After a guided visit lasting half an hour (tiresome but necessary, for if we had asked at once to see what interested us, that would have attracted too much attention), Atto put the fateful question: were there by any chance three objects which the good Virgilio Spada had not integrated into the collection but for which he cared no less, and which were of such and such a kind?
The Oratorian then led us into an adjoining room, where we at last stopped in front of an orotund and triumphal globe, that of Capitor. The Abbot and I concealed our enthusiasm and examined it with polite interest, as one might any fine product of human craftsmanship.
"We have it, my boy, at last we have it!" Abbot Melani whispered in my ear, controlling his joy with some difficulty, while our guide led us to the second object: the goblet with the centaur. Once again, we dissimulated.
"It looks just the same as in the picture, Signor Atto, there can be no doubt about it," I murmured in his ear.
The crucial moment came only at the end, when the great black key turned in the lock and the mechanism which had guarded the third gift since who knows when gave way at last. The Oratorian opened both doors of the cabinet wide and extracted an object measuring about three feet by six, weighing a great deal and covered with a grey cloth.
"Here we are," said he, laying it carefully on a little table and removing the cover, "we have to keep it under lock and key because it is particularly valuable. It is true that no one enters here unannounced, but one never knows."
We barely heard the words of the courteous Oratorian father; the blood beat hard against our temples and we would willingly have exchanged our eyes for his hands the better to discover the object so long and ardently coveted: the Tetrachion.
Here it was at last.
"It… is so beautiful," gasped Buvat.
"It is the work of a Dutch master, so at least we are told, but we do not know his name," the priest added laconically.
After the first moments of emotion, I was at last able to enjoy the refined forms of the dish, the exceedingly fine decoration of the edge, the exotic seashells and most capricious arabesques, and then the wonderful central marine scene, in which a pair of Tritons ploughed the waves drawing a chariot surmounted by a couple of deities seated one beside the other, their pudenda lightly covered by a golden veil; Neptune was grasping a trident, and, entwined in an embrace with her spouse, the Nereid Amphitrite was holding the reins. The pair were embossed in silver and stood out strikingly, being statuettes in the round set in the golden bed of the charger. Just as I was pausing to view the divine couple, Atto drew near to examine a minute inscription.
I too approached, and read in turn. The inscription was carved at the feet of the two deities: MONSTRUM TETRACHION
"Would you like to see anything else?" asked the Oratorian, while Atto, without even having asked his permission, took the dish in his hands, and with Buvat's help, closely inspected the two silver statuettes.
"No thank you, Father, that will suffice," the Abbot answered at length. "Now we shall take our leave. We simply wished to satisfy our curiosity." "The correct meaning of monstrum is 'marvel' or 'a marvellous thing'. But what sense does it make to write monstrum Tetrachion, or 'quadruple marvel'?"
No sooner were we on our way, moving from the Oratory of the Philippines towards the Tiber than Atto set about trying to work out what that inscription might mean. We had to hasten towards the Vessel. It was almost midday and, as Cloridia had announced to us two days earlier, another meeting between the three cardinals was due to take place, perhaps the last one on which we might have a chance to spy, or attempt to spy, seeing that all our attempts to date had failed miserably.
"Permit me, Signor Abbot," interrupted Buvat.
"What is it now?" asked Melani nervously.
"To tell the truth, monstrum Tetrachion does not mean 'quadruple marvel' at all."
Caught off balance, Atto stared at his secretary and uttered a faint murmur of protest.
"Tetrachion, as you obviously know, is a word of Greek origin, but the Greek word for quadruple is tetraplasios, not tetrachion. On the other hand, tetrachion is not to be confused either with tetrachin, an adverb that means 'four times'," explained the secretary, while humiliation painted itself in dark colours on Atto's forehead.
"And what does tetrachion mean then?" I asked, seeing that the Abbot lacked the breath to put the question.
"It is an adjective, and it means 'with four columns'."
"Four columns?" Melani and I repeated incredulously in unison.
"I know what I am saying, but you can always check in any good Greek dictionary."
"Four columns, four columns," murmured Atto. "Did you not notice anything curious about those two statuettes, the marine deities?"
Buvat and I reflected a few moments.
"Well, yes," said I at length, breaking the silence, "they are in rather a strange position. They are sitting on the chariot, one beside the other, and Neptune has his left leg between those of Amphitrite, unless I am mistaken."
"Not only that," Buvat corrected me, "but it is not clear which is the right leg of the god and which is the left leg of the nereid. It is as though the two statuettes were actually… fused together. Yes, they are joined, by a hip, or a thigh, I know not which, so much so that when I first saw them, I thought, how strange, they look like a single being."
"A single being," repeated Atto thoughtfully. "It is as though they had — how can one put it? — four legs shared between the two of them," he added in a low voice.
"So the four columns are the legs," I deduced.
"That is possible. Oh yes, in terms of language, it is certainly possible, I can confirm that," Buvat pronounced. His intellect may perhaps have been lacking in daring, but when he took the bull of erudition by the horns, he would not let go.
"So, Buvat, if I may take advantage of your admirable science, I ask you whether, instead of 'quadruple marvel', I can translate monstrum Tetrachion as 'four-legged' or even 'four-pawed monster'."
Buvat reflected one moment, then gave his ruling: "Yes, definitely. Monstrum in Latin means both 'prodigy' or 'marvel' and 'monster', that's well known. Still, I do not understand where all this is leading up to…"
"Good, that will do," commented Atto.
"Still, what is this Tetrachion?" I questioned him. "If it really is the heir to the Spanish throne, it seems almost to be an animal, Signor Atto."
"What the Tetrachion is, I do not know. What's more, to be quite honest, 1 know even less than I did before. Yet I feel that the answer is at hand, if we can but take one step forward. It is always like that: whenever one is close to the solution of some mystery of state, everything seems confused. The closer you approach, the more you stumble in the dark. Then suddenly, it all becomes clear."
While he was commenting on our progress, we passed the bridge over the Tiber and by now we were already climbing the Janiculum Hill and rapidly approaching our goal.
"Only one piece is missing from the mosaic," Atto continued, "and then perhaps we shall find what we seek. I want to know: where the deuce does this word Tetrachion come from? We must go and put a couple of little questions to someone. Let's hope he's already arrived at Villa Spada. We have very little time left before Spada, Albani and Spinola return to the Vessel. Let us get a move on."
Our initial search through the gardens of Villa Spada proved fruitless. Romauli, said the other servants, was doing his rounds, but no one knew exactly where he was. Since he spent most of his time bending over, he was easily concealed by hedges and shrubs.