stables, until the Emperor Augustus took him from there. And that was because the Emperor loved him, precisely for his virtues as a great rogue. Cicero was a canter; he always loved the canters and hated all forms of gentility and all things high class. Mucius Scevola was a baker and he never put his hand heroically into the fire to save Rome, as they tell you now. He was branded on the palm of the hand by the judges because, during the siege of the city, he mixed bean flour in with wheat flour to make his loaves weigh more. Marcus Marcellus was a lousy butcher, and Scipio, the one who killed him and took over from him, was a poultry farmer.'
'What an erudite speech,' commented Atto sarcastically. 'Worthy of a real ruined gentleman. 'Tis no surprise he's a Mumper.'
The words of the new Maggiorengo-General did indeed suggest that he had known better times. Meanwhile, he continued:
'And what of the great families? The Fabi sold beans, the Lentuli sold lentils, the Pisoni, peas; and the Papinii take their name from the candlewicks they sell on the market. Even Caesar, for as long as he stayed a canter like his peers, was feared and revered. But when he abandoned that way of life to become a tyrant and command all the others, they killed him like a dog. Augustus, born to a baker from Velletri, as the prophet Virgil was to tell him, followed the holy Way of the Canters, and the humbler he was and the better a companion, the higher he rose. His stepson was Tiberius, and as long as he followed in his stepfather's footsteps, all went well for him, because he who holds to the Way will be successful in all he undertakes and cannot possibly end up badly. However, he who despises and departs from it will become a vicious ingrate, bizarre and odious in everyone's eyes, and after his death he will fall into the greater hell!'
New rounds of applause arose, whistles, some raspberries and a belch. I saw Atto stand on tiptoe to scan the hellish horde of cerretani.
'It is time,' said he to Buvat as the turmoil of acclamations continued to rage. 'Take care not to be seen, or we're done for.'
The secretary moved off towards the middle of the amphitheatre which, as I had seen, was full of old firewood and other rubbish and happened at that moment to be almost deserted, since almost all those present at the meeting had gradually gathered around the dais where the new Maggiorengo-General sat. It seemed to me that there was a kind of bulge under Buvat's cassock and I remembered that I had noticed something of the sort under his usual tail coat when we sat in the carriage.
'Caligula was more of a scoundrel than a canter,' the Maggiorengo continued undaunted, 'and that was his ruination. Nero was the great canter whose renown we all know, but as he was above all a glutton, he's not of much interest to us. Needless to say, all those other great emperors, the Tituses, the Vespasians, the Ottos, the Trajans, right down to our own day, were born and lived as canters. And the better they were at canting, the more dignified and valiant they were as emperors. He who is not, has not been and will not be a canter will never enjoy power, wealth or dignity. One cannot be virtuous nor can one excel in any science unless one follow the Way of the Canters. It is holy, because in it there is faith, love and charity; it is divine because it renders men immortal; it is blessed because it makes men rich and powerful. From the Way, all pleasures derive, all consolations and all amusements, right down to games like tarot and piastrelle. Remember! The real canter is loved, revered, courted, and desired by all, even if they don't all want to show it. Let everyone therefore embrace the Way of the Canters, place their trust in it and make it their capital. Let everyone exercise and refine how he does his canting, as does the rascal Lucazzo who's sprawling here just next to me, who cheats, steals and begs with the same art as the Cavalier Bernini designed his statues. Through the Way of the Canter, each of us can become a poet, an orator, a philosopher and, in principle, a gentleman, even a king or an emperor. Long live the canters! And you will see that destiny will soon send us a sign of its favours!'
'Don't worry, I'll send you that now,' said Atto, as a deafening burst of cries, clapping and whistles greeted the conclusion of the speech.
'What's Buvat gone off to do?' I asked in a whisper.
'Telemachus.'
Too late I understood what was about to happen; and that was just as well. The suspense of waiting might have been too much for me.
It all happened in a matter of moments. First came a terrifying explosion, almost like the rumble of an earthquake. I glanced at Ugonio, who was still perched on the platform, and our gazes met somewhere above the multitude of the cerretani, all excited by the speech which had just ended, then suddenly paralysed. Then came another, even more tremendous deflagration.
The noisome greyish mass of the cerretani spilled out in all possible directions, some jumping in the air for shock, some throwing themselves to the ground, the others scattering to the four winds.
Came the third explosion, which prevented the sordid mob from recovering their senses. This time, however, as well as the thunderous bang, there opened above our heads a marvellous purple flower, illuminating the cerretano horde, quite unworthy of such dazzling beauty, with great flashes of carmine and vermilion. The reddish globes which had multiplied in flight above the amphitheatre opened up into as many luminous corollas which descended gently to the ground, at last forlornly dying.
The name of the first two infernal machines said it all: Earthquake.
Before leaving, Atto had sent Buvat to Don Paschatio to ask whether any fireworks remained from the evening before. He had been far-sighted. Buvat had got the Major-Domo to explain to him in detail how to light the fireworks (fortunately, there was no lack of fire at the meeting of the cerretani) and how to handle them before use: no dampness, no excessive movement, and keep them upright at all times (as I had heard Don Paschatio say when we were on the point of leaving). Usually, the Earthquake is used to bring the pyrotechnical display to a triumphant close, by which time the ears are accustomed to the thundering noise of explosions. Buvat, however, had shattered the eardrums of the gathering, taking them by complete surprise, and the shock was redoubled by the funnel shape of the amphitheatre. After the two Earthquakes, Buvat had set off a real multicoloured firework.
Abbot Melani's technique, as he himself had just announced to me, had been that of Telemachus, the son of Ulysses who — according to what Albicastro had reminded us of the day before — had feigned madness before the assembly of his mother's suitors and thus had delivered them helpless and unprepared into his father's vengeful hand.
Atto's calculations had proved completely accurate. The cerretani were behaving just like the suitors of Homeric lore: despite the confusion, no one had come down from the dais, neither the Maggiorengo-General, nor his two colleagues, nor Drehmannius, the Dutch bookbinder. Faced with the fireworks, they were plainly unsure whether this was a joke, a pleasant surprise spectacle or a threat. Ugonio obviously was by their side and he was as rapid as he was precise. When the red rocket rose in the sky, followed by all the noses in the amphitheatre, the corpisantaro's clawed hands were already deep in the bookbinder's bag, removing his book and replacing it with the one which Melani had handed him in the carriage. The two small volumes were identical: it can not have been difficult for Atto and Buvat to find another book of similar dimensions with an unmarked vellum cover, just like the one which the Abbot had commissioned poor Haver to make for his treatise.
'Use one Dutchman to hunt the other,' Abbot Melani had said enigmatically not long before. Now I understood: thanks to the words of Albicastro, we had taken the treatise on the Secrets of the Conclave from Dremannius's bag.
In the festive but still somewhat stunned crowd of th e cerretani, everyone was asking his neighbour who had had the fine idea of setting off fireworks.
'Let's go, Signor Atto.'
'We can't yet. We must wait until… Buvat! There you are, damn it! Let's get out of here.'
'What about Ugonio?' I asked.
I looked at the platform. The corpisantaro had turned his back on us. The message could not have been clearer. We must leave the amphitheatre on our own; he would take another route.
We hastened towards the secret door.
'Not like that, not like that,' whispered Atto. 'Look at me.'
Instead of turning his head in the opposite direction from the crowd, Abbot Melani was walking backwards, with his face directed towards the platform, so as to merge in with all those around us.
Too late. The half-naked cerretano who had been keeping an eye on us had seen me and Buvat and was now trying to point out our position to a pair of ugly great brutes. The two stared intensely into the teeming multitude in
