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"But who built the tunnel?"

"Look at the walls," said the abbot, bringing his lantern close to the side of the gallery. "The stone appears to be rather ancient."

"As ancient as the catacombs?"

"Perhaps. I know that in the past decades, a learned priest ex­plored the cavities to be found in several places in Rome, and dis­covered and made drawings of innumerable tombs and remains of saints and martyrs. In any case, it is certain that beneath the houses and piazzas of several quarters there are passages and galleries, some­times built by the ancient Romans, sometimes excavated in periods closer to our own.

"I have heard tell of an underground labyrinth built in Sicily by the great Emperor Frederick, the corridors of which conceal rods which, if trodden upon, release metal grates which fall from above and imprison visitors, or sharp blades which, propelled from invisible slits, are capable of wounding and killing passers-by. Other mecha­nisms suddenly open up deep wells into which those unwary of such dangers are unfailingly cast. Quite accurate plans have been drawn of some catacombs. It is said that under the ground in Naples, there also exist a surprising number of subterranean passages, but I have no experience there, whereas I have made a few visits to those in Paris, which are certainly quite extensive. I know too that in Piedmont in the last century, near to a place called Rovasenda, hundreds of peas­ants were ambushed by French soldiers who chased them into some caverns which were to be found near a river. It is said that none left those grottoes alive, neither the assailants nor the assailed."

"Signor Pellegrino never spoke to me of the existence of this passage," I whispered.

"I can believe that. It is not something to be revealed unless it is essential. And probably he himself does not know all its secrets, see­ing that he has not been in charge of this inn for very long."

"Then, how did the person who stole the keys find this passage?"

"Perhaps your good master gave in to an offer of money. Or of Muscat wine," sneered the abbot.

While we advanced, I gradually felt myself overcome by a sensa­tion of oppression in my breast and in my head. The obscure wander­ing on which we had ventured led in an unknown direction: in all likelihood, one that portended many dangers. The darkness, broken only by the oil lantern which Abbot Melani carried before him, was frightful and ominous. The walls of the gallery, because of the tortu­ous course they followed, made it impossible to look straight in front of us and caused us to foresee some disagreeable surprise with every step we took. And what if the thief had seen the light of our lantern from afar, and was waiting behind some projection to ambush us? I thought, shivering, of the perils populating the galleries of which Ab­bot Melani knew. No one would ever recover our bodies. The guests at the inn would have a hard time convincing the men-at-arms that I and the abbot had fled from the place, perhaps jumping from some window at night.

Even today, I could not say how long our exploration lasted. At the end, we noticed that the underground passage which had initially led us ever deeper, was gradually beginning to ascend.

"There," said Abbot Melani. "Perhaps we are about to emerge somewhere."

My feet hurt and the damp was beginning to sink its clutches into me. For a while we had not spoken, wanting only to see the end of that dreadful cavern. I was seized by terror when I saw the ab­bot stumble with a groan on something, almost falling, almost losing his grip on the lantern; to have lost our only source of light would have made our stay down there a nightmare. I rushed forward to sup­port him. With an expression of mixed fury and relief, the abbot cast light on the obstacle. A flight of steps led upwards, as steep as they were narrow. We climbed them almost crawling, so as not to risk fall­ing backwards. During the ascent, a series of curves forced Atto to squeeze through painfully. I, for once, was doing better. Atto looked at me: "I really envy you, my boy," he repeated amusedly, not caring that I showed how little I appreciated his joke.

We were muddied, our brow and our bodies befouled by disgusting sweat. Suddenly, the abbot screamed. A shapeless, rapid and furtive being fell upon my back, sliding clumsily down my right leg before plunging back into the darkness. I twisted my body, raising my arms in terror to protect my head, simultaneously ready to beg for mercy and blindly to defend myself.

Atto understood that the danger, if danger there had been, had lasted the space of a lightning flash. "Strange that we should not have met with any before," he commented as soon as he had re­gained his composure. "One can see that we really are off the beaten track."

An enormous river rat, disturbed by our arrival, had chosen to climb over us rather than be driven backwards. In its mad leap, it had clung to Abbot Melani's arm while he leaned against the wall, and had then fallen with all its weight onto my back, paralysing me with terror. We stopped, silent and fearful, until our breathing recov­ered its normal rhythm. We then resumed our ascent, until the steps began at intervals to be replaced by horizontal brick platforms, each one longer than the one before. Fortunately, we had a good supply of oil: contravening the repeated prohibitions issued by the College of Cardinals, I had decided also to use good edible oil.

We felt that we had reached the final stretch. By now we were walking up a gently ascending slope which made us forget the fa­tigue and the fears which we had only just traversed. We debouched suddenly in a quadrangular space which was no longer excavated but built in masonry. It looked very much like a storeroom or the cellar of a palace.

"We have returned among men," said the abbot, greeting our new surroundings.

From here, a last stairway led upwards, very steep but equipped with a rope handrail, secured to the right-hand wall by a series of iron rings. We climbed up to the top.

"Curses," hissed the abbot.

I understood at once what he meant. At the top of the stairs there was, as might be expected, a doorway. The door was quite solid, and it was closed.

Here was a good opportunity to take a rest, even in so inhospi­table a place, and to reflect upon our situation. The little door was bolted with a rusty iron bar running into the wall. From the draught we felt coming through it, there was no difficulty in guessing that it gave onto the open air.

"Now I shall say nothing. You, explain all this," invited the ab­bot.

"The door is closed from the inside. Yet..." I struggled to make my deduction, "the thief did not leave the gallery. But since we did not meet him nor did we find any junction with another gallery, the conclusion must be that he did not take the same route as our­selves."

"Very well. Then, where did he go?"

"Perhaps he did not even descend into the well behind the closet," I suggested, without for one moment believing that.

"Mmmh," grumbled Atto. "So where did he hide then?"

He went back down the stairs and turned rapidly round the store­room. In a corner, an old half-rotten boat confirmed the suspicion which I had nourished from the moment of our arrival there: we were close to the banks of the Tiber. I opened the door, not without dif­ficulty working the bolt. Illuminated by faint moonbeams, the begin­ning of a pathway was visible. Lower down, the river ran past, and I instinctively drew back from the chasm. The fresh, damp wind blew into the store-room, causing us to breathe deeply. Just outside the door, another uncertain path seemed to fork off to the right, where it vanished into the muddy riverbanks.

The abbot anticipated my thoughts: "If we flee now, they will capture us without fail."

"In other words," I moaned disconsolately, "we have come all this way for nothing."

"Quite the contrary," retorted Atto impassively. "Now we know this way out, should we ever need it. We have found no trace of the thief who, however, did not take this route. We have missed some other possibility, either through an oversight or through our inca­pacity. Let us now turn back, before someone becomes aware of our absence."

The return to the inn was as painful and twice as tiring as the out­ward journey. Deprived of the hunter's instinct that had then driven us (or so it was, at least, for Abbot Melani), we dragged ourselves forward, suffering even more from the anfractuosities of the way, although my travelling companion was unwilling to admit it.

Once we had climbed back up the first well, with great relief leaving behind us the infernal underground passage, we regained the little closet. The abbot, visibly frustrated by this fruitless expe­dition, dismissed me with a few hurried instructions for the following day.

"Tomorrow, if you wish, you may advise the other guests that someone has stolen the second copy of the keys, or at least that they have been mislaid. Of course, we shall say nothing of our discovery or of our attempt to identify the thief. As soon as we have an oppor­tunity, we shall consult together separately from the others, in the kitchen or in some other secure place, and we shall keep each other informed of any news."

I nodded lazily, because of my fatigue, but above all because of the doubts I still secretly harboured concerning Abbot Melani. During our return through the gallery, I had again changed my mind about him: I said to myself that, even if the gossip about him was excessive and malevolent, there did nevertheless remain obscure areas in his past; and so, now that the hunt for the thief had failed, I no longer in­tended to act as his servant and informer and thus to embroil myself in murky, and perhaps even perilous, affairs. And, even if it were true that Superintendent Fouquet, whose companion Melani had been, had been no more than too splendid a Maecenas, victim of the regal jealousy of Louis XIV and the envy of Colbert, it could still not be denied, I repeated to myself as we forged our tiresome way through the darkness, that here I was, in cahoots with one accustomed to the cunning, the sophistries and the thousand guiles of the court of Paris.

I knew how serious the quarrel was between our good Pope, Inno­cent XI, and the court of France. At the time, I was unable to tell why there should be such bitterness between Rome and Paris. But from the people's discourse and from those who were better informed about political affairs, I had clearly understood that whoever would faithfully serve our pontiff could not, and must not, be a friend of the French court.

And then, was not all that ardour in pursuing the supposed thief of the keys in itself suspect? Why take up that pursuit, so full of unknown consequences and dangers, rather than simply letting events take their course and telling the other guests at once of the keys' disappearance? And what if the abbot knew far more than he had confided in me? Perhaps he already had a precise idea of where the keys were hidden. And what if he himself had been the thief and had simply tried to distract my attention in order to be able to act more at ease, perhaps that very night? Even my beloved master had concealed from me the existence of the gallery, so why should a stranger like Abbot Melani have confided his real intentions to me?

I therefore gave the abbot my broad promise that I would follow his instructions, but did what I could to disengage myself from him as quickly as possible, taking back my lantern and closing myself at once into my chamber, where I intended to resume filling my little diary with the many occurrences of the day.

Signor Pellegrino was sleeping placidly, his breathing almost com­pletely calmed. More than two hours had passed since we entered the horrid subterranean gallery, perhaps no more remained before it would be time to rise, and I was at the limit of my strength. It was by pure chance that, an instant before putting out the light, I glanced at my master's breeches and noticed the lost keys in plain view on his belt.

*

Through the window streamed the sun's friendly rays, flooding the chamber with whiteness and spreading a pure, blessed light even over the sweaty, suffering face of poor Signor Pellegrino, abandoned in his bed. The door opened and the smiling face of Abbot Melani peered around it.

"It is time to go, my boy."

"Where are the other guests?"

"They are all in the kitchen, listening to Devize play the trum­pet."

How strange: I had not known that the guitarist was also a vir­tuoso on that resounding instrument; and why, then, was the silvery and penetrating sound of the brass not audible on the upper floors?

"Where are we going?"

"We must return down below, we did not search properly last time."

We again entered the closet, where the little door opened up be­hind the sideboard. I felt the damp on my face. I leaned over unwill­ingly, illuminating the mouth of the well with my lantern.

"Why not wait until nightfall? The others may discover us," I pro­tested feebly.

The abbot did not reply. From his pocket he drew forth a ring, which he placed in the palm of my hand, closing my fingers around the jewel, as though to stress the importance of what he was giving me. I nodded my consent and began the downward journey.

We had only just reached the brick platform when I gave a start. In the darkness, a hand had clasped my right shoulder. Terror prevented me from either screaming or turning around. Obscurely, I understood that the abbot was telling me to remain calm. Overcoming with great difficulty the paralysis which gripped me, I turned to discover the face of the third explorer.

"Remember to honour the dead."

It was Signor Pellegrino, who with suffering mien was so solemnly warning me. I could find no words to express my discomfiture: who then was it that I had left sleeping in his bed? How had Pellegrino been able to transport himself instantly from our sunny chamber to this dark, damp tunnel? While these thoughts were forming in my mind, Pellegrino spoke again.

"I want more light."

I felt myself suddenly sliding backwards: the surface of the bricks was slimy and irresistibly slippery; I had lost my balance, perhaps when turning towards Pellegrino. I fell slowly, but with all my weight, towards the stairwell, with my back to the ground and my belly turned skywards (although down there, no sky seemed ever to have existed). I slid miraculously down the steps without meeting any resistance, although I felt as though I weighed more than a marble statue. The last thing that I saw was Atto Melani and Pellegrino watching my disappearance with phlegmatic indifference, almost as though life and death were the same to them. I fell, overcome by stupor and by desperation, as a lost soul falling into the Abyss becomes aware at last of his damnation.

What saved me was a scream that seemed to come from some unknowable fold in the Creation and awoke me, tearing me from my nightmare.

I had dreamed and, dreaming, I had screamed. I was in my bed and I turned towards that of my master who had clearly remained all the time just where I left him. Through the window came no fine white sunbeams, but that brightness tinged with red and blue which heralds sunrise. The sharp air of the early morning had chilled me and I covered myself, although I knew that I would not regain sleep easily. From the stairs came a distant sound of footsteps, and 1 listened intently, in case someone was approaching the door of the closet. I understood clearly that it was a group of guests, making their way down to the kitchen or to the first floor. In the distance, I could make out the voices of Stilone Priaso and Padre Robleda, who were asking Cristofano for news of Signor Pellegrino's health. I rose, fore­seeing that the doctor would soon be arriving to visit my master. The first person to knock at my door was, however, Bedfordi.

On opening, I found myself looking into a pale face with great dark half-moons under the eyes. On his shoulders Bedfordi wore a warm cape. He was fully dressed, and yet he shivered, his whole back and his head convulsed by great trembling fits, which he strove fruit­lessly to suppress. He at once begged me to let him in, almost cer­tainly so as not to be seen by the other guests. I offered him a little water and the pills which Cristofano had given us. The Englishman declined the offer, being concerned (so he said) that there existed pills capable of driving a patient to his death. That reply took me by surprise; nevertheless, I felt bound to insist.

"Yet I tell you," said he in a voice suddenly grown feverish, "that opium and purgatives for the various humours can even cause death, and never forget that negroes keep hidden beneath their fingernails a poison that kills with a single scratch; and then there are rattle­snakes, yes, and I have read of a spider which squirts into the eye of its persecutor a poison so potent that for a long time it deprives him of his sight..."

He seemed delirious.

"But Doctor Cristofano will do nothing of the sort," I protested.

"... and these substances," he continued, almost as though he had not heard me, "act by occult virtues, but those occult virtues are none other than the mirror of our ignorance."

I noticed that his legs were trembling, and to retain his footing, he had to lean against the doorpost. His very words were a sign of delirium. Bedfordi sat on the bed and smiled sadly at me.

"Excrement desiccates the cornea," he recited, raising his index finger severely, like a master admonishing his pupils. "Worn around the neck, the groundsel herb is good for curing tertian fevers. But for hysteria, one must needs apply salt poultices several times to the feet. And to learn the art of medicine, tell this to Signor Cristofano when you call him, instead of Galen and Paracelsus, he should read
Don Quixote."

Then he lay down, closed his eyes, crossed his arms over his chest to cover himself and began to tremble slightly. I rushed down the stairs to call for help.

The great bubo under his groin, together with another smaller one under the right armpit left few doubts in Cristofano's mind. This time, we were clearly faced with the pestilential distemper; and that inevitably cast dark shadows once more, both over the death of Signor di Mourai and the singular torpor which had overcome my master. I felt myself utterly at a loss: was there a skilled and obscure assassin at large in the hostelry or, more likely, the all-too notorious pestilence?

The news of Bedfordi's illness threw the whole company into the deepest disarray. Only one day remained to us before the return of the Bargello's men for the next roll-call. I noticed that many were avoiding me, since I was the first to have come into contact with Bed­fordi when the distemper assailed him. Cristofano, however, pointed out that every one of us had spoken, eaten and even played cards with the Englishman the day before. None, therefore, could feel safe. Owing perhaps to a good dose of juvenile temerity, I was the only one not to give way at once to fear. However, I saw the most fearful of all, namely Padre Robleda and Stilone Priaso, run and gather a few victuals which I had left out in the kitchen, returning thus laden to their apartments. I stopped them, having remembered then that Extreme Unction should be administered to Bedfordi. This time, however, Padre Robleda would not hear reason: "He is English and I know that he is of the reformed religion; he is excommunicated, unbaptised," he replied excitedly, adding that the oil for the sick was reserved for baptised adults and was not to be administered to infants, madmen, those denounced as excommunicated, impenitent public sinners, those condemned to life imprisonment, or to mothers in childbirth; nor might it be offered to soldiers deployed in battle against the enemy or to sailors in danger of shipwreck.

Stilone Priaso, too, inveighed against me: "Did you not know that holy oil accelerates death, causes the hair to fall out, makes childbirth more painful and gives infants jaundice, kills bees flying around the sick man's house, and that all those who have received it will die if they dance during the remaining months of the year; that it is a sin to spin in the sickroom because the patient will die if one leaves off spinning or if the yarn breaks, nor can one wash one's feet until long after receiving Extreme Unction, and one must always keep a lamp or a candle burning in the sickroom for as long as the distemper lasts, otherwise the poor man may die?"

And leaving me standing there, both ran to lock themselves into their apartments.

Thus, about half an hour later, I returned to the small chamber on the first floor where Bedfordi lay, to see in what state he was. I thought that Cristofano, too, had returned there, for the unfortunate

Englishman was talking and appeared to be in company. I at once perceived, however, that I and the sick man were alone together and that he was in fact delirious. I found him terribly pale, a lock of hair glued to his perspiring forehead and his lips abnormally cracked, sug­gesting a burning, painful throat.

"In the tower... it is in the tower," he babbled hoarsely, turning his tired gaze towards me. He was talking nonsense.

Without any apparent reason, he listed a series of names unknown to me and these I was able to commit to memory only because he repeated them so many times, larded with incomprehensible expres­sions in his native language. He was constantly sighing the name of one William, a native of the city of Orange, whom I imagined to be a friend or acquaintance of his.

I was about to call Cristofano, fearing that the distemper might abruptly worsen and come to a fatal conclusion, when the physician arrived, drawn by the sick man's moans. He was accompanied by Brenozzi and Devize, who maintained a respectful distance.

Poor Bedfordi continued his mad monologue, mentioning the name of one Charles, whom Brenozzi later explained to be King Charles II of England; the Venetian, who thus showed himself to have an appreciable knowledge of the English language, explained that he thought Bedfordi had very recently traversed the United Dutch Provinces.

"And why did he go to Holland?" I asked.

"That I do not know," replied Brenozzi, silencing me while he again listened to the sick man's maunderings.

"You really do know the English language well," observed the physician.

"A distant cousin of mine, who was born in London, often writes to me about family matters. I myself am quick to learn and to memo­rise and I have travelled much on several kinds of business. Look, he seems to feel better."

The sick man's delirium seemed to have abated and Cristofano invited us with a nod of the head to remove to the corridor. There, we found most of the other lodgers waiting, anxious for news.

Cristofano spoke without mincing his words. The progress of the distemper was, he said, such as to make him doubt his own art. First, the far from clear circumstances of Monsieur de Mourai's death, then the accident which had befallen Signor Pellegrino, who was still reduced to a most piteous state, and now the obvious case of infection which had struck down Bedfordi: all this had discomfited the Tuscan doctor, who, faced with such a conjunction of ill-fortune, admitted that he did not know how to confront the situation. For several intermina­ble moments, we looked at one another, pale and frightened.

Some gave way to desperate lamentations; others took refuge in their apartments. Some laid siege to the physician, hoping thus to assuage their own fears; some fell to the ground with their face in their hands. Cristofano himself hastened back to his own chamber, where he locked himself in, begging to be left awhile alone, in order to consult some books and to review our circumstances. His withdrawal did, however, seem more like an attempt to take shelter than to organise retaliatory action. Our enforced imprisonment had cast off the mask of comedy and donned that of tragedy.

Pale as death, Abbot Melani had assisted at the scene of collective desperation. But, more than anyone else, I was now a prey to authen­tic despair. Signor Pellegrino, I thought between sobs, had made the hostelry into his tomb and my own, as well as that of our guests. And already I imagined the scenes of distress that would ensue with his wife's arrival, when she discovered with her own eyes the cruel work of death in the apartments of the Donzello. The abbot found me slumped on the floor in the corridor outside Cristofano's chamber, where I had fallen to sobbing, hiding my tear-soaked face. Stroking my head, he murmured a plaintive song:

Piango, prego e sospiro, E nulla alfin mi giova...*

He waited for me to calm down, seeking gently to console me; but then, seeing the uselessness of those first attempts, he lifted me bodily to my feet and set me down energetically with my shoulders to the wall.

"I do not want to listen to you," I protested.

I repeated the doctor's words, to which I added that within a matter of days, perhaps only hours, we would all surely collapse in atrocious agony, like Bedfordi. Abbot Melani grasped me forcefully, dragging me up the stairs and into his apartment. Nothing, however,

*
I weep, I pray and sigh / and in the end, nothing cheers me.

could calm me, so that the abbot had in the end to hit me hard with the back of his hand, which had the effect of arresting my sobs. For a few moments, I was peaceful.