in which the city of St Peter renews its rites each day, the festive chaos of the morning was turning into a spectacle: the fluttering black of an apostolic pronotary's gown set off the green of lettuces, a cleric's dark cloak strove to upstage the orange of fresh carrots, the perplexed eyes of dead fish scrutinised the eternal human comedy from fishmongers' counters.
I was near Via Giulia, immersed in this disorderly stream of humanity, goods and vehicles, when I came upon an even denser assembly. I made my way as well as I could, more concerned to get through than to look at what was going on. In the end, however, I found my progress blocked and tiptoed to see what this was all about. At the centre of the crowd stood a sinister figure, his long hair gathered into a ponytail, and, on his bare breast, a large bluish sign in the form of a viper. But it was around his neck that there squirmed, slimy and treacherous, a real serpent. The public observed its contortions, at once fascinated and frightened. The young man began to whine a sort of dirge; the coluber twisted rhythmically, following the intonation and rhythm of the chant and arousing the audience's amazement. Now and again, the mummer would stop and in a low voice utter some arcane formula which had the power to halt the reptile's contortions; the animal would freeze suddenly, tense and rigid, and would come back to life only when the chant began again. Suddenly, the young man seized the creature's head and thrust a finger into its jaws, which closed on it at once. He withstood the pain a few moments then withdrew his finger. He then began to distribute a few little jars filled with a reddish ointment, explaining that this was serpent's earth, the most perfect of antidotes which, if one is bitten by a snake, counteracts the venom so that one suffers no pain whatever. The nearby onlookers threw small coins in large quantities into the straw hat at the fellow's feet.
I looked questioningly at my neighbour, a lad who was grasping a large bread-making mould.
'He's a sanpaolaro' said he.
'And what does that mean?'
'Saint Paul one day bestowed grace on a certain family, promising them that none of their members and descendants would ever need fear a serpent's venom. In order to be distinguished from others, the descendants of that family are all born with the sign of a serpent on their body and are known as sanpaolari.'
Behind our backs, an old man interrupted.
'All balderdash! They catch the snakes in winter when they've little strength and almost no venom. Then they purge them and keep them on a starvation diet, so that they become soft and obedient.'
In the group pressing around the sanpaolaro the old man's words had been clearly overheard; some heads turned.
'I know all these tricks,' the old man continued. 'The sign of the serpent is made by pricking oneself in several places with a very fine needle, then rubbing on one's skin a paste made of soot and the juice of herbs.'
Other heads, distracted from the spectacle, turned towards the old man. But just at that moment, a cry went up.
'My purse! I have it no more! They've cut it!'
A little woman who until that moment had been staring at the spectacle of the sanpaolaro almost as though she had been hypnotised, was expostulating desperately. Someone had cut the string which she wore around her neck and had made off with her purse and all her money for the day. The group of spectators turned into an uncontrollable magma, in which everyone twisted around to make sure that nothing was missing (purses, necklaces, brooches).
'There, I knew it,' said the old man, guffawing, 'the sanpaolaro's friend found what he wanted.'
I turned towards the man who until that moment had been drawing all our attention. Taking advantage of the general confusion, the sanpaolaro (if he merited the name) had vanished.
'With his accomplice, of course,' added the old man.
Resuming my walk, my humour had darkened. I too had not realised that the serpent was only a means of attracting a few unsuspecting victims while an accomplice of the sanpaolaro looked after the business of relieving them of their money. Two real virtuosi of the art of theft, thought I: as soon as things became uncomfortable, they had vanished like snow in the sunshine. And what if they too were cerretani. Sfasciamonti had said that every cerretano was a beggar and that begging was the most profitable trade in the world. Did he perhaps also mean that every beggar, rogue or vagrant was also a cerretano? If that were the case, the prospect would be terrifying: without realising it I had been offering alms to an army of criminals who held the city under their control.
I abandoned these notions, which seemed too fanciful, and my thoughts returned to my fall and the horrible death which I had just faced. What had saved my life? The prayer of the pilgrims in procession or the cart full of manure? The dung had undoubtedly been the immediate cause of my salvation. Was I then indebted to good fortune? And yet, I had opened my eyes to the passing of the pious procession of pilgrims, to whose chants I had miraculously reawakened. Had I thus been touched by grace through the merit of the innocent vows of love and charity of that cortege of the faithful come from afar?
But how effective were those vows? In the pilgrims' intentions these were certainly innocent and full of ardour, I thought. But, I murmured to myself as I passed a squalid and most costly lodging house for pilgrims which I knew to be the property of a cardinal — there was also something else beyond those prayers that was perhaps less innocent and pure: the very organisation of the Jubilee.
Of course, I well knew (and it was universally known) that Pope Boniface VIII had, in the year 1300, inaugurated the solemn recurrence of the Holy Year with the best of intentions. Drawing inspiration from the noble custom of the pontiffs of ancient times, who every hundred years granted the faithful full and complete remission of their sins, provided that they visited the Basilica of St Peter in the Vatican, Pope Boniface VIII had officially instituted the Jubilee Year in the full and proper sense, adding to past practice only the obligation to visit the Basilica of St Paul, and setting aside certain days for the visits of the faithful.
The news had spread like lightning throughout Christendom and had touched the hearts of the faithful everywhere, as though the very trumpeting angels of paradise had been at work. Its success had been immense. Swarms of Romei, or pilgrims, had in that year 1300 come to the Holy City from all the world over, descending from the valleys of the Apennines, crossing valleys and ravines, crags and gullies, peaks and high plateaux, towns and villages, rivers, seas and far-away coasts, bringing with them, both for the purposes of the journey and those of the sojourn in Rome, purses well filled with money: and this the popes, and with them all the Romans, found most welcome.
To make the great journey, the Romei had often sacrificed their most precious goods: peasants had abandoned their fields, merchants had neglected their business, shepherds had sold their flocks, and fishermen, their boats. This was not, however, to pay for the journey (which was made entirely on foot, like every good pilgrimage springing from a lively and uncontaminated faith) but rather to be able to procure for oneself a place to lay one's head in Rome, where such things cost a veritable fortune. There was no thought of sleeping in the open: if one did not fall a prey to cut- purses and cutthroats, the Pontifical Guards did what they could to dissuade the less fortunate pilgrims. Indeed, why sleep in the streets when the popes themselves had organised an immense number of lodgings for the pilgrims? Confraternities and pious hospices did their very best; but beds were always scarce. At the Jubilee of 1650, it was said that even the Pope's sister-in-law, the powerful and notorious Donna Olimpia, had purchased lodgings and inns to take advantage of the arrival of the pilgrims. But in truth all the Romans enjoyed the benefits of the holy event. Aware of their responsibilities as hosts, they had turned innkeeper overnight, knowing full well that the regular inns and the religious hostels would never suffice to accommodate the influx of pilgrims. When the poor travellers, exhausted by the fatigues of the journey, came to the door of the inhabitants of the Holy City (as Buccio di Ranallo tells it so well) they were then greeted with angelic smiles, kindness and mercy without end. Once, however, they had entered their chambers, the music changed and those angels turned into ravening dogs: the guests were piled up ten to a room (which sufficed for three or four at most), the sheets were filthy, the pillows stank, manners were rough and the food, although most costly, was rubbish. One could never be rid of the suspicion that the sudden rise in the prices of foodstuffs had been caused by clever frauds, keeping supplies of commodities far from the city. The poor quality of the food was usually blamed on bad meat and cheeses which, some said (but this was never proven) were cleverly mixed with the fresh produce.
Some Romei, believing that to sleep on the hard ground was a badge of merit to be taken into account when the time came for the remission of sins, would humbly lay themselves down in the streets of Rome. In the middle of the night, they would be, however, rudely awoken by the sergeants, who first of all would give them all a sound hiding for having violated the city's decorum and the regulations for public order. Then they would say to them, 'Are you pilgrims? But how did you think to sleep like vagabonds? There's a hostel for people like you just a stone's throw from here.' And thus the unfortunates would be compelled to rent a room for an unbelievable price in one of
