the boarding houses owned by relatives of the pontiff or high prelates.
Then there were the most embarrassing episodes, such as those when pilgrims, arriving exhausted at the gates of Rome, were seized by bands of slave-traders who, after beating all the stuffing out of them, forced them to work in the fields and released them, humiliated and extenuated by hard labour, only after many months.
Yet the Faith, indifferent to such passing inconveniences, had for centuries continued to draw glorious hosts of believers to the Holy City, and with them, huge sums of money: I knew that, among the most ancient examples, there had at the Jubilee of 1350 been one million two hundred thousand pilgrims during Lent and at Easter, and eight hundred thousand at Whitsuntide; in 1450, the Apostolic Chamber had taken one hundred thousand florins (and celebrated by converting no fewer than forty Jews and a rabbi). Finally, in 1650, only half a century before the Jubilee now being celebrated, there had been no fewer than seven hundred thousand pilgrims. Great feasting and booty was had by all: the cobblers who resoled the Romei's boots, the innkeepers who fed them, the water-sellers who sated their thirst; and by the traders who had something to offer them: rosaries, holy images, stools to sit on, medicinal herbs, wine, prayer books, bread, clothing, hats, the authentic relics of saints, pens and paper, gazettes, guides to Rome and whatever could be bought and sold.
According to the wish of Boniface VIII, one hundred years should pass between one Jubilee and the next. Such an interval of one century was a warning to all sinners that one could not and should not abuse the patience of the Most High. However, seeing the success of the initiative, and its not unwelcome economic effects, the solemn interval of one hundred years was at once reduced to a half-century by Pope Clement VI who in fact announced the next recurrence in 1350 (without himself celebrating it in person, since he was then in Avignon, which was at that time the seat of the papacy, while Rome was soiled with bloodshed in internecine warfare between noble families, exhausted by the plague and perturbed by the dark misdeeds of the lawless plebeian Cola di Rienzo).
Boniface IX later shortened the interval to forty years and proclaimed a new Jubilee in 1390, and then another barely ten years later in 1400. Martin V celebrated one in 1423, while Nicholas V even went so far as to proclaim two consecutive ones in 1450 and 1451.
The next popes were more orderly, increasing the interval between one Jubilee and the next to 25 years: Sixtus IV held one in 1475, Alexander VI in 1500 and Clement VII in 1525. There then followed yet another intense acceleration: both Paul III and Julius III celebrated three Jubilees in four years.
The pace grew more and more breathless: Pius IV celebrated no fewer than four Holy Years during his pontificate (including two in the same year) while Clement VIII proclaimed three. Paul V marked up six, at an inexorable rate: 1605, 1608, 1609, 1610, 1617 and 1619. All of which was as nothing compared with the performance of Urban VIII who, in twenty years decreed no fewer than twelve of them.
Seeing their signal success, the popes who followed did not feel like changing course: Innocent X fitted five Jubilees into ten years, Alexander VII another five into nine years, while Clement IX even managed to compress four Holy Years into two years.
Coming to more recent popes, while it is true that Alexander VIII and Innocent XI proclaimed only two and one Holy Years respectively, Clement X had three, in quick succession (in 1670, 1672 and 1675) and even the present Holy Father, Innocent XII, could not restrain himself from celebrating four in eight years.
It is quite true that these extraordinary celebrations did not always draw great masses of pilgrims to Rome. It is also true, moreover, that the intervals, initially subject to the severe hundred-year cycle, had in the course of time become subject to steadily more and more contingent motivations, which often ran the risk of perplexing posterity, and sometimes even contemporaries.
Some extraordinary Jubilees came to be granted on a limited basis to certain nations or groups (Peru, Armenia, India, the Maronites of Lebanon, the Christians of the Aethiopic Empire) who, in the community of the faithful, especially the Italians and Europeans, did not perhaps always evoke sentiments of immediate, universal, overwhelming fraternity.
The Council of Trent, the struggle against heresy, the ransoming of prisoners in the hands of Mahometans, the peace between France and Spain, or else, fairly frequently, the enthronement of a new pope, provided other occasions (obviously called pretexts by the malign), which did not always have a character of absolute urgency and gravity.
It was striking that no fewer than nine times the proclamation of a Holy Year had been determined by the needs of the Church, or rather of its coffers, and for that very reason, Urban VIII (subsequently accused of gravely dissipating the money of the Apostolic Chamber) had proclaimed four Holy Years in 1628, 1629, 1631 and 1634.
And if many Holy Years had been granted to the faithful against the Mahometan menace, which was ever lively in the Orient, it was more difficult to understand what stringent necessity had in 1560 induced Pope Pius IV to choose as the reason for opening the Extraordinary Holy Year, the raids of a certain pirate named Dragut.
Be that as it may, in exactly four centuries, from the first Jubilee in 1300 until that opened by His Holiness Pope Innocent XII in 1700, there should, according to the original plans of Pope Boniface VIII, have been five Jubilees. The total had, however, reached thirty-nine.
So I wondered with anguish and doubt, coming to the end of my reflections, whether such a cavalier attitude did not risk weakening in the sight of the Most High, or even rendering vain, the power of the supplicants' prayers. This doubt was reinforced by the consideration that the Jubilee attracted dishonest persons and gave occasion for so many sad occurrences (theft, cheating, rapine) like that which I had just witnessed.
But such pressing questionings had at last to make way for sleep. I had reached home. I promised myself that I would later ask for the guidance of Don Tibaldutio Lucidi, the chaplain of Villa Spada.
Cloridia, as I expected, was not there. She had certainly stayed behind at the Villa Spada to watch over the confinement of the Princess of Forano. Just as well: I'd have died rather than let her see me in that horrible stinking state. The first thing I did was to fill the bathtub and to immerse myself entirely in it, in an endeavour to rid myself of the pestilential odour of which I had become the carrier. While I rinsed my head with bucketful upon bucketful of water, I shivered more from the memory of the perils which I had faced than the icy and unpleasant ablution. By the time I had dried myself, it was already full daylight. The diurnal luminary shone splendid and implacable, awakening the senses and inviting mortals to action.
Indifferent to that radiant call, I dragged myself to my bed, worn out, and already halfway between waking and sleep I prayed to thank the Blessed Virgin for having saved my life.
My hands were still joined when I saw the note. The handwriting was somewhat tremulous, but determined. It was easy to guess the author:
All night up waiting. I expect your report.
I dedicated one last irate thought to Abbot Melani. Because of him I had almost lost my life — and for nothing. Did he want my news? He would have it in good time, no sooner.
I slept for over two hours: not enough to recover all my strength, but sufficient at least to be able to walk, think and talk.
I was almost thinking of staying at home waiting for someone to come and summon me, caring not for the wrath of Don Paschatio or that of Abbot Melani. Suddenly, like a blow from a whip on my naked back, a memory caused me to wake up with a jump: it was the great day, the wedding day of Cardinal Spada's nephew!
On my arrival at the villa, I found the air dense with euphoric frenzy. Not only workmen, porters, lackeys and scullions were moving busily along the drives, through the kitchen gardens and among the rooms of the great house. Today, there was also a gay and colourful troop of artists who would be bringing joy to the hours following the nuptial banquet: the musicians of the orchestra.
I at once requested tidings of Cloridia. I interrogated more than one servant, but was told that she was still confined to the apartments of the Princess of Forano, nor had she ever left there during the night. Well, I thought, if she was so busy, she would have had no time to worry about the author of these notes.
I then made my way to the little wood and continued to the chapel in which that afternoon the august nuptials were to be celebrated between Clemente Spada, nephew of His Eminence
Cardinal Fabrizio, and Maria Pulcheria, niece of Cardinal Bernardino Rocci.
Among the servants of Villa Spada, all were exceedingly curious to see the bride. Of her, we knew only that she was no great beauty. Surely, the preparations were worthy to provide a setting for the nuptials of Venus. The sacristy and the little wall running around the chapel had been exquisitely ornamented with arrangements of the freshest flowers in terracotta vases and wicker cornucopias, set about with garlands of fresh cut blooms and baskets garnished with lemons, apples, golden apples of the New World (or tomates, which nature has created
