Chapter 18 - In the Flow

Photo of Villa d'Este by Sheila H from Pixabay

Water was everywhere. Water - overflowing giant steps hewn from the rocks, observed with detached amusement by the marble eyes of buxom nymphs. Water - spewing from the mouths of rows and rows of weathered masks lining the path, framed by a glittery wall of ivy. Water - exploding into gigantic cascades, dancing and glittering in the sun until dropping into the murky depths of the koi ponds below. Water - gurgling, hissing and slopping through the gardens, a timeless symphony elevated by birdsong and the warming rays of a benevolent sun.

Tivoli's Villa d'Este should have been on Gary's bucket list a long time ago.

Even Jon was impressed. "That's just so lit. Are those fountains computer-powered?"

"Lit?"

Double eye roll. "Rad. A bomb. Perhaps groovy sounds more familiar?"

"Thanks, the last one is from before even my time. As to your question, the answer is no. The villa and gardens were built in the sixteenth century. As odd as it might sound to you, they didn't need computers or electricity back then to create little miracles."

Jon stared at the fungus-flecked head of a boar, one in a line of a hundred similar little faces peeping from the wall, doubling up as water spouts. "No electricity? Groovy. How does this work, then?"

Gary dangled his hand into the silvery arc bubbling from the mouth of a stone lion. Cold droplets flew in all directions as the jet tickled his palm. "Gravity. And water pressure. The whole garden sits on a slope. The architect channelled the river, diverted the flow into pipes and created this. It's an old form of engineering. The Romans already used it."

Jon turned his head, watched the water rippling along the path in a stone trough. Every metre or so, another sibilant arc sprayed the surface, joined by the rivulets dripping from among the ivy.

"Great stuff, this."

"Isn't it just?"

These gardens would provide a fabulous motif for a hobby artist like the retired expert on Roman history and cult they were supposed to meet. Courtesy of Professor Auger's secretary they even had an appointment, it blipped on Gary's phone just as they were boarding.

Only one problem—the guy was nowhere in sight.

Gary checked the guidebook he had bought at the entrance once they had handed over their backpacks to the grim guardian of all luggage. Alley of the hundred fountains was correct. He checked his watch. One o'clock in the afternoon was correct as well.

So, where was the bloke?

"Jon, do you see a gentleman with a goatee and a safari helmet anywhere? Maybe carrying an easel or other painting stuff?"

"Can't see no easels. How about the chap with the rolled-up trousers over there?" Jon pointed towards the southern end of the alley which seemed to melt into a colourful blur. Gary blinked and refocussed on the mosaic to his feet. The multicoloured stone chips lining the path appeared as crystal-clear as the water babbling on his right. He looked up again, and the objects in the distance, while a tick clearer than before, kept fraying at the edges as if melted by the sun.

Jeez, he needed to see an eye doctor and get a prescription for glasses. This was getting crazy. Once more, Gary squinted into the sun, and a fuzzball in the distance took on the blurry shape of a person probably wearing a white shirt, grey pants and a blob on his head that could well be a hat. He also seemed to be standing in the stone trough.

"I might just have spotted him. What is he doing?"

"Scribbling into a notebook. And sticking his nose into the weeds."

"Sketching most likely. That should be Professore Usignolo. Let's see if he's in the mood to talk. How about if you tried the wireless tour guide while I have a chat with the bloke?"

Jon gave the little box with its banana yellow earphones a mistrustful look.

"It's the programme for young guests. I asked. They won't bore you with history and—stuff."

"'Kay. Suppose it can't hurt."

With nimble fingers, Jon shoved the plugs into his ears, pressed buttons on the box (how did he know which ones?) and whistled his way along the alley, towards a set of marble steps.

Gary took a deep breath, suppressed the images that flickered across his inner eye, showing scenes where Jon got abducted, the fountains flooded and sudden earthquakes erupted.  Instead, he turned towards the blobby figure in the trough.

As he approached, he realised the professor was not actually standing in the water but on the stone ledge on its side, sketching the scarred face of a stone eagle that peeped from the top of the wall. It was flanked by two mini spouts that trickled their refreshing gift into the greenery.

Gary stopped and observed the man. If he hadn't been standing on the ledge, the bloke's head would barely have reached Gary's chest. Yes, he was tall but by no means a giant. Instead, Professore Usignolo was vertically challenged. His back turned on Gary, he was twitching around on the ledge with small, birdlike movements, a soft mutter of Italian flowing away from him along with the water. Gary's mood dropped a notch. He found small men hard to handle; too many of them suffered from a severe case of the Napoleon complex.

He called himself to order. He hadn't talked to the bloke yet.

"Professore Usignolo?"

The head, indeed topped by a straw safari helmet, twitched his way. Black brows rose over crow-dark eyes and a beak of a nose. The face was sharp, lined, supported by a scrawny neck with an Adam's apple so prominent, Gary was reminded of a rooster.

His mood sank further.

"Si?" Shouted rather than spoken. Not a good start.

"Sorry to interrupt your art. My name is—I'm Lord Nettlehole. From the UK. I believe Professor Auger got into contact with you and made an appointment. For now, actually?" To Gary's ears, his voice sounded plummy, nasal and unnecessarily posh.

On Usignolo, it worked wonders.

"Ah, il Barone! So pleased to meet you, eh?" He scrambled off the ledge with surprising agility for somebody who had to be in his seventies and stretched out a hand as fragile as a sparrow's wing. Gary shook it with care.

Usignolo tilted his head with a jerky movement, more rooster than sparrow. "Your house, it is where?"

"My house? I live in—Oh, you mean my family seat? That's on the South Devon coast. On the border with Cornwall."

Usignolo's paper thin lips stretched into a smile that creased his face. "Smuggler country, eh?"

Gary laughed. "You're not wrong there. I fear, my ancestors might have been involved with the gentlemen. They loved their brandy and gave it a good home in the cellars underneath Nettlehole House. Or so I'm told."

Usignolo sighed and, with twig-like arms seemed to conduct the watery concert. "All in the past. All in the past. Gone. Forgotten. Nobody cares these days." He pulled a face as if the rootlessness of modern society stank up the peaceful garden.

Gary stepped towards a cast iron bench he had spotted. "Care to sit down? It's the past that interests me, though it would be rather about your people than mine."

Usignolo hopped across and perched on the bench. There was no other word for it. His feet just about reached the ground, even if he leaned forward which he did now. "Ah, yes. The Romans. A great people, they, eh? Which leads us to the topic. My friend Auger tells me, you have found the prophecies of the Sibyl?"

Gary carefully lowered himself onto the elaborate scrollwork of the bench. If he stayed here too long, he would suffer from a monogrammed bum.

"The honour isn't mine. It was an accident, apparently. Some lady stumbled into the tomb— "

"She died, eh? The Polizia have arrested her husband."

"Seems like it. The archaeologist in charge went back to the site last night as he spotted something in the tomb—"

"Eh! Tell me! Tell me!" A claw-like hand had taken a tight grip on Gary's leather jacket and shook his arm.

He suppressed the urge to start his sentence with an "eh". "I was about to. It's the tomb of a Vestal. Called Cecilia. She left a message scratched into the wall, claiming she saved the scrolls. Now—"

Professor Usignolo had sprung from the bench and was bobbing about in agitation. "She saved them. She saved them. It's all true!"

Do let me know if you have questions or comments on my novel. Constructive suggestions and feedback are always welcome! And thank you for reading. In doing so, you give my writing a purpose.