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My name is Augusto; I’m from Rome, and I’ve been walking for seven days.
All I carry with me is a tattered cloak, a jug of wine, and the promise I made to Bacchus: to reach his sacred hills—the ones they call the Euganean Hills—to honor him on the longest night of the year. They say that up there, among the vineyards that touch the sky, the god still descends among men. They say that whoever dances until dawn will receive a year of pure joy as a gift.
I followed the Via Postumia, then turned north, where the mountains grow gentle and the scent of wild grapes reaches you even before you see them. Yesterday I walked through an oak forest. Today, shortly after noon, as the sun beat down on the back of my neck and my shoes were in tatters, I caught sight of a villa.
It’s not like the ones I know in Rome—closed off and austere. This one is open, generous. It seems to rise from the earth itself, as if the walls were roots and the roof a branch reaching toward the sun.
I approached. The garden stretched out before me for an immense distance—I counted my steps; perhaps ten thousand braccia of land—all dotted with centuries-old olive trees and tall grass that the wind bent like a sea. I pushed open the wooden gate. It wasn’t locked. Perhaps the god willed it so.
I stepped inside.
Immediately I discovered a staircase leading down to the basement. Driven by curiosity, I followed it and found a large tavern. It’s dark and cool, with a huge fireplace that still smells of burnt wood. I thought of winter nights, when snow covers the hills outside and inside people drink warm drinks, telling stories until midnight. A place for the gods of wine and friendship.
I went back up to the ground floor. There I found two immense halls, as large as temples, full of windows looking out toward the hills and the plain. In one of these, right in the center, there is a fogher—a low, wide hearth where you could bake bread and roast meat for an entire tribe. I placed my hand on the stone. It was warm. Someone, perhaps just a few hours earlier, had lit the fire.
Further on, I saw the kitchen. It’s large and tidy, and next to it is a room with stone vats and water channels: the laundry room, where the women of the household once scrubbed their tunics and sang.
The most beautiful thing, however, I discovered on my way out. The kitchen and the stairs lead to a portico. I stopped on the threshold and my breath was taken away. Before me, the Euganean Hills spread out like a fan, green and purple under the afternoon sun. Terraced vineyards, patches of cypress trees, distant villages perched on the peaks. I thought, “If Bacchus lives anywhere, it’s here.”
Going up to the first floor, I found the bedrooms. They’re spacious, full of light, each with its own bathroom and a small south-facing terrace. I imagined lying down on one of those beds, with the windows open and the scent of linden trees drifting in gently. I imagined the silence. Here, far from the clamor of the Forum, far from the carts and the shouts of the markets, a man could sleep as he has never slept before.
I went back down to the garden. I walked among the olive trees—there are dozens of them, all mine, if this villa were mine—and filled the jug with water from a spring I found hidden among the rocks. Then I sat down. I drank. I watched the sun slowly sink behind the hills.
The festivals of Bacchus begin tonight. I should have gone higher up, where the bonfires are already lit and the sound of drums can be heard. But something is holding me here, in this villa that has welcomed me like a son.
Perhaps Bacchus doesn’t want me to dance among the crowd. Perhaps the gift the god wishes to give me is something else.
Perhaps he is offering me a home.
I’ll decide tomorrow. Tonight I’ll sleep under the portico, with the olive trees standing guard and the hills watching over me. And if tomorrow, when I wake up, the god speaks to me again, I will answer.
Because a man comes and goes, celebrations end, but a villa like this—on these hills, with this garden, with this light—is forever.