Secretum E-Book

Rita Monaldi

• Herausgeber: Polygon
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2012

Seitenzahl: 1486

Beschreibung

July, 1700, Rome. Atto Melani - once a celebrated castrato soprano, now a spy in the service of King Louis XIV, the Sun King - mingles with other high-ranking guests at the villa of Cardinal Spada. Despite being there to celebrate the Cardinal's nephew's wedding, the main topic of conversation is the grave illness of the Pope and the approaching demise of Charles II, King of Spain. Charles has no heir and Kaiser Leopold of Austria and King Louis are each demanding the throne, with the Vatican supposedly mediating. Keen to promote his master's cause, Melani sets in motion a grandiose conspiracy that will plunge him into a world of secret languages, religious sects, forged Royal wills and Europe into war.

Leseprobe

INTERNATIONAL ACCLAIM FOR SECRETUM:

“Nothing is as it seems in the Rome of Monaldi & Sorti. . . their mysteries are ingeniously conceived and voluptuously written, keeping readers breathless in suspense. What’s their secret?

Monaldi & Sorti are brilliant!”

—De Morgen, Belgium

“Rich in sensuality, this is a masterfully told story of baroque thought and sensibility, filled with vivid impressions from the realms of politics, art, and the Church.”

—Trouw, the Netherlands

“An exciting, opulent book.”

—Blick, Switzerland

“An extraordinary political and criminal intrigue set in Rome, a plot aiming to undermine the balance of power in Europe at the end of the 17th century.”

—Le Figaro, France

PRAISE FOR IMPRIMATUR, ALSO BY MONALDI & SORTI:

“Gripping. Nothing less than the fate of Europe is at stake in this thriller.”

—Le Monde, France

“Entertaining and exciting.”

—El Pais, Spain

“Works beautifully in combining the strengths of an intelligent thriller with those of an historical novel.”

—L’Express, France

“A fantastic story of espionage from the Baroque era.”

—La Stampa, Italy

“Two Italians have revolutionised the historical novel.”

—La Gaceta de los Negocios, Spain

This ebook edition published in 2012 by Birlinn Limited West Newington House Newington Road Edinburgh EH9 1QSwww.birlinn.co.uk

First published in Italy in 2004 First published in Great Britain in 2009 by Polygon, an imprint of Birlinn Ltd

Copyright © Rita Monaldi and Francesco Sorti 2004 Translation copyright © Rita Monaldi and Francesco Sorti 2008

The publishers gratefully acknowledge permission from The Folio Society for quotations from William Gillis’s translation of Sebastian Brant’s The Ship of Fools (© copyright The Folio Society Limited 1971), and from the University of Delaware Press for quotations from Thomas Sheridan's translation of Battista Guarini’s The Faithful Shepherd.

The moral right of Rita Monaldi and Francesco Sorti to be identified as the authors of this work has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form without the express written permission of the publisher.

ebook ISBN: 978-0-85790-012-8

Version 1.0

British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

Everything on this earth is a masquerade, but God has determined that the comedy be played in this manner.

Erasmus of Rotterdam

In Praise of Folly

Contents

To the Congregation for the Causes of Saints

Day the First—7th July, 1700

Evening the First—7th July, 1700

Day the Second—8th July, 1700

Evening the Second—8th July, 1700

Day the Third—9th July, 1700

Evening the Third—9th July, 1700

Day the Fourth—10th July, 1700

Evening the Fourth—10th July, 1700

Day the Fifth—11th July, 1700

Evening the Fifth—11th July, 1700

Day the Sixth—12th July, 1700

Evening the Sixth—12th July, 1700

Day the Seventh—13th July, 1700

Evening the Seventh—13th July, 1700

Day the Eighth—14th July, 1700

Evening the Eighth—14th July, 1700

Day the Ninth—15th July, 1700

Evening the Ninth—15th July, 1700

Day the Tenth—16th July, 1700

Autumn 1700

March 1702

Leavetaking

Documentary Proofs

List of Pieces of Music Performed in

Constantia, 14th February 2041

To His Excellency Msgr

Alessio Tanari

Secretary of the Congregation for the Causes of Saints

Vatican City

Dearest Alessio,

A year has passed since I last wrote to you. You never replied.

A few months ago, I was suddenly transferred (but that you perhaps already know) to Romania. I am one of a handful of priests to be found in Constantia, a small town on the Black Sea.

Here, the word “poverty” takes on that relentless, irrevocable character that it once had in our part of the world. Dreary, decrepit houses; ragged children playing in dirty, nameless streets; women with tired faces blankly staring from the windows of horrendous blocks of flats; the legacy of real socialism, bare and dilapidated: wherever one turns, greyness and wretchedness.

This is the city, this is the land to which I was sent a few months ago. I am called here to carry out my pastoral mission, nor shall I fail in my duties. The misery of this country will not distract me from them, nor will the sadness which pervades every inch of it.

As you well know, the place from which I came was very different. Until a few months ago, I was Bishop of Como, the gay lakeside city which inspired the immortal prose of Manzoni; that ancient pearl of opulent Lombardy, laden with noble memories, with its characteristic old town, its businessmen, its captains of the fashion industry, its footballers and its prosperous silk manufacturers.

I shall not, however, be deterred from my mission by this sudden, unexpected change. I have been told that I am needed here in Constantia, that my vocation can, more than any other, respond to the spiritual needs of this land, that the transfer from Italy (with only two weeks’ notice) should not be taken as a demotion, let alone a punishment.

When first I was apprised of the news, I expressed no few doubts (and, let me add, no little surprise), for never in the past had I exercised my pastoral duties outside Italy, apart from a few months of training in France, in the now far-off years of my youth.

While I considered my position as Bishop of Como to be the best possible crowning of my career, and despite my advanced age, I would gladly have accepted a transfer to a new, distant, diocese: in France, in Spain (countries where the language is not unfamiliar to me) or even in Latin America.

It would still, of course, have been an anomaly, for bishops are rarely transferred to distant lands from one day to the next, unless there are grave stains on their career. This was, as you know, certainly not the case with me, and yet – precisely because of the abrupt and unprecedented character of my removal – many good Catholics in Como were understandably misled into feeling themselves entitled to suspect such a thing.

I would nevertheless have welcomed such a decision as one welcomes the will of God, unreservedly and uncomplainingly. Instead, it was decided to send me here to Romania, a land of which I know nothing, neither the language nor the traditions, neither the history nor the current needs. I find myself here straining my old limbs in vain attempts to play football with the local lads in the church precincts and to grasp some meaning from their loquacious speech.

My soul is beset – pardon the confession – by a subtle yet incessant torment. This derives, not from my destiny (which the Lord has so willed and which I gratefully and willingly accept) but from the mysterious circumstances which determined it: circumstances which I now want to clarify with you.

I last wrote to you a year ago, to bring an unusually delicate affair to your attention. At the time, the process of canonisation of the Blessed Innocent XI Odescalchi was forging ahead. Reigning from 1676 until 1689, this pontiff of glorious memory promoted and sustained the Christian armies in their battle against the Turks at Vienna in 1683, when the followers of Mahomet were at last driven from Europe. Since Pope Innocent XI came from Como, the honour fell to me of instructing the cause of canonisation, one which was close to the Holy Father’s heart; the clamorous and historic defeat of Islam had in fact taken place on 12th September 1683 when, taking account of the time lag, it was still 11th September in New York. Now, some forty years after the tragic assault by Islamic terrorists on the Twin Towers in New York on 11th September 2001, the coincidence between the two dates had not escaped the attention of our well-beloved pontiff, who therefore wished to proclaim Innocent XI – the anti-Islamic pope – a saint, on a date to coincide precisely with the two anniversaries, as a gesture of reaffirmation of Christian values and of the abyss that separates Europe and the West as a whole from the ideals of the Koran.

It was, then, on completion of my assignment that I sent you that text – do you remember? It had been typed by two old friends of mine, Rita and Francesco, with whom I had lost touch years previously. It revealed a long series of circumstances which blacken the record of the Blessed Innocent. The latter had during his pontificate acted in pursuit of crass personal interests. While he had unquestionably made himself the Lord’s instrument when inciting the Christian princes to take up arms against the Turk, his covetousness had on other occasions led him to commit grave offences against Christian morality and to cause irreparable damage to the Catholic religion in Europe.

At that juncture, I asked you (as you will recall) to submit the matter to His Holiness, so that he personally could decide whether to pass over the matter in silence or – as I hoped – to give the imprimatur and order its publication, thus making the truth available to all.

I did honestly expect at least a note of acknowledgment. I thought that, quite apart from the grave matters of which it was my duty to apprise you, you would, when all was said and done, be glad to hear from your old tutor at the seminary. I was well aware that the reply would take time, perhaps a very long time, given the gravity of the revelations which I was bringing to the attention of His Holiness. I did, however, imagine that you would, as is normal practice, at least respond with a card.

Instead, not a word. For months, I received neither a written communication nor a telephone call, despite the fact that the outcome of the process depended upon the reply which I awaited. I was mindful of His Holiness’s need to reflect, to evaluate, to weigh up all the issues and perhaps, in all confidentiality, to consult expert opinion. I was resigned to waiting patiently; also because, being sworn to secrecy and to protecting the honour of the Blessed, I could reveal what I had discovered to no one but yourself and the Holy Father.

Then, one day I saw it in a Milan bookshop, among a thousand others: the book which bore the names of my two friends.

When at last I opened it, my fears were confirmed: it was that very book. How was this possible? Whoever could have arranged its publication? Soon I said to myself that publication could only have been ordered by our pontiff in person. Perhaps the imprimatur which I had hoped the Pope would deliver had at length been handed down, definitively and authoritatively requiring publication of Rita and Francesco’s text.

Clearly, the process of Pope Innocent XI’s canonisation was now blocked once and for all. Only, why had I not been informed? Why had I received no word of this, not even after publication, and in particular why had I heard nothing from you, Alessio?

I was on the point of writing to you again when one day, in the early morning, I received a communication.

I recall it all unusually clearly, as though it were today. My secretary came to find me when I was about to enter my study, bearing an envelope. Opening it in the dark corridor, I could just make out the papal keys printed in relief on the envelope; and then the card which it contained was in my hands.

I was invited for an interview. I was struck above all by the extremely short notice of the time indicated on the card: only two days later and, what is more, on a Sunday. But that was as nothing compared to the hour of the summons (six in the morning) and the identity of the person who was inviting me to confer with him: Monsignor Jaime Rubellas, the Vatican Secretary of State.

The meeting with Cardinal Rubellas could not have been more courteous. He began by inquiring after my health, about the exigencies of my diocese and the situation with regard to vocations. He then asked me discreetly how the process of canonisation of Innocent XI was progressing. Shocked, I asked him whether he was not aware of the book’s publication. He did not reply, but looked at me as though I were defying him.

It was then that he told me how badly I was needed here in Constantia, and he spoke of the new frontiers of the Church today and of the shortcomings in the care of souls in Romania.

The amiability with which the Secretary of State spoke of my transfer almost caused me to lose sight, during our meeting, of why he in person should be announcing all this to me; why I had been summoned in such an unusual manner, almost as though everything had to be done far from prying eyes; and finally, of how long my absence from Italy might last.

Closing the interview, Monsignor Rubellas asked me quite unexpectedly to maintain the strictest confidentiality about our talk and its content.

All the questions which I did not ask myself that morning keep raising their heads here in Constantia, every evening when I patiently practise my Romanian, a strange language in which nouns come before articles.

Soon after my arrival, I learned that under the Roman Empire, of which it was part for a very long time, Constantia had been called Tomi. Then, glancing at a map of the region, I noticed the presence nearby of a locality by the strange name of Ovidiu.

It was then that alarm bells rang in my head. I quickly consulted my manual of Latin literature: my memory had not betrayed me. When Constantia was called Tomi, it was here that the Emperor Caesar Augustus had the famous poet Ovid exiled; officially on the grounds that he had written licentious poems, but in reality because he was suspected of having become acquainted with far too many of the secrets of the imperial household. For ten long years, Augustus turned a deaf ear to his appeals, until Ovid died. Without ever again setting eyes on Rome.

Now I know, dear Alessio, how the trust which I placed in you a year ago has been repaid. My banishment to Tomi, the place of exile for “literary crimes”, has opened my eyes to that. Not only did the publication of my two friends’ text not originate in the Holy See but it fell upon you all like lightning from a cloudless sky. And you all believed that I was behind this, that it was I who had arranged for this publication. That is why you had me banished here.

But you are mistaken. Like yourselves, I am completely ignorant of how that book came to be published; the Lord, quem nullum latet secretum, “who knows all secrets” – as they recite in the Orthodox churches in these parts – also uses for His ends those who act against Him.

If you have taken a glance at the folder annexed to this letter, you will already know what it is: yet another typescript by Rita and Francesco. This too is perhaps an historical document, perhaps a novel. You may amuse yourself trying to discover which is the case by referring to the documentary evidence I received, annexed to the text, and which I am also sending you.

Obviously, you will be wondering when I received this typescript, where it was sent from and, lastly, whether I have found my old friends once more. This time I shall not, however, be able to help you satisfy your curiosity. I am sure you will understand why.

Lastly, I am sure that you will be asking yourself why I am sending this to you. I can just imagine your confusion, and how you will be wondering whether I am naïve, or mad, or whether mine is a form of logic which you cannot follow. One of these three is the answer that you seek.

May God inspire you, once more, in the reading which you are about to undertake. And once again, may He make you an instrument of His will.

Lorenzo dell’Agio, pulvis et cinis

TRUE AND DISTINGUISHED

RELATION

of certain Glorious Deeds

which took place under the Pontificate of

INNOCENT XII

IN ROME IN THE YEAR OF OUR LORD 1700

Dedicated to the most Excellent and Venerable Patron,

Abbot Atto Melani

With the Privilege of the Authorities

Printed in Rome, by Michel’Ercole

MDCCII

Most Eminent and Reverend Sir,

With ev’ry Hour that passeth, I am the more persuaded that Your Lordship will without a Doubt be most sensible of a compendious Account of those extraordinary Events which took place in Rome in July of the Year 1700, of which the most renowned and illustrious Protagonist was a faithful Subject of His Most Christian Majesty King Louis of France, concerning whose Successes one may here enjoy a great Wealth of Descriptions and Commentaries.

This is the Fruit born of the Labours of a simple Son of the Soil; and yet I dare trust that the luminous Genius of Yr Most Illustrious Lordship will not disdain the Offspring of my Savage Muse. Poor indeed is the Gift, yet rich is the Intent.

Will you pardon me, Sir, if in the Pages that follow I have not included Praises enow? The Sun, altho’ ne’er praised by Others, is yet the Sun. In Recompense, I expect Nothing other than that which you have already promised me, nor shall I repeat that, mindful as I am that never could a Soul as gen’rous as Yours deviate from Itself.

May I wish Yr Excellency a Life long enough to be for me a Harbinger of lasting hope; and most humbly do I make my Reverence.

Day the First

7TH JULY, 1700

Ardent and high in the heavens above Rome shone the sun on that midday of the 7th of July in the year of Our Lord 1700, on which day the Lord did grace me with much hard labour (but against discreet recompense) in the gardens of the Villa Spada.

Lifting mine eyes from the ground and scrutinising the horizon beyond the distant wrought-iron gates flung open for the occasion, I glimpsed, perhaps even before any of the lackeys who stood guard around the gate of honour, the cloud of white dust from the road which announced the head of the long serpent of the guests’ carriages moving in slow succession.

Upon that sight, which I was soon sharing with the other servants of the villa, who had as ever forgathered, drawn by curiosity, the joyous fervour of the preparations became yet more fevered; presently, they all returned to bustle around in the back rooms of the casino – the great house – where the major-domos had for days now fussed impatiently, shouting orders at the servants, as they muddled and collided with the varletry busily heaping up the last provisions in the cellars, while the peasants unloading cases of fruit and vegetables hurried to remount their carts stationed near the tradesmen’s entrance, calling back their wives whenever they tarried too long in their search for the right pair of hands into which religiously to deliver majestic strings of flowers as red and velvety as their cheeks.

Pallid embroideresses arrived, delivering damasked cloths, hangings and eburnean hemstitched tablecloths, the very sight of which was blinding under the blazing sun; carpenters finished nailing and planing scaffolding, seats and platforms, in bizarre counterpoint to the disorderly practising of the musicians, who had come to try out the acoustics of the various natural theatres; architects squinted through puckered eyes as they verified the enfilade of an avenue, kneeling, wig grasped awkwardly in one hand, panting because of the great heat, as they checked again and again on the final effect of a mise-en-scène.

All this commotion was not without cause. In barely two days’ time, Cardinal Fabrizio Spada would be solemnising the marriage of his one-and-twenty-year-old nephew Clemente, heir to the most copious fortune, with Maria Pulcheria Rocci, likewise the niece of a most eminent member of the Holy College of Cardinals.

In order worthily to celebrate the event, Cardinal Spada would be diverting with entertainments a multitude of prelates, nobles and cavaliers at the family villa, which stands, surrounded by magnificent gardens, on the Janiculum Hill near to the source of the Acqua Paola, whence one enjoys the loveliest and most aerial prospect of the city’s roofs.

Such was the summer’s heat that the villa seemed preferable to the family’s grandiose and celebrated palace down in the city, in the Piazza Capo di Ferro, where the guests would not have been able to taste the delights of the countryside.

In advance of the ceremonies proper, festivities were already commencing that very day when, at around midday, as expected, the carriages of the more eager guests were already to be seen on the horizon. Noble names in plenty would soon be forgathering, together with churchmen coming from far and wide, the diplomatic representatives of the great powers, the members of the Holy College and scions and elders of all the great families. The first official entertainments were to take place on the day of the nuptials, when everything would be ready to bedazzle the guests with scenic effects both natural and ephemeral, with exotic flowers set among the native plants and papier mâché challenging the onlooker to recognise it under a thousand guises, richer than the gold of Solomon, more elusive than the quicksilver of Hydria.

The cloud of dust from the carriages, which still moved seemingly without a sound because of the excessive clangour of the preparations, was drawing ever nearer and, from the high point of the great curve before the gates of the Villa Spada one could already descry the first flashes of the magnificent ornaments which adorned coaches and equipages.

The first to arrive, or so we had been told, would be the guests from outside Rome, who would thus be able to enjoy a well-deserved repose after the fatigues of the journey and to savour two evenings of gentle rustic peace. Thus they would come to the festivities refreshed, at ease and already diverted by a little merry-making; all of which would surely augment the general good humour and make for the greatest possible success of the celebrations.

The Roman guests, on the other hand, would have the choice of lodging at the Villa Spada or, if they were too occupied with official business or other matters, of arriving by carriage every day at midday and returning to their own residences in the evening.

After the wedding, there were to be several more days and evenings of the most spectacular and varied divertissements: hunting, music, theatrical performances, several parlour games and even an academy, all culminating in fireworks. Counting the wedding day, this would amount to a full week of festivities, until 15th July, when, before taking their leave, the guests would enjoy the special favour of being escorted into town to visit the resplendent and grandiose Palazzo Spada in Piazza Capo di Ferro, where the great-uncles of Cardinal Fabrizio had, together with the late Cardinal Bernardino and his brother Virgilio of precious memory, assembled half a century earlier a most imposing collection of pictures, books, antiquities and precious objects, not to mention the frescoes, the trompe l’oeil perspectives and all manner of architectural contrivances, on which I had never as yet set eyes but which I knew to have astounded all those who beheld them.

By now, the sight of the carriages on the horizon was accompanied by the distant clatter of their wheels on the cobbles and, looking carefully, I realised that, for the time being, only one carriage was arriving; indeed, said I to myself, gentlemen always took care to maintain a certain distance between their respective trains, so as to ensure that each should be correctly received and to avoid the risk of any involuntary discourtesy, as the latter not uncommonly degenerated into dissensions, lasting enmity and, heaven forfend, even into bloody duels.

On the present occasion, such risks were, in reality, limited by the adroitness of the Master of Ceremonies and the Major-Domo, the irreproachable Don Paschatio Melchiorri; these two would be seeing to the guests’ reception, for, as was already known, Cardinal Fabrizio was much busied with his duties as Secretary of State.

As I tried to make out the coat of arms on the approaching carriage and could already distinguish the distant dust clouds from those that followed, once again I bethought myself of how sagacious a choice the Villa Spada had been as the theatre for the celebrations: in the gardens of the Janiculum, after sunset, cool air was assured. That, I knew well, as I had frequented the Villa Spada for no little time. My modest farm was but a short distance from there, outside the San Pancrazio Gate. My spouse Cloridia and I enjoyed the good fortune of being able to sell fresh potherbs and good fruit from our little field to the household of the Villa Spada; and from time to time I would be summoned for some special task, particularly when this involved climbing to some difficult place, such as rooftops or attics, operations which my small stature greatly facilitated. I was also called upon whenever there was a shortage of staff, as was the case on the occasion of the present celebration, when the entire establishment of Palazzo Spada had been transferred to work at the villa, and the Cardinal had taken advantage of the Palazzo being empty to have some work done on the interior decoration, including frescoes for the Alcove of the Spouses.

For two months or so, I had thus been under the orders of the Master Florist, industriously hoeing, planting, pruning and caring for the flowers. There was no little to be done. Villa Spada must not fail to make the right impression on behalf of its masters. The open space before the gates had been covered with little loggias all decorated with greenery which, trained to climb in fecund spirals, snaked soft and sweet-smelling around columns, pilasters and capitals, gradually thinning out until it merged into the fine embroidery of the arcades. The main carriage-drive, which in ordinary times passed between simple rows of vines, was now flanked by two marvellous sets of flower beds. Everywhere the walls had been painted green, with false windows depicted on them; the gentle sward, mown to perfection according to the instructions of the Master Florist, cried out for the contact of bare feet.

Arriving at the casino of the villa, that is to say, the great house, one was greeted by the welcome shade and the inebriating odour of an immense pergola of wisteria, supported by temporary arcades covered with greenery.

Next to the casino, the Italian garden had been made as new again. It was a secret, walled garden. Upon the walls that concealed it were painted landscapes and mythological scenes; from all sides, deities, cupids and satyrs peeped out, while within the garden, in the cool shade, whosoever wished to withdraw in quiet and contemplation, far from prying eyes, could admire, undisturbed, elms and Capocotto poplars, wild cherry and plum trees, generous vines of sweet Zibibbo and other grapes, trees from Bologna and Naples, chestnuts, wild shrubs, quinces, plane trees, pomegranate bushes and mulberry trees, not to mention little fountains and waterspouts, trompe l’oeil perspectives, terraces and a thousand other attractions.

There followed the physic garden, likewise entirely and freshly replanted from end to end, wherein were grown fresh curative herbs for tisanes, cataplasms, plasters and every use known to the art of medicine. The medicinal plants were enclosed betwixt hedges of sage and rosemary pruned into strict geometrical shapes, their odours penetrating the air and entrancing the visitor’s senses. Behind the building, an avenue, passing close to the bosky shade of a little grove, led to the private chapel of the Spada family, where the nuptials were to be solemnised. Thence, following the slopes that led down towards the city, three drives fanned out, one of which led to an open-air theatre (built especially for the festivities, and now almost ready), the second, to a farmhouse (fitted out as a dormitory for the guards, actors, plumbers and others) and the third, to the back entrance.

Returning however to the front of the villa, in the midst of the rustic setting of the vineyard, a long avenue (parallel to that of the main carriage-drive, but more internal) led to the rotunda of the fountain with the nymphaeum and continued until it came at last to a well-tended little meadow whereon had been laid, for light meals in the open air, tables and benches copiously ornate with rich carvings and marquetry, shaded by sumptuous canopies of striped linen.

The unsuspecting visitor would halt, lost in admiration, until he became aware that this display was but the frame and invitation to the most spectacular sight of the whole vineyard; his eyes would squint in sudden amazement at that plunging vista over Roman bastions and battlements, extending on the right towards the horizon, as they emerged from the depths of their invisible, somnolent, millenary foundations. Eyelids would flutter as they beheld that dramatic and unexpected prospect and the heartbeat would quicken. Among those delights, o’erflowing with perfumes and enchantment, every thing seemed born for pleasure, all was poesy.

The Villa Spada rose thus to the occasion, no longer that modest but delightful summer residence almost eclipsed by the wealth and magnificence of the sumptuous Palazzo Spada in Piazza Capo di Ferro, but the great theatre of the forthcoming celebrations.

Now the villa could without blushing contend with the most famed of the summer pavilions built two centuries previously, when Giuliano da Sangallo and Baldassare Peruzzi graced Rome with their services, the former with his commission for the Villa Chigi, the latter with the villa which he designed for Cardinal Alidosi at Magliana, while Giulio Romano created the villa of the Datary Turini on the Janiculum, and Bramante and Raphael built the Vatican Belvedere and the Villa Madama respectively, both to ingenious designs.

In reality, it had since time immemorial been the custom of great lords to have elegant residences built in the nearby countryside in which to forget the daily round of cares and sorrows, even if they stayed there only a few times a year. Without going as far back as the rich mansions which the Romans had erected (and which were celebrated by so many excellent poets, from Horace to Catullus), I was well aware from my reading and from conversations with a few erudite booksellers (but even more with old peasants, who know the vineyards and gardens better than anyone) that, in the past two hundred years in particular, the great princes of Rome had made a fashion of building themselves pleasure pavilions on the outskirts of the city. The desolate no-man’s-land and damp little fields within the Aurelian Wall and in its immediate vicinity had gradually given way to the vineyard and its casino, in other words to gardens and to villas.

While the first villas had battlements and turrets (still visible at the entrance of the otherwise undefended Capponi vineyard), an obvious legacy of the turbid Middle Ages when a gentleman’s abode was also his fortress, within a few decades styles grew lighter and more serene and soon every nobleman boasted a residence with vineyards, vegetable gardens, fruit trees, woods or pine groves, thus creating the gentle illusion of possessing and exercising lordship over all that the eye could see without so much as moving from one’s seat.

The flowering of scenic wonders within the villa’s verdant bounds went well with the gay atmosphere reigning in the Holy City. The year of Our Lord 1700 was a Jubilee Year. Multitudes of pilgrims were converging from all the world over in hope of obtaining remission of their sins and benefit of the indulgence. No sooner did they arrive from the Via Romea at the ridge from which they could make out the cupola of Saint Peter’s than the faithful (known therefore as “Romei”) would intone a hymn to the most excellent of all cities, red with the purple blood of the martyrs and white with the lilies of the virgins of Christ. Hostelries, hospices, colleges and even private houses, which were subject to the law of hospitality, were full to overflowing with pilgrims; alleyways and piazzas resounded night and day to the footsteps of the pious as they filled the air with their litanies. The night was lit up by the torches of the confraternities who ceaselessly enlivened the streets of the central quarters. ’Midst so much fervour, even the cruel spectacle of the flagellants no longer inspired horror: the crack of the scourges with which the ascetics tormented their lacerated sweat- and blood-covered backs formed a counterpoint to the chaste chanting of novices in their cool cloisters.

No sooner had they arrived in the city of the Vicar of Christ than the pilgrims would converge upon Saint Peter’s, and only after praying at the tomb of the apostle would they allow themselves a few hours’ respite. On the next day, before leaving their lodgings, they would kneel on the ground, raise their hearts heavenward, cross themselves and meditate upon the life of Christ and of the Most Holy Virgin Mary; then, telling their rosary beads, they would begin the tour of the four Jubilee basilicas, followed by the Forty-hour Oration and the ascent of the Holy Ladder, whereby to obtain total and complete remission of sins.

All in all, everything seemed to be moving in perfect and joyous harmony for the twenty-fifth recurrence of those Jubilees which, since the time of Boniface VIII, had brought tens of thousands of Romei to Rome; and yet one could not truly say “everything”, for an undertow of anguish and distress moved silently through the crowds of pilgrims and Romans: His Holiness was gravely ill.

Two years previously, Pope Innocent XII (whose baptismal name had been Antonio Pignatelli) had been struck down by a severe form of gout, which had gradually worsened until it prevented him from attending to affairs after the manner accustomed. In January of the Holy Year, there had been a slight improvement in his condition, and in February he had been able to hold a consistory. Owing to age and its infirmities, he was, however, in no condition to open the Holy Gate. The further the Holy Year advanced, the greater the number of pilgrims who arrived in Rome, and the Pope complained of his inability to accomplish the customary acts of devotion, in which bishops and cardinals had to substitute for him. The Cardinal Penitentiary heard the confessions of the faithful at Saint Peter’s, where they arrived daily in their thousands.

In the last week of February, the Pontiff suffered a relapse. In April, he found the strength to bless the multitudes of the devout from the balcony of the Papal Palace at Monte Cavallo. In May, he even visited the four basilicas in person, and towards the end of the month he received the Grand Duke of Tuscany. By halfway through June, he seemed almost recovered; he had visited many churches as well as the fountain of San Pietro in Montorio, a stone’s throw from the Villa Spada.

Nevertheless, all knew that His Holiness’s health was as delicate as a snowflake in the advancing spring, and the heat of the summer months promised nothing good. Those close to the Pontiff spoke sotto voce of frequent crises of debility, of nightlong sufferings, of sudden and most cruel bouts of colic. After all, as the cardinals murmured gravely among themselves, the Holy Father was fourscore-and-five years of age.

There was, in other words, a distinct possibility that the Jubilee of the year 1700, happily inaugurated by Our Lord Innocent XII, might be closed by another pope: his successor. This was something unheard of, so people murmured in Rome; and yet was it not unthinkable. Some predicted a conclave in November, some, even in August. The most pessimistic opined that the heat of the summer would overwhelm the Pontiff’s last defences.

The humour of the Curia (and that of every Roman) was thus torn between the serene atmosphere of the Jubilee and the grave tidings concerning the Pope’s health. Even I had an intense personal interest in the question; for as long as the Holy Father lived, I would have the honour, however occasionally, of serving him whom Rome feared and honoured above all others: His Eminence Cardinal Spada, whom His Holiness had appointed as his Secretary of State.

I could not of course claim true acquaintance with the most illustrious and benign Cardinal Spada, but I heard it said that he was a most upright man, as well as being astute and exceedingly sharp-witted. It was no accident that His Holiness Innocent XII desired always to have him by his side. I therefore guessed that the festivities which were about to begin would be no ordinary convivial gathering of noble spirits but an august conference of cardinals, ambassadors, bishops, princes and other persons of quality; and all would raise their eyebrows in arches of astonishment at the performances of musicians and actors, the poetical divertissements, the oratorical displays, the rich symposia ’midst verdant settings and the papier mâché theatres in the gardens of the Villa Spada, beguilements such as had not been seen in Rome since the times of the Barberini.

Meanwhile, I had been able to identify the coat of arms on the first carriage: it was that of the Rospigliosi family, but under it there was a bright damask bearing their colours, which signified that the carriage bore some honoured guest under the protection of that great family, but not of their lineage.

The carriage was on the point of approaching the gate of honour, but I was no longer curious about the arrival of coaches at the villa, the opening of doors and all the ritual of hospitality among gentlefolk that would duly follow. When first I joined the household, I had indeed hidden behind the corners of the great house to spy on the swarm of footmen, the stools being placed for alighting from the carriages, the servant girls bearing baskets laden with fruit, the first tributes from the master of the house, the speeches by the Master of Ceremonies, invariably broken off half-way by the fatigue of the newly arrived guests, and so on and so forth.

I moved away so as not to disturb the arrival of those gentlemen with my obscure presence and once more set to work. While I was intent on hoeing the borders of lawns, pruning bushes, trimming hedges and weeding, I would from time to time look up to enjoy the view over the city of the seven hills, while the gentle summer breeze bore me the gift of graceful notes from an orchestral rehearsal. Covering my forehead with my hand to deflect the glare of the sun, I beheld to the far left the grandiose cupola of Saint Peter’s, to my right the more modest but no less splendid one of Sant’Ivo alla Sapienza, just beside the subdued pagan dome of the Pantheon and, last of all, in the background, the Pontifical Palace of the Quirinale on Monte Cavallo.

After one such brief pause, I bent down and was about to trim a few bushes, when I saw a shadow lengthen beside my own.

For a long time I observed it; it did not move. My hand, however, moved of its own accord, grasping the sickle. The tip of its blade traced the shadow by my shoulders on the sand of the drive. The soutane, the abbot’s periwig and hood. . . It was then that the shadow, as though condescending to inspect my hand, turned slowly towards the sun and revealed its profile; on the ground, I could clearly make out a hooked nose, a receding chin, an impertinent lip. . . My hand, which was almost caressing those features rather than merely outlining them, began now to tremble. No longer could I be in any doubt.

Atto Melani: still unable to raise my eyes from the silhouette I had discovered in the sand, a tangle of thoughts obscured my vision and my feelings. Signor Abbot Melani. . . Signor Atto, to me. Atto, Atto himself.

The shadow waited benignly.

How many years had passed? Sixteen? No, seventeen, I calculated, trying to gather the courage to turn around. And, despite the laws of time, a thousand thoughts and memories flashed across my mind within those few seconds. Almost seventeen years without the least sign of life from Abbot Melani, and now he had reappeared; his shadow was there, behind me, merging with my own, so I repeated mechanically to myself as at length I rose and very slowly turned around.

At last my pupils acknowledged the sun’s affront.

He was leaning on a walking stick, a little shorter and more bent than I had left him. Seeming almost like some shade from another century, he wore an abbot’s wig, hood and mauve-grey soutane, exactly as he had when first we met, little caring that this attire had long been outmoded.

Confronting my glazed and dumbstruck expression, he spoke with the most laconic and disarming naturalness: “I am going to take a rest: I have only just arrived. We shall meet later. I shall have them call for you.”

Seeming almost spectral, he disappeared into the blazing midsummer light, moving in the direction of the great house.

I stood as though petrified. I do not know how long I remained thus immobile in the midst of the garden. My breast seemed like the cold white marble of Galatea, and only gradually did the breath of life return to warm it, when I was of a sudden unnerved by the bursting into my heart of that o’erflowing torrent of affection and pain which had for years seized me whenever I recalled Abbot Melani.

The letters which I had sent to Paris had been swallowed up by an abyss of black silence. Year after year, I had uselessly laid siege to the office for post from France, awaiting a reply. If only to put an end to anxiety, I would eventually have been resigned to receive some sadly final message, as I had imagined a thousand times over:

It is my sad duty to inform you of the death of Abbot Melani. . .

Instead, nothing; until now, when his unexpected reappearance had taken my breath away. I was incredulous; directly upon his arrival, the first action of the illustrious guest of the Rospigliosi, invited with all honours to the Villa Spada, had been to seek me out: me, a mere peasant bending over his mattock. The friendship and faith of Abbot Melani had overcome distances and years.

After finishing what I was doing in all haste, I hurried home on my mule. I could not wait to inform Cloridia! As I rode, I kept repeating to myself, “Why should I be surprised?”, tenderly realising that this impetuous and unexpected reappearance was utterly typical of the man. Such emotions, such a tightening of the heart-strings! As in a dream, I relived the turmoil of teachings and intellectual passions which Abbot Melani had revealed to me and the dangerous pursuit into which I had been plunged when I followed him. . .

Little by little, however, emotions and gratitude came to be attended by a doubt. How had Atto managed to trace me to the Villa Spada? It would have been logical for him to seek me at the Via dell’Orso, in the house which was formerly the Locanda del Donzello, the inn where I had served and in which we had met. Instead, Atto, who had clearly been invited by Cardinal Spada to his nephew’s wedding, had come straight to me upon arriving, as though he well knew where to find me.

From whom could he have learned that? Certainly not from anyone at the Villa Spada; none there knew of our erstwhile frequentation, quite apart from the fact that my person was never the object of anyone’s attention. Besides, we had no common acquaintances, only the adventure we had both lived through at the Donzello seventeen long years ago. Concerning that extraordinary episode, I had at first kept a concise diary, based on which I had drawn up a detailed memoir, of which I was, moreover, inordinately proud. I had even mentioned it to Atto in the last missive which I had sent him only a few months previously, in one final attempt to obtain tidings of him.

As I trotted across the fields, I gave free rein to memories, and for a few moments I relived in a daydream those distant and remarkable events: the plague, the poisonings, the manhunts in the underground galleries, the battle of Vienna, the conspiracies of the sovereigns of Europe. . .

How brilliantly, I thought, I had succeeded in telling it all in my memoir, so much so that I had at first taken pleasure in poring over it on sleepless nights. Nor was I perturbed by having once again before my eyes all the iniquitous deeds perpetrated by Atto: his transgressions, his failings and blasphemies. I need only to go to my writings to recover my spirits, even to feel positively merry, and then I was minded of the love of my Cloridia, which still Deo gratias accompanied me, and of the purity of work on the land and, lastly, of my fresh connection with the Villa Spada. Ah yes, the Villa Spada. . .

As though I had been attacked by a thousand scorpions, I spurred on my mule and hastened home. Now I understood only too well.

Cloridia was not at home. I rushed to the trunks in which I kept all my books. Feverishly I emptied them, rummaging at the bottom of each one: the memoir had disappeared.

“Thief, brigand, blackguard,” I growled under my breath. “And I am a dolt, an imbecile, a gullible jackass.”

How foolish I had been to write to Atto about my memoir! Those pages contained too many secrets, too many proofs of the infidelities and betrayals of which Abbot Melani was capable. No sooner did he know of its existence – alas, only now did I realise this – than he unleashed some ruffian of his to purloin it. It must have been child’s play to enter my unguarded house and search it.

I cursed Atto, I cursed myself and whoever he had sent to steal my beautiful memoir. Anyway, what else could I expect of Abbot Melani? I had but to turn my mind to all I knew of his turbid misdeeds.

Castrato singer and French spy: that already said all that was to be said about him. His career as a singer was long since over. In his youth, he had, however, been a famous soprano and had taken advantage of his concerts to spy on half the courts of Europe. Subterfuge, lies and deceit were his daily bread; ambushes, plots and assassinations, his travelling companions. He was capable of grasping a pipe and making it pass for a pistol, of hiding the truth from you without lying, of expressing and inspiring deep feelings out of pure calculation; he knew and practised the arts of stalking and theft.

His intellect, on the other hand, was both fulminating and penetrative. His knowledge of the affairs of state I recalled as reaching into the best-hid secrets of crowned heads and royal families. What was more, his keen and lively mind was capable of dissecting the human soul like a knife cutting through lard. His sparkling eyes gained him sympathy, nor had he ever the slightest difficulty in winning over those around him.

Alas, all his best qualities were at the service of the most sordid ends. If he enlightened you with some revelation, it was only in order to win your compliance. If he said he was on a mission, he certainly did not betray his base personal interests. If, lastly, he offered his friendship, I thought bitterly, it was with a view to extorting whatever favours he needed most.

The proof of all that? His indifference to old friends. He had left me without news for seventeen years. And now, as though nothing had happened, he was calling me urgently to his service. . .

“No, Signor Atto, I am no longer the young lad I was seventeen years ago.” Thus would I speak to him, looking him straight in the eyes. I’d show him that I was now a man well-versed in the business of life, no longer timid in the company of gentlemen, only deferential; capable of weighing up every occasion and discerning where my own interest lay. And if, because of my slight stature, everyone still called me a boy, I was and felt myself to be a very different person from the little prentice whom Atto had known so many years ago.

No, I could not accept Abbot Melani’s conduct; and, above all, I could not tolerate the theft of my memoir.

I threw myself down on the bed, trying to rest and to part company with these and other sad cogitations and endlessly tormenting the sheets. Only then did I remember that Cloridia had told me that she would not be returning home; like every good midwife (as she had become after prolonged practice over the past few years) she would spend the last few days before the confinement at the home of the mother-to-be. With her had gone my two adored little ones, no longer so little: at ten and six years of age, already big girls, my daughters had become the full-time helpers of their mother (whom they adored) not only as pupils, to be instructed in this most important discipline, but as assistants ready to meet her every need, for instance by handing her oils and hot greases, towels, scissors and thread for cutting the umbilical cord; or in dexterously pulling forth the afterbirth and other such matters.

I dedicated a few thoughts to them: the little pair followed their mother like a shadow, their behaviour in public as sensible as it was vivacious ’twixt our four domestic walls. Their absence now made the house seem even emptier and sadder, and I was reminded of my melancholy infancy as a poor foundling.

Thus, favoured by solitude, grave thoughts had gained the upper hand. Insomnia wrapped me in its cold embrace and I knew how cold the connubial couch can be without the consolation of love.

After an hour or so, having missed my lunch for lack of appetite, I resolved to return to the Villa Spada in order to pursue my duties. Such repose as I had taken, however brief, had had the desired effect: the insistent thoughts of Abbot Melani and his sudden return, of which I knew not whether it was most welcome or opportune for me, at long last left me. Abbot Melani had, I thought, emerged like some selfish protean sea-god to perturb the quiet counterpoint of my existence. It was right that I should try now not to think of him.

He would have me called, so he had told me; until then, I could at least dedicate myself to other matters. I had much to do and so I set about one of the tasks which most pleased me: the cleaning of the aviary. The servant who habitually undertook this was more and more frequently confined to bed by an ugly wound to his foot which refused to heal. It was thus not the first time that I was discharging this duty. I went to collect the feed and set to work.

The reader should not be surprised to learn that the Villa Spada was graced by an attraction as exotic as the aviary. In the Roman villas, all forms of diversion were in great demand. At his Villa on the Pincio, Cardinal de’ Medici kept bears, lions and ostriches; at the Villas Borghese and Pamphili, roe deer and fallow deer wandered freely. At the time of Pope Leo X an elephant, Annone by name, had even promenaded among the gardens of the Vatican. Apart from animals, sportive entertainments to astound and divert the guests had never been lacking, such as pall-mall (which was played at the Villa Pamphili), or trucco, otherwise known as billiards, which was played at the villa of the Knights of Malta and at Villa Costaguti, on a court polished with soap or a cloth-covered table, or billiards in the open air, which was to be found at the Villa Mattei, to overcome the melancholy humour of the summer evenings.

The aviary was situated in a secluded corner of the villa, between the chapel and the vegetable gardens, hidden from view by a line of trees and by a tall, thick hedge. It had been so placed as to enjoy sunlight in winter and shade in summer, in order to spare the birds the discomfort of inclement weather. Its aspect was that of a little manor built to a square plan, with a tower at each corner and the central corpus covered in metallic mesh cupolas, surmounted in their turn by splendid pinnacles crowned by iron weathercocks. The interior was painted with frescoes depicting views of the heavens and of distant landscapes, so as to give the fowls an illusion of greater space. Holm oaks and bay laurel bushes, which are evergreen, were planted there, and there were vases with brushwood for building nests as well as four large drinking bowls. The birds (of which there were a number of groups in separate cages) were numerous and most pleasing both to the eye and the ear: nightingales, lapwings, partridges, quails, francolins, pheasants, ortolans, green linnets, blackbirds, calandra larks, chaffinches, turtle-doves and hawfinches, to name but a few.

I entered the aviary timidly, immediately provoking a great flapping of wings. Birds, or so I have been told, should always be fed and cared for by the same person. My presence, instead of their usual master, had sown no little disquiet. I made my way in cautiously while a number of lapwings followed me nervously and a flock of little birds darted around me with hostile movements. I shivered when a blackbird settled boldly on my shoulder, somehow avoiding a collision with a francolin which was fluttering defiantly in my face.

“If you do not stop this at once, I shall depart, and then you shall go without lunch!” I threatened.

In response to this I received only a more aggressive and strident wave of cackling, whistling and fluttering, and further dangerous aerial incursions only a hand’s breadth from my head. Intimidated, I took refuge in a corner until the squall calmed down. The government of birds and of aviaries was not, I thought, a trade for me.

When even the most impertinent volatiles had returned to order, I began to clean and refill the drinking and feed bowls with fresh water, chicory, beet, yarrow, lettuce, plantain seeds, grain, bird seed, millet and hemp seed. I then furnished the aviary with fresh supplies of asparagus grass, which is good for building nests. As I was scattering a few pieces of dry bread, a hungry young francolin jumped onto my arm, trying to snatch the tasty booty of breadcrumbs from his companions.

Once I had cleaned the feed bowls and swept the dejections from the ground, I moved at last towards the exit, happy to leave behind me the stink and chaos of the aviary. I was just closing the door when suddenly my heart leapt into my throat.

A pistol shot. A projectile whistled by very close to me. Someone was shooting at me.

I bent down with my hands clutching my head in a gesture of protection. Then I heard a hard, loud voice, clearly addressing me: “Arrest him! He’s a thief.”

Instinctively, I raised my hands in surrender. I turned around, and saw no one. I slapped my forehead and smiled, disappointed at the shortness of my memory. Only then did I slowly look upwards and see him there, in his usual place.

“How witty,” I replied, closing the door of the aviary and trying to hide my shock.

“I said, ‘Arrest him, he’s a thief!’ Boooom!”

That second pistol shot, which seemed even more real than the first one, clearly announced the strangest creature in all the Villa Spada: Caesar Augustus, parrot.

I should take this opportunity to explain the nature and conduct of that bizarre volatile, which was to play no small part in the events I am about to recount.

I knew that, because of its unique qualities, the parrot had been given such grandiose names as “Light of the Avian Realm” and “Monarch of the East Indies”, and that the first exemplars had been brought to Alexander the Great from the Isle of Taprobane, since which time many other species had been discovered in the West Indies, especially in Cuba and Manacapan. Everyone knows that the parrot (of which some say there exist over a hundred varieties) possesses the most singular faculty of imitating the human voice, and not only that, but noises, sounds, and much else. Years ago in Rome, the parrot of the most excellent Cardinal Madruzzo and that of the Cavalier Cassiano Dal Pozzo were renowned for imitating the human voice poorly while perfectly mimicking dogs and cats. Then there were those which knew how to imitate the song of other birds, even of more than one species. Outside the Papal States, the parrot belonging to His Most Serene Highness the Prince of Savoy was still remembered for its prompt and fluent eloquence. It is said that Cardinal Colonna’s parrot could recite the whole Creed. Lastly, another white and yellow parrot of the same species as Caesar Augustus had just arrived on the Barberini estate, adjoining the Villa Spada, and this one too was said to be a good speaker.

Caesar Augustus was, however, on quite another level from all his fellow parrots. He mimicked human speech to perfection, even the voices of persons whom he had known for only a very short time and whose accents he had barely heard, reproducing tones, cadences and even slight defects in pronunciation. He reproduced the sounds of nature, including thunder, the rushing of torrents, the rustling of leaves and the howling of the wind, even the sound of the waves breaking on the beach. He was no less skilled an imitator of dogs, cats, cows, donkeys, horses and of course all kinds of birds, and perhaps he could also mimic other sounds which I had not yet heard him produce. He would faithfully imitate the squealing of hinges, approaching footsteps, the firing of pistols and muskets, the ringing of a doorbell, horses’ hooves trotting, a door slamming hard, the cries of street vendors, an infant crying, the clash of blades in a duel, all the subtleties of laughter and lamentations, the clatter of dishes and glasses, and many more sounds.

It was as though for Caesar Augustus the whole cosmos was an immense gymnasium in which he could day after day refine his indescribable, unsurpassable talents for mimicry. Gifted with a prodigious memory, he was able to bring forth voices and whispers weeks after hearing them, thus surpassing any human faculty.

No one knew how old he was: some said fifty, others even seventy. In truth, anything was possible, given the well-known longevity of parrots, which not infrequently live for over a century and survive their masters.

His incomparable talent, which could have made of Caesar Augustus the most famous parrot of all time, did, however, have its limits. The parrot of the Villa Spada had, indeed, refused to display his gifts for as long as anyone could remember. In short, he pretended to be dumb. Fruitless were requests, flattery, orders, even the cruel fast to which he was subjected, on the orders of Cardinal Spada himself, to convince him to perform. Nothing worked; Caesar Augustus had for years and years (no one knew how many) withdrawn into the most stubborn silence.