probably get over it in a standing jump.’
I really hated to leave that rhododendron. It had gorgeous purple flowers and lots of nice thick foliage. We went scuttling along behind the wall, which ended in an open, trellised summerhouse. We skirted this and struck out across the grounds. I was thankful it was spring, when the grass was lush and soft, and there were no fallen leaves underfoot to crackle.
The English garden was enclosed by a high hedge of boxwood. This particular plant gets very thick and high when it is old. It is sometimes used for mazes because it is so difficult to break through. Keeping in its shadow, we found a place where the hedge was a little thinner, and peered through.
The garden was one of Pietro’s favourites. He had not stinted on the lights. One look and I knew it would be impossible to cut directly across. It would be like walking onto a lighted stage.
We didn’t cross the English garden. We circumnavigated it, crawling on our stomachs next to the roots of the boxwood. I do not recommend that means of locomotion. But we saw no one, and when we reached the entrance to the long avenue, I thought we had it made. Tall, pointed cypresses lined the way like living pillars. There was plenty of shade under the trees, and the low lights lining the path did not reach far into the shadows. The avenue sloped down, following the contours of the hillside. We made good time. We were almost at the end of it, near the rose garden, when I heard a sound that startled me so much I tripped over a petunia. It was a dog barking.
‘Bloodhounds!’ I gasped.
‘Don’t be an idiot.’ John had stopped to listen. ‘It’s worse than bloodhounds. It’s Caesar.’
‘Oh, no!’
‘Oh, yes. He’s the only dog on the premises. You would have to be an animal lover, wouldn’t you? Hurry.’
We plunged down the hillside, abandoning caution in the need for haste. Caesar could mean big trouble for us. Bloodhounds would follow a trail out of a sense of duty, but good old Caesar would be anxious to find his buddy who had fed him the pate and the smoked oysters, and rolled around on the grass with him. Dogs have long memories for things like that, bless their hearts. They also have excellent senses of smell.
When we reached the bottom of the avenue, I veered left, towards the rose garden. John’s hand closed on my arm and yanked me around.
‘What the hell,’ I began.
‘Forget the rose garden, we need water. Running water . . . Get that damn dog off the trail . . .’ He was panting, and I didn’t blame him.
There was plenty of water. However, the fountains were magnificently illuminated. We splashed recklessly through one of the largest of them, tripping over nymphs and water gods. John slipped on the wet stone and clutched at one of the nymphs to keep his balance. The affectionate tableau was so funny I started to laugh. A spray of water hit me in the mouth, and the laugh turned to a gargle, which won me a hateful look from John as he untangled himself from the outstretched marble arms. He was too out of breath to comment, which was probably just as well.
We climbed over the parapet of the fountain and rushed on. I had completely lost my sense of direction, but John seemed to know where he was going, so I followed him, spurred on by the sound of joyful barking somewhere in the distance. But when I saw what he had in mind, I stopped dead.
One of the showpieces of the Villa d’Este is the Avenue of a Hundred Fountains. Each ‘fountain’ is a simple jet of water, but en masse they look impressive, lined up as they are in a long basin. Not to be outdone, Pietro’s ancestor had constructed an avenue of
I don’t know what was the matter with me. Hysteria, perhaps. I laughed so hard I had to hang on to a carved dolphin to keep from falling.
John pulled himself to his feet, clutched another dolphin – the fountain was lined with them, all the way up – and glared at me.
‘The salmon do it,’ I gurgled. ‘Upstream. To spawn.’
He was streaming with water, from his soaked hair to the bottoms of his pants. He flung out his arm, his forefinger extended.
‘Swim, damn it!’ he shouted, and started to climb.
The rush of falling water almost drowned out his voice, but I got the idea. I climbed into the basin.
We didn’t swim. It would have been impossible, the fountain was only three or four feet deep and about six wide, and the water poured down like a flood. It would have been hard enough to climb without the current dragging at our feet, but we did it, thanks to the dolphins. The two hundred fountains of water poured from their mouths, and there was one of them every three or four feet, so we were able to pull ourselves along by means of them. I wish I had a movie of that performance. Even then I was occasionally convulsed with laughter at the sight of John’s drenched figure doggedly dragging itself forwards just ahead of me.
We got about halfway up without being seen. I had gotten into my stride by then – step, slip, grab the next dolphin, step, slip, grab – and was fully prepared to keep on doing the same thing till we reached the top. We were still some distance away from that goal when John took a giant step up onto the head of one of the dolphins, caught the top of the wall, and pulled himself up. Squatting there like a dank frog, he extended a hand towards me.
‘I was just beginning to enjoy myself,’ I said mildly, as he yanked me up beside him. ‘Where now?’
He shoved me off the wall.
I landed in a clump of azaleas. If you think azaleas aren’t prickly, try falling into one. Before I could start swearing, he landed next to me and slapped his hand over my mouth.
Then I heard Caesar. He was hot on the trail, too close for comfort. The first fountain hadn’t confused him at all. We could only hope that he would lose our scent at the bottom of the Two Hundred Fountains complex, and that, if the men who guided him were smart enough to realize we had taken to the water, they would try casting about at the top of the slope.
In the meantime, it behooved us to make tracks. We did so, back down the hill we had climbed with such effort. It was not until we had gone some distance, and Caesar’s excited barks had taken on a frantic note, that I realized where we were going. Our best route now was through the garden of the monsters. To avoid it would double the distance to the outer wall and would necessitate passing through some of the most open areas of the grounds.
In the smoky green and purple lights the monster garden was straight out of Lovecraft. The great hollow head was lighted from within by a powerful red lamp; its slitted eyes glowed like those of a demon out of hell, and the fangs looked as if they had been dipped in blood. John took my hand. His was wet, but it felt warm and hard and comforting. I don’t think he was trying to comfort me, though. He was just as scared as I was. I heard his teeth chattering. We were soaking wet, but it was a nice warm night.
Some of the smaller monsters weren’t illuminated, and I would have fallen over a baby dragon if John hadn’t been holding on to me. The adult dragon, which had come so close to running me down, was ahead of us, looking unpleasantly lifelike in a rippling lavender searchlight. Then I heard a sound behind us, near the great guardian head.
A flashlight beam sprayed out. Its white light seemed sane and normal compared to the ghastly tints of the other lights, but I could have done without it. Simultaneously, without discussing it aloud, we both dropped to the ground. Then something really unpleasant happened. From the opposite end of the garden, near the exit, another flashlight appeared.
I invoked my Maker in a one-word whisper, and was promptly shushed by John. My whisper could not have been heard; someone spoke at that precise moment. His voice was soft, but I could hear him quite clearly. He was that close.
‘Alberto
The other man identified himself.
‘Bassano. Have you seen them?’
‘No. I have just come from the back gates.’
Bassano let out a string of lurid curses.
‘Get back there, fool. The gates must be guarded.’
‘What about this garden?’
