No, there was no mystery here, save that of the lasting love that joined three old persons. The Abbot, it was true, had been reticent with me about the question of the Spanish succession, persuading me that the three cardinals were meeting to prepare the next conclave. Yet it was also true that the matter was extremely delicate, and Atto had therefore preferred to keep me in the dark. I well remembered from the days when we had met at the Locanda del Donzello, how the Abbot had been prodigal with the most stupefying revelations concerning events distant in time, while he carefully kept the truth about his manoeuvres and projects of the moment to himself. When all was said and done, what else could I expect of a veteran spy? I had to yield to the facts: Abbot Melani would always keep something from me, if only out of his inborn mistrustfulness and the complicated workings of his mind.
So it was with new eyes that I reconsidered Melani's letter which I had just read, and now I no longer found it so suspect. For example, might not the obsequious tone employed by Atto when speaking of Albani be due to the Abbot's fear that someone might read his letters and realise that he was spying on the three cardinals for the Most Christian King?
Now it was time for me to be on my way. I left the three letters where I had found them, in the Abbot's wig. The love verses, however, by their very nature resistant to all human will, accompanied me far on my way. They perpetuated the motionless dance of the rhymes along the way home to my bed, where I took out one last time the Cavaliere Guarini's Faithful Shepherd and sought those lines. When at length I found them playing on the lips of Silvio and Dorinda, I smiled at that final confirmation of the truth, for once kinder than my fears. Atto, Atto,
although thy soul be cruel, 'tis lovely too,
I found myself repeating this in that confused whirlpool which precedes sleep, and later, in the mystery of the night hours when the soul feeds on shadows and vain images and loves to discover itself immortal.
Day the Eighth
14th JULY, 1700
*
"And what do you mean to say, That I'm an ignoramus?"
Poor Buvat fell silent at once, shocked by Atto's acid tone.
That morning Abbot Melani was really beside himself. Buvat had just returned from a walk in town and had found us in close conversation, trying to think up a way of getting into the Congregation of the Oratory while eluding the surveillance of the Philippine Brothers. The moment that he attempted to contribute to the discussion, Atto set to berating him.
"Never would I dare suggest such a thing, Signor Abbot," the secretary hesitantly defended himself, "only..."
"Only what?"
"Well, there's simply no reason to elude the surveillance of the Philippine Brothers because, as I was saying, there is none."
Abbot Melani and I looked at one another in consternation.
"What is more," Buvat continued, "Virgilio Spada himself arranged for his collection to be displayed in an accessible place. It is indeed a genuine museum, so arranged as to satisfy the curiosity of many visitors."
Buvat went on to explain that Virgilio Spada, although he had in his youth soldiered under the Spanish flag, was a most religious, cultivated and erudite man, a good friend of the great architect Borromini whom he had introduced to the court of Pope Innocent X half a century previously. Spada had at the time been instructed by the Pontiff to restore order to the great hospital of Santo Spirito in Saxia, and had subsequently been appointed Privy Almoner to His Holiness. Besides this he had, thanks to his spiritual qualities, been invited to join the pious Congregation of the Oratory, so called because its founder, Saint Philip Neri, had held its first spiritual meetings at the Oratory of San Girolamo della Carita and later in that of Santa Maria in Vallicella, where the seat of the Congregation of the Oratory is now to be found, along with Virgilio's collection.
"How the deuce do you come to know all this?"
"You will of course remember that, when I was recently visiting libraries in search of information on the cerretani, among other things, I went to the Biblioteca Vallicelliana, which happens to be just next to the Oratory of the Philippine Brothers. So it was that I got into long and pleasant conversations with them. At that time, I could even have taken a look at the collection of Virgilio Spada, if only you had told me that you thought you might find there these objects which interest you so much."
Melani lowered his eyes and muttered furious obscenities under his breath.
"Very well, Buvat," he then said. "Take us to your Oratorian friends."
"And this must be what you are looking for," said the young monk, turning the key in the lock of a great two-panelled chest.
The room was gay and luminous, but rendered severe by the display cabinets, walnut chests of drawers and bookcases full of all manner of objects which covered it and made it rather like a sacristy.
"No one knows that these objects, the ones you're looking for, are here. Perhaps there's someone in the Spada family who remembers," added the monk, with an expression that betrayed the desire to know how we came to be informed of this.
"Quite. I believe that is precisely the case," replied Atto, in terms that did not address the Oratorian's observation, who was therefore left no wiser.
We were in the room at the Oratory devoted to the museum: a corner room on the second floor giving onto the Piazza della Chiesa Nuova (that of the church standing next to the Oratory itself), and a narrow alley called the Via de' Filippini.
We had begun with a detailed visit to the entire collection of Virgilio Spada: Roman coins; medals from every epoch; busts antique and modern; sundials; concave mirrors; convex lenses; gnomons; volcanic rocks; crystals; precious stones; solar sponges; the fangs of monstrous beings; teeth and bones of animals mysteriously turned to stone; the ravenous mandibles of unknown beings; elephants' vertebrae; gigantic conch and mussel shells; seahorses; stuffed birds and hawks; horns of rhinoceros and stags' antlers; turtles' shells; ostrich eggs; claws of crustaceans; and in addition, oil lamps of the first Christians found in the catacombs; tabernacles; Roman, Greek and Persian vases and amphorae; goblets; huge oil jars; lachrymal vases; bone calyxes; Chinese coins; alabaster spheres and a thousand other oddities which kept us suspended between wonderment and impatience.
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.
"Damn it all, I have it," cursed Atto. "We need some help."
He guided our trio to his apartment. No sooner had we entered than he rushed to the table and grasped a familiar object: the telescope. He pointed it out of the window, to no avail.
We then went outside and crossed to the other side of the villa. This time, after a swift scan, Melani whistled with satisfaction:
"I have you, wretched gardener."
Now we knew where he was.
Tranquillo Romauli, punctual in his activities as the rising of sun and moon, could certainly not fail to water the Saint Antony's lilies which he had planted not long before and which required constant and intensive care. He was carefully sprinkling the diaphanous lanceolate calyxes bunched in lovely racemes when we appeared before him, greeting him with the greatest courtesy that haste and emotion permitted.
"Do you see? With lilies, the ground needs generous watering, but it must never be drenched," he began, almost without responding to our greeting. "In this period, they should really be resting, but I have succeeded in developing a hybrid which. . ."
"Signor Master Florist, be so kind as to permit us to ask you a question," I asked him amiably, "a question concerning the Tetrachion."
"About the Tetrachion, my Tetrachion?"
"Yes, Signor Florist, the Tetrachion. Where did you find that name?"
"Oh, that is a rather sad story," said he, as he put down his watering can, his face marked by some distant memory.
Fortunately, his explanation was not too lengthy. Years before, Romauli had not dedicated all his time to flowers: he had been married. As well I knew, his late spouse had been a great midwife; indeed she had taught the art to Cloridia, and had attended the birth of our two little ones. From his tale one understood that it had been the premature death of his wife that had caused him to devote himself body and soul to gardening, in a vain attempt to banish the indelible shadows of mourning. Not long after the sad event, the poor woman's parents had asked Tranquillo if he could leave them some personal belonging of hers as a memento.
"I gave them a few jewels, two little pictures, a holy image and then her work books."
"So these were
books for midwives," said Atto to encourage him.
"They are used by midwives to acquaint themselves with the possible accidents arising from difficult deliveries, or to instruct themselves on the different kinds of womb, and other such matters," he replied.
"And from which book did you take the term Tetrachion?"
"Ah, well, that I really cannot remember. It was so many years ago. I do not recall the details. The use of that name is in fact a memento, just a memento of my dear wife."
We had learned enough.
"Thank you, thank you for your patience, and please pardon us for having troubled you," said I, while Atto was already hurrying away, without so much as a farewell, towards the gate of the villa. Romauli stared at us in surprise.
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