Veritas (Atto Melani) (88 page)

“And now, I would add, in mortal danger,” Atto completed.

“But why did the Turks choose to present themselves to Eugene with this sentence? What did they want to communicate?”

“It’s the only question I can’t answer. For the moment.”

We stayed like this, in silence, gazing meditatively at the fire that flared up every so often, taking care that some lapillus should not singe the Abbot’s clothes or mine, which were
hanging there to dry. Soon Atto fell into a doze. The emotions of the last hour had been too much for the old man; it was only surprising that he had not lost his senses entirely the moment the
animals burst into the ball stadium.

I thought back to his sham blindness and smiled. Abbot Melani in his old age had become the classic old skinflint from comedy, hounded by his relatives. Just a few days earlier I had been taken
in myself and had believed Atto’s complaints about his poverty. As I cogitated thus I felt drowsiness stealing over my tired limbs. In this semi-comatose state I went on to think about
Hristo, about the Agha’s phrase and the new meaning we had just discovered. And just as reason was yielding to dream, I had a flash of inspiration.

Now, at last, I knew why the Agha had said that phrase to Eugene.

It was just a question of putting two and two together, thinking of what Cloridia had heard that very morning from Ciezeber, who was looking after the Emperor.

The Ottoman embassy had arrived in great haste from Constantinople, bringing the dervish with them, in order to save the life of His Caesarean Majesty. They had come just in time, the very day
Joseph I had been put to bed. Probably those who were on the Emperor’s side had learned that someone was making an attempt on his life and had asked for help – why not? – from the
Sultan of the powerful empire, the land that possessed medical skills undreamt of in Europe. And the Sultan, who (as Cloridia had understood) had all to gain from Joseph’s good health, had
sent Ciezeber.

Who had summoned the Turks? The answer was obvious: it could only have been Prince Eugene. It was certainly not a coincidence that it was in his palace that the embassy had been welcomed, and
that it was there that the secret encounters took place between the dervish and the Caesarean Proto-Medicus.

Cloridia had hit the nail on the head here too: Eugene should not be counted among the Emperor’s enemies, as Atto believed, but among his few friends, perhaps even the only one.

I had not yet had time to say so to Melani only because he had made it very clear that he did not trust my assistant. At that moment the sound of footsteps outside awoke Atto from his torpor.
Simonis had returned from his reconnaissance.

“Judging by the elephant’s trumpeting, I would say the situation has not improved at all,” announced the Greek.

And so we confronted the event that had triggered off all our recent misadventures: the terrifying wild animals of the Place with No Name.

The incursion of the elephant and the other beasts into the ball stadium had come about because the animals had been channelled into a narrow space behind the stadium: a sort of blind alley,
bordered by the external wall of the stadium, by the eastern keep of the manor house and by another wall. The animals had made their way there by a subterranean passage, which I guessed must lead
to their ditches.

But where had the elephant come from? How was it possible to hide such a giant? We had seen no trace of it in the ditches along with the other beasts!

“There is an opening in the eastern keep as well, Signor Master,” Simonis informed me.

I went over the events in my mind. On two occasions I had perceived the presence of the elephant: first on the great terrace on the upper floor of the manor house, when I had heard the
trumpeting of its trunk, like that of a buccin. The second time was when we had been on the western side of the gallery on the building’s semi-basement level. Evidently the great beast had
its den in the western keep, at the westernmost end of the terrace, just above the gallery where we had heard its footsteps: we had not been able to enter the keep because Frosch had not given us
the key. From here it had passed onto the terrace, then into the entrance halls and finally it had escaped from the manorhouse, turning left to pass under the archway of the
maior domus
.
Once it had reached the eastern courtyard, that of the main entrance, it had deposited an organic evacuation: that was the source of the extraordinarily abundant faeces we had almost run into!

Finding no other way out, the elephant had entered the eastern keep, whose entrance into the courtyard, as I had verified myself, was always open. Inside the keep it had turned immediately
right, entering the passage towards the narrow space behind the ball stadium, where it had met the animals that were emerging from the underground gateway of the ditches. Here the great mass of
beasts of every possible breed, especially of the aggressive and ferocious, mauling kind, must have created a situation of uncontrollable fury. Tigers, lions and bears had found themselves face to
face with the elephant, all crammed tightly together, in a suffocating mêlée. Panic had confused their feral minds, preventing them from finding the only possible solution: to enter
the eastern keep, from which the elephant had emerged, one at a time, and from there to spill out into the main courtyard. The elephant had then resolved the situation by smashing down the door
that led into the ball stadium: hence the sudden explosion of beasts into the arena where the Flying Ship lay. The elephant and the rest of the bestial horde had shattered not only the door but
also the birdcages, unleashing general chaos.

So far, all was clear, but who had let the animals out of their ditches, and the elephant from its hiding place in the western keep? Where had Frosch been? Why had he previously said nothing
about the elephant’s existence? And how the devil had that colossus ended up in one of the keeps of Neugebäu?

Half an hour later we were inside the Pennal’s cart, which we had intercepted on the road as it headed punctually towards the agreed meeting place: we wanted to avoid
getting too close to the walls of the Place with No Name. A pleasant surprise awaited us: Penicek had stretched a robust tarpaulin over his cart to protect it from the rain. He appeared rather
taken aback to meet us there, with the Abbot exhausted and wigless. After bidding us climb in, he set off again without asking too many questions; Simonis saw to that, mistreating him as usual, so
he did not dare to open his mouth.

As the cart set off, I wondered what had happened to Frosch. He would certainly get into trouble if he could not justify his absence at the moment the animals were released from their cages.

“I will have to report to the imperial chamber what has happened here today,” I said to Simonis. “As always in such cases, they’ll come here for an inspection tomorrow
and we’ll have to be here too. They’ll ask us a lot of questions, but as Master Chimney-sweep by court licence I can’t keep quiet about this affair.”

“I’ll come too,” Atto said swiftly.

I guessed why. The Abbot was not willing to leave Vienna without finding out more about the Flying Ship: if he could report something specific to the Most Christian King, his journey to the
Caesarean city would be crowned by at least one success. I did not protest; it was useless to oppose the Abbot’s obstinacy. And in any case no one would suspect a blind, decrepit old man.
Dressing him in shabby clothes, with no make-up or wig, I would present him as a relative I was looking after.

“All right, Signor Atto,” I replied simply.

While the Pennal’s trap rumbled along slowly on account of the mud, with a new storm raging furiously, we picked up a peasant on the road.

As soon as he got in, gesticulating and yelling in a thick and almost incomprehensible dialect, the yokel explained that he had just seen a lion rampaging around and that was why he had asked
for a ride. We feigned utter incredulity: unbelievable, a lion in this area? The man then explained that one of the wild beasts from Neugebäu, which were part of the castle’s attractions
for visitors, must have escaped from its keeper. We evinced further surprise at the news that Neugebäu contained not just one but numerous ferocious animals. The peasant, maybe to relieve the
terror of his encounter with the lion, took pleasure in amazing us and said that, according to rumours in the countryside nearby, at Neugebäu there was even an elephant.

We opened our eyes wide in amazement and asked him to explain. He told us that Emperor Maximilian II, who had founded Neugebäu, had been presented with an elephant from Africa. Maximilian
had arranged for it to travel overland from Spain to Vienna, thus giving the Germanic peoples their first opportunity to admire the breed of elephantine pachyderms. The beast had so impressed the
Germans and Austrians that each of the numerous inns where it had halted had taken on the name of “Elephant Inn”. With rustic ingenuousness the peasant told us that when it came to
Vienna, the pachyderm had not only surprised the onlookers but also moved them: among the admirers was a young mother, who in her amazement dropped her newborn baby; amid the yells of the crowd the
elephant picked up the little child with its trunk and returned it to its mother’s arms. Maximilian had first placed the elephant in a purpose-built menagerie at Ebersdorf, near the Place
with No Name. But then, in December 1553, the beast had died, and a chair, made from its left front leg, was all that remained of it. All? No, not quite all, the peasant corrected himself. Before
dying the elephant had proved itself to be an elephantess, giving birth (a very rare event, apparently, among these pachydermic colossi) to a beautiful pair of “calves”. Now, the keeper
of the elephantess – the great-grandfather of the present keeper at Neugebäu – believing that the elephantess’s death had been caused by the excessive strain of the
Emperor’s court ceremonial, felt sorry for the two exotic orphans. Fearing that sooner or later someone would come and take them away from their comfortable quarters at Ebersdorf, and put
their lives at risk, he said not a word about the birth and moved the two little elephants into a stable in the countryside nearby, where he raised them, with the help of relatives, in great
secrecy. After Maximilian’s death the two little ones (in a manner of speaking) were transferred to the manor house of Neugebäu, which, after its creator’s death, had fallen into
neglect and decay. Their fate seemed to be sealed: victims and protagonists of a secret scheme, the two little elephants were destined to die alone and in secret in the gloom of the Place with No
Name. But since Mother Nature is boundless in her mercy, among animals even incestuous love is permitted and can be fruitful: the two elephants were brother and sister, and their first youthful
effusions resulted in a fine little male offspring, now kept at Neugebäu, healthy, lively and vigorous of character. Now, of course it was getting on in years, but it still possessed a notable
temper.

“So we noticed,” I was about to remark, thinking of the terrifying roar that had accompanied its incursion into the ball stadium, but I managed to keep my mouth shut.

“And the two parents? Did they die?” asked Simonis.

“They were stolen during the Thirty Years’ War. To be eaten. There was a famine,” the peasant answered laconically.

Atto, Simonis and I all started in surprise. Pater Abraham from Sancta Clara was right: the Viennese appetite being what it was, no animal could feel safe in this city.

“Talking about dead people,” the peasant said, “today they found one in the woods, up north.”

“Oh yes? Where?” I asked.

“At the Two Hanged Men.”

I gasped with surprise. The peasant noticed.

“Don’t you know the place? It’s near Salmannsdorf.”

Having left our passenger at a crossroads, we did not think twice. We had got him to explain, eventually, where and what the Two Hanged Men were: a clearing in the Viennese
woods, to the north. It was called that, he explained, because they had once found the swinging corpses of two men executed on a gallows there, probably two brigands.