The Savage Garden

    In almost no time he had fallen under Villa Docci's spell, and the idea that he might have to devote his time to the study of a small part of its garden, one component stuck way down in the valley, was already a building frustration.

    The answer came to him suddenly and clearly. He would change the subject of his thesis. Who could protest? Professor Leonard? On what grounds? Their remit as students was broad to the point of being all- embracing. If Roland Gibbs had settled on a moldering Romanesque church in Suffolk as a subject for his thesis, how did an Italian Renaissance villa-estate compare? He would have to play the Marxist historical card—that angle was increasingly popular within the faculty—not art and architecture for their own sakes, but as manifestations of the socioeconomic undercurrents of the time.

    His heart already going out of the matter, he opened the file

    Signora Docci had given him and began to read. The language was rich, formal, turn-of-the-century.

    Flora Bonfadio was only twenty-five years old when she died in 1548—the year after she and her husband, Federico Docci, some two decades her senior, took possession of the new villa they had built near San Casciano. Not much was known of Flora's history. Some had speculated that she was related to the poet and humanist Jacopo Bonfadio, but there was no hard evidence to this effect. As for the Doccis, they were a family of Florentine bankers who, like the Medici, originated from the Mugello, a mountainous region just north of the city. Although they had never risen to the Medici's level of prominence—who had?—by the sixteenth century they were nonetheless established as successful financiers. They had to have been, for Federico Docci to afford the luxury of carving out a country estate for himself and his young wife.

    Villa Docci instantly became a port of call for artists and writers, and was renowned, apparently, for the extravagant parties thrown by its generous host. This was not an unusual development. To create a cultural watering hole in the hills was the goal of many wealthy Florentines, almost a necessary stage in their development—a chance to share some of their ill-gotten gains with the more needy while rubbing shoulders with the greatest talents of the age. High finance and high art coming together as they have always done. A simple trade in an age driven by patronage.

    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 handdrawn 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 graveled, 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 amphitheater, 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 amphitheater, 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 amphitheater. It bore an inscription in Latin, eroded by the elements, but just possible to make out:

    anima fit sedendo et quiescendo prudentior

    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.