Secretum

'Riparian swallow.'

'Pheasant, in my view,' proposed Monsignor Gozzadini, Secretary for His Holiness's Memorials.

'But, Excellency, on top of a tree…'

'Ah yes, that is true.'

'A partridge,' said another.

'A partridge? Too small.'

'Excuse me, it must be a turtle dove, or at most a pigeon, that's quite clear.'

'But even a white dove…'

'Perhaps it is a jay,' ventured Marchese Lancellotti Ginetti, who seemed to regard it as somehow dishonourable not to pronounce his opinion on the egg which he himself had brought down.

'Come, come, Marchese!' butted in Prince Vaini with his usual insolence. 'Can you not see that the egg is white, while jays' eggs are speckled? Even the dogs in the street know that!'

The entire group ganged up on poor Lancellotti Ginetti, stressing the gravity of his mistake with a series of 'Ah, yes!', 'But what's got into his head?', 'Utterly absurd' and so on and so forth, all accompanied by allusive little coughs and the clearing of throats.

Suddenly, the ear-splitting report of an arquebus was heard. Everyone, including Lancellotti Ginetti, immediately ducked to the ground to avoid any further shots.

Fortunately, there were no dead or wounded. A quick check revealed that none of the gentlemen present had an arquebus. Moving further afield, none of those handling one admitted to having fired in the previous few minutes. Some of those present still had goose pimples from the experience, and moved away to resume the beat.

This incident, which I had fortuitously witnessed as I was in the process of moving one of the cages to a better position, filled my soul with a dense cloud of disquiet. At point blank range, an arquebus shot could only kill.

Out of a sense of duty, I at once reported what had happened to Don Paschatio; his face was marked in equal measure by anguish and terror. The one thing not needed at the festivities which he was overseeing was a dead man, perhaps one high born. He began lamenting that this hunting party was most inappropriate at the present time when a conclave was imminent, with so much mutual detestation in the air. Someone might give in to the temptation to settle old accounts.

I had, however, cooled down after the initial shock. I had my suspicions; but I could not yet imagine whether there were any grounds for them, nor did I know whether it would be wise to investigate the matter. In any case, urgent business now occupied my mind, calling me to action.

The business of spying, to be quite precise.

Evening the Seventh

13th J ULY, 1700

I found Atto in his lodgings. He had not taken part in the merry hunt: the hunt for Caesar Augustus had been quite enough for him, said he. In fact, he was too busy replying to the letter from the Connestabilessa. Now that he had accomplished that task, it was time for him to go down with Buvat for dinner in the gardens of the villa. I told him what I had learned from Don Tibaldutio: the cerretani even had a friend at Saint Peter's, whose name the chaplain had not, however, revealed.

'Ah yes? Very good, very good,' he commented, 'I shall ask Sfasciamonti to check up on this at once.'

Half an hour later, after making sure that the Abbot and his secretary were at table, I again plunged my hands into his dirty linen and took out the little envelope of secret correspondence.

From my pocket, I drew the little book of The Faithful Shepherd which I had borrowed from the library at the Vessel: now I was ready to read Maria's letters in the light of those verses. As on the previous occasion, I could find in the folder neither the Connestabilessa's letter nor the reply which the Abbot must just have penned. I searched among Buvat's effects, hoping to find an interesting letter, as had happened during my previous inspection, but this time I found nothing.

I rummaged everywhere, to no avail. I grew worried. Perhaps Melani was beginning to harbour suspicions of my incursions. Alas, Atto must have taken the letter with him.

It only remained for me to read the third and last report from Maria Mancini on the court of Spain, the only one which I had not yet read. Who knows, said I to myself, perhaps now that I had discovered the truth about the correspondence between Atto and Maria, now that I had got to the very heart of it, which had to do not with politics or spying, but with love, I might be able to retrace in those reports allusions and quotations which had at first escaped me. Glancing out of the window to make sure that Atto was a long way off and otherwise occupied, I opened the packet.

Attached to the report was a covering letter from Maria. It had been sent from Madrid two months before. The Connestabilessa was replying to a letter from Atto and confirming that she would be coming to Rome to attend the Spada-Rocci wedding.

My friend, I understand the point of view shared by Lidio and yourself, but I repeat my own opinion: it is all pointless. Moreover, what today may seem good will tomorrow turn out to be a disaster.

Nevertheless, I shall come. I shall do as Lidio desires. So we shall meet at the Villa Spada. This I promise you.

Here again was an allusion to Herodotus. She wrote of Lidio, in other words of Croesus, King of Lydia, the name by which, I had the day before discovered, Atto and Maria referred to the Most Christian King.

I collected my thoughts. So it had been Lidio, the Most Christian King in person, who had asked Maria to accept Cardinal Spada's invitation! And why should he have done that?

I read and reflected, until I had an intuition: the Sovereign wanted to convince Maria to return to France. That was what Abbot Melani's mission must be about. And the backdrop to all this was provided by the nuptials at Villa Spada.

The King of France was filled with nostalgia for the Connestabilessa. Had not Atto himself given me to understand this the day before, during our last visit to the Vessel? He had even revealed to me that Madame de Maintenon wanted the King to see Maria again now that she was old, in the hope of blotting out once and for all the memory which the King retained from the years of their youth.

I imagined that the Sovereign might, through Atto, be pulling strings to persuade Maria to meet him again; perhaps by accepting the official invitation to court which Madame de Maintenon was so keen on, or perhaps a secret meeting, far from inquiring eyes.

But the Connestabilessa, judging by the letter I had before me, had no intention of accepting. She considered that by now it was 'all pointless', even that 'what today may seem good will tomorrow turn out to be a disaster'. She was probably referring to a possible meeting with the King; the joy of embracing once more would be followed by a bitter confrontation with the truth: the withering of bodies, the faded lineaments, the wilting of every charm.

Ah yes, I reasoned, the Connestabilessa would never show herself aged to the love of her whole life.

Anchored to these certainties, I continued the letter. I frowned: the Connestabilessa seemed suddenly to have changed the subject. She was speaking of Spanish affairs:

Have you heard of the jingle that is doing the rounds in Madrid? Charles V was Emperor, Philip II was King, Philip IV was but a man, Charles II is not even that.

My friend, how have we descended into such decay? The worms that infest the old trunk of the Monarchy are myriad but do not believe all you hear: many, far too many of them come from beyond the Pyrenees. Who inoculated in Spain's weary members the toxin of spies, plotters, artificial terror, misinformation, corruption? Who wants to see Spain voided from within, poisoned, intoxicated and made to rot like the walking cadaver of her King?

I am Italian by birth, I grew up in France and I chose Spain as my new fatherland; I can see when the shadows of the Great Jackals stretch over Madrid.

I left off reading; who were the Great Jackals? Probably the other European kingdoms. The report continued