Secretum

which I had not yet, however, been able to exploit.

'Excellent. Unless I am mistaken, Albani is Secretary for Breves, is he not?' concluded Melani, sounding most satisfied.

He was not mistaken; I had heard this mentioned by two ladies during last night's meal.

At that juncture, we broke off, having come within sight of the guards of the San Pancrazio Gate who obviously knew me well because, living outside the walls, I passed through the gate in one direction or the other every single day. To be in a gentleman's company was an added advantage. We were allowed through without any problem.

'You have still not told me where we are going,' said I, although a certain idea was already forming in the ramblings of my imagination.

'Well, our three cardinals are to hold their little meeting on board a vessel. On the Tiber, perhaps?'

'That does not seem very likely.'

'To tell the truth, it might well be so, if they really wanted to keep out of sight of prying eyes. The fact is, however, that they have a far more convenient place on dry land, and just here, a stone's throw from the Villa Spada. We are almost there. Perhaps you have heard tell of this; it is called the Vessel.'

After all Atto's deductions, that was the name I was expecting.

'Of course I have heard of it,' I replied. 'I walk by it every day on my way from home to the Villa Spada, but I realised that it might be a meeting place for the three cardinals only after you had set forth your considerations,' I admitted, 'and then I knew that the expression 'on board' was just a play on words…'

Atto began to walk faster, registering my diplomatic declaration of inferiority with a mute smile.

'You will see,' he resumed, 'it is a truly singular place. It is a site, as perhaps you may know, which is fairly closely bound up with France, and that makes the encounter between Spinola and your master Spada even more interesting: a Hispanophile cardinal and a friend of the Empire attending a clandestine meeting in a French house.'

'In sum, it is a meeting to choose the next pope. If the third party proves to be Albani, the Francophile, one might say that France is running the affair.'

'Now we shall go and take a look,' said he without answering me. 'The meeting will certainly have taken place at dawn, the hour for occult machinations, and it will be all over by now. But we might still be able to trace some interesting information. And yet…'

'And yet?'

'A coincidence. Very strange. Something rather bizarre is kept in the Vessel. Objects which… well, it is an old story which I shall tell you sooner or later.'

Just as Atto was pronouncing these last syllables, we reached our destination and I had to postpone any request for an elucidation.

The place we were about to enter was not far distant from my rural habitation, and was to play a great part in the events which I shall be recounting; it was known to many but truly known by few. Officially, it bore the name of Villa Benedetti from the name of a certain Benedetti, of whom I knew only that he had, decades before, had the edifice built with great luxury and pomp. Because of its singular form, which made it resemble a sailing ship, the structure was also known to the local people as the Villa of the Vessel, or simply, the Vessel.

I have already said that it was known to everyone, and not just to the people of the neighbourhood; for in fact the villa enjoyed a strange notoriety. All the inhabitants of the neighbourhood knew that, after the death of its builder, some ten years ago, the palazzo and its garden had passed as a legacy to a kinsman of Cardinal Mazarin; yet the Cardinal's relative had never set foot there, so that the villa had become a forgotten place. Yet it had not been abandoned: at nightfall, lights could be seen there, and during the day, the shadows of people. From the street, one could hear music wafting through the air, the footsteps of people, gentle laughter. Perpetual was the soft plashing of a fountain, with the occasional counterpoint of a lackey's rapid paces on the gravel of the courtyard.

No visitor, however, was ever seen to enter or to leave. Never did a carriage halt before the villa to set down guests of note, nor was any servant ever seen to go out in order to fetch provisions for the kitchens or firewood for winter. Everyone knew that there must be someone within, yet he was never seen.

It was as though the Vessel was animated by a secret life, independent of any contact with the outside world. It seemed to shelter within its bounds mysterious faceless gentlemen, like the gods of some minor Olympus, caring nothing for men's society and content with their mysterious privacy. Around it, an arcane aura discouraged the curious and inspired a certain unease even in those who, like myself, passed by the villa at least once a day.

The location of the Vessel, on the other hand, could not have been finer or more desirable, overlooking the Via Aurelia from the sweet heights of the Janiculum Hill. Situated right on the boundary between city and countryside, the building enjoyed perfect air and the most agreeable and varied views, without the eye having to go begging for them. Although it rose among the gentle, modest heights of the hill, yet the Vessel had a proud and unblemished appearance: more than a villa, it seemed truly a castle. At first sight, one might say, a seagoing castle. The prow (as I was soon to see) was the double stairway of the fagade, set in the green of the garden, which, with a double symmetrical and converging curve, led to a little terrace, the faithful image of an upper deck. The poop, at the opposite end, was represented by a low semicircular facade, within which a covered loggia with spacious arched windows gave onto the Via di Porta San Pancrazio behind. The ship itself consisted of the four habitable storeys, graceful and airy in design, overlooked by four turrets, in turn made perfect by as many banners, almost like pennants raised on the masts of a ship under sail.

The Vessel rose thus proudly, well above the ridge and the tops of the surrounding trees, so that it could be seen even from afar; and it mattered not that the garden was not so big, as, moreover, a Latin motto placed above the entrance proclaimed, which time and again I had had occasion to read in passing:

Agri tantum quo fruamur

Non quo oneremur.

In other words, its creator recommended the possession of just so much land as sufficed for the enjoyment thereof, rather than wasting money on the acquisition of great estates. This motto, which smacked of ancient rural wisdom, was merely the prelude to much, so much else, which we were to find within.

Atto halted, scrutinising the distant bifurcation in the Via di Porta San Pancrazio, opening the view onto the Casino Corsini.

'I know that the Vessel was built by a certain Benedetti,' I resumed as we discreetly explored the road, 'but who was he?'

'One of Mazarin's trusted men. He acted as his agent here in Rome. He purchased pictures, books and precious objects in his name. In time, he became something of a connoisseur. He maintained contacts with Bernini, Algardi and Poussin… I do not know whether those names mean anything to you.'

'Of course they do, Signor Atto. These are great artists.'

Benedetti had a flair for architecture, Atto continued, although not himself an architect. Sometimes he would undertake projects that were large for him. For example, he had proposed building a grand stairway up the hill between the Piazza di Spagna and Trinita dei Monti, but this led to nothing. Occasionally, however, he found ways of realising his ideas. It was, for example, his design which was adopted for the catafalque for the Cardinal's funeral held here in Rome. It was rather heavy and excessively pompous, but not ugly. Benedetti was a fine amateur.

'Perhaps he had a hand in the design of the Vessel, too,' said I, wondering out loud.

'Indeed, it is said that the villa is his own work, far more than that of the architects whom he hired. And that is the truth.'

'Did you know him well?'

'I helped him when he came to France, a little over thirty years ago, precisely because of the Vessel. When he died, he bequeathed me a few little things out of gratitude. A couple of nice little pictures.'

We now stood before the wall surrounding the villa. He looked westward, screwing up his eyes a little against the afternoon glare.

'He had come to visit Vaux-le-Vicomte, the chateau of my friend Nicolas Fouquet. I accompanied him, and he revealed to me that he intended to draw on it as an inspiration for his own villa. But enough chatter now, we have arrived. You will be able to see with your own eyes, and to judge for yourself, if you so desire.'

We approached the entrance gate, which was of admirable and unusual design. There rose up before us the