"Not a thing."
"Well, that's because you don't know cant, or slang. 'The hunchback' means 'I', 'corn' means 'afraid' and 'the first of May' is God."
"So 'I'm not afraid of God'," said I, astonished by the obscurity of that short sentence which seemed so well suited to a cerretano.
"And that's only an example. I know it only because we sergeants do manage to pick up something. But never enough. The cerretano said something to you which you couldn't understand, is that not so?
"If I remember, it was something like… teevooteedie, teeyootiffie, no, teeyooteelie or something like that."
"That must be another kind of cant. I really don't know how it works, I've never even heard it spoken. I only know that sometimes the vagabonds use normal words but mix them all up, twist them about and complicate them using a secret method which few people know," said he, twisting, untwisting, tapping and squeezing his fingers one against the other, the better to illustrate the concept, "and you can't understand a word of it."
"So how the deuce are we to know what the cerretano said? We do not even have any way of continuing our investigations and finding Abbot Melani's papers," said I with ill-concealed disappointment.
"We must be patient, and besides, matters are not exactly as you say. We do at least know now that someone is collecting these strange instruments with which one can see large or small, mackeroscopps, spyglasses et cetera, and that he has a passion for relics. We can look for Chiavarino, but he'll already have moved to another house. He's a dangerous fellow, 'tis best to keep well away from him. The track to follow is that of the cerretani."
"It seems no less dangerous."
"That's true. But it does lead directly to the German."
"Do you think it was he who stole Abbot Melani's papers?"
"I believe in facts. And this is the only trail we have to follow."
"Do you have any idea of how we proceed from here?"
"Of course. But we shall have to wait until tomorrow night. Some things cannot be done by day."
Meanwhile, we had returned to our horses. We separated: this time too Sfasciamonti had some chores to do on behalf of his mother. Since I was still in shock following my dreadful adventure, the catchpoll thought it would be better if I returned to Villa Spada on foot; he would see to the return of both our mounts.
So it was that, still stinking and rotten but at least not shameful to behold, I made my way towards the San Pancrazio Gate. At that early hour, the city was overflowing with pilgrims, pedlars, prentices, maidservants, swindlers, strollers and tradesmen. Every little alleyway was animated by washerwomen's songs, children's cries, the barking of stray dogs, street vendors' calls, as well as the curses of coachmen whenever some wobbling cart delivering dairy products cut across the path of their carriage. In the markets of each quarter, those great theatres in which the city of St Peter renews its rites each day, the festive chaos of the morning was turning into a spectacle: the fluttering black of an apostolic pronotary's gown set off the green of lettuces, a cleric's dark cloak strove to upstage the orange of fresh carrots, the perplexed eyes of dead fish scrutinised the eternal human comedy from fishmongers' counters.
I was near Via Giulia, immersed in this disorderly stream of humanity, goods and vehicles, when I came upon an even denser assembly. I made my way as well as I could, more concerned to get through than to look at what was going on. In the end, however, I found my progress blocked and tiptoed to see what this was all about. At the centre of the crowd stood a sinister figure, his long hair gathered into a ponytail, and, on his bare breast, a large bluish sign in the form of a viper. But it was around his neck that there squirmed, slimy and treacherous, a real serpent. The public observed its contortions, at once fascinated and frightened. The young man began to whine a sort of dirge; the coluber twisted rhythmically, following the intonation and rhythm of the chant and arousing the audience's amazement. Now and again, the mummer would stop and in a low voice utter some arcane formula which had the power to halt the reptile's contortions; the animal would freeze suddenly, tense and rigid, and would come back to life only when the chant began again. Suddenly, the young man seized the creature's head and thrust a finger into its jaws, which closed on it at once. He withstood the pain a few moments then withdrew his finger. He then began to distribute a few little jars filled with a reddish ointment, explaining that this was serpent's earth, the most perfect of antidotes which, if one is bitten by a snake, counteracts the venom so that one suffers no pain whatever. The nearby onlookers threw small coins in large quantities into the straw hat at the fellow's feet.
I looked questioningly at my neighbour, a lad who was grasping a large bread-making mould.
"He's a sanpaolaro" said he.
"And what does that mean?"
"Saint Paul one day bestowed grace on a certain family, promising them that none of their members and descendants would ever need fear a serpent's venom. In order to be distinguished from others, the descendants of that family are all born with the sign of a serpent on their body and are known as sanpaolari."
Behind our backs, an old man interrupted.
"All balderdash! They catch the snakes in winter when they've little strength and almost no venom. Then they purge them and keep them on a starvation diet, so that they become soft and obedient."
In the group pressing around the sanpaolaro the old man's words had been clearly overheard; some heads turned.
"I know all these tricks," the old man continued. "The sign of the serpent is made by pricking oneself in several places with a very fine needle, then rubbing on one's skin a paste made of soot and the juice of herbs."
Other heads, distracted from the spectacle, turned towards the old man. But just at that moment, a cry went up.
"My purse! I have it no more! They've cut it!"
A little woman who until that moment had been staring at the spectacle of the sanpaolaro almost as though she had been hypnotised, was expostulating desperately. Someone had cut the string which she wore around her neck and had made off with her purse and all her money for the day. The group of spectators turned into an uncontrollable magma, in which everyone twisted around to make sure that nothing was missing (purses, necklaces, brooches).
"There, I knew it," said the old man, guffawing, "the sanpaolaro's friend found what he wanted."
I turned towards the man who until that moment had been drawing all our attention. Taking advantage of the general confusion, the sanpaolaro (if he merited the name) had vanished.
"With his accomplice, of course," added the old man.
Resuming my walk, my humour had darkened. I too had not realised that the serpent was only a means of attracting a few unsuspecting victims while an accomplice of the sanpaolaro looked after the business of relieving them of their money. Two real virtuosi of the art of theft, thought I: as soon as things became uncomfortable, they had vanished like snow in the sunshine. And what if they too were cerretani. Sfasciamonti had said that every cerretano was a beggar and that begging was the most profitable trade in the world. Did he perhaps also mean that every beggar, rogue or vagrant was also a cerretano? If that were the case, the prospect would be terrifying: without realising it I had been offering alms to an army of criminals who held the city under their control.
I abandoned these notions, which seemed too fanciful, and my thoughts returned to my fall and the horrible death which I had just faced. What had saved my life? The prayer of the pilgrims in procession or the cart full of manure? The dung had undoubtedly been the immediate cause of my salvation. Was I then indebted to good fortune? And yet, I had opened my eyes to the passing of the pious procession of pilgrims, to whose chants I had miraculously reawakened. Had I thus been touched by grace through the merit of the innocent vows of love and charity of that cortege of the faithful come from afar?