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I avoided asking Atto Melani whether he also recognised him­self in avarice, irascibility, fraudulence, envy and recourse to lies and threats, as mentioned in the astrological portrait. And nor did I ask

Ugonio why, among the many defects of those born under the sign of Aries, vanity had been omitted. I also took care not to mention the prophecy concerning marriage and children, which were obviously precluded in the case of the abbot.

"You truly know many things about astrology," I complimented the
corpisantaro
instead, recalling also his eloquent excursus into medical astrology a few nights previously.

"Perused, auscultated, verbalised."

"Remember, young man," interjected Abbot Melani, "that in this holy city, every house, every wall, every single stone is imbued with magic, with superstition, with obscure hermetic knowledge. Our two monsters must have read a few manuals of astrological consulta­tions—one can find them everywhere, so long as the matter is not spoken of out loud. Scandal is but an entertainment for bumpkins: remember the story of Abbot Morandi."

It was at that moment that the sound of running water distracted us from our conversation: we had returned to the confluence with the main channel.

"Now we shall have to set to work with the oars," said Atto, while our boat gave itself up to the far faster and more forceful waters of the underground river.

A moment passed, then we all looked at one another speechlessly. "The oars," said I. "I think that we abandoned them when the trio of the
Societas Orationis et Mortis
made their appearance."

I saw Atto glare resentfully at Ugonio, as though awaiting an explanation.

"Aries also distractable," said Ugonio in his defence, trying to shift the blame for the loss of the oars to the abbot.

The little bark, now a helpless prey to the current, began to ac­celerate remorselessly. All attempts to use the poles to slow down our progress proved useless.

For a brief passage, we proceeded down the river; soon, however, a confluent poured in from the left, provoking a wave which compelled us to hold on tight to our poor piece of wood in order not to be thrown out. The roaring of the waters had grown ever louder and more overwhelming; the walls of the channel offered no hold. No one dared open his mouth.

Ugonio tried to use the cord which he had brought with him to hook onto any outcrop in the walls, but the bricks and stones that made these up were completely smooth.

Suddenly, I remembered that, on our outward journey, the
corpisantaro
had, however enigmatically, explained the reason why, when we came to the fork that led to the lake, he had not wished to pro­ceed along the main channel.

"Did you not say that this river 'misodours'?" I asked him.

He nodded. "It misodours with the foulestest of fetidness."

Suddenly, we found ourselves in the midst of a sort of aquatic crossroads: from the left and from the right, two equal and con­trary confluents hurled themselves with even greater force into our river.

That was the beginning of the end. The little bark, reeling drunkenly from that convolution of confluents, began to turn on itself, at first slowly and then vertiginously. We clung now, not only to the boat but to one another. The rotation soon made us lose our sense of direction, so that for a moment I had the absurd sensation of moving upstream, towards salvation.

Meanwhile a deafening roar drew ever nearer. The only reference point was our lamp which, with the greatest of difficulty, Atto con­tinued to hold up, as though the fate of the world depended on it; around that point of light, everything spun madly. We seemed almost to be flying, I thought, transported by fear and vertigo.

That thought came true. Under the boat, the waters vanished, as though a magnetic force had raised us up and was about to de­posit us mercifully upon the sands of salvation. For a brief and insane moment, I remembered the words of Padre Robleda about Kircher's Universal Magnetism, which comes from God and holds all things together.

But suddenly a blind, colossal force crashed against the bottom of the bark, throwing us from it at the same instant, and all became dark. I found myself in the water, drawn through icy, malignant ed­dies, lapped by filthy, disgusting foam, screaming with terror and de­spair.

We had gone over a waterfall, plummeting into an even more fetid and disgusting river. Not only had the impact with the water cap­sized the boat, but our lamp was lost. Only from time to time could I touch bottom with my feet, perhaps because here and there lay some large outcrop. Had that not been the case, I should surely have drowned. The stench was unbearable and my lungs were filled only by my panting from weariness and fear."Are you alive?" yelled Atto in the dark, while the roar of the cas­cade hammered at our ears.

A large blunt object struck me in the chest, leaving me breath­less.

"Hold on, hold on to the boat, it is here between us," said Atto.

Miraculously, I managed to grasp the edge of the bark, while the current continued to drag us along.

"Ugonio," screamed Atto again, with all the breath that remained to him, "Ugonio, where are you?"

We were only two now. Certain at this moment that we were go­ing to our death, we let ourselves be led by that poor wreck, floating in the midst of stinking fluids and other indescribable faecal waste.

"It misodoureth... now I understand."

"Understand what?"

"This is not just any channel. It is the Cloaca Maxima, the biggest sewer in Rome, built by the ancient Romans."

Our speed increased again, and, going by the sound, we knew that we were in a broad conduit the vault of which was rather low, perhaps hardly enough for the capsized hull of our little bark to pass. Now the roar of the waters had diminished, as we drew away from the waterfall.

Suddenly, however, the boat came to a stop. The vault was too low and had caused our poor craft to run aground in a comical, cap­sized position. Somehow, I managed to hold onto the edge. I raised an arm and felt with horror how close and oppressive was the roof of the vault. The air was dense and fetid: breathing had become almost impossible.

"What shall we do?" I panted, struggling desperately to keep my lips above the surface of the waters.

"There is no way back. Let us go with the current."

"But I cannot swim."

"I neither. But the water is dense, one has but to keep afloat. Lie on your back and try to keep your head erect," said he, spitting to cleanse his lips. "Move your arms a little from time to time, but do not struggle or you will sink."

"And then what?"

"We shall emerge somewhere."

"And what if, before that, the vault closes in completely?"

He did not reply.

Almost at the limit of our strength, we let ourselves be borne by the waves (if that disgusting mire could be so called) until my proph­ecy came true. The current again speeded up, as though we were on a slope; the air was so rarefied that I alternated long periods of holding my breath with sudden, agitated intakes; the foul gases thus inhaled provoked pains in my head and violent dizziness. It felt as though a remote and powerful whirlpool was about to swallow us.

Suddenly, the top of my head struck the roof of the gallery. The current ran even faster. This was the end.

I was about to vomit. Yet somehow I held back, as though at last about to obtain liberation and, with it, peace. Strangled, yet very close, I heard Atto's voice one last time.

"Alas, so it really is true," he murmured to himself.

"Look, look here. This one is young."

Hands and eyes of merciful angels were caring for me. I had come to the end of a long voyage. I, however, was no more: my body must have been elsewhere, while I enjoyed the beneficent warmth which heaven radiates upon all good souls. I waited to be shown the way.

A few timeless instants passed, then the hands of one of the an­gels gently prodded me. Light, indistinct murmurs were gradually awakening me. I could at last catch a droplet of that sweet celestial colloquy: "Search the other one better."

A few fleeting but perhaps eternal moments later, I understood that the winged celestial messengers had temporarily left me. Perhaps, for the time being, I no longer needed their charitable assistance. I then opened myself to the divine light which benign heaven extended over and around me and other poor wandering souls.

Contrary to all expectations, I still had eyes to see, ears to hear and flesh with which to feel the warm and holy dawn which utterly pervaded me. So I raised my eyelids and before me appeared the di­vine symbol of Our Lord, used centuries ago by the first Christians: a magnificent silver fish, which observed me benevolently.

At last, I looked up towards the light, but I had at once to raise my hand and cover my eyes.

It was day and I was under the sun, lying on a beach.

I soon understood that I was alive, although not in the best of condition. I sought in vain the two angels (or whatever they were) who had busied themselves about me. My head ached terribly and my eyes could not bear the light of day. Suddenly, I realised that I barely able to rise to my feet. My knees shook and the mud on which I walked threatened to make me to slip perilously.

Narrowing my eyes, I nevertheless looked around myself. I was no doubt on the banks of the Tiber. It was dawn and a few fishing boats sailed placidly on the waters of the river. On the far bank stood the ruins of the ancient Ponte Rotto—the Broken Bridge. To my right, lay the indolent profile of the Isola Tiberina, anointed by the two branches of the river which have for aeons caressed its banks. To my left, the quiet hill of Santa Sabina stood out against the quiet dawn sky. Now I knew where I was: a little further to the right was the outfall of the Cloaca Maxima, which had vomited Atto and me into the river. Fortunately, the cur­rent had not taken us downstream. I had a confused memory of having dragged myself from the water and cast myself down dejectedly upon the bare ground. It was a miracle to be alive; if all this had happened in winter, 1 thought, I should certainly have rendered my soul to the Lord.

Instead, I was comforted by the September sun, once more rising into a limpid sky; but hardly had my mind grown clearer than I real­ised that I was all filthy and numbed with cold, and an uncontrollable fit of shivering began to shake me from head to foot.

"Leave me, villain, leave me! Help!"

The voice came from behind me. I turned and found my way ob­structed by a clump of tall bushes. I crossed it rapidly and found Abbot Melani lying on the ground, he too all covered in mud, and by now no longer in a state to cry out; he was vomiting violently. Two men, or rather, two dubious-looking individuals were leaning over him, but hardly did 1 approach than they took to their legs, disap­pearing behind a slight rise which dominated the beach. From the barks which were sailing in the vicinity, no fisherman seemed to have witnessed the scene.

Shaken by tremendous convulsions, Atto was throwing up the wa­ter which he had swallowed during our disastrous shipwreck. I held his head, hoping that the liquid expelled would not suffocate him. After a while, he was again able to speak and breathe normally.

"The two bastards..."

"Do not overstrain yourself, Signor Atto."

"... thieves. I shall catch them."

I had not then, indeed, I never had the courage to confess to Atto that in those two thieves I had recognised the two blessed angels of my awakening. Instead of caring for us, they had carefully inspected us with a view to robbery. The silvery fish which I had found by my side was no sacred epiphany, only some fishmonger's refuse."Anyway, they found nothing," Atto continued between one ex­pectoration and another. "The little I had on me, I lost in the Cloaca Maxima."

"How do you feel?"

"How do you expect me to feel, in this condition and at my age?" said he, opening his filthy doublet and shirt. "If it were up to me, I would remain here in the sun until I feel a little warmer; but that, we cannot do."

I gave a start. Soon Cristofano would be beginning his matutinal rounds.

Followed by the curious glances of a group of fishermen who were preparing to disembark nearby, we moved away.

We took a little road parallel to the river bank, leaving Monte Savello to our right. Filthy and desperate as we were, the few passers- by looked upon us in dismay. I had lost my shoes and walked with a limp, coughing uncontrollably; Atto looked thirty years older and the clothing which he wore seemed to have been robbed from a tomb. He kept quietly cursing all the rheumatic and muscular pains pro­voked by those tremendous nocturnal labours and the soaking he had received. We were about to walk towards the Portico d'Ottavia, when he turned brusquely.

"I have too many acquaintances here. Let us change our route."

We then passed through the Piazza Montanara and crossed the Piazza Campitelli. More and more people were appearing on the streets.

In the labyrinth of narrow, tortuous, damp and gloomy alleyways, almost all of them unpaved, I savoured again the habitual alternation of dust and mire, the evil smells, the clangour and the cries. Swine large and small rooted in heaps of rubbish near steaming cauldrons of pasta and broad pans of fish already frying at that early hour, in flagrant disregard of all the notices and edicts of public health.

I heard Atto murmur something with disgust and vexation, while the sudden thunder of a cart's wheels covered his words.

Once it was quiet again, Abbot Melani continued: "How is it pos­sible that, like pigs, we should have to seek peace in manure, serenity in rubbish, repose in this shambles of neglected streets? What is the point of living in a city like Rome if we must move like beasts and not like men? I beg you, Holy Father, deliver us from excrement!"

I looked at him questioningly.

"I am quoting Lorenzo Pizzati da Pontremoli," said he. "He may have been a parasite at the court of Pope Rospigliosi; but how right he was! It was he who penned this candid supplication to Clement IX some twenty years ago."

"But then, Rome has always been like this!" I exclaimed in sur­prise, always having imagined a very different and most fabulous en­vironment for the city of the past.

"As I have already told you, I was in Rome at the time; well, in those days, the streets were repaired, albeit badly, almost every day. And if you consider all the sewers and pipes, too, the roads were always blocked by public works. To protect oneself from the mire of rainwater and refuse, one had to wear high boots, even in August. Pizzati was right: Rome has become a Babel in which people live in a continual clamour. It has ceased to be a city. It is a pigsty," exclaimed the abbot, stressing the last word.

"And did Pope Rospigliosi do nothing to improve matters?"

"On the contrary, my boy! But, if only you knew how pig-headed these Romans are. He tried, for example, to plan a public system for the collection of ordure; he commanded the citizens to clean the street before their doorways. All in vain!"

All of a sudden, the abbot pulled me violently to one side and we flattened ourselves against a wall. Only by a hair's-breadth did I thus escape the precipitous onrush of an enormous and luxurious carriage. The abbot's mood grew even darker.

"Carlo Borromeo was wont to say that in Rome, to have success, two things are necessary: to love God and to possess a carriage," Mel­ani commented bitterly. "Do you know that in this city, there are more than a thousand of them?"

"Then it is perhaps they who account for the distant rumble which I hear even when no one is passing through the streets," said I, disconcerted. "But where do all those carriages go?"

"Oh, nowhere. It's simply the case that noblemen, ambassadors, physicians, famous advocates and Roman cardinals move about exclusively in carriages; even for the briefest of journeys. And that is not all: they are alone in their carriages, and sometimes, alone yet accompanied by several other carriages."

"Are their families so numerous?"

"No, of course not," said Atto, laughing. However, cardinals and ambassadors on official visits may proceed accompanied by up to three hundred carriages; with all the choked traffic and daily clouds of dust which that entails."

"Now, I can understand the brawl over a carriage station," said I, echoing him, "which I recently witnessed on the piazza in Posterula; the footmen of two carriages belonging to noblemen were going at each other hammer and tongs."

At that point, Atto turned off again.

"Even here, I could be recognised. There is a young canon... Let us cut across towards the Piazza San Pantaleo."

Exhausted as I was, I protested against all these complicated itin­eraries.

"Be quiet and do not attract attention to yourself," said Atto, unexpectedly tending to his faded white hair.

"It is a good thing that, in all this bestial confusion, no one is pay­ing the slightest attention to us," he whispered, adding in an almost inaudible voice, "I hate being in this state."

It was wise, and Atto knew it, to traverse the great crowd at the market on the Piazza Navona, rather than be seen as isolated vaga­bonds in the middle of the Piazza Madama or the Strada di Parione.

"We must reach Tiracorda's house as early as possible," said Atto, "but without being seen by the Bargello's watchmen who are mount­ing guard in front of the inn."

"And, after that?"

"We shall try to enter the stables and take the underground galleries."

"But that will be extremely difficult; anyone might recognise us."

"I know. Have you any better ideas?"

We therefore prepared to plunge into the crowd at the market on the Piazza Navona. How immense was our disappointment when we found ourselves facing a half-empty square, animated only by sparse groups, in the centre of which, from the height of a box or a seat, bearded and sweaty orators waved their arms, haranguing and de­claiming. No market, no vendors, no stalls piled up with fruit and vegetables, no crowd.

"The deuce, it is Sunday!" said Atto and I, almost in unison.

On Sunday, there was no market: that was why there were so few people in the streets. The quarantine and our too frequent adven­tures had made us lose count of the days.

As on all feast days, the priests were the lords of the piazza, preachers and pious men who, with edifying sermons attracted, some by the subtleties of their logic, some by the stentorian flow of their eloquence, small gaggles of students, scholars, loafers, mendicants, and even cutpurses, always ready to profit from the distraction of the other spectators. The gay quotidian chaos of the market had given way to a grave, leaden atmosphere; and, as though yielding to that atmosphere, clouds suddenly covered the sun.

We crossed the piazza stunned by disappointment, feeling even more naked and defenceless than we in fact were. We moved away from the centre of the square to the right-hand side, where we tip­toed along the walls, hoping to attract no attention. I was startled when a little boy, coming out from a nearby hut, pointed us out to the adult who was accompanying him. The latter stared briefly at us and then, fortunately, ceased to attend to our furtive and miserable presence.

"They will notice us, damn it. Let us try to merge into the crowd," said Atto, pointing out to me a nearby group of people.

So we mixed with a small but compact assembly, gathered around an invisible central point. We were just a few paces from the Cava­lier Bernini's great Fountain of the Four Rivers in the middle of the piazza; the four titanic anthropomorphic statues of the aquatic dei­ties, almost admonitory in their marmoreal potency, seemed to be participating in the pious atmosphere of the piazza. From within the fountain, a stone lion scrutinised me, ferocious but impotent. Above the monument, however, there stood an obelisk all covered in hiero­glyphics and capped with a little golden pyramid, almost naturally pointing towards the Most High. Was this not precisely the obelisk which had been deciphered by Kircher, as someone had told me a few days earlier? But I was distracted by the crowd, which moved further forward, the better to listen to the sermon which I could hear coming from a few paces beyond.

In the forest of heads, backs and shoulders I could descry the preacher for only a few brief instants. His hat revealed him to be a Jesuit brother; he was a rotund purple-faced little man wearing a tri- corn too big for his head and entertaining with torrential eloquence the small, tight group of spectators who had gathered around him.

"... And what is the life of devotion?" I heard him declaim. "I tell you that it is to speak little, to weep much, to be mocked first by this man, then by that, to tolerate poverty in one's life, suffering in one's body, insults to one's honour, injuries to one's interests. And, can such a life not be most unhappy? I tell you, yes it can!"