obscure to us, such as 'First Corridor', 'Second Corridor', 'Octaves of St Basil and St Jerome', presumably leading to passages used by the sampietrini to gain access to the most secret anfractuosities of the enormous construction.
A few minutes later, we encountered another individual, who in turn asked what we were doing there at that hour. This time, Sfasciamonti made use of his sergeant's title, making it clearly understood that he was under no obligation to say a thing. The other nodded and did nothing to oppose our passage. We could breathe again.
After no little climbing, already panting from fatigue and anxiety, we came to a long level corridor, then a short spiral staircase. This we climbed.
At the end of this came the surprise. These stairs had brought us to a terrace, indeed to the one real terrace in Saint Peter's: the great flat area behind the statues of the Redeemer and the Twelve Apostles which dominate and embellish the facade. Before us, we found a colossus: the great drum and then the monumental ogive of the cupola.
I looked behind me. We had emerged onto the terrace from a cupola with an octagonal base, which seemed minuscule beside its great companion. Since the plan of the basilica is that of a great cross, the terrace covered the surface of the longer arm from the end all the way up to the point of intersection with the shorter arm. The space was punctuated by cupolas terminating in the great lanterns which give light to the side chapels, and was divided in the middle by a long shed with a sloping roof.
Above our heads, night spread its dark veil. The moon gave only the vaguest of glimmers from a fine crescent; just enough, I thought, to distinguish the colossal outline of the basilica and to instil a true fear of God, so that, whatever might happen, our visit would not be in vain. But while these thoughts were crossing my mind, events took the turn I most feared.
'There they are,' we heard clearly pronounced in the dark. I knew at once: the second guard we had met had not trusted us. Someone had been sent to intercept us.
I could distinguish a small group of persons, at least two and not more than four advancing from the end of the terrace giving onto the square, where the statue of Our Lord turns his holy face towards the multitudes of the faithful.
'What shall we do?' I asked Buvat.
'I could try to persuade them by throwing them a coin,' said Sfasciamonti, 'even if I don't really think that…'
But I already lacked the ears to hear and the patience to wait. I had made my own calculations. If I was quick enough, I had a good chance of making it.
'Eh, boy, look here…' I heard Sfasciamonti say as I ran like mad and took a stairway with two separate flights which climbed up the outside of the drum of the cupola and led to an entrance.
Then there were no more words: to my rapid footfalls responded those of Buvat and Sfasciamonti and those of the surprised and angry people on our heels.
'Dear Cloridia,' I murmured with my voice broken by breathlessness, 'when I tell you of this, I hope you'll forgive me.'
The disadvantage was our scant, indeed non-existent knowledge of the place. The advantage was surprise, and the head start that had given me. My small stature seemed, on the face of it, to be a drawback, but I was later to find that, all in all, this was not the case.
I was running at breakneck speed, but with the secret (unreasonable) hope that I was not taking excessive risks: the worst thing that could happen to me would be to end up being caught by the guards of Saint Peter's, but I could always attribute the whole thing to audacity. I was stealing nothing, I was damaging nothing. To avoid trouble with the law, Sfasciamonti would make use of his many acquaintances, and Buvat would be able to get help from Atto who could get me out of trouble through his wide network of influential connections: all silly ideas mechanically repeated, only to urge me on.
Once I had entered the drum, another spiral staircase took me even higher. 1 could hear Sfasciamonti's wild footsteps closer and closer behind me, and behind him, those of Buvat and the guards. No one spoke: our lungs were for running, the guards' for pursuit.
At the top of the spiral staircase, I found myself at a junction; I chose at random and went to the left. I crossed a threshold with no door and suddenly found myself suspended above infinity.
I was inside the cupola, facing a chasm of incalculable immensity. A corridor ringing the vast drum stretched
