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  "This is where our thief went," whispered Abbot Melani.

  "Why do you speak so quietly?"

  "He could be nearby. I want to be the one to surprise him, not the contrary."

  However, the thief was not a few paces off, nor was he beyond that. We proceeded along the gallery, in which Abbot Melani had to walk bending down because of the ceiling-if that it could be called-which was low and rather irregular. He watched me move easily in front of him: "For once I envy you, my boy."

  We advanced very slowly along a pathway occasionally made compact by stones and bricks scattered haphazardly here and there. We continued a few dozen paces further, during which the abbot responded to my mute but foreseeable curiosity.

  "This passage must have been built to enable one to emerge unseen at some remote point in the city."

  "In times of pestilence, perhaps?"

  "I think a long, long time before that. It will never have failed to be useful in a city like this. Perhaps it has been used by some Roman prince to unleash his men upon a rival. Roman families have always hated and fought one another with all their might. When the German mercenaries sacked Rome, some households helped them to plunder the city, so long as they struck only at their rivals. It is possible that our inn may originally have served as the headquarters of groups of assassins and cutthroats. Perhaps at the service of the Orsini, who own many houses in the neighbourhood."

  "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 t
he 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.

  Day the Third

  13th September, 1683

  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 morn
ing 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.