"Teeyouteelie," he hissed, and I seemed to sense in his voice a subtle and melancholy note of reproof.
He turned again to one side, then to the other, and in the end he began to rock rhythmically ever more rapidly. He was having convulsions. I had decided to help him rise, when he was shaken by a most violent spasm, recovered briefly, then was seized by unstoppable trembling. His mouth tightly closed, the muscles of his neck so tense it seemed they might snap, he appeared to be on the point of suffocating. Without warning, he sat up and opened wide his jaws from which flowed a thick yellowish froth which horribly fouled his chest and belly; I drew back in shock and disgust. His pupils rolled back in his eye sockets, as though to turn his gaze towards some parallel universe of desperation and solitude which only he truly understood. He again held out his trembling and wrinkled hand. I felt in my pocket: there was nothing but a one scudo piece in it: a disproportionately large sum for almsgiving. I was about to tell him that I had nothing to give him when, as though he had read my thoughts, he again growled:
"Teeyouteelie."
It was then that the unthinkable happened. On the wall behind the old man I saw a rapid, rapacious shadow suddenly lengthen. A flying creature (a vampire or perhaps a demon come to punish my avarice?) was above our heads and on the point of attacking. I had no time to turn around and already I felt the air turbulent above me, the tips of the creature's wings brushing my ears, its claws sinking painfully into the soft flesh of my shoulders. I turned, but this was an ill-judged move: the flying beast was firmly ensconced on my shoulder and any attempt to distance myself from it would have been as useless as to try to bite my own ear. I struggled to drive it off with my hands but it left my shoulder and this time sank its talons into my face. I had by now forgotten the old man with his tortured body and his mouth vomiting forth its foul froth. I tried to scream, but the sharp claws of the flying beast were clamped over my lips. Yet, I could hear a voice, a strangled sound:
"Arrest him! ARREST HIM!"
It was only at that point in the dream (or rather nightmare) that I came to my senses. I brushed my face with my forearm and thought it had not been such a good idea to sleep with the window open. I felt his body, halfway between a chicken's and a little owl's, beat a hasty retreat, seeking to perch elsewhere. It was day; sunlight filled the room, flooding it with its beneficent rays.
He had found a perch on the back of a chair. I stared angrily at him. Not only had he entered without permission but while I was sleeping he had walked, first on my shoulder, then on my face, thus invading not only my bedchamber but my dream, disagreeable as it already was. He gazed obliquely at me, with his usual mixture of effrontery and doubt.
"My dream was true. You really are a monstrous being. How could you wake me up like this?"
Caesar Augustus did not answer.
Our return from the Ponte Sisto prison the night before had been swift and had passed without a word of comment; all three of us — Atto, the catchpoll and I — were too tired to utter another word. What was more, we knew that we would not be able to resume our investigations before the following evening, so that our taste for action was distinctly cooled by the inevitable wait.
Fatigued as I was, I did not need to wait long to fall asleep. The all-too-brief repose 1 gained was soon spoiled by the dream vision of that decrepit beggar, obviously suggested by Il Roscio's confession. Ah yes, said I to myself, that old man reminded me of the Tawneymen who, to obtain alms, feign lunacy, frenzy and possession by devils; and roll on the ground after eating a mixture containing soap; but also the Dommerers who wear heavy iron chains around their necks…
"De minimis non curat Papa? screeched the parrot, interrupting my reminiscences.
"I know^that the Pope does not deal with trifles… Ha, ha, and thanks for comparing me to His Holiness. I know, I know, I must provide feed for the aviary, nor do I regard that as a trifle," I retorted while rising and seeking my clothes. "If you'll only give me time to get ready."
Caesar Augustus glided lazily towards the still open window. I noticed that in his right talon he held a little bundle of twigs, something which I had often noticed in recent times. Obviously, it was not given to me to know what he was up to.
He stood a few more minutes on the windowsill, then flew off towards the villa's vineyards. While I was closing the shutters before leaving the room, I noticed another sign of Caesar Augustus's unusual behaviour: a half-liquid ochre-coloured mess in the middle of which were fragments of grain and apple pips. He was by no means in the habit of defecating in such an unsuitable place, on the window-sill. Caesar Augustus must really be very nervous.
After attending to my regular duty in the aviary, I decided to take advantage of the state of semi-liberty which the service of Atto Melani accorded me and took a short break. Atto and Buvat had not yet come to look for me, and Sfasciamonti was probably busy at his usual work as guardian of the Villa Spada's security. I sought Cloridia but learned that she was in the apartments of the Princess of Forano; the Princess was dressing and it was not for the time being possible to free my consort from her duties. Somewhat frustrated by this impediment, I filched an apple from the kitchens, chewing which I moved surreptitiously away from the Villa Spada.
As I was entering the avenue leading to the front gate, I heard a familiar voice in the distance.
"The Master of the Fowls, find me the Master of the Fowls! Is no one working here today?"
Don Paschatio, doubtless let down once more by some of his workmen, was seeking me to fill in for them.
This was, I decided, not the right day on which to make myself available. Last night's sounds and images still echoed in my head; Sfasciamonti's assault on the old beggar in the Piazza della Rotonda; the imprudent inspection of the beggars' dormitory at Termine; lastly, the chase after the cerretano and the interrogation of his accomplice, II Roscio, at the prison of Ponte Sisto; all of which events, quite apart from giving rise to the nightmare visions which had met me at dawn, had left marks of anxiety even during my first waking hours. To forget all those misadventures, said I to myself, there could be no better remedy than a calm promenade in town.
I did not, however, wish to go too far and so I first walked downhill towards the Via della Scala, turning right there and then left, wandering between Piazza de' Rienzi and Santa Maria in Trastevere.
A company of pilgrims, preceded by the standard of their city and attired in long black cloaks, was advancing towards the Basilica of St Paul chanting a hymn of praise to the Virgin.
The little procession wended its way through narrow streets and damp alleyways where small shops overflowing with every kind of merchandise and taverns reeking of cheap wine and roast meat opened wide their inviting doors, as though almost tugging at the arm of the passer-by. The fagades of the surrounding houses hid their shame and wretchedness behind long rows of white cloths, hanging from window to window and dripping icy water onto the heads of pedestrians, while Trastevere's sleepy thoroughfares were trampled by cartwheels, the feet of children at play and the hooves of donkeys resignedly heaving their burdens.
On entering Piazza San Callisto, I heard what I can only describe as some miaowing music gradually draw nearer, while a great multitude of people came towards me. At the head of the crowd were two middle-aged men, dirty and badly dressed, who advanced painfully, leaning on walking sticks. I noticed with a certain disquiet that both had their eyeballs turned inwards, like the old man of whom I'd dreamed at dawn. Between the pair and holding each by the arm was a companion no less filthy and unpresentable, also using a stick and displaying a very obvious limp. Immediately behind, there followed a fiddler, filling the street with the insinuating melancholy of a chaconne. There followed other ragged tramps, almost all blind or crippled. Beggars, always beggars. For years I had lived in Rome in their company, without ever paying much attention to them. Now, since the return of Atto Melani, they had suddenly become not only important, but very important to me! I therefore stood aside, the better to observe the procession. The two blind men at the head of the group held a snuff box and a bowl respectively, both made of silver, and chanted in lamentable counterpoint with the sound of the fiddle.