arrest was against all the rules: the cerretano had committed no crimes, nor was he suspected of any. That did not matter: the time had come for certain dirty games of which, as I shall have cause to tell later, the catchpolls had long been inordinately fond.
Sfasciamonti had procured a long coat and a periwig for Buvat, who was to play the part of a criminal notary and to draw up the charges. The sergeant himself would conduct the interrogation. Atto and I, dressed up to look like officers of the court or deputies, or goodness knows what, would be assisting, feeling safe owing to the secrecy of the ceremony and the prisoner's total ignorance of the law.
There was a table in the basement room, lit by a large candle, and here sat Buvat, solemnly busying himself with paper, pen and inkhorn. In order to lend greater verisimilitude to the scene, Sfasciamonti had taken care of every detail. Next to the candle were placed severe legal tomes such as the Commentaria tertiae partis in secundum librum Decretalium of Abbas Panormitanus, Damhouder's Praxis rerum criminalium and lastly and most threateningly, De maleficiis by Alberto da Gandino. Although all the titles were unintelligible, the volumes had all been placed upright and with their spines facing the prisoner, so that these obscure inscriptions would, supposing that he could read, all imbue his soul with the idea that he was in the hands of a hostile and impenetrable power.
Before the table, next to Il Roscio, stood Sfasciamonti, holding the accused tightly by one end of the rope, while gripping his arm painfully behind his back. The prisoner was a pudgy, stock- ily built youngster, whose little blue eyes, under a rectangular forehead beset by deep horizontal furrows, a sure sign of a dissolute life lived with impunity, were set above two rotund and florid cheeks, which bespoke a coarse, ingenuous nature. Observing him at close quarters, one could understand the origin of his nickname, the Red; for his head was crowned by a thick, bristling plumage of carrot-coloured hair.
Buvat adjusted his oversized wig and, still slightly unsteady from the effects of sleep and wine, cleared his throat a couple of times. Then, he began to write, at the same time chanting aloud the formal clauses which he was consigning to paper:
' Die et cetera et cetera anno et cetera et cetera. Roma. Examinatus init in carceribus Pontis Sixtis… What is it?'
Sfasciamonti had interrupted Buvat's recording to whisper a recommendation in his ear.
'But of course, yes, yes,' replied the latter; only later did I learn that, as suggested by the catchpoll, the date of the interrogation was to be left blank, so that the whole report could be filed later under whatever date suited one's purpose.
'Very well, let us begin again,' said Buvat, resuming his writing with a stiffly dignified expression. ' Examinatus in carceribus Pontis Sixtis, coram et per me Notarium infrascriptum… Your name, young man?'
'Pompeo di Trevi.'
'Where exactly is Trevi?' Buvat asked carelessly, thus revealing his limited knowledge of the Papal State, which might have sown suspicion in the mind of the prisoner, if only the latter had not been utterly confused by fear.
'Near to Spoleto,' he replied, speaking barely louder than a whisper.
'So we write: Pompeius de Trivio, Spoletanae diocesis, aetatis annorum… How old are you?'
'Sixteen, I think.'
'Sexdicem incirca,' Buvat continued, 'Et cui delato iuramento de veritate dicenda et interrogate de nomine, patria, exercitio et causa suae carcerationis, respondit.'
Sfasciamonti shook the young man and translated the notary's words: 'Swear that you will tell the truth and then repeat your name, age and the city in which you were born.'
'I swear that I shall tell the truth. Have I not already given my name?'
'Repeat it. This is for the official record. Procedure so demands, we must needs be accurate,' pronounced the catchpoll to make the proceedings seem more realistic.
The young man looked around himself, looking somewhat stunned.
'My name is Pompeo, I was born at Trevi, near Spoleto, I may be about sixteen years of age, I have no trade and…'
'That is enough,' Sfasciamonti interrupted him, again moving to Buvat's side and whispering something in his ear.
'Ah, very well, very well,' answered Buvat.
At that point in the record, the grounds for the arrest were to be entered, but there were no such grounds. On the catchpoll's recommendation, Buvat was therefore to enter a false deposition, namely that the cerretano had been arrested for begging alms during mass.
'Come on now,' said the false notary, adjusting his spectacles on his aquiline nose. ' Interrogatus an sciat et cognoscat alios pauperes mendicantes in Urbe, et an omnes sint sub una tantum secta an vero sub diversis sectis, et recenseat omnes precise, respondit…'
'I shall go and get the whip,' said Sfasciamonti.
'The whip, what for?' said the cerretano with a slight tremor in his voice.
'You are not answering the question.'
'I did not understand it,' answered the other, who obviously did not know a word of Latin.
'He asked you whether you know other sects in Rome besides that to which you belong,' intervened Atto. 'He wants to know whether they are all united under a single leadership, and to complete matters, he expects you to provide him with a complete list of all of them.'
'But you, however, have no intention of answering,' added the catchpoll, taking a pair of keys from a bag, presumably to open up some dungeon equipped with devices to encourage reticent criminals, 'and so your back is in need of a good flogging.'
Suddenly, the boy threw himself to the ground on his knees, causing Sfasciamonti himself, who was holding him on a tight cord, to sway.
'Gentlemen, please listen,' said he in imploring tones, turning first to Buvat, then to the catchpoll. 'Among us poor mendicants there are various companies, and this is because they carry out different functions and wear different clothes. I shall tell you everything that I can remember.'
There followed a moment's silence. The boy was weeping. Abbot Melani and I were utterly amazed; the first of the mysterious cerretani ever to fall into the hands of the law was not only willing to be interrogated by a criminal notary but refused the ordeal of the scourge and was promising to tell all.
Sfasciamonti made him stand up, his expression momentarily betraying something between surprise and disappointment. Once again, his crude catchpoll's skills would not be needed here.
'Let us give him a seat,' said he with forced benevolence, clumsily putting one of his enormous arms around the shoulders of the young miscreant, who was trembling and shaking with tears and terror.
I gave him a stool and the confession began.
'The first is called the Company of the Chop-Churches. They beg for alms in crowded churches, cut purses and bags and steal all they find in them.'
I called to mind the episode with the sanpaolaro and the little woman whose purse-strings had been cut. Was that one of these Chop-Churches?
II Roscio stopped and looked at us one by one, studying on our faces the effect of these revelations which must, for him, amount to scarcely less than the desecration of a deity.
'The second is called the Company of Swooners,' he continued. 'They pretend that they're dying; they lie on the ground, screaming and groaning and begging for alms, but in reality, they're perfectly well. The third is called the Company of Clapperdogeons. They too are healthy, but slothful; they don't like to work so they pound it.'
''Slothful', I understand, but 'pound it'?'
'They go begging,' answered II Roscio; then he asked for and obtained a glass of water.
'Go on,' said Sfasciamonti.
Beggars and wastrels: was not the morning crowd whom I had for years been meeting with in the streets of Rome composed mainly of suchlike? Perhaps I had in my short life unknowingly come across far more cerretani than I realised.
'The fourth is called the Company of Brothers of the Buskin, or strolling players,' continued our hostage; 'They lie curled up on the ground, shivering as though they were dying of cold, or scabby with ring-worm, and beg. The fifth is called the Company of Blockheads: they pretend to be idiotic and brainless, they always answer beside the
