Despite all the time that has passed since then and the seemingly endless series of unusual experiences, I still recall the vertigo that overcame me.
The gallery was endless. Its two converging sides stretched out to infinity, it was almost as though my eyeballs had been torn from their sockets and projected helplessly into that abyss. Overcome by the unbearable dazzle of the light from outside, I saw the walls of the gallery melt into the displays of arms, the frescoes of the ceiling and, lastly, into the potent, solemn, fearful image outlined against the horizon, framed by the glass window as in a hunter's gun-sights: the Vatican Hill.
"Bravo, bravo Benedetti," commented Atto.
It took us a few minutes to realise what had happened. The northern end of the gallery consisted of a wall in which was set a window which gave onto a quadrangular loggia. The wall around the glass had been hung with mirrors which replicated and prolonged the gallery, making it appear endless. But that happened if the observation point was far enough away and equally distant from the two long sides: then and only then. In the middle of the wall, and thus at the point where the perspective of that architectural tunnel converged, the vista of the Vatican palaces was right at the centre of the frame; it was enough to approach that great window to include in the panorama the cupola of St Peter's Basilica.
So the prow of that ship-shaped villa pointed directly towards the seat of the papacy. It was not clear whether the coincidence was a sign of virtuosity or, rather, a threat.
"I do not understand. It seems to be aiming the barrel of a cannon, almost as though we could fire at the Vatican palaces," I commented. "You knew Benedetti. In your opinion, was it or was it not a matter of chance that the Vessel was thus oriented?"
"I'd say that…"
He broke off. Suddenly, the sound of footsteps could be heard in the garden. Atto did not wish to give the impression that he was alarmed, yet, forgetting what he was about to say, he began to pace up and down nervously.
We explored the rooms giving onto the gallery, which were four in all. First, there was a little chapel, then a bath chamber. Above the entrance of the first was written " Hic anima " and above the second, "Hie corpus".
'"Here is for the soul' and 'here is for the body'," translated Atto. "What a witty fellow!"
The bath chamber was most richly furnished and decorated with stuccoes and majolica tiles. It contained two baths. In each, the water was dispensed by two taps, above one of which was written " calida " while above the other was inscribed " frigida".
"Hot and cold water, on demand," Atto commented. "Incredible. Not even the King enjoys such conveniences."
We again heard a pronounced crunching of gravel outside. The footsteps sounded more hurried than before.
"Do you really not wish to go out and see whether the two… Well.. whether there's someone outside."
"Of course I want to," he replied. "First, however, I intend to finish exploring this floor. If we find nothing interesting here, we shall move on to the floor above."
As was easily foreseeable, the chapel too was decorated with dozens and dozens of holy maxims, from the walls to the shutters of the windows. Atto read one at random.
"'Ieunium arma contra diabolum' 'Fasting is a weapon against the Devil'. We should remind all those eminences stuffing themselves at the home of Cardinal Spada of that one."
The two remaining rooms were dedicated to the papacy and to France respectively: a little chamber with portraits of all the pontiffs and another with effigies of the kings of France and of Queen Christina of Sweden. Above the two doorways, two inscriptions: " LITERA " for the popes, " ET ARMA " for the kings.
"To popes the care of the spirit, to kings the defence of the state," explained Atto; "Benedetti was certainly no friend of the temporal power of the Church," he guffawed.
In the little chamber dedicated to France, two splendid tapestries of bucolic scenes hung on the walls, which captured Abbot Melani's attention no less. The first depicted a shepherdess, with a satyr in the background attempting to abduct another one, dragging her by the hair, but failing because the maiden wore hair which was not her own. In the second tapestry, a young man with bow and arrow leaned over a nymph wounded in her side and attired in a wolf's skin, the whole enclosed in a floral frame punctuated with scrolls and medallions in relief.
"There are Corisca and Amarillis, and here is Dorinda wounded: these are two scenes from The Faithful Shepherd, the celebrated pastoral tragicomedy by the Cavaliere Guarini which for over a century has enjoyed such success in all the courts of Christendom," he recited with satisfaction. "Admire, my boy, these are without question two of the finest tapestries from the French manufactories. They come from the Faubourg Saint-Germain, admirably woven by the skilled hands of Van der Plancken — or de la Planche, if you prefer," he specified, speaking with all the mannerisms of an expert. "I persuaded Elpidio Benedetti to purchase these when I came from France some thirty years ago."
"They are truly beautiful," I assented.
"Originally, these were part of a set of four but, at my suggestion, Benedetti brought two of them to the Palazzo Colonna as a gift for Maria Mancini, who was then in Rome. Only I knew how much she would appreciate them. When I returned to Rome, I found that she had hung them in her bedchamber, just in front of her writing desk. She always loved risk: she kept them for years under her husband's nose and he never noticed a thing!" said he, sniggering.
"The husband did not notice that the tapestries had been hung?" I asked, not having understood.
"No, no, I do not mean that he never discovered them… Come, forget it," replied Atto, becoming suddenly evasive.
"I imagine that this Faithful Shepherd was one of the favourite readings of la Mancini and the King at the time of their amours," I guessed, trying to understand what Atto had meant to say.
"More or less," he mumbled, drawing suddenly away from the tapestries and pretending to take an interest in a picture of a wooded landscape. "I mean, it was the favourite reading of many at the time. It is a very famous play, as I said to you."
The Abbot seemed reticent, and then aware that I had noticed this.
"I detest gossiping about the love secrets of Maria and His Majesty," he declared in familiar tones, "above all, those they shared when they were alone."
"Alone? Yet you are informed of them," I commented dubiously.
"Yes, I and no one else."
I found it distinctly curious that Melani should be seized now by qualms of conscience: he seemed never to have had any whenever he had complacently revealed to me whole series of secret and intimate episodes in the life of the Most Christian King. On the contrary…
I was on the point of replying when I heard the same footsteps yet again. They were drawing near at an alarming pace. They were coming up the stairs. We both turned to the spiral staircase which we had climbed at the far end of the hall.
As stiff as stockfish, both frozen by a fear which neither was willing to admit to the other, we waited with bated breath for the strange presence to manifest itself. The echoes created in the gallery by the footsteps on the marble stairs were so scattered that, without knowing where the staircase was, it would have been impossible to tell which way to turn. The footsteps drew nearer, then very near, so near that one would have sworn that they had reached the level of the gallery. Then they ceased. We both had our gaze fixed on the far end of the gallery. There was no one there.
Then he came. The shadow came between us, enormous, inconceivable. We had been deceived. The being was behind us, almost upon us, on the threshold of the loggia from which one could see the Vatican.
At that instant my mind struggled to understand how he had managed to materialise there behind us in complete silence. Simultaneously, I felt my left shoulder in his grip and knew that I was defenceless.