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  "They are shutting us in," I cried to them, trying to capture their attention, but the trio remained unmoved.

  A vinegar-seller, a snow vendor and a group of little boys whose cries had, only moments earlier, enlivened the street, now hid fearfully round the corner.

  Meanwhile, my master, Signor Pellegrino de Grandis, had placed a small bench on the threshold of the inn. One of the officers of the Bargello laid thereon the register of the lodgers at our inn, which he had just received, and began the roll-call.

  "Padre Juan de Robleda, from Granada."

  Since I had never been present at a closure for quarantine, and no one had ever spoken to me of such a thing, I thought at first that they meant to imprison us.

  "A dreadful, dreadful business," whispered Brenozzi, the Venetian.

  "Come out, Padre Robleda!" called the officer, growing impatient.

  The Jesuit who, in his vain struggle against the men-at-arms, had fallen senseless to the ground, now rose to his feet and, once he had made sure that every escape was barred by lances, responded to the call with a sign of his hairy hand. He was at once pushed towards me. Padre Robleda had arrived from Spain a few days earlier, and ever since morning, because of the day's events, he had sorely tried our ears with his fearful screaming.

  "Abbot Melani, from Pistoia!" called the official, reading from the register of guests.

  Darting up from the shadows came the fashionable French lace ornamenting the wrist of our latest guest, who had arrived only at sunrise. He raised his hand diligently when his name was called, and his little triangular eyes shone like stilettos piercing the shade. The Jesuit did not move a muscle to make room when Melani, with tranquil gait and in silence, joined us. It was the abbot's cries that had raised the alarum that morning.

  We had all heard them, they came from upstairs. Pellegrino, the host, my master, was the first to stir his long legs and run swiftly. But hardly had he reached the large chamber on the first floor, giving onto the Via dell'Orso, than he stopped. There, two guests had taken up lodgings: Signor di Mourai, an aged French gentleman, and his companion Pompeo Dulcibeni, who hailed from the Marches. Mourai, in an armchair, with his feet soaking in the basin for his customary bath, sprawled sideways, his arms hanging down, while the abbot held him upright and strove to revive him, shaking him by the collar. Mourai's attention seemed fixed upon his helper's shoulders and he appeared to be scrutinising Pellegrino with great astonished eyes, while an indistinct gurgle issued from his throat. It was then that Pellegrino realised that the abbot was not calling for help but, with great uproar and agitation, interrogating the old man. He was speaking to him in French, which my master could not understand; but imagined that he was enquiring of him what had happened. To Pellegrino (as he was later to recount to us all) it did, however, seem that Abbot Melani was shaking Mourai with excessive vigour in his attempts to revive him, and so he rushed to release the old man from that all-too- powerful grasp. It was at that instant that poor Signor di Mourai, with an immense effort, uttered his last words: "Alas, so it really is true," he gasped in Italian. Then he left off from panting. His eyes remained fixed upon his host and a greenish dribble ran from his mouth to his breast. And so he died.

  "The old man, es el viejo," gasped Padre Robleda mixing languages in a terrorised whisper, no sooner than we had heard two men-at-arms murmur the words "pestilence" and "shutting up".

  "Cristofano, physician and chirurgeon, from Siena!" called the officer.

  With slow and measured gestures, our Tuscan guest stepped forward, holding the little leather bag containing all his instruments from which he was never parted.

  "It is I," he responded in a low voice, after opening his bag, shuffling through a mass of papers and, with frigid dignity, clearing his voice. Cristofano was rotund and short of stature, careful of his appearance and with a jovial expression that set one at ease. That evening, his face was pale and dripping with perspiration, nor did he take the trouble to wipe it; his pupils focussed on something invisible in front of him and, before he moved, he made a quick gesture, smoothing his pointed beard. His every movement betrayed the extreme apprehensiveness behind his would-be phlegmatic calm.

  "I wish to make it clear that, following a preliminary but careful examination of Signor di Mourai's body, I am by no means certain that this is a case of infection," began Cristofano. "The medical examiner of the Magistrate for Health, who asserts this with such confidence, spent very little time with the corpse. I have here," and he showed the papers, "my written observations on the case. I believe they could help you to reconsider the situation a little longer and delay any over-hasty decision on your part."

  The Bargello's men, however, had neither the power nor the desire to enter into such points of detail.

  "The Magistrate has ordered the immediate closure of this inn," said the officer who seemed to be in charge, adding that, for the time being, a proper quarantine had not been declared: the closure was for twenty days only, and without evacuation of the street; so long, of course, as there were no further deaths or suspected cases of distemper.

  "Seeing as I too am to be locked up, and in order that I may the better arrive at my diagnosis," insisted Signor Cristofano with some irritation, "may I not at least know something more about the last meals on which the late Signor di Mourai supped, he being accustomed always to eat alone and in his chamber? It may have been no more than a simple congestion."

  The objection had the effect of creating hesitancy on the part of the men-at-arms, who besought the innkeeper with their eyes. The latter had, however, not even heard the physician's request: slumped on a chair, plunged in dejection, he groaned and uttered imprecations, as was his wont, against the innumerable torments which life inflicted upon him. The last of these had been when, scarcely a week earlier, a small crack had appeared in one of the walls of the inn, no rare occurrence in the old houses of Rome. The fissure entailed no danger whatever, so we were told; yet it was more than enough to engender in my master both melancholy and rage.

  Meanwhile, the roll-call continued. Evening shadows were lengthening and the officers had decided to admit of no further delay with the closure.

  "Domenico Stilone Priaso, from Naples! Angiolo Brenozzi, from Venice!"

  The two young men, the former a poet, the latter a glass-blower, stepped forward, looking at one another, seemingly relieved to be called up together, almost as though that lessened the apprehension. Brenozzi, the glass-blower-with fearful expression, his shining brown curls and small turned-up nose like a hillock between blushing cheeks-resembled a little porcelain Christ Child. What a pity that, as was his habit, he relieved himself of nervous tension by pinching obscenely the celery stem that lay between his thighs, almost as though he were plucking a one-stringed instrument. A vice which caught my eye more than anyone else's.

  "May the Most High assist us," sobbed Robleda at that moment; whether in disapproval of the glass-blower's misplaced gesture or be- weeping our plight, I knew not; and he let himself collapse, purple in the face, onto a stool.

  "And all the saints," added the poet, "for I have come from Naples to catch the infection."

  "And you did not do well," responded the Jesuit, wiping the sweat from his brow with a handkerchief. "You had only to remain in your own city, where the opportunities for contagion are not lacking."

  "Perhaps so. And here, now that there is a good Pope, we believed we enjoyed the favours of heaven. But first we must see what those think who are, as they say, behind the Porte," whispered Stilone Priaso.

  Tight-lipped and sharp-tongued, the Neapolitan poet had struck where none wished so much as to touch.

  For weeks now, the Turkish army of the Ottoman Sublime Porte had been pressing at the gates of Vienna, thirsty for blood. All the Infidel hosts were converging implacably (or so the bare accounts that reached our ears would have it) on the capital of the Holy Roman Empire, and threatened soon to burst through its bastions.

  The warriors in th
e Christian camp, almost on the point of capitulating, resisted only thanks to the power of the Faith. Short of arms and victuals, reduced by famine and dysentery, they were moreover terrorised by the first signs of an outbreak of the plague.

  All knew that if Vienna were to fall, the armies of Kara Mustapha would have free passage to the West. And they would spread everywhere with blind and terrible joy.

  To ward off the threat, many illustrious kings, princes and captains had mobilised: the King of Poland, Duke Charles of Lorraine, Prince Maximilian of Bavaria, Margrave Ludwig-Wilhelm of Baden, and others too. Almost all had been convinced to fly to the assistance of the besieged by the one true Bulwark of Christendom, Pope Innocent XI.

  The Pontiff had, indeed, struggled long and strenuously to league together, gather and strengthen the armies of Christendom. And this he had done, not only by political means but also through precious financial support. From Rome there departed continuously generous sums of money: over two million scudi to the Emperor, five hundred thousand florins to Poland, more than a hundred thousand scudi donated by the nephew of the Pontiff, other subscriptions by individual cardinals and, lastly, a generous extraordinary levy on the ecclesiastical tithes of Spain.

  The Holy Mission which the Pontiff was desperately seeking to accomplish followed upon innumerable pious works wrought during the seven years of his Pontificate.

  Now aged seventy-two, the successor of Saint Peter, born Benedetto Odescalchi, had above all set the example. Tall, very thin, broad of forehead, with an aquiline nose, severe of mien, his chin prominent yet noble, wearing goatee and mustachios, he had gained renown as an ascetic.

  Shy and reserved in character, he was but rarely to be seen riding in a carriage through the city, and took care to avoid popular acclamations. It was noted that he had chosen for himself the smallest, barest and most inhospitable apartments that ever a Pontiff inhabited, and that he almost never descended into the gardens of the Quirinale or the Vatican. He was so frugal and parsimonious as only to wear the habits and vestments of his predecessors. From the time of his election, he always wore the same exceedingly threadbare white cassock, and changed it only when it was pointed out to him that too negligent a dress ill-befitted the Vicar of Christ on earth.

  Likewise, he had acquired the highest merit in the administration of the Church's patrimony. He had restored order to the funds of the Apostolic Chamber which, since the bad times of Urban VIII and Innocent X, had suffered all manner of robbery and fraud. He had abolished nepotism: no sooner was he elected than he summoned his nephew Livio, warning him-so it was said-that he would not have him made a cardinal, nor would he be allowed near the affairs of state.

  Moreover, he had at last recalled his subjects to more austere and temperate usages. The theatres, places of disorderly entertainment, were closed. The Carnival which, only ten years earlier, had attracted admirers from all over Europe, was all but dead. Musical festivities and divertissements were reduced to a minimum. Women were forbidden to wear dresses too open and decollete after the French fashion. The Pontiff had even sent forth bands of police spies to inspect the laundry hanging from the windows and confiscate any over-audacious bodices or blouses.

  It was thanks to such austerity, both financial and moral, that Innocent XI had been able laboriously to raise money to combat the Turks, and great had been the succour given to the cause of the Christian armies.

  But now the war had reached the critical moment. And all Christendom knew what to expect from Vienna: salvation or disaster.

  So the people were in dire distress, at every sunrise looking to the East and wondering whether the new day would bring with it swarms of bloodthirsty janissaries and chargers thirsting to drink from the fountains of Saint Peter's.

  This, then, was what the squabble between the Jesuit and the poet had touched upon: a terror that ran through the town like an underground river.

  The repartee of Stilone Priaso had piled fear upon fear in the already sorely tried spirit of Padre Robleda. Grim and trembling, the Jesuit's round face was framed by the angry pressure of the cushion of fat that danced beneath his chin.

  "Is someone here of the Turkish party?" he gasped maliciously.

  All those present turned instinctively towards the poet, whom a suspicious eye might easily have taken for an emissary of the Porte: brown, pockmarked skin, small eyes like coals, and an owl-like frown. His dark silhouette reminded one of those robbers with thick, short hair who are, alas, all too often to be encountered on the road to the Kingdom of Naples.

  Stilone Priaso had not the time to reply.

  "Silence, once and for all!" hissed one of the gendarmes, continuing the roll call.

  "Signor di Mourai, from France, with Signor Pompeo Dulcibeni from Fermo, and Roberto Devize, French musician."

  The first name called was, as my master Signor Pellegrino hastened to explain, that of the old Frenchman who had arrived in the

  Locanda del Donzello at the end of July and who had now died, allegedly of the infection. He was certainly a great nobleman, added Pellegrino, in very delicate health, and he had come to the inn accompanied by Devize and Dulcibeni. Signor di Mourai was in fact almost completely blind and needed to be accompanied. About the old gentleman, almost nothing was known: the moment he arrived, he announced that he was very tired and every day he had his meal brought to him in his chamber, issuing forth only rarely for a short walk in the environs of the hostelry. The men-at-arms took rapid note of my master's statements.

  "It is simply not possible, gentlemen, that he should have died of the plague! He had excellent manners and was very well dressed; it must have been old age-that is all."

  Master Pellegrino's tongue had loosened and he began to address the militia in that soft tone of his which, although he employed it but rarely, sometimes proved highly effective for achieving his ends. Despite his noble features and tall, slim figure-his gentle hands, the easy and slightly stooped carriage of his fifty years, his face framed by flowing white tresses caught up with a ribbon, his vague and languid chestnut eyes-my master was, alas, prey to a bilious and choleric temper and ornamented his discourse with a great wealth of oaths and profanities. Only imminent danger restrained him from giving free rein to his nature on this occasion.

  But no one was listening to him any longer. The young Devize and Pompeo Dulcibeni were called up once again, and stepped forward at once. Our lodgers' eyes shone as the French musician, whose guitar had enchanted them only moments earlier, advanced.

  The men of the Bargello were now eager to be gone and, without even giving Devize and Dulcibeni the time to reach the wall, pushed them to one side, while the officer called, "Signor Eduardus Bedfordi, Englishman, and the Lady… and Cloridia."

  The hasty correction and the vague smile with which the latter name was proffered left no doubt as to the ancient profession exercised by the one and only feminine lodger at the Donzello. About her, I really knew very little, for my master had not housed her among the other guests, but in the little tower, where she enjoyed a separate entrance. In the brief month of her stay, I had only to bring her provisions and wine, and to deliver (in truth, with singular frequency) notes in sealed envelopes which almost never showed the writer's name. Cloridia was quite young; she must have been about my own age. I had sometimes seen her come down into the chambers on the ground floor, and converse-quite charmingly, I must say-with one or other of our lodgers. Judging by her interviews with Master Pellegrino, she seemed intent on taking our hostelry as her fixed dwelling.

  Signor di Bedfordi could not pass unobserved: with fiery red hair and a mantle of little golden freckles over his nose and on his cheeks, and squinting sky-blue eyes such as I had never seen before, he came from the distant British Isles. From what I had heard, this was not his first sojourn at the Donzello: like the glass-blower Brenozzi and Priaso the poet, he had already stayed there in the days of the previous hostess, my master's late cousin.

  Mine was the last name to be
called.

  "He is twenty years old and has not been long in my employ," explained Pellegrino. "At the moment, he is my only apprentice, for at this time of year we have few guests. I know nothing about him, I took him in because he was alone in the world," said my master hurriedly, giving the impression that he wished to distance himself from any responsibility for the infection.

  "Just show him to us, we must close," interrupted the men-at- arms impatiently, unable to identify me.

  Pellegrino caught me by the arm, almost lifting me off the ground.

  "Young man, you're nothing but a sparrow!" sneered the guard, while his companions guffawed.

  From the windows all around, meanwhile, a few heads poked out timidly. The people of the quarter had found out what had happened, but only the most curious tried to draw near. Most kept their distances, already fearing the effects of the contagion.

  The men-at-arms had concluded their mission. The inn had four entrances. Two on the Via dell'Orso: the great main door and the broad entrance next to it-kept open on summer evenings-which gave onto the first of the two dining chambers.

  Then there was the side door which led from the alley directly to the kitchen, and, finally, the little door which led from the entrance hall to the courtyard. All were thoroughly sealed with stout beech planks made fast with nails a half-span long. The same was done to the door that led from Cloridia's little tower to the roof. The windows on the ground floor and the first floor, and those vents that opened onto the pavement from the top of the cellars had already been fitted with grates, and any attempt to escape from the second floor or from under the eaves would have involved the risk of falling or being seen and captured.

  The leader of the Bargello's men, a fat individual with a half- severed ear, gave us our instructions. We were to lower the corpse of poor Signor di Mourai from one of the windows of his chamber after sunrise, when the dead-cart from the Societas Orationis et Mortis would pass by to collect it, and they would see to the burial. We were to be under the surveillance of a Watchman by Day from six of the clock in the morning until ten at night, and a Watchman by Night for the remainder of the time. We would not be able to leave until the safety of the place was duly established and certified, and in any case not before twenty days had expired. During that time, we must periodically answer a roll-call from one of the windows giving on to the Via dell'Orso. We were left a few large goatskins of water, pressed snow, a few round loaves, cheeses, lard, olives, some herbs and a basket of yellow apples. We were to receive a sum with which to pay for our victuals, water and snow. The inn's horses would remain where they were, in the hostler's stables next door.