My name is Augusto, I come from Rome and I have been walking for seven days. All I carry with me is a worn cloak, a jug of wine, and the promise I made to Bacchus: to reach his sacred hills, those they call Euganean, to honor him on the longest night of the year. They say that up there, among vineyards that touch the sky, the god still descends among men. They say that whoever dances until dawn will receive as a gift a year of pure joy.
I followed the Postumia road, then veered north where the mountains become gentle and you can smell wild grapes before seeing them. Yesterday I crossed an oak forest. Today, shortly after noon while the sun burned my neck and my shoes were reduced to tatters, I spotted a villa.
It’s not like those I know in Rome—closed and severe. This one is open and generous. It seems to rise from the very earth itself as if its walls are roots and its roof a branch reaching towards the sun.
I approached it. The garden stretched out before me for an immense stretch—I counted steps; perhaps ten thousand arms’ length of land—all dotted with ancient olive trees and tall grass bending like a sea under the wind. I pushed open the wooden gate. It was not locked. Perhaps this was how God wanted it.
I entered.
Immediately I discovered stairs leading down to an underground level. Driven by curiosity, I followed them and found myself in a large tavern. It’s dark and cool with an enormous fireplace still smelling of burnt wood. I thought about winter nights when snow covers hills outside while we drink warm inside telling stories till midnight—a place for gods of wine and friendship.
I went back upstairs where two immense halls awaited me—large as temples filled with windows looking out over hillsides into plains below us all around—in one hall at center stood an oven—a low wide hearth where bread could be baked or meat roasted for entire tribes! My hand rested upon stone—it felt warm! Someone had lit fire just hours ago!
Further ahead lay kitchen big tidy next door stands room lined stone tubs water channels—the laundry room once women scrubbed tunics singing songs together here long ago too!
But what struck most beautiful came exiting through doors beyond kitchens descending stairways leads onto porchway standing threshold breath taken away entirely stunned sight greeted eyes vast expanse opened wide before gaze stretching far off distance Colli Euganei unfolded fan-like green purple beneath afternoon sunlight terraced vineyards cypress groves distant villages perched high peaks above valleys below…thoughts raced “If Bacchus resides anywhere surely must be here.”
Climbing first floor found sleeping quarters spacious bright each bathroom private little terrace facing south imagined resting lying bed window ajar sweet scent linden flowers drifting softly within silence enveloped surroundings close miles removed noise Forum chariots market cries man might sleep never slept quite so soundly ever before now?!
I went back down into the garden. I walked among the olive trees—there are dozens of them, all mine, if this villa were mine—and filled the olla 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 was supposed to climb higher, where the bonfires are already burning and the sound of drums can be heard. But something is keeping me here, in this villa that has welcomed me like a son.
Perhaps Bacchus does not want me to dance among the crowd. Perhaps the gift the god wants to give me is something else.
Perhaps he is offering me a home. Tomorrow I will decide. Tonight I will sleep beneath the portico, with the olive trees standing guard and the Hills watching over me. And if tomorrow, when I wake, the god speaks to me again, I will answer.
Because a man passes, festivals come to an end, but a villa like this—on these hills, with this garden, with this light—is forever.