by Lyn Hamilton
I'd pulled out a map and at random picked a town that was far enough away from Leclerc and the carabinieri but close enough to Volterra that I could still meet Lake wherever and whenever—and I sincerely hoped it would be soon—that he called. The town I chose was Arezzo.
The hotel had several advantages from my perspective. The staff was pleasant enough but not too familiar or, worse yet, curious, and the clientele was, by and large, transient: backpacking students and the occasional businessman who stayed only briefly. It also had a nice little breakfast room—it became the bar later in the day—and in it they served a decent cappuccino and a better than average breakfast of cold cuts, cheese, fruit, and lots of croissants and bread.
"Would you mind if I sat with you?" a voice asked the second morning I was there, as I was drinking my coffee and searching the newspaper in vain for any mention of a stolen Etruscan vase or the arrest of the man I knew as Pierre Leclerc. "The dining room is rather crowded, and I'm afraid there doesn't seem to be a free table."
I wanted to say no. A couple of days before, I'd been eager for some company. Now, given what had happened, all I wanted was to be left alone. I looked up to see a woman of perhaps sixty or sixty-five, gray curly hair and sunburned complexion, clad in jeans and a flowered shirt. She was tiny, an inch or two under five feet, with the delicate features that make me feel, although I'm average just about everything, like a galomphing giant. I found I couldn't bring myself to snub her. "Please," I said, gesturing to the empty chair across from me.
"Espresso, please," she said to the waiter. "Don't let me interrupt you," she said. "Go right ahead and read your paper."
"I'm finished with the first section," I said. "Would you like it? It's in Italian."
"I would, indeed," she replied. "And Italian is fine. You have saved me a few lire today. Thank you. I confess I'm watching my pennies. On a pension of sorts. I usually watch and see if anyone leaves one, then I pounce on it."
"My pleasure," I said. I turned back to the newspaper, hoping she wouldn't talk. I was disappointed.
"Are you touring around Tuscany?" she asked.
I set down the paper. It was hopeless. "Yes, I am," I said. Tourist was as good an explanation of my presence as anything. "How about you?"
"In a manner of speaking," she said. "I've been here in Arezzo for about a month now. No reason to go home, so I stay on."
"There are lots worse places than here," I offered.
"Indeed there are. I love it here. I even like this little hotel. I wish they'd use another color for the rooms though. I feel as if I'm staying in a bordello."
I laughed. "My sentiments exactly."
"Well, if you have nothing planned for today," she said. "You can always come and help me look for Lars Porsena."
"Who?" I said.
"You know," she said. " 'Lars Porsena of Clusium/ By the Nine Gods he swore.' "
" 'That the great house of Clusium/Should suffer wrong no more,' " I said. "I can't remember the rest of it."
" 'By the Nine Gods he swore it,' " she said. " 'And named a trysting day I joined in, and we finished it together. " 'And bade his messengers ride forth/East and west and south and north/To summon his array.' " We both laughed.
"I know I recited that in grade school, but I can't remember who wrote it, and I don't think I ever knew who Lars Porsena was."
"Thomas Babington Macaulay," she said. "That would be Baron Macaulay to you. Lays of Ancient Rome, published in 1842. Not much as poetry goes, but it has a certain schoolboy charm, wouldn't you say? We also have the baron to thank for Horatius at the bridge."
"I know that one, too," I said. " 'With weeping and with laughter/Still is the story told/How brave Horatius kept the bridge/In the brave days of old.' How's that?"
"Brava," she said. "I have only just met you, and already I know you are a woman of education and refinement. Even if you don't know who Lars Porsena was."
"I don't know where Clusium is, either."
"Clusium is Chiusi, just a few miles south of here. Several Tuscan towns are mentioned in the poem. Even Arezzo here, by its Roman name. 'The harvests of Arretium/This year, old men will reap.' Volterra, too. Volterra was called Volaterrae by the Romans. The Etruscans called it—"
"Velathri," I said.
"You do know about the Etruscans!" she said. ' 'From lordly Volaterrae/Where scowls the far-famed hold/Piled by the hands of giants/For godlike kings of old.' "
"Stop!" I groaned. "No more Macauley, please. 'Where scowls the far-famed hold.' What could that possibly mean? No, don't tell me. I want to know who Lars Porsena was."
"An Etruscan who tried to reestablish Etruscan rule in Rome sometime around 500 b.c.e. It is quite possible that he was successful, but if he was, it wasn't for long. His son was defeated at the battle of Aricia shortly thereafter. Porsena's supposed to be buried in an absolutely fantastic tomb, complete with labyrinth. It's never been found, although many have claimed to discover it. Giorgio Vasari was one who did. He was positioning, if that's the word, his patron, Cosimo de Medici. You know who he is, I presume?" I nodded. I most certainly did. Indeed I'd been lectured on the subject by none other than Crawford Lake, but I couldn't tell her that.
"Vasari was trying to persuade people that Cosimo was the new Lars Porsena. In any event, Vasari was wrong, I suppose about Cosimo, but certainly about the tomb. The tomb wasn't found then, and it hasn't been found since. For some reason, I took it into my head that I would come upon it first. It's supposed to be near Chiusi, Clusium, that is, which is just a few miles south of here. In fact it's supposed to be under Chiusi, 'sub urbe Clusio,' according to Pliny, who also said it was three hundred yards wide with a labyrinth, and topped by pyramids.
"There are tunnels under the city that some say are part of the labyrinth but I think were just drainage or water systems. I decided that the tomb could be just about anywhere in the area. I mean what did Pliny know? He was writing long, long after the event. I looked around Chiusi for a few weeks, then moved up to Cortona—that would be Curtun to the Etruscans— and then here. I'm working my way north. The wonderful thing about this project of mine is that many of the Etruscan cities evolved over the centuries into some of the most beautiful hill towns in Tuscany and Um-bria, if not all of Italy. You're welcome to come with me. I mean it. It's not too difficult, doesn't cost anything, gets you to some glorious countryside, and it's rather entertaining, in a way."
"I'm afraid I have a couple of things I must get done today," I said. I'd just confessed I was at loose ends, so this rang false, but if she was offended, she didn't give any indication.
"Maybe another time," she said.
"Yes, it sounds like fun," I said. I didn't tell her I'd already seen one Etruscan tomb too many. As I spoke, she quickly slipped a roll, a pear, and some cheese into her bag.
"I guess you saw that," she said. "I load up on breakfast. It saves me stopping for lunch. No, I suppose I should be truthful. It saves me having to buy my lunch. I'm on a rather strict budget."
"That's okay," I said. "I remember only too well doing that in my student days and even well beyond."
"Thanks," she said. "I'm Leonora Leonard, by the way. Ridiculous name, I know. Thank heavens women don't have to change their names when they get married now, so they don't have to be saddled with a name like that. Please call me Lola."
"Okay, Lola," I said. "I'm Lara. Lara McClintoch."
"Lara and Lola," she said. "I think we're going to make a good team."
"Perhaps we are," I said as I got up to leave. "See you later."
I tried Antonio's cell phone. Still no answer, much to my annoyance, so I stomped out of the hotel. I'd told Lola that I had things to do, and I suppose I did, although nothing of any urgency. I checked out a couple of antique stores on the Via Garibaldi, got myself some money from a bank machine, had some lunch, and then did a little grocery shopping. I treated myself to a rather fine bottle of Tuscan wine, a Rosso de Montalcino, plus bread, cheese, and some prosciutto and melo
n. It was starting to rain, and I thought if it really got miserable, I'd have a picnic in the room that evening.
My heart was in none of these activities, and I thought that perhaps I should have gone looking for Lars Porsena's tomb with Lola. As unlikely a task as it was, it seemed to serve more purpose than simply marking time, which was exactly what I was doing, waiting for Lake to call. I decided I might as well go back to the hotel and have a nap. Sleeping might make the time go faster.
As I approached the hotel, I saw a shape I recognized. It was Antonio, I was sure, and I went dashing after him. He was well ahead of me, moving along the Via Cavour toward the Church of San Francesco, and while I called his name, he didn't appear to hear me. He turned right onto Via Cesalpino, striding uphill quickly toward the Duomo, the high point of the town, with me in hot pursuit. I was gaining on him when he reached the top, but he got into a car parked there and drove off as I came puffing up. I watched in dismay as the car turned the corner a block or so from my position, heading down the Via San Lorentino, presumably for the city gate.
I dashed back to where I had parked my car, and although I knew it was hopeless, I tried to follow him. I got caught in traffic near the city gate and sat pounding the steering wheel in frustration. From there, the road out of town went steeply downhill, then on to the main road between Arezzo and Cortona. There was no sign of Antonio's car. He could have turned either north or south, and for no particular reason, I chose south. The road was not all that busy, but the visibility was obstructed by the rain and the fog that was rolling in from the fields on either side of the road. I passed a couple of sodden people on bicycles and one on foot. After several minutes of this, I decided to give up and turned the car around to head back to town.
I was almost back to town when I passed the person on foot a second time, and this time felt a twinge of recognition. I was in such a bad mood that I tried to ignore it and drive on, but a hundred yards or so past the hapless walker, I stopped, pulled over to the side of the road, and backed up.
I leaned over to open the passenger door. "You look like someone who could use a ride, Lola," I said.
"You have no idea how grateful I am for this," she said after she'd climbed in and I pulled away. "Looking for Lars was not particularly entertaining on this occasion, I must say. I am soaked right through to my undies." She was shivering as she spoke, and I turned up the heat. Her trousers were covered in mud up to her knees, and she had a smudge on her cheek. The rain had made its way past the collar of her wind-breaker, and there were streaks of wet down her flowered shirt.
"No tomb today, I guess," I said.
"Not today," she agreed. "Have you seen any of the Etruscan tombs?" she asked. "You really should, you know, while you're here."
"I've seen an Etruscan tomb of a sort," I said. "Someone I met in France was painting his own tomb in the Etruscan style, modeled on the tombs in Tarquinia. I've only seen pictures of the real thing, but this one looked pretty authentic."
"Painting his own tomb? Where would he be doing that?"
"In his basement," I said.
She laughed out loud, a deep, rumbling laugh that seemed to come from her toes. "Another victim of Etruscomania," she said. "Has to be. It's an incurable mental disease, I'm afraid, although I haven't heard that it's been properly documented as such by the medical profession. But what do they know? I'd like to meet this person."
"Unfortunately, he's dead," I said.
"What happened?"
"He fell into the tomb—from the main floor."
"Oh," she said. "That's terrible." Then she started to giggle, and much to my amazement, I did, too.
"It's really not funny," I said, gasping for breath.
"No, indeed it is not," she agreed between fits of laughter. "It just sounds so ridiculous. I've always said that Etruscomania is a terminal condition. I've just never thought of it quite that literally."
"He was absolutely bonkers, I have to tell you. He just kept maundering on about the Etruscans, and some Societa he was a member of," I said.
"An academic group of some kind?"
"I have no idea. There can only be thirteen members, twelve plus one, whatever that means."
"One for each Etruscan city state, I'd think," she said. "The Dodecapolis. It was a loose federation of Etruscan cities. They met every year at—"
"Velzna," I said.
"Yes," she said. "Velzna or Volsinii to the Romans. I think you know more about the Etruscans than you're letting on. There are any number of organizations that get together to study the Etruscans. If it's not expensive, I'd probably like to join."
"Somebody has to die before you can get in," I said.
"Then maybe I don't want to join. Come to think of it, though, there's a vacancy, isn't there, now your friend is dead? Maybe someone killed him so they could take his place. Now there's a thought," she said.
We both dissolved into giggles again. "This really is silly, isn't it?" I said.
"Silly but creepy," she said.
Lola's teeth were chattering by the time we got back to the hotel. "You've caught a chill," I said to her, sounding like my mother. "I think you should go to your room and have a hot bath right away."
"Good idea, but there is a flaw. There's no hot water this time of day," she said.
"That's true," I said. In fact, the only way to get a hot shower was to leap out of bed the moment you heard the pipes clank, about six in the morning. That's when the water got turned on, or at least got up to a half-decent temperature. After that, it was pretty much tepid, if not downright cold, water for the rest of the day.
"Too bad," I said. "Are there any messages for me?" I said, turning to the young man at the desk.
"No," he said, checking my box.
"Are you sure?" I demanded. "Did someone not come and ask for me this afternoon?"
"I wasn't on duty," he said.
"Then could you check with someone who was, please," I said.
The boy, with some reluctance, opened the door behind the counter and poked his head around the corner. "There was," he said a moment later. "A man. We rang your room when he came, but there was no answer.
He didn't leave a message. He said it wasn't urgent, and he'd come back later."
Not urgent? It was, from my point of view. "Did he say when?"
"I don't know," the boy said. I glared at him. He poked his head around the door again. "No," he said. "He didn't."
Annoyed, I turned back to Lola. She was taking some olives from a small bowl on a table in the lounge. I was about to go to my room in a snit and leave her to fend for herself, but she looked so pathetic in her muddy, rumpled clothes that I couldn't do it.
"I have an idea," I said, taking her arm. "How does a glass or two of a really fine red wine sound to you? A little cheese, a little bread, and maybe even some prosciutto and melon."
"You're toying with me," she said.
"It's in my room," I whispered, signaling we should be quiet so the kid at the desk wouldn't hear.
"I'm your slave for life," she said.
We went up the stairs to the second floor arm in arm, then down the hall to my room. I unlocked the door and flipped the light switch. As I did so, I caught sight, out of the corner of my eye, of a flash of bub-blegum pink blanket.
"Oh, my," Lola said. "What is that?"
SEVEN
CORTONA
Long ago, I had a group of friends who enjoyed a running gag. One of us had received, as a birthday gift from her mother-in-law, one of the ugliest platters ever produced. That Christmas, the original recipient of the monstrosity wrapped it up in an elaborate fashion and gave it to another member of the group. Soon the platter was being passed from one friend to another in more and more ingenious ways. It arrived in pizza boxes, was slipped into kitchen cupboards when no one was looking, hidden in garden sheds, or taped to the back of a box of laundry detergent when no one was looking. It was even placed in a toilet tank. You just never knew when that unp
leasant object was going to turn up in your home. Contemplating the chimera hydria, swaddled in its pink blanket on my bed, I thought of that platter. The only difference was that one was a gift from a relative with no taste. The other was a priceless, stolen, twenty-five-hundred-year-old antiquity.
"It's gorgeous," Lola said. "Can I have a closer look?"
"Ah, sure," I said.
"It almost looks real," she said. "I mean, it looks authentic. Except it's so perfect. If it were old, it would have some flaws, cracks and things like that, wouldn't it? Wherever did you find it?"
"A student made it," I said. "An art student in Rome. I ordered a few more. We'll put them out and see how they do, and if they sell well, I'll reorder. I co-own an antique shop in Toronto, you see. Did I mention that?" Amazing how the lies were just tripping off my tongue these days.
