recounted, when he realised (but no one had forewarned him) that the pro-imperial party in the city was very weak indeed, while the French had it all their own way and obtained from the Pope whatever they wanted.
'Really?' I exclaimed in surprise.
'He even told me that he was unable to obtain an audience with the Pope, while Uzeda and the other ambassadors come and go freely every day in the Vatican.'
In other words, the long-awaited meeting with the man suspected of being behind the wounding of Atto and perhaps even the assault which had brought about the death of the bookbinder Haver, had turned out to be nothing but a litany of whining and complaints. In the end, Lamberg had approached Atto, putting him on his guard against the malign forces which were abroad in the city and inviting him especially to beware of the Sacred College of Cardinals, that nest of every vice and iniquity.
'I expected to find here the government of the just, but I was all too soon forced to change my mind,' said he in lugubrious tones. 'What counts in Rome are reasons of state and in the pontifical court worldly affairs are handled with no respect for reason or rights, not even for the law. Religion counts for absolutely nothing!'
'I seemed to be hearing the music of that compatriot of theirs — what is he called? Ah yes, Muffat. A symphony so grave, so slow and severe as to be positively mournful,' said the Abbot with perplexity written all over his face.
Faced with this outburst, Atto, once more sure of himself, had retorted: 'But what did you expect to find in these parts, Signor Ambassador? This is the city of deceit, dissimulation and eternal postponements, and of promises never kept. The Pope's ministers are past masters at spinning illusion, saying but not saying, intriguing, attacking from under cover.'
The Abbot had continued freely to list the iniquities of the court of Rome, while Lamberg nodded disconsolately; until the Ambassador, perhaps because of another visit, sent him warmly on his way, honouring him with a sincere handshake.
Sincere? Once in the street with Buvat, Atto had regretted allowing himself to be dismissed so soon. He realised that Lam- berg's behaviour bordered on the improbable. What if it had all been put on? If it had been he (as really had appeared to be the case until that moment) who had woven the thread of the assault on the Abbot and the theft of his treatise on the Secrets of the Conclave, then he must be malign and subtle indeed. If that were so, would he not be able even to act the part of the fool? The emotions displayed by the Ambassador had, however, been so violent and unexpected that anyone would have been caught out.
'In other words,' I commented, 'we are back where we started.'
'Alas, yes. This Lamberg is either a soul whose true vocation was to be found in the peace of an Austrian cloister, or else he is a consummate actor.'
'If I have understood, he got you to speak at length about the court of Rome while he himself told you little of any use.'
'What do you think? Of course, I told him only what is generally known, nothing of any importance. Do you take me for a novice?' Melani retorted, somewhat piqued.
'I am not for one moment doubting your word, Signor Atto; however if Lamberg really put on a show for you but you were not pretending with him…'
'What of it?' he asked nervously.
'Then he knows your nature but you don't know his.'
'Yes, but I do not think that… Buvat, what is this all about?'
Atto's secretary had arrived all out of breath. This was clearly an emergency.
'Sfasciamonti had caught the second cerretano, the friend of Il Roscio.'
'Is that II Marcio, the one we followed at the Baths of Diocletian, but who got away?'
'The very man. It was sheer luck: he made a false move. He was begging in church, in Saint Peter's itself. Seeing the protection enjoyed by the cerretani, he must have thought he could get away with it. Instead, Sfasciamonti was around and he caught him. He has already interrogated him using the same methods as last time: real prison, false notary. He enlisted the help of a couple of colleagues.'
'Those are people who do nothing out of friendship,' commented Atto. 'I think I shall have to shell out another large tip… So, what did the cerretano say?'
'Sfasciamonti is waiting to tell us all about it.'
'Let us make haste, then,' Atto exhorted me, as I resigned myself to doing without Cloridia's company for the rest of the evening.
The catchpoll was hiding behind the toolshed in the garden. He was in a state of agitation and one could not blame him for that. It was the second time in a few days that he had laid hands on a cerretano and, if the sect were really that powerful, he was risking his skin. As he talked, he panted with excitement, as after a long run.
'They are holding it tonight, by all the daggers.'
'Holding what?'
'They're meeting tonight for the new Maggiorengo-General. The leader of the scoundrels. They all get together, even those who come from far afield, to appoint the successor.'
'And where?'
'At Albano.'
'Can you repeat that?'
'At Albano.'
I saw Atto Melani lower his eyelids, as though he had just heard a friend had died, almost as though he had been told that the Most Christian King had ordered him never again to set foot in France.
'It simply is not possible… Albano, a stone's throw from Rome
…' I heard him gasp. 'How could I not have thought of that?'
Albano. And not Albani. When Ugonio told us that the cerretani intended to bring Atto's papers ad Albanum, we thought that they meant to hand them over to Cardinal Albani. Instead the old tomb robber meant that they were to be taken to Albano, the little town near the lake of the same name, which has been a well-known holiday resort since the days of Cicero.
I saw Atto's face relax a little. At least there was no danger of Cardinal Albani covering him with infamy, as he had feared.
There remained the unknown factor of Lamberg, and the Grand Legator: why should the cerretani have to go to Albano to deliver the treatise on the Secrets of the Conclave to him?
'What will they do with my manuscript at Albano?'
'The vagabond knows nothing of that.'
'What else did he say?'
'Besides electing the Maggiorengo-General, the cerretani have to change their way of speaking. But there's a problem. The new secret language appears to have been stolen.'
'But by whom?'
'The ragamuffin does not know. If you want, I can read the record of his interrogation to you. As I did with II Roscio, I changed a few dates and names, you know, in order not to run any risks; but the rest is exactly as I said.'
'Not now. While we are on the road.'
'While we are on the road?' I asked, without grasping what he meant by that.
Geronimo. That was the real name of II Marcio, the cerretano caught by Sfasciamonti. Now we had his words under our eyes, lit by the tremulous flame of a lantern, written in a tiny no-nonsense handwriting of which one could with a little intuition sense that it lent itself readily to lies: the hand of some catchpoll in the habit of falsifying, distorting or cutting statements. As we had been told, the date of the interrogation had been altered for safety, as had already been done with that of II Roscio. Sfasciamonti had back-dated it by more than a century so as to be able to place it in the Governor's archives while making sure that it passed unobserved. So this second record of proceedings was dated 18 March 1595, as ever at the prison of Ponte Sisto.
It was not easy to read. Despite its being summer, the road to Albano was full of potholes and the bumps followed one another without a break. The carriage (despite the fact that it was an excellent vehicle, hired at the last moment at an astronomical cost) shook and jumped because of the road, swinging and sometimes tilting dangerously from side to side; but it kept moving. Atto, who sat to my left, had devoured Geronimo's statement. Now he sat there, silent and deep in thought, with his unmoving gaze fixed on the landscape, as though he were
