“But what if the original codex is in Italy?” I assume that Blackburn has already negotiated an outrageous price from his buyer. “Wouldn’t it be embarrassing if it turned up?” Justine rose slightly to remove her beaded jacket as she spoke. While it was too cool to sit outside, the inside was warming up.
“It would, indeed,” admitted Riccardo. “Let’s hope that the transaction involving the actual codex takes place someplace other than Italy.”
Andrea rose and excused herself. “Le toilette,” she grinned.
Justine watched Andrea walk away. “Well,” she finally said, holding her empty glass out to her father. “More champagne, please. We do have much to celebrate, including our two women of the Egyptian sarcophagus.” She lifted her glass first to her father, then Riccardo, then her mother.
Amir appeared across the room, having just returned from Cairo.
“A bomb scare delayed you?” Justine asked innocently.
“What?” Amir appeared puzzled, and placed both hands on the empty chair next to Lucrezia.
“Nothing. How is the investigation going?” she asked.
“Regarding my grandfather or the Etruscans?” he asked, seating himself and reaching for his empty glass. “I’d prefer to talk about the Etruscans right now. The Egyptian authorities are running after their tales. The Etruscan DNA and patina studies will be ready any day now. Here’s hoping for a few stunning revelations of early secrets that shake up these Italian archaeologists.” Justine found him more edgy than usual. Undoubtedly he was tired, since this was his third trip back to Cairo in a short time.
“Secrets, indeed,” replied Lucrezia, her voice slurred slightly. “So many secrets. What people think they know about the Etruscans is just theory.”
“Not entirely, Lucrezia,” said Marco, seating himself in the seventh chair. “We know a lot about them that is uncontested.” He placed a napkin on his lap and reached for the antipasti.
“Such as?” she asked. “And welcome, dear friend.”
“It’s an honor to be invited. Morgan filled me in on today’s court proceedings. There is much to celebrate,” said Marco, smiling and nodding to each guest. “And as to your question about the Etruscans, Lucrezia, most scholars believe that they were indigenous to this area. Their language is definitely not Indo-European, but it is fairly well understood now because they adopted the Greek alphabet in the early part of the seventh century BC . . .”
“All right, my good man, you’ve convinced us for now,” interrupted Morgan, not ready for a long treatise.
“I’ve only just begun,” grinned Marco. “I could go on . . .” But he resisted.
“Enough for now, my friend, let’s consider what we don’t know or what is contested,” suggested Morgan. “As you know, I take issue with the assumption that the Etruscans were indigenous.”
“And where does Egypt come into the picture?” asked Justine. “The linen on the famous Zagreb mummy with Etruscan writing opened that question, but now with the carvings on the sarcophagus we’ve just found, an Egyptian connection can’t be ignored.” She realized that she was repeating herself.
“Granted,” said Amir, graciously, “but ‘indigenous’ doesn’t deny the influence of other cultures through trade and exploration. Look at what the south Saharan trade routes did for Timbuktu.”
“I would say that the connection with Egypt is irrefutable, regardless of how it took place,” insisted Justine, who knew a great deal about Isis and the significance the goddess held for the whole of the Mediterranean. After all, she thought, Isis paved the way for acceptance and adoration of the Virgin Mary. “Everything is connected,” she asserted the obvious. “And now, shall we order?”
The waiter, whom Justine recognized as the same young man who had flirted with her mother on the terrace during their last visit, stood near Lucrezia and watched as she described the restaurant’s new chef. “He’s from Basilicata, in the arch of the boot, as Alessandro would say. May I?” She turned to the eager young man. “We’ll have the Pasta con Peperoni, Crushi E. Mollica Fritta with plenty of goat pecorino cheese, Fagioli di Sarconi, Focaccia al Pomodorini—please bring that first.” She turned back to her guests. “You’ll find that the Peperoni di Senise in the pasta has a smoky caramel tang. You’ll enjoy it.”
“Basilicata produces only one local wine,” Morgan offered. “And it ranks at the forefront of the best-known and appreciated Italian reds. It’s called Agliano del Volture. Do they have it?”
“None other,” replied Lucrezia, nodding to the young waiter to bring the wine, although she had decided to stick with water. The limoncello and champagne had been quite enough.
“Aglianico,” added Riccardo. “The name of the original grape is a corruption of the word Hellenic. In fact, there are no native grapes in this region. The plant was brought over by the Greeks when they settled the area in pre-Roman times, making it among the oldest grapes in Italy.”
Andrea returned to the table, placing her phone back into her purse. Her cheeks were flushed. She sat down quietly, without the usual fanfare.
CHAPTER 25
To be a choicemaker in the third phase of life means that what you choose to do or be must correspond with what is true for you at a soul level. What you do with your life is then meaningful; it is something you know in your bones, at your core, in your soul.
—Jean Shinoda Bolen, Goddesses in Older Women
“I’M THINKING OF GETTING married again. What do you think?” asked Lucrezia of her houseguest and friend, Andrea. “Justine has reservations.” Her daughter had not told her what she knew about Andrea and Blackburn, and was reluctant to do more before she knew the extent of their involvement.
“Has she said so?” asked Andrea cautiously, surprised that Lucrezia would consider such a move. “Alessandro? The Ferragamo guy?”
Lucrezia sat on one of the stools at the long counter, her white kaftan trailing behind. She grinned at the stiffness of Andrea’s manner, a woman who rarely hesitated to voice her opinions or feel comfort in her own skin. “No, she hasn’t said so in so many words . . . and, yes. That Alessandro.”
The two women heard the back door open and watched as a sweaty Justine stepped into the kitchen. She picked up a towel, dried her face, and flung the towel around her neck. She’d had a late night with Andrea, but hadn’t mentioned Lucrezia’s possible marriage. Or Amir.
During their late-night discussion, Andrea pointed out that the previously indecipherable section of the codex copy, which she worked on when she was in the villa’s guest bedroom, revealed Mary’s desire to return to her grandmother’s homeland in Lydia before her death.
“Is the coffee ready?” Justine asked, landing on the stool nearest her mother.
“We were just talking about marriage,” ventured Andrea, pouring Justine a cup of coffee from the Melitta.
Justine took a sip of the warm, thick mixture her mother called coffee and grinned at the two women. “Whose?” she teased. “Andrea, are you getting married?”
“Not me, chérie! Not my style.”
“Oh, then it must be you.” Justine directed the comment to her mother, her smile fading. She couldn’t hide the fact that she held strong opinions on the subject of the possible marriage. “What are your thoughts about the proposal today?”
“Well . . .” her mother began. “While I wouldn’t want to lose my independence, traveling and dining with a man can be very pleasurable. I rediscovered that at Lake Como. Alessandro is a pleasing companion, a considerate lover. Not too predictable. Interesting, still curious. Then there is the part about growing old together. That’s important to Alessandro, much more than to me . . . I’m feeling pressured to make a decision.”
“It’s not like you to respond to pressure, Creta,” said Andrea. “And what makes you think that marriage with an Italian would be an equal partnership? Italian men are coddled by their mamas—and they expect the same from their wives, not so unlike Egyptians. Don’t get me started on the lack
of Italian women in government or that buffoon Berlusconi.”
Lucrezia found a trivet and extracted cinnamon buns from the oven. The scent of cinnamon wafted through the room. “But women won’t put up with these conditions for long—things are changing in Italy,” she said. “I respect Alessandro and must take his feelings seriously. But I must also consider where I am in my life and what it would mean to live each day with a man, sharing a bed, a closet, perhaps even a bathroom.” She looked uneasy as the daily events of married life unreeled before her eyes. “At fifty-eight I’m becoming a crone, my dear friends, nearing the third chapter of my life. I’m pretty set in my ways.”
Justine liked being considered a “dear friend” as well as a daughter. But she also wondered how much Italy was like Egypt and how soon things would actually change for women. She feared that her mother might be headed for a repeat of her experience with her father.
“A crone? Isn’t that an offensive term for an older woman?” asked Andrea, wrinkling her nose as though a rancid smell had overcome the cinnamon-sweet of the cinnamon buns.
“No,” replied Lucrezia. “The writer Jean Shinoda Bolen—a friend of mine—uses the term. She defines it as a wise elder who understands herself, who makes choices true to that self.”
“Jean is a Jungian,” added Justine, “so she insists that to be a crone is to understand your archetype, who you truly are.”
“I like that,” Andrea relented, walking over to Lucrezia and placing her hands on her shoulders. “So, chérie, does ‘croneship’ make your decision more clear?”
“I think it does . . .” Lucrezia leaned forward and kissed Andrea on both cheeks, then lavished white cream cheese frosting on the still-warm buns.
Justine winced as she watched the display of affection, for she had grown increasingly uneasy with Andrea’s secrets. She sensed that she knew her mother’s decision, and she turned her attention to Andrea. “How are things going with Dad, Andrea? All kidding aside.”
Andrea was taken aback, but quickly recovered her natural aplomb. “As you both know only too well, Morgan is a charmer. A challenging companion, conversationalist.” She chose not to include “lover.” “A little devious, n’est-ce pas? I’ve seen a few undesirable flashes of jealousy. He calls too often and asks too many questions,” she added. “But a dear. We all sacrifice for the men in our lives, don’t you think? They can be such boys.”
Mother and daughter let slow grins curl across their lips, then began to laugh.
“What’s so funny?” Morgan asked, standing barefoot in the doorway.
Dad has a gift for appearing at inopportune moments.
“Ah, Creta’s cinnamon buns!” he exclaimed.
Justine watched her parents, their games predictable. Yet some fates are not so well known—or known at all. She pondered the fate of Mary of Nazareth. What happened to her? Why did she leave the diary behind? We’ll probably never know.
EPHESUS, APRIL, 27 CE
The journey of Mary of Nazareth was difficult. Summer storms heaved the sea, dragging her ship off course. The voyagers from Palestine had been two days without water. Yet the splendor of the great city awakened their senses and enlivened their step. The Ephesians welcomed them, for they had an abundance of all things. As the financial and cultural center of the world, Ephesus provided its inhabitants with such abundance that compassion came easily. There was enough for all: running water for drinking and bathing, foods and wines, silks and jewels. The poorest among the Ephesians were without want. All could find shelter. None were turned away.
This was a city so tolerant and diverse, even a Jew such as herself would have nothing to fear here except her own memories, which would haunt her for the rest of her years. Mary and John, her son’s disciple, and their companions entered the city through the Magnesia gate and came into the agora. On the northern side of the square, a mammoth basilica housed the city courts. The square itself boasted grand stone religious and civic buildings. Doric columns, fountains, and marble statues, one of the daring Artemis, stood guard before the public baths, gloriously surrounded by porticoes paved with mosaics. The eternal flame of Ephesus reflected in Mary’s astonished eyes. Never had she seen such wonders. Turning right at the bottom of the Street of Curetes, Mary and her companions faced the most astounding of vistas: the Temple of Artemis, goddess of the hunt, the largest and most glamorous temple in the world.
Some months later, Mary reflected upon her time living in Ephesus while John built her house on Bulbul Dagi Mountain. It was one of those incredible evenings, the glow of sunset framing the mountain. Her new home stood behind her. Light balmy air filled her lungs with buoyant energy; bursts of sweet hyacinth and honeysuckle filled her senses.
Ahead, at the base of the mountain, the great city stretched out across the valley and west to the sea. Fifty tall torches along Harbor Street radiated a veiled lavender glow over the Grand Theater and Temple of Artemis in the distance. Mary had come to admire Artemis, as she had Isis those long years ago in Egypt, known to her as a fiercely independent goddess who fought for equality and fairness. Ephesus is Artemis’s city, she thought.
Mary rose, smoothed the front of her favorite faded blue tunic, and walked slowly to the western door of her new home, built solidly of local stone. She carried an armload of kindling that she placed in the central hearth, lighting a fire for tea and warmth in the evening ahead. Near the southern window, crowded near a sink with running water, a loom stretched tight with a blue and lavender weaving. Behind the hearth, a small alcove and altar adorned with one of Joseph’s prayer cloths led into a smaller sleeping area where Mary spent her restless nights.
She walked to the sturdy wooden table and cupboard that held her supply of tea, bread, honey, dried fish, onions, salt, and Arabian spices, along with ceramic dishes, glassware, and a pitcher, often filled with milk from her goats. She placed her tea in one of the copper pots that hung nearby.
Daily, her companions brought fresh supplies, and twice monthly she managed to take her weavings into the agoras in the city below. As a woman of forty-seven summers, her knees often complained as she made the climb back up the mountain. Yet she delighted in market days that gave her a chance to remember such days with Jesus in Egyptian markets, those days when she was the teacher and he had so many questions. “Can only some women write?” he had asked one day as she purchased papyrus for her diary. “All women can write if they are taught how,” she had told him. “Just as you were taught to read and write.” As was his way, Jesus was quiet for several moments. Mary realized then that she was the only woman he had seen writing. So curious and reflective was her son. My diary. Such a loss. If only I had brought it from Old Cairo—had not left it in the cave wall with the comb from Joseph. I could pull the stories of Jesus to my chest. Her eyes moistened with lost.
On that last day in Jerusalem, when she had sat in anguish witnessing her son’s death, Jesus had thought of her, saying to John, “See your mother. Keep her with you.” It was John who had brought her to Ephesus that summer, afraid for her welfare. She was eager to leave Palestine, to escape to her ancient family home, the home she only knew from stories told by her Grandmother Faustina.
Now John tells her of a new religion and a man called Paul. Of efforts to make her son divine. Jesus would not have been fond of a movement that glorified him. His mission, Mary knew only too well, taught love and tolerance, forgiveness and compassion, not deification. Fortunately, Paul, with the blindness to women he revealed in his letters, would not arrive in Ephesus from Rhodes until the summer of her death. Mary died peacefully, painlessly, on August 15th, in the year 53 of the current era, as her community was preparing for the Ephesus Wine Festival, which would take place on the 19th of that month.
CHAPTER 26
Pope Alexander I to his daughter Lucrezia: “Do people say that I am both your father and your lover? Let the world, that heap of vermin as ridiculous as they are feeble-minded believe the tales about the mighty! You must k
now that for those destined to dominate others, the ordinary rules are turned upside down and take on entirely new meaning. Good and evil are carried off to a higher, different plane.”
—Caroline Murphy, The Pope’s Daughter
FERRARA, THE GLORIOUS Medieval and Renaissance city in northern Italy, has so preserved its historical center that, like the necropolis at Cerveteri, it is designated a UNESCO World Heritage Site. Situated on the Po River at the mouth of the ancient Etruscan Po Valley, Ferrara is considered one of the greenest cities in Europe, and it is a bastion of the arts. This urban oasis is walled by one of the oldest defense systems in Italy, made of sinuous red brick, and embraced by lush gardens. The city boasts the great Castello Estense, surrounded by a moat, and houses great cathedrals, public buildings, museums, and the ornate Teatro Comunale opera house, symbols of the influence of the extended Este family that ruled Ferrara for more than three centuries.
In the late fourteenth century, Ercole I, an ambitious son of the Este family, petitioned Pope Alexander I for a ducal title, a designation in keeping with the family’s growing wealth and properties. “I will make you a duke, a title to be held by the family in perpetuity,” responded the Pope—but only if Ercole would promise that his first-born son would marry the Pope’s illegitimate daughter, Lucrezia. This promise did not prove to be an onerous burden. Lucrezia was a remarkably stunning woman with flowing blond hair, although as a former wife, twice over, and mother of an illegitimate child born in the Sistine Chapel, she did not come into the marriage unsullied. It was thus that the young Alfonso d’Este wed Lucrezia Borgia.
Lucrezia became the flamboyant Countess d’Este and reigned over the further glorification of the city. She also worked tirelessly as a sponsor of the Clares, an order of Franciscan nuns dedicated to supporting the poor and homeless. Well-schooled in her father’s Machiavellian ways, Lucrezia was politically devious. She was accused of having poisoned her abusive father and of being unfaithful to her husbands. Lucrezia Borgia died during the birth of her eighth child.
The Italian Letters: A Novel (The Justine Trilogy Book 2) Page 18
