Situla : Bucket or pail, is a term for a variety of elaborate bucket-shaped vessels used in ritual from the late Bronze age, usually with a handle at the top. All types may be highly decorated with reliefs in bands or friezes running round the vessel.
Zatoria
The Winter SolsticeSamonios, the New Year
The new palace is being readied for the ritual of the Feast of the Longest night. Although the sun has not yet set, bonfires in the fields of Vix surrounding the citadel are already offering blazes to Arduina, goddess of the moon and forests. Farmers, cattle herders, horse breeders and their families will spend the night under the stars feasting and carousing and storytelling. Both young and old will dance around the bonfires, the livelier the dance, the better the harvest from the yet unseeded fields. Before darkness falls, the older boys will run around the bonfires with flaming branches, imitating the course of the sun, and the revelers will look up to Latisco, all ablaze with the light of lanterns and torches, their shining citadel on the hill.
Mules and wagons heaped with logs for the cooking fires trundle up the winding road to the ramparts. There, in the center of town, on the road leading to the castle, boys tend the turning spits threaded with rabbits and fowl, boar and beef, slowly roasting over glowing, charred wood. This has been a year of plenty with enough food to feed the entire town, as well as strangers from distant lands who come to trade with the Tribe of the River People.
Behind the palisades, in the center of the new great hall, the Krater stands in its pride of place, filled with the dark, rich wine of Megále Hellás. To evoke the safeguard of woodland gods and green spirits, servants scurry about hanging boughs of holly and masses of winter-bare rowan branches still clustered with crimson berries. Others hang the ritual situlae and drinking horns on pegs along the wall. Youths hold torches aloft, shedding light in the great hall for the banqueters.
Sheep pelts cover the floor beyond the ring of the seated Druids. The King and Queen will sit on bronze chairs sent as a gift from a chieftain of the Tyrrhenoi. A great round table, hewn from the trunks of lightning-struck oaks, is stacked with wood trenchers and bowls and flagons from Massilia. Baskets, woven from twigs of osier, will catch bones and bits of gristle to be thrown to the dogs.
The bards, storytellers and musicians enter. Trumpeters announce the arrival of the King of the River People, who stands tall, regal in trousers reaching the shivering thin gold plaques on his shoes. Upon his head he wears his crown, a pointed hat of silver birch bark. Zatoria, his Queen, is by his side, dressed in the white peplos of the Hellenes. Over her shoulders she wears a long wool cape woven in pattern of the tribe, red and blue stripes over green squares, pinned to one shoulder with a fibula of coral. The torque is a diadem, an arc over her russet hair, the polished gold gleaming in the soft light of the flickering flames of oil lamps.
The crowd disperses to form an aisle for them to pass, and the carnyx sounds to announce the hooded Druids and the green-robed Vates. They enter solemnly and form a circle around the pit, a circle of fire, surrounding the great Krater. The Druids of the tribe follow with Eutropios, the Pythagorean, who will teach the Druids the philosophy of numbers, and the Thracian Zalmoxis, who will spend the last of his years sharing his learning with Druids, the watchers of the skies, who carry vast knowledge in their heads but do not write their wisdom.
Next comes the smith, a most honored figure, for he is an artist as well as a worker in metals. Eutropios advised and helped him to weld together the seven pieces of the Krater and then encircle it with the frieze of horses and marching hoplites.
The carpenter enters with his wife. He is the master builder of the castle designed by Eutropios in the manner of the Hellenes. To reward the joiner for his considerable skills, the King commanded him to build a fine house with a pitched and wood shingle roof for himself and his family.
Before long the Great Hall is filled with villagers. Strangers are welcomed and speeches are made while the fire turns to glowing coals and then to ash. The carnyx wails again, and there is sudden silence. The ceremonies begin as the Arch Druid steps over the ashes. He approaches the Krater's lid, centered with a small image of Zatoria, her head draped in a mantle..
Four Druids move forward to the great vessel and lift its cover. Another Druid pours wine from the ritual situla through the strainer of the Krater, the cauldron of plenty, the cauldron of lives past and of lives to come. The Arch Druid tosses lumps of pine resin from the strainer into the fire making it sputter and hiss as the resin fumes, filling the great hall with fragrance for the feasting.
As the smoke rises, Zatoria, their Queen and Seer, also rises from her chair to recite a prayer to Arduina, goddess of the moon, of forests, of the earth, urging her to fill the bins with grain, imploring her to keep the tribe healthy, free from pestilence and destruction by the fierce, marauding tribes of the neighboring Senones and the Segobrigi of the Cult of the Severed Head, threatening those who live in Massilia of the Hellenes.
Now the sun has dropped into Mother Earth, the sky soon to deliver the moon. The Druids begin their chant with the somber beat of large wood spoons on goatskin-stretched drums.
Arduina, orb of the night,
of our earth
and of our sacred oaks
Rise out from the cloudy sky.
Arduina, destroyer of darkness
Make bright our heavens
Diffuse silver light
amid the river of
Cold winter stars.
Stars shining through,
Clearing cloudy darkness
Freeing minds to open,
To gather knowledge,
To remember
So we may pass from this life
to the Other
Holding the wisdom of mankind
For all the souls of mankind
With these words the Arch Druid summons the Vates to step over the ring with the situlae filled with water which they pour into the Krater. The Arch Druid stirs the wine and water with a long staff made from the trunk of a sapling birch and topped with the golden cone, a gift from Zalmoxis, who had used it long ago in the feast of Dionysos.
A Druid stirs the wine in the situla, preparing to offer it to the Queen. Zatoria comes forward, her mother's black-figured kylix in her hands, and asks the Arch Druid to ladle wine into the cup. As she takes the first sip, tears fill her eyes. The fragile kylix has made the long and perilous journey from Sybaris together with the massive Krater.
There is celebration in the great hall but the Druids do not partake in the bounty. They have passed from this world to the Other, and in silent stillness remain standing in the inner circle as the night passes in feasting and song, and revelers fill and refill their cups with sacred wine from the great vessel.
Before the sun rises, an elderly woman Druid, the storyteller of the tribe, recites the story of her people from far back in Time Past to the Here and Now. She closes with these verses to honor Zatoria, Queen and seer of the Tribe of the River People.
Over the mountains she fled
Fled from the flooded land,
Her heart as wild as the waves,
Crossed seas, sailed up rivers.
And when at last she reached our gates
Our people knew she was the Queen
We'd waited for and hailed her as our own.
With these words the woman comes to the end of her story. The great hall echoes with shouts and cheers for Zatoria, their long-awaited Queen, whose prophecy had spared the life of their Prince and the destruction of the King's Krater.
Now no carnyx wails. The great hall becomes quiet, with only sounds of strumming, plucking of the lyre, the high pitched melodies of reed pipes as the Druids chant a hymn to the sun.
Come, sun, rise, rise, golden Lord
Spread light upon our fields May each planted seed yield one hundred fold
Come out sun , come out sun
Do not keep us waiting
Shine on us through time an
d tide,
Come out sun, come out,
We plead
Do not keep us waiting
Rise, sun, rise from this too long darkness
Warm us with your golden light.
After lunch they walk to the Museum in the Maison Philandrier, originally a dwelling built during the French Renaissance. Hermès greets the ticket seller warmly. When the woman turns to Bianca and exclaims, “Ah, Madame, c'est encore vous!” Bianca tries hard not to laugh. “Oui Madame, c'est moi, “ she replies airily but politely, “back again, this time after only six months.” Pleased, she turns to Giovanni with a grin , “What did I tell you? They do remember me around here.”
They follow Hermès through the small, well lighted gallery filled with Gaulish ex votos found in the source of the nearby River Douix, a spring bubbling up from an underground cavern where amateur divers have discovered hundreds of votive offerings.
Giovanni studies the display he has never seen before. “Although these artifacts are mostly of the Gallo-Roman period, not as old as the ex-votos we find in Magna Graecia , there's nonetheless a continuity of purpose, of similarity even, as the goddess Aphrodite becomes the healing Sequana in these rivers and streams."
Hermès replies assertively, “Not so long ago Hallstatt fibulae were found in the Source of the Douix, proof that it has been a sacred place for centuries, about as long ago as your finds in Magna Graecia , Giovanni—about the same time as le Cratère. “
They climb the worn stone steps to the gallery of le Cratère. Before entering, Bianca stops to reflect on two ancient stone sculptures, one a male figure, the other a woman wearing a torque. She remembers the couple from her previous visits and wonders if the woman might have been a representation of la Dame de Vix.
Hermès sees her studying the pair intently. “Bruno Chaume found them in 1994—his first day on the job! We took this as a good omen. And you have seen today what has happened since. Together with his team Bruno discovered le Palais de la Dame de Vix. “
Bianca nods, closes her eyes, holds her breath and collects herself before entering the room. Then, with eyes wide open, she moves closer to the gleaming bronze vessel enclosed by glass, the wood chariot of la Dame de Vix by its side, its wheels placed along the wall. In the bier lies no priestess, no princess, now only jewels, the jewels of a queen, delicately placed on white linen. Giovanni and Hermès remain silent knowing that they have been left behind as Bianca is transported to her distant world.
Zatoria's kylix from the Black Sea rests on the cover, a few inches away from the small veiled Kore, the silver phiale, the bronze flagon of the Tyrrhenioi, all used in the wine ritual. Her golden torque with its tiny winged horses, the amber beads and coral fibula, the schist bracelets once encircling her delicate wrists. And looming over the bier, the Krater, with it fierce, gaping-tongued Gorgons their snake tails wrapped around the swell of the vessel, the frieze of horses and marching hoplites of Sybaris, immortalized by Eutropios, the Pythagorean.
Bianca closes her eyes and hears the voice of Chrétien's grandmother reciting the words that Chrétien as a boy, might have heard centuries ago.
And Queen she was until she left this world.
She was buried with her cart.
Around her neck, her amber beads,
The golden diadem on her head,
Not vanished by time.
Still she lies by her Sacred Cauldron.
Cauldron of plenty that will never empty,
Cauldron of life after death.
From her we claim our descent.
We hold the secret of all who come here to seek it.
Our women are the guardians of the Grail
That lies buried beneath the earth of Vix
When they leave the exhibit, Hermès glances at his watch. “If I leave now I will be just on time for the colloque. It has been such a happy surprise to see you again, Giovanni, and to meet you, Bianca, and hear about your passion for le Cratère de Vix, a passion you have had since the first time I saw you standing before it.”
“We've learned so much with you as our guide, Hermès, not only about le Cratère, but also about Burgundy, the place where the great Graal has remained for so many centuries since its journey from...”she pauses and smiles, “since its journey from golden Sybaris to the golden hillsides of Burgundy.”
“Sybaris? You must have read Claude Rolley's paper on le Cratère.”
“Giovanni has, but I have not.” she responds. “Why don't we save Sybaris for our next meeting.” She glances at Giovanni who graciously changes the subject.
“Hermès, my good friend, I also promise to save two weeks in August to help with the dig. But sooner than that, on the 5th of January, I'll be calling you with some news about a little find near Sybaris—after I've made my report to the Superintendent.”
“What a fine experience it has been for me to show you our little town and its vast, highly important treasures. Until only a few years ago Vix was not very well known, not even in France, and before the discovery, Châtillon-sur-Seine was called a backwater place. Not even a train stopped here. Now it is worthy of three stars in the guidebooks, and its fame continues to spread.”
They all embrace, kiss one another on both cheeks, and know, without a doubt, that they will soon have a reunion in Paris—or Puglia.
*
Giovanni and Bianca return to their room tired, but exhilarated. He puts his arms around her and says, “We'd better move on soon if we intend to be in Venice for Christmas Eve. We'll stay on through New Year's Day, then I must leave for Sibari and my appointment with the Soprintendente.”
She sighs and rests her head against his shoulder. “Our journey together will have come full circle in Venice,” she says wistfully, wondering what fortune might have in store for them after Venice.
Brushing away some wisps of hair from her face, he kisses her brow. “Certainly the fateful way we met— neither one of us wanting to be in Venice for someone else's wedding—was a meeting designed by destiny.”
“When we're in Venice, I'll finish writing my Saga of Zatoria for Hermès, and as I write, I'll look out to the pontile where Nina's earring fell off. I'm sure when I'm home again, I'll tell and re-tell the story of the divers finding the gold coin gleaming in the mud of the Grand Canal.”
He nods and says, “You can be certain that most people will think it's a tall tale. As soon as we arrive in Venice, I'll walk over to Nardi and ask Alberto to add a tiny gold plaque behind the earring engraved, 'retrieved from the Grand Canale on July 14, 2007'. And then, when you take the earring from your ear to show it, they might believe your story.”
“Believe it or not, this is a case where truth is stranger than fiction.” Flashing her beautiful smile, she laughs, “Even stranger than the fiction I write!”
He responds seriously. "But most importantly, Bianca, we have discovered Camelot together. This is fact and not fiction. One day soon you must write about it."
Giovanni sits on the bed and pulls her down by his side. He looks at her face, turned up to him like a flower, a fresh, luminous flower. He takes his family's signet ring from his finger, poises it over her ring finger, and, with his usual quiet dignity, proposes. "Bianca, would you consider becoming the wife of a professor? Living in Puglia would be a big change from mid-town Manhattan but we can always visit New York in December and June to check out the antiquities auctions.”
Her heart racing with joy, she blinks back the tears to study the porphyry intaglio, an engraving of the crenellated turret of the castello in Sicchia. Looking into his eyes she responds emphatically, “Of course I will marry you, and after we've repeated our vows, we'll own Nina's watercolor together. So the castle will always be yours." With her voice breaking, adds, "and--it will always be ours.” He slips the ring on her finger. Her bright, happy face awaits his kiss. “Yes, my darling Giovanni, from ritual to romance indeed!” He nods, "Here's to an imperishable romance!"
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
; My acknowledgments and thanks go to countless good friends over the years (since 1994) who have been helpful to me with this book, either by listening to the sometimes circuitous route to discovering my narrative, or by their generous suggestions and sharing of information.
Infinite thanks to my dear friend and editor, Jenijoy La Belle, Professor of English Literature, Caltech, who shared with me her knowledge and love of the English language.
Dr. Ken Atchity, former professor of Classics, long-time friend, mentor, literary manager and now my publisher--The Story Merchant.
Dr. Eric Haskell, Scripps College, Claremont, who, from the beginning, encouraged me to tell this story and was the first of my friends to read the finished novel.
Dr. Thierry Boucquey, Scripps College, Claremont for the novel's translation into French; Dott.ssa Paola Biscosi, for her translation into Italian.
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