Veritas (Atto Melani)
Read Veritas (Atto Melani) Online
Authors: Rita Monaldi,Francesco Sorti
PRAISE FOR THE ATTO MELANI SERIES
Reviews for
Secretum
“Nothing is as it seems in the Rome of Monaldi & Sorti. . . their mysteries are ingeniously conceived and voluptuously written, keeping readers breathless in suspense.
What’s their secret? Monaldi & Sorti are brilliant!”
De Morgen
, Belgium
“Rich in sensuality, this is a masterfully told story of baroque thought and sensibility, filled with vivid impressions from the realms of politics, art, and the
Church.”
Trouw
, The Netherlands
“An exciting, opulent book.”
Blick
, Switzerland
An extraordinary political and criminal intrigue set in Rome, a plot aiming to undermine the balance of power in Europe at the end of the 17th century.”
Le Figaro
,
France
Reviews for
Imprimatur
“Gripping. Nothing less than the fate of Europe is at stake in this thriller.”
Le Monde
, France
“Entertaining and exciting.”
El Pais
, Spain
“Works beautifully in combining the strengths of an intelligent thriller with those of a historical novel.”
L’Express
, France
“A fantastic story of espionage from the Baroque era.”
La Stampa
, Italy
“Two Italians have revolutionised the historical novel.”
La Gaceta de los Negocios
, Spain
This ebook edition published in 2013 by
Birlinn Limited
West Newington House
Newington Road
Edinburgh
EH9 1QS
www.birlinn.co.uk
First published in paperback in Great Britain in 2013 by
Polygon, an imprint of Birlinn Ltd
Copyright © Rita Monaldi & Francesco Sorti, 2006
Translation copyright © Gregory Dowling, 2013
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form without the express written permission of the publisher.
ebook ISBN: 978-0-85790-570-3
ISBN: 978-1-84697-257-7
The publishers acknowledge investment from Creative Scotland
towards the publication of this volume.
British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data
A catalogue record for this book is available on request from the British Library.
Authors’ Note
Any reference to places, people and events – however bizarre they may seem – is
not
the fruit of our imagination but taken from sources of the period. We
ask readers, whenever they have any doubt as to the truthfulness of what they are reading, to consult the endnotes and the bibliography, where they will find fully documented proof. What we
especially enjoy is digging out of the archives those oddities of history which, were they not true, would be considered implausible.
“The horrendous battle is no longer between Trojans and Achaeans, but now the Danaans are fighting even with the immortals.”
“Jove the Father created a third lineage of talking men, a brazen one, in no way similar to the silver one: sprung from ash-trees, violent and terrible.
They were keen on the works of Mars, bearers of grief,
and all sorts of violence; they ate no wheaten food,
but were hard of heart like adamant, fearful men.”
(H
OMER
,
Iliad
, and H
ESIOD
,
Works and Days
, in: B.A. B
ORGESE
,
Rubè
)
Day the Second
—10th April 1711
Day the Fourth
—12th April 1711
Day the Seventh
—15th April 1711
Day the Eighth
—16th April 1711
Paris: Events from 1711 to 1713
List of Pieces of Music Performed in
Veritas
The great room is all a-glitter, with the bronze of its furnishings and spiral decorations, and its glowing candles.
Abbot Melani keeps me waiting. It’s the first time, in over thirty years.
Until today, whenever I arrived at our appointments I had always found him already waiting, tapping his foot impatiently. But now it is my turn to gaze continually towards the severe monumental
doorway by which I entered over half an hour ago. Defying the freezing, snow-laden wind that sweeps in and sets the doors creaking on their hinges, I vainly strain my ears and eyes for the first
signs of the Abbot’s arrival: the drumming hooves of the four-horse carriage; the first glimpse, in the torchlight, of the horses’ plumed heads as they draw the ceremonial black
carriage to the foot of the entrance staircase, where four old footmen, huddled in their snow-dusted greatcoats, are waiting for their even older master, ready to open the carriage door and help
him, one last time, to descend.
As I wait, I let my eyes wander. The room is richly ornamented. From the arches hang great drapes with words embroidered in gold; the walls are swathed in brocaded mantles, and veils adorned
with beads of silver form a gallery of honour. Columns, arches and pilasters of sham marble lead towards the central baldachin, which is a sort of truncated pyramid resting on a platform six or
seven steps above floor level and surrounded by a triple row of candelabras.
At the top, two winged silver creatures, kneeling on one leg, their arms outstretched and the palms of their hands raised heavenwards, perch in expectation.
Twisting branches of myrtle and ivy adorn the four sides of the baldachin, each of which proudly bears the coat of arms – picked out in fresh flowers, apparently plucked straight from the
hothouses of Versailles – of the Veneto nobility: a piglet on a green field. At each corner stands a flaring torch on a tall silver tripod, adorned with the same coat of arms.
Despite the grandeur of the
Castrum
and the splendid accoutrements, there are very few people around me; apart from the musicians (who have already taken their places and uncased their
instruments) and the valets in their black, red and golden livery (who, with their freshly shaven faces, stand motionless as statues holding ceremonial torches), I can only see down-at-heel
noblemen looking on enviously and a crowd of workmen, servants and gossiping women, who, despite the late hour and the icy cold of the winter night, gaze around themselves in ecstasy, waiting for
the procession.
Taking its impulse from my eyes, my memory starts to wander as well. It abandons the snow and the leaden Parisian winter of the deserted Place des Victoires which lies over the threshold, where
biting northern wind swirls around the equestrian statue of the old King, and it swoops back, far back, to the gentle slopes of the Eternal City on its seven hills, to the top of the Janiculum
Hill, and the dazzling heat of a Roman summer many years ago. It was on that occasion, surrounded by different nobility, amid more ethereal architecture of papier-mâché, with a
different orchestra trying out music for a different event and valets holding torches that would illuminate another story, that I caught sight of a carriage trundling along the driveway of Villa
Spada.
How strange are the workings of destiny: at that time I had no idea that it was about to reunite me with Abbot Melani after seventeen years of silence; this time I know for sure that Atto is
going to arrive, but the carriage that is bearing him towards me refuses to appear on the horizon.
My train of thought is briefly broken by one of the players, who bumps into me accidentally as he climbs down from the platform. I raise my eyes:
Obsequio erga Regem
is embroidered in gold characters on the black, silver-fringed velvet drape that adorns the tall column of false porphyry in plain style opposite me. Another column, identical
to this one, stands on the other side, but the writing is too far away for me to read.
In my whole life, I have only attended one such event. Then too it was a cold night and it was snowing, or raining, I think. There was certainly cold and rain and darkness within my heart.
On that occasion too I was in Atto’s company. We were part of a great bustling crowd: people were streaming into the room from all sides. Every corner was so packed that
Abbot Melani and I could only elbow forward two paces every quarter of an hour; it was impossible either to advance or to retreat and we could see nothing but the ceiling decorations and the
inscriptions hanging from the arches or placed at the tops of the capitals.
