The book of characters

A ginger cat who simply can't sit still on full-moon nights. He runs from rooftop to rooftop right across Rome with one thing on his mind: mice. And at the end of the journey, in front of the dome of St. Peter's, he has a date at dawn.

White with grey and cream patches, and a red bow round her neck. She sits waiting at the end of the last rooftop of St. Peter's, the dawn rooftop. The game hasn't given her a name yet: for now she is simply her.

Scares nobody: it's your own cat, whoever you picked in the shop, when their last run ends in a gap between the rooftops. Every cat has a ghost with their own fur, floating back up out of the dark and looking like they really didn't see that coming.

Rome's most famous cat colony lives among the ruins of Largo Argentina, a stone's throw from the Pantheon. A tabby, a black-and-white and a ginger: rooftop veterans who can spot a colleague in trouble at a glance.

Lord of the brick rooftops. He sleeps curled up among chimneys and TV aerials and really doesn't want to be bothered, especially not by a ginger cat in a hurry.

In Testaccio and Trastevere there is always a rug that needs a good beating. And somehow she always leans out just as a cat runs by.

Testaccio is AS Roma's neighbourhood, and it shows: there is always someone on the rooftops waving a yellow and red flag. The bearded guy, the girl and the grandpa cheer for anyone who runs by, cats included.

Sitting on his stool with his case open at his feet, he plays serenades with his eyes closed under the Trastevere moon. If his audience is made of cats, he doesn't mind.

She in a polka-dot dress, he with an ice cream: on the rooftops of Trastevere, gazing at the moon. Rosso, who has a date at dawn himself, understands them perfectly.

Shiny, curled moustache, a menu in one hand and a tray of supplì in the other: next to every table in Trastevere, there he is, inviting people to sit down. Shame his most interested customer is a cat.

Sunglasses on her head and shopping bags on both arms: she struts up and down the rooftops of Trinità dei Monti as if on a catwalk. And tonight, the catwalk is hers.

Straw hat, flowery shirt, sunglasses and a selfie stick always at the ready. Alone or in pairs, they are after the perfect shot in front of the monuments, from Trinità dei Monti all the way to St. Peter's.

They follow the guide with their noses in the air and phones in hand, photographing everything in sight. In most neighbourhoods they are just background; at St. Peter's, though, they are right there on your rooftop.

Short, round and with a helmet that never sits straight, he poses for photos outside the Colosseum. On his breaks, though, he has just one passion: his panino. He has planted his sword beside him and thinks of nothing else.

Tall, lanky, square-jawed, with a steel helmet and a red crest worn sideways. He guards the Colosseum like a man in command of a legion, and raises his sword every few seconds, precise as clockwork.

Badge round her neck, round glasses and a yellow umbrella always held high so the group doesn't lose her. She talks about St. Peter's with passion to a group that only cares about photos.

Blue, yellow and red striped uniform, a feathered helmet and a halberd (an axe blade on a long pole) in hand: he guards the rooftops of St. Peter's with a dead-serious face. And he raises that halberd right on time, punctual as the bells.

Smart grey suit, an election-poster smile and a microphone always in hand: even at night, on the terraces between the Pantheon and the Trevi Fountain, he waves to a crowd that isn't there. He never goes anywhere without his bodyguards.

Black suits, dark glasses even at midnight and an earpiece each: two guys built like wardrobes who never take their eyes off the politician. As for the cat, they don't care, until he causes trouble.

Orange helmet, hoodie and an electric scooter that really has no business being on a roof. He only comes out while Rome sleeps, in the Dead of Night after dawn, and zooms from roof to roof as if it were a racetrack.

Grey, with pink ears and a red nose: the reason Rosso goes out every night. There are mice on every rooftop in Rome, and they never sit still.

The most common Roman after tourists. It sits on the rooftops cooing away, until it sees a cat coming at full speed.

Small, quick and always in threes. They fly high above the rooftops, bobbing along, as if daring the cat to catch them.

Around Castel Sant'Angelo at night, the sparrows are asleep and the sky belongs to the bats. They know the same tricks: they fly in threes, high and bobbing.

Rose-ringed parakeets have been Romans for generations now, and their favourite spot is the trees above Trinità dei Monti. They fly in pairs, green as the leaves, trilling as they go.

The true master of the Roman sky. Big, loud and bossy, it can't stand anyone running on its rooftops: it gives a warning screech and then dives.

Grey and black, with a mean stare: among the ruins of the Colosseum, the crow is in charge. It doesn't dive like the seagull: it flies low and straight, right at the cat's height.