summons (six in the morning) and the identity of the person who was inviting me to confer with him: Monsignor Jaime Rubellas, the Vatican Secretary of State.
The meeting with Cardinal Rubellas could not have been more courteous. He began by inquiring after my health, about the exigencies of my diocese and the situation with regard to vocations. He then asked me discreetly how the process of canonisation of Innocent XI was progressing. Shocked, I asked him whether he was not aware of the book's publication. He did not reply, but looked at me as though I were defying him.
It was then that he told me how badly I was needed here in Constantia, and he spoke of the new frontiers of the Church today and of the shortcomings in the care of souls in Romania.
The amiability with which the Secretary of State spoke of my transfer almost caused me to lose sight, during our meeting, of why he in person should be announcing all this to me; why I had been summoned in such an unusual manner, almost as though everything had to be done far from prying eyes; and finally, of how long my absence from Italy might last.
Closing the interview, Monsignor Rubellas asked me quite unexpectedly to maintain the strictest confidentiality about our talk and its content.
All the questions which I did not ask myself that morning keep raising their heads here in Constantia, every evening when I patiently practise my Romanian, a strange language in which nouns come before articles.
Soon after my arrival, I learned that under the Roman Empire, of which it was part for a very long time, Constantia had been called Tomi. Then, glancing at a map of the region, I noticed the presence nearby of a locality by the strange name of Ovidiu.
It was then that alarm bells rang in my head. I quickly consulted my manual of Latin literature: my memory had not betrayed me. When Constantia was called Tomi, it was here that the Emperor Caesar Augustus had the famous poet Ovid exiled; officially on the grounds that he had written licentious poems, but in reality because he was suspected of having become acquainted with far too many of the secrets of the imperial household. For ten long years, Augustus turned a deaf ear to his appeals, until Ovid died. Without ever again setting eyes on Rome.
Now I know, dear Alessio, how the trust which I placed in you a year ago has been repaid. My banishment to Tomi, the place of exile for 'literary crimes', has opened my eyes to that. Not only did the publication of my two friends' text not originate in the Holy See but it fell upon you all like lightning from a cloudless sky. And you all believed that I was behind this, that it was I who had arranged for this publication. That is why you had me banished here.
But you are mistaken. Like yourselves, I am completely ignorant of how that book came to be published; the Lord, quem nullum latet secretum, 'who knows all secrets' — as they recite in the Orthodox churches in these parts — also uses for His ends those who act against Him.
If you have taken a glance at the folder annexed to this letter, you will already know what it is: yet another typescript by Rita and Francesco. This too is perhaps an historical document, perhaps a novel. You may amuse yourself trying to discover which is the case by referring to the documentary evidence I received, annexed to the text, and which I am also sending you.
Obviously, you will be wondering when I received this typescript, where it was sent from and, lastly, whether I have found my old friends once more. This time I shall not, however, be able to help you satisfy your curiosity. I am sure you will understand why.
Lastly, I am sure that you will be asking yourself why I am sending this to you. I can just imagine your confusion, and how you will be wondering whether I am naive, or mad, or whether mine is a form of logic which you cannot follow. One of these three is the answer that you seek.
May God inspire you, once more, in the reading which you are about to undertake. And once again, may He make you an instrument of His will.
Lorenzo dell'Agio pulvis et cinis
Most Eminent and Reverend Sir,
With ev'ry Hour that passeth, I am the more persuaded that Your Lordship will without a Doubt be most sensible of a compendious Account of those extraordinary (Events which took place in (Rome in Jufy of the Year 1700, of which the most renowned and illustrious Protagonist was a faithful Subject of His Most Christian Majesty King Louis of F rance, concerning whose Successes one may here enjoy a great Wealth of Descriptions and Commentaries.
This is the Fruit born of the Labours of a simple Son of the Soil; and yet I dare trust that the luminous genius of Yr Most Illustrious Lordship will not disdain the Offspring of my Savage Muse. Poor indeed is the gift, yet rich is the Intent.
Will you pardon me, Sir, if in the Pages that follow I have not included praises enow? The Sun, altho' ne'er praised by Others, is yet the Sun. In Recompense, I expect Nothing other than that which you have already promised me, nor shall I repeat that, mindful as I am that never could a Soul as gen'rous as Yours deviate from Itself.
May I wish Yr Excellency a Life long enough to be for me a Harbinger of lasting hope; and most humbly do I make my Reverence.
Day the First
7th J uly, 1700
Ardent and high in the heavens above Rome shone the sun on that midday of the 7th of July in the year of Our Lord 1700, on which day the Lord did grace me with much hard labour (but against discreet recompense) in the gardens of the Villa Spada.
Lifting mine eyes from the ground and scrutinising the horizon beyond the distant wrought-iron gates flung open for the occasion, I glimpsed, perhaps even before any of the lackeys who stood guard around the gate of honour, the cloud of white dust from the road which announced the head of the long serpent of the guests' carriages moving in slow succession.
Upon that sight, which I was soon sharing with the other servants of the villa, who had as ever forgathered, drawn by curiosity, the joyous fervour of the preparations became yet more fevered; presently, they all returned to bustle around in the back rooms of the casino — the great house — where the major-domos had for days now fussed impatiently, shouting orders at the servants, as they muddled and collided with the varletry busily heaping up the last provisions in the cellars, while the peasants unloading cases of fruit and vegetables hurried to remount their carts stationed near the tradesmen's entrance, calling back their wives whenever they tarried too long in their search for the right pair of hands into which religiously to deliver majestic strings of flowers as red and velvety as their cheeks.
Pallid embroideresses arrived, delivering damasked cloths, hangings and eburnean hemstitched tablecloths, the very sight of which was blinding under the blazing sun; carpenters finished nailing and planing scaffolding, seats and platforms, in bizarre counterpoint to the disorderly practising of the musicians, who had come to try out the acoustics of the various natural theatres; architects squinted through puckered eyes as they verified the enfilade of an avenue, kneeling, wig grasped awkwardly in one hand, panting because of the great heat, as they checked again and again on the final effect of a mise-en-scene.
All this commotion was not without cause. In barely two days' time, Cardinal Fabrizio Spada would be solemnising the marriage of his one-and-twenty-year-old nephew Clemente, heir to the most copious fortune, with Maria Pulcheria Rocci, likewise the niece of a most eminent member of the Holy College of Cardinals.
In order worthily to celebrate the event, Cardinal Spada would be diverting with entertainments a multitude of prelates, nobles and cavaliers at the family villa, which stands, surrounded by magnificent gardens, on the Janiculum Hill near to the source of the Acqua Paola, whence one enjoys the loveliest and most aerial prospect of the city's roofs.
Such was the summer's heat that the villa seemed preferable to the family's grandiose and celebrated palace down in the city, in the Piazza Capo di Ferro, where the guests would not have been able to taste the delights of
