by Graham, Jo
“Why aren’t you asking Davenport?” he said aloud. “Or isn’t he part of your lodge anymore?”
Henry’s eyes flickered, and for a second Jerry thought he was going to agree, but then he made another face. “Bill is — he’s not interested in this piece.”
“That makes no sense at all,” Jerry said. Even at first glance, he could tell this tablet was something special, especially to anyone who knew anything at all about occult history. “Doesn’t he know you have it?”
“He knows,” Henry said. “He — well, that’s not important. He’s got other things he’s handling right now, including a donation of bronzes to the University —”
He stopped, and Jerry looked at him over the rim of his glasses. “Davenport is here? In Los Angeles?”
“He arrived on Tuesday,” Henry said, after a moment. “Leave it, will you?”
“It doesn’t make sense,” Jerry said again. “He must see — feel, anyway — he must know what he has here —”
“There’s a story that goes with it,” Henry said. “Not a very nice one.”
“They usually aren’t,” Jerry began, stopped as the expression on Henry’s face really registered. “Go on.”
“One of the Italian archeologists working on the dig had a brainstorm and disappeared for a month. Just up and vanished one night, and a week later some guy hunting mushrooms spotted him up in the hills above the lake. It took the cops a good month to track him down, but they finally managed to catch him. He was stark staring crazy by then. Couldn’t talk, didn’t recognize anybody, not even his own wife. They took him to a hospital in Rome, but he was in pretty bad shape from being on the run so long — malnourished, feet cut to hell, you get the picture.”
Jerry nodded.
“There wasn’t much they could do for him,” Henry said. “Bill said the doctors thought he might have had some kind of stroke, maybe. The sad part is, he was starting to get better — he’d calmed down some, actually seemed to know his wife — and then he had another stroke, and that one killed him.”
“Not nice,” Jerry said, after a moment. “But what does that have to do with the tablet?”
“I think Bill got the tablet from Gadda,” Henry said. “The Italian guy. And I think he can’t figure out how to explain having it, so he’s trying to pretend it doesn’t exist, at least until he can think of a way to bring it back to light. But I want to know what it says.”
Jerry nodded again, thoughtfully this time. It mostly made sense. Oh, there were plenty of things that Henry wasn’t saying, but he was willing to bet most of those had to do with lodge politics. Davenport had been pretty scathing about Henry’s talents, or lack of them, back in Italy; he’d been willing to use Henry, and Henry’s money, when the lodge split, but he probably hadn’t had any reason to change his opinion since then. And, knowing Davenport, he wasn’t going to go out of his way to be polite about it.
“All right,” he said. “Fine. Not Davenport. What about Geoffrey Bullfinch? This is right up his alley, and he’s just down in San Valencez, which is a hell of a lot closer than me. Not to mention that he’ll work for free if it interests him.”
Henry looked away again. “There’s been some — call it tension — between the lodge and Bullfinch lately.”
“He and Davenport fought about — what?” Jerry asked.
“You name it,” Henry said, his expression sour. “Archeology. Provenance of certain relics. Proper procedures.”
“And you went along with it.”
“Our Magister took Bill’s part, yes,” Henry said. “As he should.”
“Right,” Jerry said. He’d never thought it was the Magister’s place to support his people unreservedly, but this wasn’t his kind of lodge. “So not Bullfinch, either. Fine, I’ll see what I can do. Do you know anything more about where this was found? Or if there were any more of them?”
Henry shook his head. “You know everything I know. Why?”
I doubt that, Jerry thought, but looked back at the tablet. “This —” He pointed to the concluding lines, careful not to touch the surface. “This implies that there are more tablets. See? It’s all plurals here.”
Henry nodded. “Can you read it? I recognized the Latin, but that….” He pointed in turn. “It looks like runes.”
“It’s visually similar,” Jerry said. “It’s Etruscan, actually, and that’s unusual. The Romans used it as a ritual language, of course, very much the way we use Greek and Latin, but you don’t often see it written out. It’s mostly found on tombstones. And of course the real problem is that Etruscan is a lost language.”
“Which means?”
“Nobody knows how to read it,” Jerry said. “There’s been some progress recently, a few people who’ve managed to pick out — they think — Indo-European roots to some words, but it’s not at the point where you can know what it says.”
“Damn,” Henry said, half under his breath. “So you’re saying this is pointless?”
“Not entirely,” Jerry answered. “I can give you the Latin, of course, and I think I can figure out some of the Etruscan by context. We’ve got a date here, consuls’ names, and I’m guessing this is going to be the reign of Claudius. You’ve got something I can look that up in?”
“Maybe,” Henry said.
Jerry went on as though he hadn’t spoken. “So it’s not like this is going to be Etruscan as it was spoken by the Etruscans, it’s going to be more like ritual Latin, and that means I ought to be able to guess at some of it. Especially since there’s a fair amount of information in the other sections.”
“All right,” Henry said. He pushed himself up off the desk. “Let me ring for some sandwiches, and we can get on with it.”
Jerry nodded absently, not really listening. The tablet began with a fairly standard invocation to Diana, a recitation of her titles and attributes as Diana Nemorensis, and then the usual language apologizing for any imperfection in the rites — no, it was a more particular apology, for some ritual fault well known to everyone, apparently. And then the first Etruscan section, and a more specific confession of fault, this one having to do with the profanation of the priesthood of the shrine, and then…. He stopped abruptly, pushing his glasses up onto his nose as though that would clarify the translation.
Diana in all your aspects, heal the wounds and strengthen the bonds that here imprison this spirit of the underworld.
Oh, Henry, he thought. What have you gotten yourself into?
Alma put her hands on her hips. "You told Henry what?"
"I told Henry I needed more time with it." Jerry carefully sat down on the edge of the neatly made bed. He'd returned to the hotel at mid-afternoon, just before Mitch and Alma had decided to go look for him. They'd given it until three for him to show up or call, and Jerry had showed at ten of. "It's Latin and Etruscan both, some of it quite intriguing. From what I can determine based on context…."
Mitch interrupted him in a calm, strong voice, not bothering to get up from the chair by the window. "Jerry, you can translate Latin in your sleep. Hell, I could probably have read the damn thing in three hours. And nobody can read Etruscan, so it doesn't matter how much time you have with it. What gives?"
Lewis thought that Jerry looked a little embarrassed. "There's a lot that can be worked out by context. The Etruscan sections aren't that long, actually. They seem to be the form of the actual invocations, which all follows since Etruscan was an ancient and obscure language when the tablet was made."
"Which was when?" Alma asked, her hands still on her hips, though her voice held more interest than irritation.
"The first year of the reign of the Emperor Claudius, or 794 Ab Urbe Condita." He glanced at Lewis apologetically. "That's 41 AD to you."
Lewis shrugged as if to say he didn't have a horse in this race.
"So you're fascinated by it, and you told Henry you needed another day." Alma shook her head. "Ok, Jerry. What's so interesting?"
"It starts off in a very conventi
onal invocational form, asking the goddess Diana to attend upon the speaker and to grant him her good will. Then it apologizes for any displeasure he might have incurred. It takes up pretty standard expiationary language – expiare, to atone or make reparations – though it doesn't indicate exactly what crimes the speaker is making amends for. Then there's a section of Etruscan, and another round of apologies. Then the speaker states that he is presenting appropriate sacrifices to Diana and asks for her help. This is where it really gets interesting." Jerry's long face was animated, and Lewis couldn't help feeling a stir of curiosity. "He asks for her help in imprisoning animus infernus – a spirit of the lower regions."
Mitch uncrossed his arms. "So this is a very early form of a banishing ritual? That's interesting in a historical sense. There's always been a gap, hasn't there? Between the pure Hermetic models and the Early Byzantine."
"It is fascinating for that reason," Jerry said, twisting around to look at him, his tie akimbo. "And I can't stress enough that this tablet is an important find for that reason alone. But there's more. Not only is this a complete invocation dating from the Early Empire, but it was also found in situ at the Temple of Diana at Lake Nemi."
Alma's eyebrows rose. "Ok, that is interesting. I know you said they started excavating there last year."
"Oh, they've started excavating, all right," Jerry said regretfully, and Lewis couldn't help but wonder if Jerry wished he were on the dig. "They've been excavating at the sanctuary, and now they've started draining the lake to raise the Nemi ships, the Roman barges that were sunk at some point. It's a colossal archaeological expedition, well funded by the government, with all the latest equipment and the best experts. They've exposed the beams of the first ship, last I heard. It's going extremely well and it's certainly a notable find."
"Let me guess," Alma said. "William Davenport."
"Yes." Jerry smiled grimly. "Of course."
Lewis felt he was missing something important somewhere. "Wait," he said. "Who's William Davenport?"
Jerry didn't answer, just looked at Alma, who shrugged. "Dr. William Davenport is a well known archaeologist and excavator. He and Jerry don't see eye to eye on a lot of things. Well, on a lot of things that wouldn't make a bit of difference to you or me."
"The interpretation of syncreticism in Hellenistic material is of vital importance," Jerry said. "Whether you want to interpret the Lochias Kouros as indicative of Indian iconography of Krishna or not…."
"We get it," Mitch said, sitting up on the edge of his chair. "So the bottom line is that Davenport filched this thing from his own dig and sold it to Henry under the table."
"Henry didn't say that in so many words," Jerry replied.
"Yes, but he's got it. And Henry doesn't look like the Italian government to me," Alma said. "Surely they expect to keep the finds for their museums if they're paying for the dig, not have the pieces sold off to private collectors."
"I expect so." Jerry had the good grace to look embarrassed. "I think there's some kind of issue about Davenport, from everything Henry wasn't saying."
Mitch shrugged and reached for the glass of ice that was slowly melting on the side table. "You know Henry. He's all poise and charm, but he wouldn't know genuinely occult if it bit him in the ass. And Davenport's the real deal. Henry may be satisfied with putting on a good show to Hollywood types, but Davenport wouldn't be. He never was. So there's some tension in their lodge. Not our problem."
"I think you're underestimating Henry," Jerry said, and there was a spark in his eye. "Gil thought…."
"Gil thought Henry was all wind and you know it," Mitch said. "A nice guy, but full of wind."
"It doesn't matter what Gil thought," Alma said steadily. "And it doesn't matter what's going on between Henry and Davenport. Jerry will finish up the translation Henry's paying him for, and then we'll all go home. We're not in any position to get into a bunch of infighting in somebody else's lodge." She gave Jerry a stern look, and to Lewis' surprise he didn't argue.
"I think you're right," he said. "We can't get into that. And there's something wrong, no question about it." He looked up at Alma, pushing his gold glasses up on his nose. "Because not only could Henry have called in Geoffrey Bullfinch if he’d been willing to eat a little humble pie, but Davenport is here, in LA. There's no reason to get me to translate this. Why doesn't he just ask Davenport?"
Mitch's brow furrowed. "Davenport is here? And Henry's paying you $250 to do this? What the hell?"
"That's what I'm wondering," Jerry said mildly. "That's why I told Henry we'd be back tonight."
"Tonight?" Alma said incredulously.
"Henry invited us to come back tonight. They're celebrating the Ploiaphesia."
"The hell they are," Mitch said. "That was back in March."
"You know Henry," Alma said, throwing up her hands. "Why keep to the ancient calendar if it suits everybody's schedules better to do it any old time they want?"
"What's the….whatever?" Lewis asked. If it was something dangerous he was hardly going to let Alma just walk into it, but he could bet she'd insist on going if Jerry and Mitch were.
"It's a navigation festival," Alma said. "It's supposed to be around March 5th. It marked the beginning of the sailing season in the ancient world, when ships were blessed by Isis." She looked at Mitch. "Don't ask me. I have no idea how Henry intends to bless ships twenty miles inland at his house. It is at his house, right, Jerry? Not at a marina somewhere?"
"No, it's at his house," Jerry said. "He has a swimming pool.”
Alma’s eyebrows rose at that, and Jerry went on. “He said they have a lot of people coming, that it was a semi-open ritual since it's a festival not a working, and that we'd be more than welcome. I can have another look at the tablet during the party, and you guys are welcome to join them for dinner. It's buffet."
"After the ritual or before?" Alma asked.
Jerry spread his hands. "After, I should hope. But you know…."
"The bar will be open anyway," Mitch said, twitching an eyebrow at Lewis. "I'm up for Henry's liquor even if it does come with dinner theater."
"That's not entirely fair," Jerry began.
Alma pinned him with her eyes. "I take it you told Henry we didn’t have anything suitable to wear? And of course he said he'd take care of it?"
"Um, yes," Jerry said sheepishly. "But I'm sure…."
"And he's sending a car?"
"At six thirty," Jerry said. "They're not supposed to start until eight. Until it's getting dark."
"And until everyone has a chance to get off work and go home and change." Mitch shrugged. "Ok. I'm in. Let's see what old Henry's up to."
"I'll come," Alma said, her eyes steady on Jerry. "But this is the last time you accept an invitation for me without asking me. Understood?"
Jerry nodded. "I am sorry, Alma. But I didn't think this was a conversation we wanted to have over Henry's telephone."
"I'll come," Lewis said, and everybody looked around at him. He put his hands in his pockets awkwardly. "I mean, unless I wasn't invited."
"Of course you were invited," Alma said with a glance at Jerry as if daring him to say otherwise. "And we'd be glad for you to come."
"Sure," Jerry said insouciantly. "The more the merrier. It's a festival after all."
Chapter Six
Lewis hung behind the others going in, trying to look like he paid calls on Hollywood millionaires every day. They were obviously expected. A pretty young woman with hair a shade of platinum blonde rarely found in nature had greeted them at the door, her navy blue dress just a shade more fashionably cut than Alma's and her heels just a little bit higher. It wasn't that she looked like a tart. Just like a woman who had a good deal more money to spend on her looks than most.
She greeted Alma warmly, a handshake that was ladylike and proper both. "Mrs. Gilchrist! I'm Mary Patterson, Mr. Kershaw's personal assistant. It's a very great pleasure to meet you. He's spoken of you on so many occasions."
&nb
sp; Alma looked flustered, which only pointed up the difference between them, not just a decade and a half in age, but Mary Patterson's cool charm contrasting with Alma's obvious discomfort. "It's nice to meet you too," she said.
Jerry, on the other hand, brushed past her with barely concealed haste. "Mr. Kershaw said that I could work in his office."
"Yes, Dr. Ballard. Mr. Kershaw is waiting for you there. I can show you or if you…."
"I know the way," Jerry said, and stumped off rapidly down the hall.
Mary Patterson affixed a smile to her ruby lips. "Well. Then I will show you to guest rooms where you can change. Mr. Kershaw said that he hoped you would find everything you need. If you'll come upstairs?"
Alma frowned after Jerry, but short of dashing after him there wasn't much she could do.
"We appreciate it so much, Miss Patterson," Mitch said, his hat in his hand like a gentleman. "Thank you for your trouble."
"It's no trouble at all, Mr…." Her pretty face brightened. Mitch was handsome, in a broad shouldered, rugged kind of way, and when he put on his best Southern manners women did tend to melt.
"Mitchell Sorley," he said, putting out his hand. "And the pleasure is mine."
"Mr. Sorley," she said. "Thank you."
Alma cleared her throat, and Lewis realized Mitch had just covered Alma's uncomfortable moment with perfect smoothness. Oh yes. There was a reason Mitch was an ace.
Mary Patterson led them upstairs. Evening was falling, and the house seemed dim and cool after the bright heat of a Los Angeles day. "The guest rooms are right here," she said, her hand on the dark carved wood of a Spanish style door. "This one is for Mrs. Gilchrist, and you gentlemen are two doors down. The door between is a bath if you'd like to freshen up."
