Veritas (Atto Melani)

by Monaldi, Rita

  One of these, Thomas Francis, was glorious Eugene’s grandfather. He too had married a French princess and seemed hell-bent on defending the Kingdom of France, even settling for a certain period in Paris.

  “Then came the usual volte-face: he set off for Flanders, entered the service of the Spanish enemy and announced to his relatives that he wished to devote himself heart and soul to the struggle against French power,” said Atto, with a mixture of irony and disgust.

  Eugene’s other direct relatives did not shine for their moral qualities, nor for their physical ones. His uncle Emanuel Philibert, the firstborn and thus the heir to the duchy, was deaf and dumb. His aunt Louise Christine, who had married the Margrave Louis Ferdinand of Baden in Paris, suddenly rebelled against her husband, refusing to follow him to his lands in Germany, on the pretext that in France their only son would receive a better education (her husband, a cousin of Eugene’s, responded by simply carrying the child off to his homeland). Eugene’s father, finally, was not a traitor and had perfect hearing and speech, but had married Olimpia Mancini, Eugene’s mother, a perfidious, scheming woman, suspected of numerous poisonings.

  “Splendid lineage, the Savoys and their wives,” concluded Atto, “ambitious, traitors, deaf mutes and poisoners.”

  “I don’t understand: how can Prince Eugene have come from such a family?” I asked in bewilderment. “He is known as an upright man, an untiring condottiero, and a faithful subject of the Emperor.”

  “That is what the people say. Because they do not know what I know. And what I know will enable me to stop the war.”

  He instinctively moved his head, as if he could still look around himself. Then he said to his nephew:

  “Domenico, are there any snoopers here?”

  “I don’t think so, Signor Uncle,” answered the young man, after glancing around at the nearby tables and the rest of the coffee house.

  “Good. Now listen,” he turned back to me. “What I am about to tell you, you must reveal to nobody. No-bo-dy. Clear?”

  Although worried by this brusque change in tone I agreed.

  Atto pulled from his jacket a piece of paper folded in four, which concealed a letter. He opened it and set it before me. The text was in Italian.

  Desiring ardently to testify to Your Majesty my humble devotion and my keen yearning to act in such a manner as to put an end to a conflict that has troubled all Europe so gravely and for such a long time, I consign this present missive to a trusted person so that You might be informed of my offer, and take the decisions that will seem to you most befitting and necessary.

  As is common knowledge, Spanish Flanders has for many years been greatly troubled by disputes and wars, and being as it is in need of true and secure leadership we consider that assigning that land to the House of Savoy in our person would be the most potent means to free that land and its people from such dire suffering.

  Such a decision would, with immediate and irrevocable effect, lead the war towards settlements closer to the legitimate desires of Your Majesty and of the Most Christian King of France, on account of the gratitude that such a measure would necessarily arouse.

  Confirming myself a most humble and devoted servant of Your Majesty, and with the ardent desire to be able to contribute to the re-establishment of peace, as well as to the precious service of Your Majesty,

  Eugenio von Savoy

  “This obviously is a copy. The original is in the hands of the King of Spain, Philip V, to whom it was addressed,” whispered Atto.

  He closed the letter and replaced it with great speed in its hiding place, bestowing a complacent little smile on me. Even without seeing me he must have guessed my stupefied and confused expression.

  “The matter arose at the beginning of the year,” he went on almost inaudibly.

  An anonymous officer had gone to the Spanish court in Madrid, over which reigned Philip of Anjou, grandson of the Sun King. The anonymous officer had succeeded in getting the letter delivered to Philip, and had then disappeared. On reading those lines, the young king of Spain had been thunderstruck.

  “If I’ve understood properly,” I said, “with this letter Eugene is proposing an agreement. If Spain hands him its possessions in Flanders –”

  “You call it an agreement,” Atto interrupted me. “The correct name is treachery. Eugene is saying: if Spain promises to award me the hereditary possession and government of its territories in Flanders, then out of gratitude I will abandon the Empire and its army. The Emperor, deprived of his valiant commander-in-chief, will undoubtedly accept an armistice, which France desires intensely, and the path towards peace negotiations will be open.”

  I kept silent, bewildered and disturbed by the tremendous revelation. I did not like the turn the conversation was taking.

  Philip, continued Atto, had immediately transmitted a copy of the letter by confidential paths to Versailles, where only two people had read it: the Sun King and his prime minister Torcy.

  “Let me tell you,” said Atto, “that I myself have the honour of reporting to Torcy all the arguments, even secret ones, that foreign diplomats do not wish to present to His Majesty in official audiences. In short, they still make intensive use of my services at court. And so His Majesty and Minister Torcy decided to entrust me with this mission.”

  “You mean your peace mission?”

  “Exactly. The young Catholic King of Spain and his grandfather, the Most Christian King of France, cannot accept such a barefaced offer of betrayal. But they can take advantage of the situation, and achieve the same result: peace. That’s why they decided to send me to Vienna to inform the appropriate authorities of Eugene’s treachery. In this way the imperial army will find itself effectively without a leader, and the path towards the armistice will be open.”

  “Inform the appropriate authorities?” I stammered, guessing where the conversation was leading.

  “Certainly: the Emperor. And you will help me.”

  The terror I suddently felt must have been painted so clearly on my face that Atto’s nephew asked me if by any chance I wanted a glass of water. Now it was clear why Atto had forced me to listen to all that preamble about Eugene of Savoy. I wiped a few beads of sweat from my forehead, as gelid as the flowing Danube under its crust of winter ice. In the confusion that swirled around my brain, where the Turkish Agha was weaving enigmatic dances first with Abbot Melani and then with the Duke of Savoy, one thought outweighed all others: Atto had once again ensnared me in one of his fateful intrigues.

  What could I do? Refuse outright to help him, and maybe arouse his ire, with the risk that he might revoke the gift he had bestowed on me or that he might commit some indiscretion and reveal me as his accomplice? Or take the risk, and try to satisfy him, maybe in as uncommitted a fashion as possible, hoping that he would leave Vienna very soon?

  One thing was certain: the donation that had made me wealthy was not a reward for the services I had done him in the past, but for those that he was expecting from me over the next few days.

  “Holy heaven,” I sighed, my voice choking, as I myself began to look around to see if anyone was listening in, “and how do you think I can help you?”

  “It’s simple. My cover as an intendant of the imperial posts cannot hold out for long, here in the city. If I tried to present myself at court I would be recognised as a French enemy, and cut into pieces like a sausage. We’ll need some kind of shortcut to reach the Emperor.”

  He leaned forward again, to whisper even more tremulously: “In the same street as the Porta Coeli there lives a person who is close to the Emperor’s heart. She is a girl aged just twenty, named Marianna Pálffy. She’s the daughter of a Hungarian nobleman faithful to the Emperor and she is Joseph’s lover.”

  “Lover? I had no idea . . .” I said in consternation.

  “Of course you had no idea. These are tempting items of gossip that the Viennese do not confide to foreigners; but French agents ensure that they reach Paris. Joseph found lodgings for
her in Porta Coeli Street, on the suggestion of Eugene, whose own palace is next door. She lives, to be precise, in a small building owned by a nun from Porta Coeli, Sister Anna Eleonora Strassoldo, a noblewoman of Italian origins, who is now headmistress of the convent’s novitiate. She can also serve as a means to reach the Pálffy woman,” he replied, in the most casual of tones.

  I felt crestfallen: that was why Atto had found lodgings for himself and for me at Porta Coeli! The convent was right at the heart of the web of intrigue that he was busily weaving between Eugene’s palace and the house where the lover of Joseph the Victorious lived. I felt like telling him that I had understood his design, but I did not have time to open my mouth. Atto had already asked his nephew to hand him his stick and was now standing up.

  “I’m going for a stroll. Let’s not go out together again, people might notice. You stay here, if you want to enjoy the warmth a little longer. I’ll contact you when it’s time to act.”

  I was quite prepared to stay there by myself, sitting at the table, dazed and disconsolate, when the door of the coffee shop opened again and a new arrival took Atto and his nephew by surprise. At the entrance to the Blue Bottle stood Cloridia.

  “I got your note at the Porta Coeli,” she said to me – and then she saw who was with me. At first she could not believe her eyes.

  “Signor Abbot Melani . . . Signor Abbot Melani! Here?”

  Unlike the previous occasions when they had met, Cloridia broke into a broad and heartfelt smile on seeing Atto. She was full of generous affection and thanked him profusely for the gift that had finally brought us comfort and prosperity. The Abbot responded to Cloridia’s words with great tact and equal friendliness, and when she expressed her sorrow at his loss of sight, Atto even seemed to be touched. Time had left its marks on both their faces, but had sweetened their characters. Cloridia found a withered, fragile octogenarian, and Atto a mature woman. While they were still exchanging affectionate words, the door opened yet again. It was Simonis. He humbly greeted Cloridia, Atto and Domenico; Abbot Melani, catching the unpleasant smell of soot, raised his handkerchief to his nose again.

  “We must hurry,” my wife announced. “In a moment he’ll be leaving Prince Eugene’s palace. We can follow him.”

  “Who?”

  “That Ciezeber, the dervish. I saw some strange things at the palace today. And after what the Agha said to Eugene, we had better try to get things straight.”

  “What did the Agha say to Eugene?” put in Atto.

  “A strange phrase,” answered Cloridia. “He said that the Turks have come here all alone to the pomum aureum . . .”

  “It’s a complicated story,” I said to Melani, trying to interrupt my wife, who still knew nothing of my suspicions about Atto and the Turks. “I’ll tell you about it later.”

  “Pomum aureum?” asked Atto, clearly very interested in all that was going on in Eugene’s palace, “and what does that mean?”

  “The city of Vienna, or perhaps the whole Empire,” answered Cloridia, who had failed to catch my numerous stern looks advising her to say nothing.

  “Very interesting,” remarked Atto. “I don’t think one often hears a Turkish ambassador express himself in such imaginative terms. It almost sounds like a coded message.”

  “Exactly!” said Cloridia. “The expression pomum aureum clearly indicates Vienna, but why specify that the Turks have come here all alone? Who could have come with them? To understand that we need to know where this expression ‘Golden Apple’ comes from.”

  “If you like,” put in Simonis, “I can help you solve the problem.”

  “And how?” asked Atto.

  “I can get some student friends of mine to examine the case. They’re all very sharp young men, as you know,” he said, addressing me. “All you need do is offer a suitable cash reward. It wouldn’t be too expensive; they don’t expect much.”

  “Perfect. Excellent idea,” Cloridia pronounced.

  I could not protest: we were not short of money, after all. The situation had slipped from my control.

  “Now let’s go, quickly,” urged my wife, “otherwise the dervish will get away from us.”

  We made hastily towards the door, abandoning Atto Melani and Domenico in the coffee shop, instead of being abandoned by them as had been the earlier plan. As I bade them a hasty farewell, I saw the surprised and slightly bewildered expressions on their faces.

  As soon as we stepped outside, a freezing gust of wind impelled us on. We were just about to reach Porta Coeli Street when Cloridia held me back:

  “There he is, he must have just left the palace,” she said, pointing at a dark figure of unusual build.

  “Simonis, go back to Porta Coeli and carry on with the afternoon’s cleaning rounds with our boy. As for me and Cloridia, I don’t know what time we’ll get back.”

  The pursuit began.

  Ciezeber had a large white cloak, a long, grizzled and unkempt beard, and a grey pointed felt cap wrapped around by a green turban. He had a hunting horn by his side, a bag on his shoulders and in his hand he held a stick with a sort of large iron hook at the top. His demeanour, despite his advanced age, was grim and wild. I would not have cared to meet him in a lonely spot. His tattered clothes, pale, deeply furrowed face, emaciated figure and fierce brutish features gave him the appearance of a cross between a priest and a vagabond. He seemed totally unaware of the curiosity of the passers-by, who at every corner turned round and gazed at him in amusement. He was moving at a swift pace away from Porta Coeli, measuring his stride with his stick, in the direction of the church of the Augustinians.

  “Curse it, Cloridia,” I said as we followed him, “what made you talk about the Turks and the Agha in front of Atto? Didn’t it strike you that he might have come here for some shady dealings, as is usually the case?”

  I explained that Abbot Melani had arrived in Vienna at almost the same time as the Turks, and that it might not have been just a coincidence.

  “You’re right,” she admitted, after reflecting for a moment. “I should have been more careful.”

  It was the first time in her whole life that my intelligent and acute consort, able to foresee, calculate and assess everything, and to analyse and connect every event, had ever had to admit to an oversight. Could it be that with age the implacable blade of her acumen was losing its edge?

  “Do you know something?” she added contentedly. “Ever since we stopped being poor and started to enjoy your Abbot Melani’s gift here in Vienna, I’ve finally learned how to be careless.”

  Ciezeber had meanwhile walked all the way down Carinthia Street and was about to leave by the gate of the same name: the gateway to the south, the same one by which Cloridia and I had first entered Vienna on our arrival.

  The pursuit was not without its difficulties. On the one hand Ciezeber was easy to distinguish even at a distance, thanks to his headgear and clothing. On the other hand, the flat landscape of the suburbs to the south of Vienna makes it difficult to follow anyone without the risk of being spotted.

  As he made his way through the Carinthian Gate the dervish drew a number of amused remarks from travellers and merchants, who were passing through in their carriages, but he remained wholly indifferent and did not vary his pace. Along the way Cloridia explained certain details of Ciezeber’s clothing.

  “The kind of horn he has is sounded by dervishes at fixed hours every day, before prayers. The stick is used to support his head in the brief moments he devotes to rest, but actually it’s an instrument of spiritual training: dervishes love to rest their chin on the large hook at the top of the stick and close their eyes; but the stick holds him up only when the hook is completely still. If the dervish really falls asleep, the hook sways, the stick falls down and wakes him up.”

  “Almost an instrument of torture, I’d say.”

  “It all depends on your point of view,” smiled my wife. “The fact is that these dervishes, as my mother told me, can do some really bizarre things
.”

  After leaving the Carinthian Gate, we had crossed the dusty clearing known as the Glacis which surrounds the ramparts of Vienna, and we had crossed the city’s lesser river, called the Wienn, from which some say the Caesarean city derives its name. The dervish proceeded at a good pace, making his way towards the suburb of Wieden, beyond which stretched long rows of vines, a pleasant expanse of green as far as the eye could see. We left Nickelsdorf and Matzesdorf behind, and we came in sight of the external fortifications, the so-called Linienwall, erected just a few years earlier by Italian experts.

  Still following the dervish we passed through the gate in the defensive walls, thus leaving the city’s territory altogether. Our pursuit continued in the open countryside, along the road that leads from Vienna to Neustadt.

  All around us were ploughed fields, with just the occasional building. We kept walking behind our man for a good hour, often at the risk of losing him: outside the walls there were no palaces or houses to conceal us, so to avoid detection we had to stay at a good distance. As I have already said, his tall stature and unmistakable Turkish turban made him recognisable from a long way off. Luckily I knew the road well: it was the same one I had travelled along with Simonis and our little boy to get to the Place with No Name.

  In the meantime Cloridia told me what she had seen at Eugene’s palace that day.

  “Today Ciezeber received a visit from a mysterious individual. For some very, very shady business.”

  “A mysterious individual?”

  “Nobody was able to see him. He entered by some back door, and left the same way. But I was lucky: not only did I discover he was there, but I managed to find out that he was not Viennese, and perhaps not even Christian.”