Adam recognized only two names on the list of those reputed to have attended Federico’s gatherings at Villa Docci. The first was Bronzino, the well-known court painter. The second was Tullia d’Aragona, the not-so-much-well-known-as-notorious courtesan and poetess. Her inclusion lent an appealing whiff of scandal to the list, hinting at dark and dangerous goings-on at Villa Docci. Whether or not this was true, Federico’s dream of a rural salon was abruptly shattered after a year with the death of his wife. There were no records as to the cause of Flora’s untimely demise. Federico must have been devastated, though, because he never remarried, the villa and the estate passing to another branch of the Docci clan on his death.
Amongst all this historical fog, one thing was clear: in 1577 Federico had laid out, according to his own design, a small garden to Flora’s memory.
Adam turned the page to be presented with a hand-drawn map of the garden. He instinctively closed the file. Better to approach the place blind and untutored the first time, as Professor Leonard had suggested.
The pathway meandered lazily down into the valley, a thread of packed earth, untended and overgrown. The trees on either side grew denser, darker, as he descended, deciduous giving way to evergreen: pine, yew, juniper and bay He heard birds, but their song was muffled, diffuse, hard to locate. And then the path gave out. Or at least it appeared to. Closer inspection revealed a narrow fissure set at an angle in the tall yew hedge barring his way.
He paused for a moment then edged through the crack.
Beyond the hedge, the path was gravelled, with trees pressing in tightly, their interlocking branches forming a gloomy vault overhead. After a hundred yards or so, the trees fell away abruptly on both sides and he found himself in a clearing near the head of a broad cleft in the hillside. This was evidently the heart of the garden, the central axis along which it unfolded.
To his right, set near the top of a tiered and stone-trimmed amphitheatre, stood a pedestal bearing a marble statue of a naked woman. Her exaggerated contrapposto stance thrust her right hip out, twisting her torso to the left, while her head was turned back to the right, peering over her shoulder. Her right arm was folded across her front, modestly covering her breasts; her hair was wreathed with blossoms; and at her feet flowers spilled from an overturned vase, like water from an urn.
Unless he was mistaken, Federico Docci had cast his wife in the image of Flora, goddess of flowers. This was not so surprising, but the conceit still brought a smile to his lips.
If there was any doubt as to the identity of the statue, on the crest above, a triumphal arch stood out proud against a screen of dark ilex trees. On the heavy lintel borne up by fluted columns, and set between two decorative lozenges, was incised the word:
The Italian for flower: ‘Flora’ in Latin. There was something telling, tender, about Federico’s decision to employ the Italian form of his wife’s Christian name -an indication, perhaps, of a pet name or some other private intimacy lost to history.
Two steep stone runnels bordered the amphitheatre, descending to a long trough sunk into the ground. Leaves and other debris had collected in the base of the trough, and a dead bird lay on this rotting mattress, pale bones showing through decaying plumage. A weather-fretted stone bench was set before the trough, facing the amphitheatre. It bore an inscription in Latin, eroded by the elements, but just possible to make out:
ASTIMA FIT SEDENDO ETQUIESCEKTDO PRUOENTIOR
The Soul in Repose Grows Wiser. Or something like that. An appropriate message for a spot intended for contemplation.
The presence of an overflow outlet just below the rim of the trough steered his gaze down the slope to a high mound bristling with laurel and fringed with cypresses. From here two paths branched off into the dark woods flanking the overgrown pasture that ran to the foot of the valley, and at the far end of which some kind of stone building lurked in the trees.
A flight of shallow steps led down to the mound. Adam skirted the artificial hillock, wondering just what it represented. It didn’t represent anything, he discovered; it existed to house a deep, stygian grotto.
The irregular entrance, designed to look like the mouth of some mountain cave, was encrusted with cut rock and stalactites. The angle of the sun was such that he couldn’t make out what lay inside.
He hesitated for a moment, shook off a mild foreboding, then stepped into the yawning darkness.
5
Did you see him before he left?
Briefly. I told him you were resting.
I wanted to see him. Wake me up next time.
Of course, Signora.
Did he say anything?
About what?
The garden, of course.
No.
Nothing?
He was very silent.
Silent?
Distracted.
He’s handsome, don’t you think? Tall and dark and slightly dangerous.
He’s too pallid.
It’s not his fault, Maria, he’s English.
And he’s too thin.
A bit, I agree.
He needs fattening up.
That will come with time. He hasn’t grown into his body yet.
I think he’s strange.
Really?
When he left, I saw him walking back and forth between the cypresses at the top of the driveway. Big long steps.
Interesting.
Worrying. It must be the heat.
No, it means he’s worked it out.
Signora?
The cypresses taper towards the top of the driveway.
Taper?
The two rows narrow as you approach the villa – to increase the sense of perspective.
I didn’t know.
That’s because I don’t tell anyone.
Why not?
To see if they notice. Only two people have ever noticed. Three now.
And the other two?
Both dead.
Let’s hope for the Englishman’s sake there’s no connection.