Realms of Gold

by Terry Stanfill

No great task for me as it always seemed part of my very nature. As days turned warmer new fields were ploughed by our oxen, their broad necks to the ground, swaying as though their huge bodies felt the rhythms of the grain goddess beneath them.

  Soon our men and boys prepared the furrows to receive the seed. With their iron-tined forks, they pushed into the earth, lifting, pausing, lifting as if to offer each forkful to the bright sun, before turning its blackness under. And the young women stood by, singing in sweet, high voices hymns to Milouziena, pleading with her to make our crops fruitful. Their voices aroused the men to use their planters and spill their seed into the soil. Then the grain maiden would be brought forth to mate with the grain king. And after, their lives would be offered up to Milouziena. From time to time I was clutched with fear that this would someday be my fate. And at other times I wanted to spend my life like those women before me, planting crops, learning the stories of our tribe. I was too young to know that there were other worlds beyond the cycles of planting and harvest. I had hoped we would stay on by the river at the edge of the forest for more of the night sun’s waxing and waning, but, after the grain ripened and the season of warmth and light turned short days into long, then we would push on to other land, as my mother’s people always had,

  Beyond the marshes by the river lies the Hellene’s polis of Olbia. Great stone figures of Milouziena flank the city gates. Once Milouziena was goddess of the earth and had only a single tail, but the Great Floods caused the sea to take our lands, so she became double- tailed, one part of the earth and one part of the water—with the starry sky above.

  The Hellenes tell their own story of Herakles, father of our people and the Milouziena, the Hellenes call mixoparthenos, the mixed maiden. Milouziena stole the mares of Herakles while he slept under a tree in the dark forest. Herakles searched for his horses in vain. At last he found them in the cave of the beautiful Milouziena. She promised to return his mares if he would bed her. Herakles could not resist her, planting his seed in exchange for his mares. From this union Milouziena bore Herakles three sons, Skythos, Gathyrsos and Gelonos.

  My mother was of the tribe of Gelonos. The Milouziena is our emblem. Herakles gave her a bow, a belt and a small gold cup and showed her how to string the bow and how to wear the belt. To this day my mother wears a golden cup tied at her waist with a leather thong. On her cheek is a scar hidden by a tattoo of Milouziena.

  Sometimes the goddess’s smile is sweet as she gives us blessing; sometimes we see her as a gaping tongued, leering maiden, whose glance turns men to stone, like the rivers of molten mud that flow down Fire Mountain.

  My years by the Pontus Euxinus were too few, it was my fate to leave this place. I was not destined to live the life my mothers did before me.

  *

  Yanking the damp mask from her eyes, she wipes away her tears and shakes her head hard to clear it of darkness. There is no way she can continue to live like this, visions and dreams looming up. Her mind is spinning out of control. Visions are taking over her life. She closes the laptop and lays her head on its consoling warmth for a few moments, then reaches for the phone to call Giovanni.

  Book III

  Giovanni

  Lecce, Puglia, The Day after Thanksgiving, 2007

  He is shaving when he hears his cell phone ringing through his briefcase. Another one of those early morning crank calls and hang ups he's been having lately!. “Caspite—Go ahead, ring, ring your head off,” he shouts. But when the vibrating sound becomes too much for his nerves, he pounces on his briefcase as though it were something he wants to kill.

  He’s relieved to hear Bianca’s voice.

  “I’m calling you because I’ve been scared ever since I came home.” She tells him about the break-in. “I don’t know what to do.. And there was a scrap of paper on the kitchen counter. On it was written Sacra Corona Unita.”

  “What! Are you kidding me?”

  “Why would I be? The detective who came by told me it was a Mafia symbol.”

  “He’s right, the Mafia of Puglia. Why would anyone want to come by your apartment and tear it apart? Poor Bianca.” He hears his feeble attempt at consolation. “You must have been terrified! You’re sure you’re not missing anything then?”

  “I have very few possessions to miss.”

  Strange. He imagined Bianca Fiore living amidst a plethora of ancient artifacts and icons, like the ones she writes about. “What do you think the burglar wanted?”

  “I’ve no idea. Besides the diary and earrings, another of my most precious possessions was with me—Nina’s watercolor, the miniature of the Campanile in Venice.”

  “A miniature of the Campanile?” He pauses, then says? “Do you know when she painted it?”

  “On July 13, 1902. She writes about it in the diary I showed you. It’s why I wanted to sit in the Piazza until the clock struck the very hour of the very day the Campanile collapsed.”

  “You’re positive about that date—the 13th of July, 1902?” He mutters something about being relieved, but hopes she hasn’t noticed.

  “Are you still there, Giovanni ?”

  “I hope you’ve put your valuable earrings and the painting in a safe place,”

  “I took them to a bank safety deposit box.”

  “You did exactly the right thing. You must take good care of them since they mean so much to you.”

  “After almost losing one of Nina’s earrings in the Grand Canal, I swear I’ll never wear them again until I can find a jeweler to put on safety wires that can be hooked over my ears.”

  Strange that he suddenly remembers her ears. Pretty ears, small, like moon shells in ammonite.

  “Giovanni, I can hardly wait for you to come to New York. I’ve been wanting to talk to you about something important—a startling discovery I’ve made.”

  A long silence.

  I'd like very much to hear about it, but I'm sorry, Bianca," he responds and he means it. "I'd planned on calling you tomorrow to say that I won't be coming for the December Antiquities sales. I have to go south to checkout some work on the field. Flooding rains have caused mudslides and cave-ins on one of our digs. We've had some real setbacks. Why don't you think about taking a sabbatical and joining me in Italy? A hollow invitation since he's sure there's no way shell ever leave her job.

  A long silence.

  “I can’t just pick and fly to Italy again. Sergio will fire me. I need to work--and to write. Besides, I like my job even though I'm not crazy about my boss. I’m disappointed. I was looking forward to your visit.”

  He hears the tremolo in her voice. He apologizes again and pulls out a cigarette, hoping that she won’t cry. Even though he can’t see her face, it bothers him to hear women weep. He cuts the conversation short by telling her that he has to rush off to an appointment.

  “If you decide to come, just give me a ring. If I don’t answer, leave a message. I’m always checking. I’ll be in Milan for two days and then fly to Naples on Thursday. Why not meet me there? Think about it, Bianca.”

  He takes a long, deep, unsatisfying drag, wondering if all this is worth it.

  Bianca

  November 27. New York City. 2007

  She’s relieved when Monday workday is over. The temperature has dropped to below freezing, and the wind blows against her as she walks up from the subway at 59th and Lexington Avenue. In the darkness, early Christmas lights flicker in shop windows along Madison Avenue. When she reaches Pratesi, she stops to admire the forget-me-not embroidered sheets in the window. Maybe if she’s careful turning in her expense accounts, someday she might be able to splurge on sheets like these.

  At 72nd and Madison, she turns East, thinking she'll stop at Grace’s Marketplace for more of those now-in-season tarocchi, Sicilian blood oranges. As she nears the corner of Third Avenue, she sees a man in a long black cape standing at the stoplight. Pulled down over his face is a slouch hat like an old fashioned Borsalino. The hat hides his eyes and nose. A muffler covers his chin and
mouth. He seems faceless. He reminds her of the man in the old Sandeman Sherry ads. Or of the description of the black cloaked man in Nina’s diary. She shivers. And not from the cold.

  As she crosses Third Avenue, she thinks she hears his tread behind her; her legs take longer strides toward Grace’s. But before she pushes open the door, she turns around. He’s across the street, his head bent. Then he disappears around the corner.

  She steps inside the market, and, even in her fear, she takes note of the aromas of rising yeast, aged parmesan, citrus peel. Leaning against the take-out counter, she searches her pockets for a tissue to wipe her damp forehead. Is the figure in the black cape a vision, a phantom from Nina’s diary lodged in her mind like a bullet in her brain? Or has she been followed by a flesh and blood man?

  “Who’s got number eight?” shouts the clerk behind the deli counter.

  *

  That evening she can’t get the stranger out of her thoughts. It’s making her neurotic That night she has an urge to call Giovanni, but in Italy it’s early morning. Why bother him, she thinks, dismissing the idea as she carefully washes and dries dishes. Keeping busy seems to keep the visions at bay, and what suddenly gives her courage is discipline, this new-found dedication to order. She yearns to transform herself into a woman not only Giovanni can admire but she can admire too.

  *

  Just after she’s gone to bed around one in the morning, she hears the doorbell ring. She won’t answer it. Officer De Vita might have been right. Maybe someone is after her—or something in her apartment. The bell rings four more times. If she had a panic button, she would push it. Without turning on the lights, she tiptoes to the door and waits until the ringing stops. After a few long minutes she peers through the peephole. Nothing. Moving to the window, she sees the back of a man in a black cape crossing the street. Now she's convinced that her visions are crossing over into reality. She grabs the phone. Six hours difference. In Italy that means seven in the morning. She dials Giovanni’s cell phone and leaves a message. She's coming!

  Zatoria

  One night before the spring harvest my mother killed the king of our tribe, the man who would have taken me as the maiden whose life he would offer up in the grain ceremony. That night the King entered our cabin, a dagger clutched in his hand. He had come to kill my mother and maybe to kill me, but my strong mother grasped his dagger and thrust it in his heart. When he was dead she wiped the blade clean and put it in her pouch. She ordered my younger brother and me to make ready to flee while she gathered up food. We pulled on deerskin leggings and boots; my hands shook so that I could hardly wind the gut strings around my ankles. Blood gushed from the dead King’s body; she threw a blanket over him, made a torch from dried branches, touched it to the hearth’s glowing embers, then to the bloody blanket until flames leapt around him. We waited until the fire swept over the rooftop, then mounted our horses and made our way towards Olbiopolis and the dwelling of Zalmoxis, my father. A half moon shone upon us as we rode. The wind and the wolves howled around us. Tears froze on my cheeks while my heart pumped in terror.

  *

  The next day Bianca finally gets up the nerve to speak to Sergio in his office. He seems to be avoiding her.

  “I hope you and your family had a Happy Thanksgiving,” she says, trying her best to be polite and interested.

  He nods. “I decided to take the family to Zurich, after all. Oh, Leonardo told me that you had a robbery when you returned from Venice. Why am I’m just now hearing about it?”

  “Break in, yes. Robbery, no. I didn’t find anything missing. “

  “Well, that’s good news!” he responds brusquely. “Now let’s talk business. Leonardo tells me you finally turned in your expense accounts.”

  “That’s right, Sergio.” Now I’ll have more than enough for a plane ticket and cash to take out from the ATM machine.

  “Good girl. You’ve got quite a bit of money coming to you.”

  “What is this ‘good girl’ business? Leonardo says the same thing. You both speak as if I were a child. I resent it.” She can’t believe her new found spunk.

  He smiles. “Come on—we only want to take care of you, Bianca.”

  “I can take care of myself.”

  “Not from what I’ve seen so far. When are you going to let me come by to cook dinner for you again?”

  “I’ll have to check my calendar.” She heads briskly toward the door. “I’m so busy now it will have to be after Christmas. Last night I decided to fly to Naples.”

  “Hey –Napoli—why Napoli? What’s the matter with you? You don’t seem like the same girl—excuse me, person— I used to know. What the hell has happened to you?”

  “I met a man.”

  His jaw drops.

  “Noooooh.—I don’t believe it. Who’s the lucky guy?”

  “Someone I met in Venice. I can’t wait to go back.”

  His tone becomes oily, seductive. “Bianca, Bianca, Finalmente! Don’t you remember the first time I sent you to Venice to write a story on that eleventh century throne—the one with the Kufic writing in San Pietro di Castello? How you couldn’t wait to get the hell out of the city. Christ! I remember how shocked I was when you took the train back to Milan the same day, after I’d told you to stay for a few days, all expenses paid. What the hell has suddenly made you change your mind about Venice?”

  She grabs the doorknob.. “It’s a long story. Sergio. You wouldn’t understand. I’m going to my travel agency to book my flight."

  He leaps from his chair. “Wait a minute. You can’t do this to me!” He kicks his desk chair so hard it spins around carving a circle in space. He follows with a tirade of Italian curses. “Che cozze! What about my next issue?”

  “You’re in luck.” She hears herself speaking calmly. “I almost finished the February assignment last night.”

  “At least you’ve done that! ” He gives her a sour smile. “What’s it on?”

  “The mixoparthenos. Or melusina--or whatever you want to call her. Or how about the Saga of Zatoria? Take your pick.”

  “What the hell are you talking about? Who the hell is Zatoria?”

  “That’s what I’m going to find out.”

  “Why don’t you tell me a little about your boyfriend.”

  “He’s my business.”

  “Suddenly everything is your business. After three years of taking care of you, feeding you, being like a...a brother to you—you give me one day’s notice that you’re going to Naples. What the hell do you want from those stupid Southerners? They’re a different race down there. A race apart. Or didn’t you know that?”

  “You’re dead wrong, Sergio. Ovid and Gabriele d'Annunzio and Dante Gabriel Rossetti were from the Abruzzo, as were the great philosophers, beginning with Pythagoras and Benedetto Croce. And what about Carlo Levi and Lampedusa and The Leopard in Sicily? The first Italian universities were in the south. You must have forgotten that. I could go on and on! I may not know much about Sybaris, but I do know there was a great civilization in the south while your Italians in the north were still living in rude huts.” Her fingernails dig into her palms. “I’m going to take a leave of absence. I just decided, and don’t try to make me change my mind.”

  “You’d better get your head examined! You can’t walk out on us this way. I need you right here. I’ve got to leave for Italy in a week, and I won’t be back until after New Year’s. And you tell me you’re taking a leave of absence? After all I’ve done for you!”

  Her shoulders pull back squarely, her spine straightens, she speaks calmly. “I won’t be taking a real sabbatical since I’ll be writing for the magazine as I go along. But if you don’t like what I write during my time away, maybe someone else will publish it. And if I decide not to come back—well—go find someone else.” She hands him a sheet of paper. “Here’s my proposal. You can read it at your leisure. Ciao, Sergio. And please say ciao to Leonardo.”

  She walks out the door, picks up her check from the
bookkeeper, and heads straight to Bloomingdale's for make up lessons and new clothes.

  In the late afternoon she calls her mother to tell her that the travel agency said she had enough mileage for a round trip to Italy, and was able to get her a reservation on the 15th of December.

  And more importantly, to let her know that she plans to visit her new friend, Giovanni, Allegra’s cousin. She can tell from the tone of her mother’s voice that she’s thrilled. “My dear girl, I’m so happy you’re taking some time off—just go and enjoy yourself. And for heaven’s sake, please don’t worry about me. Just give me a ring now and then or send an e-mail. I finally got myself a computer. "

  kylix (or cylix, pl.: kylixes or kylikes)

  Greek. A type of wine-drinking cup with a broad relatively shallow body raised on a stem from a foot, many with painted decoration in the Black-figure or Red-figure styles of the 6th and 5th century B.C. The word comes from the Greek kylix “cup,” which is cognate with Latin calix, the source of the English word “chalice.”

  When we arrived in Olbiopolis my mother learned that the Thracian shaman Zalmoxis would soon depart from Olbia to the South shore and Sinope. Then he would set sail for Lokri in Megále Hellás. I was eager to greet my father and wondered if he would recognize me as his daughter, or better still, accept me. My mother said that we must wait until he has spoken to his followers on the agora, and then we would approach him, What if he denied I was his child, but why would he want to?

  When at last we found Zalmoxis, he embraced me for he knew at once that I was his. My mother pleaded with my father to take me with him, and my brother would stay on with her. And when he agreed, she looped her precious amber beads around my neck. .Then, plucking the gold plaques from her tunic, she slipped them into a small sack already heavy with dolphin coins to pay my passage to Sinope and Lokri Efizefori. In my deerskin bag, wrapped in straw, I kept my only treasure, the kylix my mother and Zalmoxis drank from in the feast of the Thracian God, Dionysos. Painted on it is a scene of women fighting Hellene hoplites.