Canto XXII

I have seen horsemen before, breaking camp,

beginning their assault, and forming ranks,

and sometimes retreating to save themselves.

I have seen scouts riding ahead

I've seen cavalry charge across Arezzo's fields when foragers advance,

seen tournaments clash and jousts thunder past,

sometimes with trumpets blazing, sometimes with church bells ringing,

with war drums beating and castle horns calling,

with familiar banners and foreign standards flying—

but never have I witnessed such grotesque music

as the bagpipe blast that set these horsemen moving,

these foot soldiers marching, this ship sailing

without compass of land or star to guide it.

We walked alongside our ten demon escorts.

What savage company! Yet we must take

saints in the church and gluttons in the tavern—

each fits their proper place.

My attention fixed entirely on the pitch,

desperate to understand this pouch of hell

and study every soul who burned within it.

Like dolphins arching their backs above the waves

to warn sailors their vessel is in danger,

occasionally one of the sinners would surface,

showing his back to ease his pain a moment

before vanishing faster than lightning strikes.

And like frogs squatting at a ditch's edge

with only their snouts breaking the water's surface,

hiding their legs and bodies underneath,

these sinners crouched on every side of the pit.

But whenever Barbariccia approached,

they dove beneath the boiling tar.

I saw—and my heart still shudders at the memory—

one soul lingering as it always happens:

one frog stays while another plunges down.

Graffiacane, positioned closest to him,

hooked the sinner by his pitch-soaked hair

and hauled him up like a dripping otter.

I already knew all their names by then,

having watched carefully when they were chosen

and listened to how they called each other.

"Rubicante! Get your claws on him!

Flay his skin off!" all the demons shrieked together.

"Master," I said, "if you can manage it,

find out who this wretched soul might be,

fallen into his enemies' hands."

My guide moved close beside the prisoner

and asked where he was from. The man replied:

"I was born in the kingdom of Navarre.

My mother made me servant to a lord—

she'd conceived me with a worthless scoundrel

who destroyed both himself and everything he owned.

Later I served good King Thibault's household,

where I learned to practice graft and bribery.

Now I pay for it in this blazing heat."

Ciriatto, whose mouth sprouted tusks

on either side like a wild boar's,

let the sinner feel how sharp they were.

The mouse had stumbled among vicious cats.

But Barbaricchia wrapped him in his arms

and said, "Stand back while I skewer him properly."

Then he turned to my master: "Ask him more,

if you want to learn anything else from him

before someone tears him apart."

My guide continued: "Tell us about the others—

do you know any Italian souls

trapped under this pitch?"

"I just left one," he answered,

"who came from a nearby region.

I wish I were still hidden down there with him!

Then I wouldn't fear these claws and hooks."

Libicocco snarled, "We've heard enough!"

He seized the man's arm with his iron hook

and ripped away a strip of muscle.

Draghignazzo lunged toward his legs,

but their captain spun around,

glaring with murderous eyes.

When they had calmed down somewhat,

my conductor immediately questioned

the soul still staring at his fresh wound:

"Who was this one you mentioned,

whom you left so unluckily

to come up on the shore?"

"That was Friar Gomita of Gallura," he replied,

"a vessel overflowing with every kind of fraud.

He held his lord's enemies in his power

but treated them so well they all rejoiced—

took their money and let them slip away smoothly,

as he tells it. In every other office too

he was no petty grafter but a master.

Don Michael Zanche of Logodoro

keeps him company down there.

Their tongues never tire of gossiping about Sardinia.

Oh no! Look how that one grinds his teeth!

I'd say more, but I'm afraid

he's getting ready to claw my hide."

The grand provost turned to Farfarello,

who was rolling his eyes as if to strike:

"Back off, you filthy bird!"

"If you want to see or hear

Tuscans or Lombards," the terrified soul continued,

"I can make them surface.

But let these Malebranche step aside

so the others won't fear revenge.

Sitting right here in this spot,

for the one I am, I'll bring up seven—

I'll whistle, as we always do

when any of us emerges from the pitch."

At these words Cagnazzo raised his snout,

shaking his head: "Listen to this trick

he's devised to throw himself back down!"

The soul, who carried snares in great abundance,

answered: "Too cunning by far, I am,

when I arrange greater torments for my friends."

Alichino couldn't restrain himself.

Against the others' wishes, he called out:

"If you dive down, I won't chase you at a gallop—

I'll beat my wings above the pitch instead.

Leave the ridge and use the bank as a screen.

Let's see if you alone can outwit us all!"

Reader, you're about to hear a new game!

Each demon turned his eyes toward the other side—

starting with the one most reluctant to play.

The Navarrese chose his moment perfectly:

planted his feet firmly on the ground,

and in one instant leaped free of their trap.

Suddenly every demon stung with shame,

especially the one who'd caused the blunder.

He launched himself, shouting: "You're caught!"

But it did no good—wings cannot outfly fear.

The sinner plunged under while the demon

pulled up, beating his chest in frustration.

Like a duck diving suddenly

when a falcon swoops near,

and the bird of prey wheels back up, angry and exhausted.

Calcabrina, furious at being mocked,

flew close behind, hoping

the sinner would escape so he could start a fight.

When the grafter vanished beneath the surface,

he turned his talons on his fellow demon

and grappled with him right above the moat.

But Alichino proved a fierce hawk himself,

clawing back viciously, and both of them

plummeted into the middle of the boiling pond.

The heat separated them instantly,

but neither could rise again—

their wings were so clogged with tar.

Barbaricchia, lamenting with the others,

ordered four demons to fly to the far side

carrying all their hooks. Very quickly

they descended to posts on both shores,

stretching their grapples toward the pitch-trapped pair

who were already baking in the crust.

And that's how we left them—busy with their work.