"Where's Sfasciamonti?" I asked anxiously.
"Fast asleep."
"And Buvat?"
"In his little room. And snoring, to boot."
"I do not understand," I said, sitting up for the first time; "why did they not arrest us?"
"From what your catchpoll friend told us, you have been extremely lucky. Sfasciamonti threw himself at the sampietrino who was about to get into the ball, knocking you down in the process. After that, he disarmed him and, with a few kicks and punches, left him very much the worse for wear. Then he hoisted you onto his shoulders and carried you back down, without too much trouble, seeing his size. When he got there, nobody saw him. It was daybreak and there was not a soul about. Probably all the guards on duty had run after Buvat."
"After Buvat?"
"Yes, indeed. He took to his legs the moment they began to follow you, up on the terrace."
"What?" I exclaimed in astonishment, "I thought he had come up with us all the way to the…"
"Despite himself, he was quite brilliant. Instead of following you when you ran up the stairs towards the cupola, he turned and ran back down the stairs you had come from. One of the sampietrini who had been following you, a little fellow — oh, pardon me — followed him," explained the Abbot, excusing himself for his gaffe about my height. "But Buvat has long legs and he couldn't see him for dust. He ran out of Saint Peter's like greased lightning and no one even managed to get a glimpse of his face, he left them all standing. Then, typically enough, he got lost on the way back from Saint Peter's and arrived only a little while before you."
I was shocked through and through. I was convinced that I had two allies in my perilous rush up to the ball of Saint Peter's, but one had shamefully deserted while the other had collapsed on top of me.
"I know you bore yourself magnificently, you attained your goal."
"Your treatise on the Secrets of the Conclave!" I burst out. "Did Sfasciamonti give it to you?"
Atto's features became gently disconsolate:
"That was not possible. When he was carrying you, the book slipped out from your breeches and flew down. If I have understood correctly, it landed on a part of the terrace too far off to risk going there. He had to choose between safety and my treatise. He could not, I imagine, do otherwise."
"I don't understand… It had all gone so well, then… It is absurd," 1 commented, thoroughly distressed. "And then, why did he bring me here instead of taking me home?"
"Simple: he does not know where you live."
Still somewhat groggy, I had to wait for the stupor and disappointment beclouding my soul to settle. That dangerous chase, the fatigue, the fear… All for nothing. We had lost Atto's book. Then a vague memory came to me.
"Signor Atto, while I slept, I heard you talking."
"Perhaps I was thinking aloud."
"You said something about unexplained deaths, conspiracies of state… well, something of the sort."
"Really? I don't remember. But now you must get some rest, my boy, if you so desire," said he, standing up and moving towards the door.
"Will you be going into town with the other guests to visit the Palazzo Spada?"
"No."
"Will you really not go?" I asked, imagining that Atto might be afraid of meeting Albani. By then, some sampietrino at Zabaglio's orders might have recovered Atto's tome and be handing it over to the cerretani, who would in turn give it to the Grand Legator, namely Lamberg, who would hand it to the Secretary for Breves.
"It is not the moment for that," Atto replied. "I should love to examine the marvels of Palazzo Spada by the light of day, but we have other far more urgent matters to worry about."
The weather turned a little grey. A sudden gust of hot wind lashed our faces as soon as we entered the spiral staircase to the terrace of the Vessel.
Our preparations for this incursion had taken quite some time. Among the many possibilities, we had in the end opted for the essentials: Atto's pistol, a long dagger, which I had stuffed into my breeches; and, last of all, a net, one of those used during the merry hunt three days before. Thus we were equipped to hold the creature at bay, to injure him if there should — oh horror! — be hand-to-hand fighting, or even act like retiarii in the gladiatorial ring, trapping him under the net.
We stood outside the little penthouse, our legs almost rigid with fear. After exchanging looks of reciprocal encouragement,
Atto advanced first, turned the handle and pushed the door open. Within, shadows and silence.
For a moment we neither spoke nor moved.
"I shall go ahead," said Melani at length, drawing his pistol and making sure that it was ready to fire.
I responded by brandishing the dagger and, spreading the net lightly across my left shoulder, I readied myself to throw it at the first opportunity.
Atto entered. Hardly had he crossed the threshold than he backed against the left door jamb, so as to reduce the number of directions from which he could be attacked. With one arm, he motioned me to advance. I obeyed.
So it was that I found myself once more in the monster's den, shoulder to shoulder with Atto. Panting and by no means any longer feline in his movements, the Abbot was, despite his advanced age and declining eyesight, as leonine as ever, behaving like the foremost among the King's musketeers.
The light was faint because of the smoked glass, and this time the passing clouds made it even dimmer than on the previous occasion. In the middle of the little building there were, as I remembered, two small pillars.
If it was there, it was well hidden.
A sharp pain made me jump. To catch my attention, Atto had jabbed me in the side with his elbow.
Then I saw it.
In the opposite corner, beyond the two pillars and close to the right-hand window, something had moved on the wall. Something rather like an arm, horribly deformed, and covered with a sort of scaly, serpentine skin seemed to emerge from the wall and had reacted to Atto's dig in my ribs. The beast was there.
Our view was partially obstructed by the two columns; we would need to get closer in order to understand what part of the monster had really moved and, above all, what it was doing so bizarrely stuck into the wall.
"Keep still. Don't make a move," whispered Abbot Melani, almost inaudibly.
A minute passed, maybe two, in total immobility. The Tetrachion's arm had ceased to move, as had its monstrous hand. The door was open. Both we and the creature could have broken and run. Whether out of courage or fear, neither dared resolve so to do. The air was humid because of leaks in the ceiling and the whole of the tight space seemed to be incrusted with saltpetre. Our bated breath seemed to make the atmosphere even damper, as did the heavy all- pervading silence, the materialised, fleshed-out fear.
While all this was happening (in reality, nothing whatever, save the storm in our hearts) I was fighting another battle. I was doing all I could, yet, despite the gravity of the moment, I knew that sooner or later I would have to give in. I absolutely had to, and yet I could not. In the end, I surrendered. I simply had to scratch my nose if I wanted to avoid something even worse — a sneeze. And I did so.
Never could any expression in human language convey the feeling of desperate amazement which seized me when I saw the monster's hand imitate mine in perfect synchrony, rising to its horrid face, which remained hidden behind the two small pillars. A terrible doubt came over me.
"Did you see?" I whispered to Atto.
"It moved," he replied in alarm.
I wanted to perform a second test. I freed the fingers of the same hand and made them flutter gaily. Then I moved a leg back and forth, rhythmically. At length, under Atto's stupefied gaze, I left my place and advanced towards the two pillars to look, free from all obstacles material or of the spirit, upon the mystery which had so cruelly enchained us.