The Savage Garden. Mark Mills

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      Adam lowered the camera. ‘Damn,’ he muttered, not for the first time.

      The light was perfect, clear and limpid after three days of flat summer haze, but now he found he was unable to photograph the glade in its entirety. The three statues distributed around the clearing resolutely refused to fall within the frame at the same time.

      Waist-deep in the laurel at the southern edge, he was able to capture both Zephyrus – the west wind, his cheeks puffed out, blowing with all his might – and Hyacinth, supine on his pedestal, dead, the discus lying beside him. But Apollo was out of shot.

      In fact, wherever Adam placed himself, the 50mm lens on his father’s old Leica ( ‘Don’t bother coming home if you lose it’) was unable to accommodate more than two of the three figures at any one time.

      The story they enacted was simple enough, which only increased his frustration at not being able to trap it in a single shot: Zephyrus, jealous of Apollo’s love for Hyacinth, a beautiful Spartan prince, decided to take action. While Apollo was teaching the youth to throw a discus, Zephyrus whipped up a wind which sent the discus crashing into Hyacinth’s skull, killing him instantly The hyacinth flower then sprouted from the ground where his blood fell.

      At the northern fringe of the grove stood Apollo, with his grief-stricken face and his arms outstretched towards the fallen boy. He was perched on a conical, rough-carved mountain peak. Maybe it was intended to signify Mount Parnassus, the home he shared with the Muses, but its inclusion seemed gratuitous. Mount Parnassus didn’t figure in the story as handed down by Ovid and, besides, Apollo was already identifiable from his bow and his lyre.

      The statue of Hyacinth only raised further questions. Why place him face down in the dirt, his long hair sprawled across his features so that only a small section of his delicate mouth was showing? And why clad a young man renowned for his athletic prowess in a loose, long-sleeved robe, rather than baring his physique?

      The file offered no insights. Nor, for that matter, did the copious notes amassed by Signora Docci’s father while preparing the document, although these had yielded some lines from Keats’ Endymion about Zephyr’s role in the death of Hyacinth. It was a nice fat chunk of poetry which would help flesh out his thesis, but like the other little discoveries he’d accumulated over the past few days, it left him feeling strangely indifferent.

      He was safe now – he knew he already had enough to shape a convincing paper – and he should have been celebrating. He couldn’t, though, not with so many questions tugging at his thoughts. They had proliferated ever since his tour of the garden with Antonella, when for a brief moment it had all seemed so clear, so straight forward.

      The steep rise housing the amphitheatre was evidently an artificial construct, but why had Federico Docci gone to the effort and expense of shifting so many tons of earth for the sake of one feature? Such a vast undertaking was hardly in keeping with the discretion he’d shown elsewhere in the garden. And as for the amphi theatre itself, why nine levels instead of the seven on display in the amphitheatre at Bomarzo?

      Like false notes in an otherwise flawless piece of music, these questions jarred, they refused to be ignored. He had tried to dismiss them, but each time he breached the yew hedge at the entrance to the garden, he knew they’d still be there. Even now, while engaged in the purely practical exercise of photographing the garden, two more had just presented themselves to him in the form of the Apollo and Hyacinth statues.

      He fired off one last shot of Hyacinth then made his way back through the woods towards the grotto. It occurred to him that he was developing an unhealthy fixation on the garden. This was hardly surprising. Since his arrival he had barely thought about anything else. When he wasn’t walking around it, he was invariably reading about it, shipping books and papers back to the pensione every evening in the bike basket so that he could continue studying through dinner and on into the early hours.

      There had been no one in the trattoria to chide him for reading and eating at the same time. Disappointingly, Fausto hadn’t shown his face since that first evening, and was unlikely to do so any time soon according to Signora Fanelli. Apparently it was the first time in a long while that he’d stopped by her place. Adam might have been imagining it, but he’d detected a whiff of disappointment on her part, too.

      No Fausto. And no Antonella, not for three days.

      ‘She is working very hard,’ Signora Docci had revealed to him during one of his regular audiences in her bedroom. ‘Apparently, there are important clients in town, buyers from big American department stores.’

      She had made little effort to conceal the note of mild mockery in her voice.

      ‘You don’t approve of what she does?’

      ‘It’s the job of old people to disapprove of everything young people do.’

      ‘Oh, is that right?’

      ‘If we don’t disapprove, then the young have nothing to fight against and the world will never change. It cannot move on.’

      ‘I’d never thought of it that way.’

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