‘Just over there is the Villa Fersen,’ Tony said, pointing to a path through orchards and vineyards. ‘Baron Fersen was a kind of modern-day Tiberius. His villa is one of the most spectacular on the island.’
‘Did he throw people off cliffs?’ asked Sophie.
‘I don’t think so, but he’s got the right place for it. He was kicked out of Paris at the beginning of the century for organizing orgies for politicians and other notables, so he came here where he would be left alone to amuse himself with the island’s young boys. There used to be a lot of that kind of thing on Capri — still is, probably.’
‘I think I’ve heard of him,’ said Sophie. ‘It was a big scandal. He was heir to a steel fortune, wasn’t he?’
‘That’s right. He was very wealthy, easily the richest man on the island, and he was still in his twenties when he arrived. He built himself a fabulous villa way up here, and spent most of his days with his boyfriend smoking opium and writing bad poetry. But he was too much even for the Capresi. He died here about fifteen years ago — too much drugs and alcohol. They think it was suicide.’
‘Have you seen the villa?’ Sophie asked.
‘Yes. No one lives there now, but a local family looks after it. If you give them a tip, they’ll show you around. It’s a bit of a mess, the garden is overgrown, but it’s in a spectacular position. And there is an extraordinary opium den in the basement.’
‘Can we have a look?’
‘Maybe on the way back. If we have the energy.’
We continued the climb, until we finally reached the top of the cliffs and the Villa Jovis. Despite having been only recently excavated, the villa itself was a bit of a disappointment: it looked less like a luxurious palace and more like an ancient water-gathering system. Massive cisterns were needed to keep the place watered in the summer, and they were what had survived best after two thousand years. And in an act of pious vandalism, someone had built a little church at the highest point to sniff down on the pagan emperor’s infamous ruins.
If the villa was disappointing, its situation was not. In an island full of fabulous views, this was the most magnificent. The classic shore of the Bay of Naples stretched in a long curve from the island of Ischia, through Naples and Vesuvius, to the Cape of Sorrento. On the southern side of the cape lay the fabled Amalfi coast and the Gulf of Salerno and, of course, much closer, lurked the rocky green beauty of Capri itself. Just below the peak, a straight shaded avenue led under pine trees to some flimsy wooden railings. I approached gingerly — this was the notorious Salto di Tiberio — and looked over. Hundreds of feet below, deep-blue water swirled and sucked at the rocks at the foot of the cliffs, so bleached they were nearly white. It was a long, long way down.
Capri was an island of beauty, certainly, but it was also an island of evil. Had Tiberius’s depravity inspired Baron Fersen? And all those other Northern Europeans who had visited Capri in search of young boys?
Stephen and Sophie joined me. ‘It’s amazing, isn’t it, Angus?’ said Sophie.
‘It certainly is,’ I said, with a touch of polite enthusiasm.
Stephen nodded to me. I smiled back quickly and insincerely.
I drew back; the couple — because that’s what they were — leaned on the wooden railings. I stared at their backs: Stephen’s broad shoulders, his shirt damp with sweat from the climb; Sophie’s lithe body hugged by her white dress in the breeze.
This was an evil island, where evil acts were done, acts which were not tolerated by civilized society. This was the very spot where Tiberius had watched his enemies, real and imagined, being flung to their deaths. On the climb I had almost forgotten my anger, but now it came flooding back through my veins, burning me from the inside. Two steps forward, a lift and a push, and Stephen would tumble down to sea below. What then? I could leap after him into the cool blackness of oblivion. Perhaps I would take Sophie with me. The anger threatened to overwhelm me, so I turned and stumbled down the path away from the cliff edge to the safety of the shade and the water cisterns.
We were on our way back down the via Tiberio towards Capri town, when Sophie stopped by the water fountain. ‘Tony! Is this the way to that villa you were talking about?’
‘That’s it,’ said Tony.
‘Can we go and have a look?’ Sophie asked.
‘Let’s get back home,’ said Stephen. ‘I’m parched. I need a drink.’
‘There’s a water fountain right here.’
‘I mean a real drink.’
Nathan and Madeleine murmured their agreement.
‘I can go by myself,’ said Sophie. ‘I’ll catch up with you later.’
I watched Tony hesitate; on the one hand he wanted to be a good host to his guests and their desire for sustenance back at his villa, on the other he was reluctant to let Sophie go unaccompanied.
‘I’ll come with you,’ I said.
For a moment, Sophie looked surprised. Then she smiled. ‘Thanks, Angus.’
‘OK,’ said Tony. ‘We’ll have lunch ready for you when you get down.’
Sophie and I turned off the road and along a path through orchards and a vineyard. It was comfortable to walk alone with her. I felt calmer than I had on the Salto di Tiberio and I told myself to be civil. She smiled at me and pointed out the general loveliness of the flowers, the trees and Capri. I agreed — how could I not?
After a couple of hundred yards we turned uphill along a walled lane through a wood of pines and cypresses. Suddenly we came upon a wrought-iron gate with a bell pull, which I duly tugged three times. Eventually a small, round woman arrived, dressed in black with her grey hair coiled up on top of her head under a scarf. She smiled at us in a friendly way. In broken Italian, Sophie asked if we could see the villa. I pressed some lire into the woman’s hand and she opened the gate.
The villa rose large and white in front of us, surrounded by a jungle of overgrown trees and shrubs. To the side, a broad stairway led down to a bronze sculpture of a naked boy preening himself, and beyond that a view of the island and the harbour far down below. The entrance to the villa was a grand portico flanked by Ionic columns, its white plaster flaking. Above the doorway were the Latin words Amori et dolori sacrum: ‘Sacred to love and sorrow’.
The heat had risen steadily during the morning, but as we stepped inside the villa’s hallway, the temperature dropped noticeably. The woman led us up a marble staircase with a wrought-iron balustrade and into a magnificent bedroom. We were drawn immediately to the balcony, with its view over the sea, emerald near the foot of the cliffs rather than blue, towards the Cape of Sorrento and the Amalfi coast. Above and behind the villa, rosemary bushes and limestone boulders sprouted out of the steep slope beneath Tiberius’s ruined palace.
The place smelled of damp and dust. There was plaster on the floors, and cracks in the walls.
‘It’s pretty exposed up here,’ I said. ‘It must take a battering from the wind and the rain.’
‘Yes, but isn’t it marvellous?’ said Sophie. ‘Imagine what it would have been like in its heyday. What a place to have a party!’
The caretaker led us down to a salon on the ground floor, decorated with blue and white tiles, and gold leaf, and then down some more stairs to the fumatorio, the opium den. This was a semi-circular room framed by two thick embossed columns. The floor and walls were tiled in orange. Torn tapestries displaying columns of either Chinese or Japanese characters hung between small windows looking out over the garden, and beyond it the Cape of Sorrento. Dusty divans, their cushions richly embroidered, lined the walls. The caretaker withdrew, leaving Sophie and me alone in the room. The irony of her tactful attempt to allow us to enjoy the romance of the place alone bit into me.