On the morning of July 6, 1546, in my twenty-sixth year, I left Rome with my faithful companion Nicholas. My gold was sewn up in my neck collar, the chain in my small clothes. In the way of luggage I had a small satchel containing a shirt and the poems composed by my brother at Spires and in Rome; slung across my shoulders I wore a kind of strap to which I tied my cloak in the day. I had my sword by my side and a rosary dangling from the belt, like a soldier joining his regiment. We had agreed (it being a question of life and death) that I should pretend to be dumb; hence Nicholas did not stir from my side for a moment wherever I went. The landsknechten, who spoke to me on the road without receiving an answer, were informed by him of my pretended infirmity. "What a pity," they said; "and such a handsome fellow, too. Never mind," they added, "he'll none the less split those brigands of Lutherans lengthwise." "You may be sure of that," replied my comrade, and thanks to this stratagem we got across the lines of the Welch soldiery.
On the morning after our leaving Rome, Duke Octavius went by, posting. He was accompanied by five people. When we got to Ronciglione, about two miles from Viterbo, we made up our minds to sup there, and go to bed afterwards, in order to arrive early in the city fresh and hearty, though not before daylight, inasmuch as we wanted to lay in a stock of things. Scarcely had we sat down to table when a turbulent crowd of soldiers invaded the inn; the host told us to remain quiet, for he was shaking in his shoes for himself. The bandits commenced by flinging him out of his own door; the larder was pillaged, and after having drunk to their heart's content, they staved in the barrels and swamped the cellars with the wine. It was an abominable bit of business and unquestionably the Welch, and Latin mercenaries are greater ruffians than the German landsknechten; at any rate, if we are to judge from what they did in a friendly country, and virtually under the very eyes of the pope. They invited us to accompany them to Viterbo, in spite of Nicholas pointing out to them that night was coming on apace, and that the gates would be shut. "We'll get in for all that," they said. We were bound to follow them. We got there about midnight, and they were challenged by the guard. "Who goes there?" he asked. "Soldiers of Duke Octavius," was the answer, and thereupon the gate was opened.
I recommend the following to the meditation of my children; let them compare my adventure with that of Simon Grynaeus, related at length in the writings of Philip Melanchthon, Selneccerus, Camerarius, Manlius and other learned personages. In 1529 Grynaeus, then professor of mathematics at Heidelberg, came to see Melanchthon at the diet of Spires; he heard Faber, one of his old acquaintances, emit from the pulpit many errors in connexion with transubstantiation. Having gone up to him when they came out of church, they started a discussion, and Faber, on the pretext of wishing to resume it, invited him to come to his inn the next morning. Melanchthon and his friends dissuaded Grynaeus from going. The next day, at the dinner hour, a weakly-looking old man stopped Manlius at the entrance to the hall asking him where Grynaeus was to be found, the process-servers, according to him, being on the look out to arrest him. Thereupon the various learned men who had foregathered there immediately conducted Grynaeus out of the town, and waited on the banks until he had crossed the Rhine; they had come upon the law-officers three or four houses away from the inn; luckily the latter neither knew them nor Grynaeus. As for the old man, there was no further trace of him; they made sure it was an angel. I myself am inclined to think it was some pious Nicodemus who, having got wind of the wicked designs of Faber, made it his business to frustrate them without compromising himself. Now for my own adventure.
We entered Viterbo in the middle of the night. Prudence dictated the avoidance of the mercenaries' lodgings, for a meeting with Petrus would have been fatal to us; as it happened, the soldiers swarmed everywhere. Wandering from house to house, and devoured with anxiety, we invoked the Lord, our last hope. And behold a man of forty and of excellent appearance accosted us. We had never seen him, and not a syllable had fallen from our lips. We were dressed in the Welch fashion; everybody, even in plain daylight, would have taken us for soldiers. Well, without the slightest preamble, he addressed us in our own language. "You are Germans," he said, "and in a Welch country; don't forget it. If the podesta lays hold of you, it means the strappado, and perhaps worse. You are making for Germany." (How did he know, except by reading our thoughts?) "Let me put you into the right road." Dumb with astonishment, we followed him in silence as far as the gates of the town; he exchanged a few words with the custodian, who, in his own gibberish, said to us: "For the love of you, friends, I'll disobey my orders, which expressly forbid me to open the gates before dawn. You'll find nothing in the faubourg, I warn you; the soldiers have pillaged and burnt everything, but you'll not die for being obliged to do one night without food and drink." Saying which he showed us out and promptly shut the gates upon us.
Who had been our guide? I am still asking myself the question. As for us, reassured by the consciousness of the Divine presence; and in our hearts we gave praise for this miraculous deliverance. The faubourg, destroyed by fire, was simply a mass of ruins. We slept in the open air on the straw of a barn where the wheat is threshed out by oxen and horses. It was daylight when we opened our eyes, and the first thing we saw was a gallows. Towards midday we got as far as Montefiascone, a pretty town famed for its Muscat wine. Thanks be to God, we continued our journey without being again alarmed, and we did not catch sight of any mercenaries until we came to Bologna.
We halted at Montefiascone until the evening and enjoyed the roast fowls and savoury dishes, but the oppressive heat interfered with our appetite, though the bottle was more frequently appealed to. A story is told a of traveller who was in the habit of getting his servant to taste the wine at every hostelry they stopped.[[36]] "Est," said the latter if the wine was bad, "Est, Est" if it was passable, "Est, Est, Est" if it was good. And his master either continued his route or dismounted according to the signal. At Montefiascone, however, the servant did not fail to cry: "Est, Est, Est," and his master drank so long as to contract an inflammation, of which he died. When the relatives inquired about the cause of his death, the servant replied: "Est, est, est facit quod dominus meus hic jacet," and in his grief he kept repeating: "O Est, est, est, dominus meus mortuus est."
On July 9 we reached Acquapendente, where my brother died, I visited the church without being able to discover his burial place. To ask questions would have been tantamount to betraying ourselves, considering that the Germans were the butt of public hatred.
Sienna, an important town with a celebrated university, is called Siena Virgo, though it lost its virginity long ago. From a neighbouring mountain one notices two small burghs; the one is called Cent, the other Nonagent. The pope being at Sienna, a monk undertook to show him Centum nonaginta civitates. When he got his Holiness to the top he showed him the two places in question.
Lovely Florence is the pearl of Italy. At the entrance to each town they said to us, "Liga la spada" (Tie the hilt to the sheath). At Florence we had to give up our weapons. If we had only crossed the city a man would have accompanied us to restore them at the other gate, but on our declaring that we were going to stay until the evening our swords were taken from us, and the hilts provided with a wooden label, part of which they gave us to keep. Besides, some one came into the city with us, and, among other useful information, showed us a beautiful hostelry where they treated us remarkably well for our money. A magnificent palace, a church entirely constructed of variegated marble, adjusted with marvellous skill and art, a dozen lions and lionesses, two tigers and an eagle, that is all I remember. There were ever so many other curiosities to see, but our heads were full of Germany. When the heat of the day abated we pursued our journey; our arms were restored to us on our presenting part of the label.
After having crossed Mount Scarperia, which fully deserves its name, seeing that it constitutes the most fatal passage of Italy to shoeleather and feet, we got to Bologna in the morning of July 13. Bologna is a big city belonging to the pope (Bononia grassa, Padua la passa), and endowed with a famous university. The town was teeming with mercenaries, so we were not particularly anxious to stop in it.