Veritas (Atto Melani) (37 page)

The latter name was entirely new to me. What had that Italian surname got to do with the glorious Habsburgs, the Emperor’s family?

“Don’t you know who the Pierleoni are?” asked Atto with a cruel little smile.

According to official historiography, he explained, the Habsburg Empire was born from the ashes of the Roman Empire, which had died out on account of the barbarian invasions of Goths and
Longobards. Thanks to his heroic valour, Charlemagne drove the Longobards from Italy and was acclaimed Roman Emperor. Subsequently, thanks to the undefeated virtue of the German Otho the Great, the
name, insignia and authority of the Roman Empire passed down to the most glorious Germanic nation, and at present they rested with the Austrian lineage of the Habsburgs, the resurrected progeny of
the Caesars.

“But this is the balderdash that historians peddle,” hissed Atto, throwing a malevolent glance in the direction of Strassoldo, “because nobody wants to dig up the truth on the
origins of the Habsburgs.”

The history of the Habsburg emperors began with Rudolph I, who ascended to the throne in the year of Our Lord 1273. All were agreed on this point.

“But what happened before that day,” said Abbot Melani, “nobody knows.”

According to some scholars, the origin of the Habsburg blood should be traced back to to a certain Guntram, whose son around the year 1000 was supposed to have founded a castle of the name
Hasburg, which is to say Habsburg. Others traced it back to a certain Ottobert, around 654. Still others to Aeganus, the royal house-steward of France, who had married Gerbera, daughter of St
Gertrude.

Other scholars answered indignantly: not a bit of it, the Habsburgs descend from the royal blood of the Merovingians. Prince Sigebert, son of Dietrich of Austrasia, in the year 630 had received
the county of the Alemans from the King of France, and his successor Sigebert II had assumed the title of Count of Habsburg. It was from his son Pabo of Alsatia, after nineteen generations, that
Rudolph I was finally to descend.

Most certainly not, thundered scholars even more learned than the previous ones: the Habsburgs descend from Adam.

The dynastic series (which included the kings of Babylon, of Troy, of the Sicambrians, kings and counts of France, kings of Gaul, kings of Austrasia, dukes of Alsatia and of Alamannia, counts of
Habsburg and of Ergau) according to these scholars was as clear and limpid as the sun, although a little patience was required to read it all through: Adam, Seth, Enos, Cain, Mahalel, Iared, Enoch,
Methusalem, Lamech, Noah, Chus, Nimrod, Cres, Coelius, Saturn, Jupiter, Dardanus I, Erichthonius, Tros, Ilus, Laomedon, Antenor I, Marcomir, Antenor II, Priam I, Helenus, Diocles, Bassan, Cladodius
I, Nicanor, Marcomir II, Clogius, Antenor III, Estomir II, Merodacus, Cassander, Antharius, Franco, Chlodio, Marcomir III, Clodomir, Antenor IV, Ratherius, Richimerus, Odemar, Marcomir IV, Clodomir
IV, Farabert, Hunno, Hilderich, Quather, another Chlodio, Dagobert, Genebald, another Dagobert, Faremond, yet another Chlodio, Meroveus, Childeric, Clodoveus the Great, Clothar, Sigisbert or
Sigebert, Childepert, Theodopert, another Sigisbert, yet another Sigisbert, Ottbert, Bebo, Robert, Hettopert, Rampert, Gunstramo, Luithardo, Luitfrido, Hunifrido, another Gunthram or perhaps
Gunstram, Belz, Rapatus, Werner, Otto, another Werner, Albert the Divine, Albert the Wise and finally the usual Rudolph I.

Of course, in this reconstruction the names of many kings appeared several times, with uncertain spellings (Bebo or Pabo? Gunstramo or Gunthram? Sigisbert or Sigebert?), and nothing was very
clear at the end of it. What was good, however, was that the competing scholars, worn out, had given up rebutting one another.

But there were other researchers, the most learned and unstinting, who objected: did Rudolph I not descend from Albert the Wise? Well, Albert the Wise descended from Alberto Pierleoni, Count of
Mount Aventine, member of an ancient and illustrious Roman family. Having moved from Rome to Switzerland, Alberto Pierleoni had married the daughter of Werner, last count of Habsburg, thus founding
the dynastic line, Habsburg-Pierleoni. The Roman family went back to Leone Anicio Pierleoni, who died in 1111, of highly noble blood because he descended from none other than the Roman Emperor
Flavius Anicius Olybrius.

“Unfortunately, the theory of their descent from Pierleoni, which was very fashionable under Leopold, Joseph I’s father, proved suicidal,” sneered Atto, still furious at being
humiliated by Strassoldo.

The Pierleoni, as other experts observed, were a rich and powerful family but had been tarnished by some extremely embarrassing affairs. It included cardinals and bishops but also grasping and
unscrupulous merchants and bankers, who maliciously financed the Holy See with the aim of making it an accessory to simony, so they could blackmail it and turn it into their own profitable
backyard. A Pierleoni was elected pope under the name of Gregory VI in 1045, but it was then discovered that he had shamelessly bought the papal seat from his predecessor, Benedict IX. This reached
the ears of Emperor Frederick III, who descended upon Italy, forced Gregory VI to resign and retire into exile in Germany, where the ex-Pope then died, surrounded by general scorn.

Another Pierleoni was elected pope in 1130 under the name of Anacletus II, but on the day of his election another cardinal was appointed pope under the name Innocent II, causing a grave schism
that created anguish and torment throughout Christianity (Anacletus was to quarrel with five more popes). In addition, according to other rumours, the Pierleoni family (who, like so many medieval
Roman families had their own private army and fortified castles in the middle of the city, and regularly went to war against rival families) were actually of Jewish blood: their forefather, a
certain Baruch, was a Jew who had converted to Christianity, and the legend according to which some popes had been secretly Jewish was based on the true story of the Pierleoni. In addition, the
Jews were far from popular with Emperor Leopold I, father of Joseph I the Victorious, and he had confined them in a ghetto on the other side of the Danube, the Leopoldine Island, just where the
Turks had pitched camp during the siege of 1683.

“In short,” concluded Atto, taking me by the arm and cackling, “the glorious Roman family from which the imperial blood of the Habsburgs is supposed to descend was composed of
popes, long disliked by most people in Vienna; of Jews, disliked by Emperor Leopold I; and by Italians, disliked by everyone: you saw how that idiotic Strassoldo woman behaved.”

Meanwhile Camilla de’ Rossi had come up to us and Cloridia had addressed her. The two women were now talking animatedly in front of a small group of young novices. I went up to them,
taking Atto by the arm. We came into earshot just as my wife was answering questions from the novices, who were very curious about us, a family of strange Italians who had come to Vienna from the
distant city of the Pope. Camilla was acting as interpreter from German to Italian and vice-versa.

The young women (all of excellent families and very well-behaved) asked about Rome and its splendours, the Pope and the Roman court, and finally wanted to know about the life we had led there,
as well as our past. I listened with a touch of anxiety, since Cloridia had to conceal the stain of the infamous profession she had practised during her troubled adolescence.

“I don’t remember anything of my youthful years,” she replied, “and besides my poor mother was Tur . . .”

Just as she was about to reveal her mother’s Eastern origins, I felt Atto start and his wizened hand clutched my arm. I saw Camilla de’ Rossi’s eyes open wide and she broke in
brusquely: “Now my dears, it’s time to get to work, we’ve talked long enough.”

As soon as the little group of nuns had moved away, Camilla took Cloridia’s arm and, approaching me and Abbot Melani, she explained the brusque end to the conversation.

“A few years ago, in the church of St Ursula near here, on the Johannesgasse, Cardinal Collonitz baptised a young Turkish slave who belonged to his lieutenant, the Spaniard Gerolamo
Giudici, and assigned her to this novitiate. At once a revolt broke out in the convent, because the nuns, who were all of noble descent, were afraid that Porta Coeli would lose its good name.
Giudici insisted and the dispute was taken as far as the Emperor and the consistory, who found for the nuns: the young Turkish woman was refused entrance.”

Actually the poor girl was terrified of being locked up in a convent, continued Camilla. Fearing that sooner or later Giudici would succeed in finding one for her, one night she managed to run
away. Despite long and careful searches, nobody could discover where she had fled, or with whom.

“As you can understand, my friends,” Camilla concluded, “certain arguments just cannot be touched on here.”

Collonitz. The name was not new to me. Where had I heard it before? I was unable to answer this. At any rate, the message was clear: if anyone at Porta Coeli were to discover that Cloridia was
the daughter of a Turkish slave, we would probably be forced to leave the place in an instant.

A quarter of an hour later, after a short walk through the snowy streets, while Cloridia was at the palace, I went with Atto and Domenico to the Cathedral of St Stephen, in search of Countess
Pálffy.

At the nine-thirty service here the atmosphere was very different from St Agnes. First of all, it needs saying that while the three p.m. weekday vespers only brought in a handful of old women
and a few beggars, late-morning Sunday masses were so crowded that one had to go from church to church to find somewhere to sit.

In the square outside the church, dazzling with the fresh snow, was one of the typical beggars you will find in front of every Viennese church every day of the year. Dressed in a light blue
skirt, she had a little box for alms fastened to her waist, which she shook as people passed her on the way into church. When we approached she leaped as if possessed and shouted to the crowd:
“Come and be blessed! Come and be blessed!” Abbot Melani and Domenico were quite startled. The nine o’clock rosary had just finished and the priest was about to give the
benediction. There was a sudden rush into the cathedral, and we found ourselves dragged along in a stampede of stomping, sliding, slush-encrusted boots, which bespattered the atrium with mud and
snow. Those few people who gave no signs of wanting to enter the church were berated by the beggar with curses and insults.

“Here in Vienna Sundays are truly hallowed, it seems,” remarked Atto, stamping his feet free of snow once inside, while his nephew rearranged his hat and cloak, which had been
unsettled by the horde of eager churchgoers.

“Not only Sundays,” I explained with a slight laugh, as I adjusted my own clothes. “Every day, here in St Stephen’s alone, there are eighty masses and three rosaries. The
Franciscans celebrate thirty-three masses a day at regular intervals, and in the church of St Michael there’s one every quarter of an hour.”

“Every day?” said Atto and his escort in amazed unison.

“I counted them up myself,” I went on, “and I worked out that every year, just in the Cathedral of St Stephen, they celebrate over 400 pontifical offices, almost 60,000 masses,
over a thousand rosaries, and about 130,000 confessions and communions.”

Without counting benedictions, I concluded, as Atto and Domenico listened in astonishment: there were always a few in one or other of the over hundred churches and chapels in the city, so that
more than once the city authorities had asked the priests to agree on regular schedules for everyone, to save the people running randomly from one church to another in spasmodic search of a
blessing.

Once inside the church we realised that high mass was under way, and the service was being celebrated at a dozen altars simultaneously. Where could Countess Marianna Pálffy be hidden, if
she were there? The enterprise was becoming complicated.

As we made our way down the nave, I looked all around myself. Noblemen and ministers with powdered wigs had their backs turned to the altar and were exchanging tobacco, reading letters and
recounting anecdotes from the newspapers. Leaning against the columns of the aisle, they observed and remarked upon new fashions or beautiful women, the gigantic dimensions of St Stephen’s
guaranteeing confidentiality and safety from prying eyes. The individual altars were meeting places, and even had their own nicknames to distinguish them: “Let’s meet at the
whores’ altar,” people would say; or “at the baked cake,” “at the florins’ square,” “at the wenches’ lane,” “at the rampart
cottages”. These were all indecent allusions to the fact that these altars were favourite spots to meet women of loose morals; the poor priests could do nothing about this and were often
jeered at by the women.

This immoral behavour was so deeply rooted that some religious services had been given abusive nicknames: the 10.30 mass in the church of the Capuchins was referred to openly as the
“whores’ mass”, and the one at 11 o’clock in St Stephen’s as the “loafers’ mass”.

But the harlots and their clients were not the only plagues of the cathedral: this morning as ever (and this was Sunday
in albis
!) the church was crowded with all manner of people and
animals and goods: bumpkins and crones stood around with piglets under their arms, or even tubs full of squawking chickens, geese and ducks; lazy noblemen had themselves carried in sedan chairs
right up to the altar, and their equally idle servants then parked the chairs inside the church, too lazy to go and wait outside.

In short, the high mass was like a gigantic fairground: a constant profane bustle, with a
sottofondo
of endless babbling.

His Caesarean Majesty, by means of an imperial licence, had appointed commissioners whose job it was to walk around the church and threaten to fine or arrest anyone disturbing the services with
idle chatter or inappropriate behaviour. The revenue from the fines was distributed among the poor. However, these sanctions made no difference. As the circulars of the episcopal consistory
complained, in St Stephen’s the people persisted in gathering in groups, gossiping, swearing, blaspheming, walking to and fro, knocking back liquors and engaging in blatant mercenary
activities, mocking, vilifying and even threatening those who warned them to respect the sacred temple.