"And now, let us go into the villa. There must be someone in there who will at last have us arrested," said he laughing.
I found it hard to break the enchantment which the image of Maria, evoked by the Abbot in words and in song, had wrought in my spirit.
"Was that an air by your master, Le Seigneur Luigi?"
"I see that you have not forgotten," he replied. "No, this is by Francesco Cavalli, from his Giasone. I think that was the opera most played in the past half-century."
Saying this, Atto left me and walked ahead of me; he was un willing to say more.
Jason, or jealousy. 1 had never heard that famous opera, but I knew very well the celebrated Greek myth of the jealousy of Medea, queen of Colchis, for Jason, the leader of the Argonauts, and his love for Hypsipyle, queen of Lemnos. Another love triangle.
We moved towards the north side of the villa, opposite that overlooking the road. A distich was inscribed above the entrance gate:
Si te, ut saepe solet, species haec decipit alta;
Nec me, nec Caros decipit arcta Domus.
Once again, I had the curious, inexpressible sensation that the words painted or carved on the walls of the villa referred to, or even mirrored, some unknown reality.
We tried the door. It was open. At the moment of grasping the door handle, I seemed to hear a hurried sound of footsteps and movement, as though someone inside had risen suddenly from a chair. I looked at Atto; if he too had heard something, he showed no sign of it.
We crossed the threshold. Within, no one.
"No vestige of the three eminences, as far as one can see," I commented.
"I certainly was not expecting to find any still here. Yet, some trace of the meeting might have been left behind: a message, who knows, perhaps some notes… I would need only to know in which room they met. Such details are always very, very useful. The villa is large… let's see. It seems as though no one has any intention of keeping an eye on it. So much the better for us."
We found a large oblong room illuminated by the light from windows on either side. At the opposite end, a closed door. This large hall was apparently intended for summer luncheons. Through an open window blew the sweet and melancholy west wind. In an adjoining room, one could see a table for playing trucco, or billiards, if you prefer.
Cautiously, we moved a few paces forward, keeping an eye on the door opposite, from which we imagined that someone might issue sooner or later.
In the middle of the room, a great round table was very much in evidence on which was enthroned a large tray in fine inlaid silver poplar wood. We approached. Atto cautiously pushed the tray, which rotated.
"A brilliant idea," he commented. "The servings can pass from one guest to another, without troubling one's neighbour or needing to pay a carver. Benedetti appreciated the comforts of life, I'd say. Someone must have left the room a short while before us," he added after a pause.
"How can you be so sure of that?"
"There are footprints here on the floor. His shoes were dirty with earth."
We split up, while I explored the part of the room where we had entered, while Atto saw to the rest.
I observed that in two places where the walls protruded into the room, cupboards were built in, painted in the same colours as those walls, thus discreetly concealing articles for the table and the wine cellar. I opened the drawers. They were full of fine silver, with cutlery of all forms and dimensions for every purpose, including devices for scaling fish and long, well-sharpened knives for serving meat and game. Copious and variegated were the services of goblets, chalices, beakers, drinking bowls, large glasses, wooden cups, wine carafes and decanters, large and small, punchbowls for refreshments, jugs for water, cups for broths and hot beverages, all in glass decorated, gilded and painted with delightful figures of animals, cherubs or floral motifs. The master of the villa must have loved the pleasures of the eye no less than those of the table, all to be enjoyed in the salubrious air of the Janiculum Hill and among the verdure of vineyards and gardens. The Vessel, despite its strange isolation, was truly a villa built for great pleasures.
Against a wall, near one of the cupboards, I noticed a vertical brass tube which began at a man's height with a flaring opening like that of a trumpet and which ran up until it disappeared into the ceiling. Atto noticed my questioning look.
"That tube is another of the conveniences of the villa," he explained. "It is used to communicate with the servants on the other floors, without having to take the trouble to go and look for them. One need only talk into them and one's voice issues from the openings on other floors."
I moved a few paces. On every one of the shutters of the windows were painted medallions portraying illustrious Roman women: Pompea, Caesar's third wife; Servilia, Octavian's first wife; Drusilla, the sister of Caligula; Messalina, Claudius' fifth wife; and many others including Cossutia and Cornelia, Martia, Aurelia and Calpurnia (I counted thirty-two in all), each celebrated with solemn Latin inscriptions setting out their name, family and spouse.
We realised that above the arches and in the embrasures were other sayings, all alluding to the female sex, and they were most numerous, so many that these pages would not suffice to set out a tenth part of them:
Of women the quinte element is a natural raving
It is easier to find pleasure in absence than silence in women's midst
Woman laughs when she can, and cries when she will
Women and hens annoy the neighbours
Man and woman in a tight place are like straw near the fire
Interest usually, rather than love, rules women's hearts
"Everything here is dedicated to feminine qualities and to the pleasures of the table. This is the great hall of women and the palate," said Atto, while I examined a medallion with the profile of Plautia Hercanulilla.
Until that moment, so intent had we been on finding traces of the presence of the three august members of the Sacred College of Cardinals (and we had indeed discovered footprints) that we had not deigned to accord our attention to what was most interesting in this halclass="underline" the rich collection of paintings hung on the walls. Atto stood by my side as I focused on the paintings, realising that the only subject of the collection was, as might have been expected, a set of graceful women's faces.
Abbot Melani began to pass rapidly from one picture to the next without even needing to read the names on the frames, which showed the identity of the ladies in question. He knew each face to perfection (and meant to show that off), having seen them either in the flesh or in so many other portraits, and he told me their names.
"Her Majesty Anne of Austria, the late, lamented mother of the Most Christian King," he recited, almost as though he were presenting her to me in flesh and blood, showing me the sweet, haughty face of the deceased sovereign, that rather penetrating look, the forehead not excessively high, the round but noble neck embraced with loving respect by the low-cut organza collar of her sumptuous black taffeta gown, enriched by a bodice of pleated brocade on which the diaphanous royal hands were limply abandoned.
"As I had occasion to tell you when we met, the Queen Mother loved my singing, I could say, in no ordinary way," he added with a touch of vanity, adjusting his wig with a rapid and discreet gesture. "Above all, sad arias, sung in the evening."
He then passed on to the portraits of the Princess Palatine, Countess Marescotti, and the late lamented Henrietta, sister- in-law of the Most Christian King, all so nobly and realistically depicted that it seemed as though they might just have lunched at the great table nearby.
It was then that we came to the last portrait, a little in the shade by comparison with the others, yet still visible.