Veritas (Atto Melani) (21 page)

I saw him for just a few fleeting moments but they seemed endless: his august figure, just a few paces from me, impressed itself delectably and indelibly on my heart and my spirit.

The high well-shaped forehead, tawny hair, firm nose, beautiful complexion ruddied by the stinging cold, the large fleshy mouth open in a broad smile that was bestowed generously upon us, the
formless crowd: all this I saw at once, and it struck my heart, already inclined to devotion, to the core. As I gazed upon him, his large eyes, glinting with the sweet azure of youth beneath the
laughing curve of his eyebrows, embraced us all in a single glance. In those few instants I was able to appreciate his figure, which was not tall but perfectly proportioned, his strong shoulders
and his open, decisive posture.

I was captivated, and so was Cloridia. From that moment my affection for the young Sovereign turned into passionate attachment and fidelity. Even as I gazed on him, I repeated to myself that so
illustrious an heir was the perfect idea of the most heroic virtues, such as Egypt had never had in its Vexor, nor Assyria in its Ninus, Persia in its Cyrus, Greece in its Epaminondas, or Rome in
its Pompey. In his reign of less than six years he had achieved twenty-nine victories in war. And with what unstinting ardour had he engaged in the famous sieges of Landau! The daring of his
boldest followers appeared mediocre alongside his courage, the ferocity of the veteran soldiers seemed like inertia, and in his character there blazed a keen desire for glory, which, when instilled
into the warlike breasts of the Germans, had twice hastened a victory over so considerable a fortress, defended by the obstinate courage of the most heroic French troops. Not even the Most Serene
Prince Eugene had ever succeeded in conquering it! The victories of the Most August Joseph the First could only be compared with those of antiquity: of Cyrus against Croesus, in which not only had
the latter been captured but the vast Kingdom of Lydia conquered; of Themistocles against Xerxes, in which he had avenged the cruel servitude of Greece oppressed by a million armed barbarians; of
Hannibal against the Romans at Cannae, which had made the battlefield synonymous with defeat for centuries to come; and finally the bloody victory of Charles the Fifth on the fields of Pavia, in
which Francis the First had been taken prisoner, the most courageous of that century. On closer consideration, I said to myself, now soaring to the heights of adoration, the successes of Joseph the
Victorious were superior to these. After all, which of the
Romani Imperadori
could boast within the space of his Imperium such prodigious victories as those he had attained in just three
years? His victories could only be compared with those of Caesar against Pompey, of Vespasian against Vitellius, of Constantine against Maxentius, memorable and bloody battles, exemplary for the
valour of the soldiers, the multitude of legions and the overpowering force of the factions.

While I lost myself in these thoughts, the long procession of sledges had all entered the courtyard of the Hofburg, illuminated by hundreds of torches, and was weaving solemn serpentines from
one side of the square to the other while the people applauded and gave voice to their jubilation.

Elated with our new life in the opulent northern capital, enchanted by the snow, which did not bring in its train (as it would in Rome) the wailing figures of Indigence and Famine, and delighted
by the splendour of the Caesarean court, which – unlike those of Versailles and the Papal State – was not an insult to the poverty of the people, since every pauper in Vienna received
two pounds (two pounds!) of meat a week, my wife and I embraced one another.

So resounded the aria of the magnificent
Regina Coeli
composed by Joseph I, which we often heard in the churches of Vienna; and so chanted our soul, in its joy at this
unexpected resurrection to new life.

Holding back tears of enthusiasm and exaltation, we impetuously gave our hearts that day to the young Caesar, incarnation of our own rebirth, in the great and unsuspected cornucopia, surrounded
by hills and fertile vineyards, that was the Caesarean city.

I had given myself up to divagations and sweet memories. I returned distractedly to the panegyric:

Even in these tedious rhymes there was a kernel of truth. In order to be feared, Joseph had chosen Mars, because the thought of war, whose harsh clangour was never too far from
Vienna, had been a constant companion for him from his earliest years. But another divinity had to be added to the Mars of the panegyric, and that was Venus.

Joseph had encountered the Goddess of Love at a precocious age, and it could not have been otherwise, as Mother Nature had endowed him most generously. At the age of twenty-four he was handsome,
strong and well-proportioned, like his robust German mother. He had no trace of the horrid jutting chin and pendulous mouth that for generations had disfigured his ancestors, including his father
Leopold and his brother Charles, the current pretender to the Spanish throne. Surrounded by the deformities of the House of Habsburg, Joseph stood out like a swan among ducks.

Women (princesses, ladies of the court, simple serving wenches) appreciate a man of distinction, and he was happy to reward them at night, one by one, with the appropriate means.

And how gifted he was! Eloquent, sparkling and imaginative: he lacked for nothing. The Muses themselves had done their part, lavishing their talents on him. The King of France did not know a
single foreign language; Joseph spoke six like a native. At the age of seven he wrote correctly in French, at eleven in Latin, at sixteen he could speak both languages fluently, in addition to
Italian, with good pronunciation. Two years later he had mastered Czech and Hungarian. He was skilled in music and composition, and played the flute expertly. He developed his muscles with physical
exercise, hunting and the military disciplines.

I picked up the second panegyric, penned by Gian Battista Ancioni: “
To Gioseppe I. King of Germany, and Roman Emperor, August conqueror. Vienna of Austria, printed by Gio. Van Ghelen,
Italian Printer of the Court of his Caesarean Majesty, Year 1709
”. Underneath an engraving depicting a fine bust of Joseph were the words:
Tibi militat Aether,
“Heaven
fights by your side.”

I flicked through it quickly and soon found a list of the military deeds of Joseph and of his generals and confederates. The author addressed the Emperor:

I closed the panegyric. What did these pompous writings tell me about the Most August Caesar? That the differences between Maximilian the Mysterious and Joseph the Victorious
were enormous. On the one hand mildness, on the other military ardour; the elder was of a reflective temperament, the younger of a resolute nature. Joseph’s life up to this point seemed all a
matter of military campaigns and victories.

And yet something connected the two emperors, the young Caesar and his ancestor: after a century of oblivion the former was now disinterring his forebear and the Place with No Name, in what
almost seemed a new military campaign, conducted by architects instead of generals. Looking benevolently on Maximilian’s creation, Joseph was proceeding fully armed against timeless enemies,
defying age-old rancour against the Empire of the Christians – rancour that had never died down, as was clear from the vandalistic raids of the Kurucs at Neugebäu just a few years
earlier.

I could almost see him, spurred by the pusillanimity of his fathers, announcing to the astonished architects that, after enlarging the hunting lodge at Schönbrunn, he wished to restore the
Place with No Name to its former splendour. Perhaps he would even give it a name at last.

It was at that point in my thoughts that it struck me that in my two visits to the Place with No Name I had never come across any traces of anyone else engaged in restoration work. Frosch had
never mentioned the subject either, and had indeed seemed completely in the dark about the Emperor’s plans. Maybe, I told myself, the architects and carpenters also preferred to wait for the
thaw. Maybe over the next few days they too would turn up and start working.

Overcome by the late hour and by weariness, I promised myself that I would finish reading the papers on Joseph the First over the next few days. I did not know why, but I felt that among those
old newspapers and tattered documents there may well lie the answer to my questions on the Place with No Name.

I had been under the blankets for some hours and had not yet managed to fall asleep. I had been unable to tear my thoughts away from the Place with No Name and the Most August
Sovereign, and from here my exhausted spirit had passed on to the Flying Ship and its mysterious helmsman and, finally, to Seigneur Luigi, to the arias of Luigi Rossi trilled by Atto, which I had
never forgotten, and which, like nimble-footed prey, I was now tracking down, one by one, in the forest of my memories. How did that arpeggio sound, that bold modulation, and that line?

Then, when memory had brought me back a full game bag, and I was already savouring an immaterial banquet of notes, rhymes and chords, my imaginary repast was whisked away by
something quite unforeseen.

A noise. It came from the corridor of the cloisters. Someone seemed to have tripped up badly. It could not have been one of the nuns of Porta Coeli: the dormitory was on the opposite side from
the guest house. The only thing nearby was Simonis’s little room. But, as the Greek knew perfectly well, the rules stipulated that apprentices had to be in by nine or at the very latest ten
o’clock, on pain of a large fine. And Simonis had always been punctual. That very evening, on returning from the rehearsal of
Sant’ Alessio
I had paid him a brief visit to make
arrangements for the next day, and I had found him in his room, bent over his books. The following Monday the Easter holidays would be over and the
Alma Mater Rudolphina
, the University of
Vienna, would reopen its doors.