The Secret of Provence House

by Aubrey Rhodes

  After he got off the phone with Finn and Laura there was still much to do. He had an important business meeting the following day in Barcelona. They managed to get themselves on the last flight off the island at ten p.m. It was not the best moment to provoke a confrontation. Back at the suite as they prepared to leave, he found Carmensina and Noelma efficiently packing. They were taking care of everything. All he had to do was drive everyone to the airport. After they got there and got rid of the car and waited to board the plane, the two women entertained the girls. During the flight Carmensina kept them busy until they fell asleep. He sat across from them and admired the innocent slumber of his daughters who were as exhausted as everyone from having buried their granny. Carmensina smiled at him and reached for his hand.

  They were a family, he thought to himself, a married couple with problems of course, but what was unusual about that? Two startling things had occurred in rapid succession: his adulterous liaison with Laura, and the death of his mother; finding a young, compelling woman who admired him and who asked nothing from him, and the loss of the woman who had made and raised him. But there on the plane that evening returning to Catalunya, he was back with his own family, herding and protecting them.

  Perhaps this was what Carmensina had needed all along to calm her down, for whatever reason. Perhaps the person she had been most jealous of, much more than the imagined mistresses, was Camilla and her unassailable position, and of his mother’s hold over him and her. Perhaps now that Camilla was gone, so suddenly, and as painful as that was, things could finally improve between them – or at least settle into a more relaxed rhythm of the sort middle-aged marriages often excelled at. Perhaps he could have his cake and eat it too.

  Let her have what she wanted, let her fire Finn and Bidelia even – he would take care of them – let her redecorate the mansion a bit – his in-laws could afford it. Perhaps all he needed in return was the release and excitement Laura would provide. As Carmensina could start to call herself Lady Villar Polanc de Trevelyan-Figueras, inviting her friends and family to spend time at Provence House, he could recover the cottage for himself and stay there when and how he wished.

  For, realistically thinking, he considered what might be the possible outcomes for him once Laura completed the project and had no further need to be so close by. If he divorced Carmensina he would lose his job. Would he be willing to move to New York to live with Laura there? What would he do? What about his girls? Carmensina would fight tooth and nail to keep them, and would Laura really want to take on the responsibilities involved in caring for two young girls anyway? If he were to find another position in Barcelona, something highly doubtful given the power and reach of his father-in-law, would Laura be willing to drop everything, just as her career would be taking a huge leap forward, to live with him there? Or could he live in Cornwall full-time on his inheritance, jetting back and forth each week to see his children? All of it was hard to imagine.

  As he held his wife’s familiar hand, he recognized that he and Laura were lovers just beginning an affair. What would be the point of seeking a divorce from Carmensina right now? Managing to repress the resolve he had sworn to himself only a day earlier on the beach, the idea suddenly felt absurd, amateur, like the behaviour of a man half his age. He even suspected Laura might prefer things the way they were anyway, at least for now, he with his cumbersome family baggage, and she as a free agent, both of them disposed to take advantage of any opportunity to enjoy each other, but without provoking a chain reaction of life-changing events.

  For a moment he wondered if these second thoughts were just evidence of weakness, of cowardice, of him trying to justify inaction. He decided to cut himself some slack and concluded it was not the case, and that what some might call passivity, others would recognize as cunning realism, a worldly attitude that would allow the relationships in question to evolve and devolve at their own pace. What Laura wanted was to complete the project, and he wanted her. Surely it was too soon to tell if there might be something more profound than that going on between them.

  He continued to review his options as the plane descended through the night, making its way toward the main runway at El Prat del Llobregat airport. He would be dealing with the details of Camilla’s estate for the next few months at least. The thought of initiating divorce proceedings simultaneously was impossible to contemplate. His in-laws, his colleagues, and his daughters would look upon him as the primary culprit – especially if word of his involvement with Laura got out, and it would. Simply considering the logistics of what it would actually be like to move out of the apartment in Barcelona at that moment was more than he could handle. But Carmensina would have to be spoken to. He would have to tell her, and soon, of his decision to maintain the arrangement Laura had with Camilla. That conversation all by itself would be explosive, unless it came paired with an offering.

  Chapter 38

  Laura was eager to move on to the next and last section, to see what happened when they arrived in Jerusalem. She was also determined to finish the translation of the Greek codex for there were only a few pages left.

  We journeyed east on a Greek ship. There were no storms or pirates. There was no illness. The crew was affable and kind to David. He spoke their language and learned much from them and by the time we landed in Acre he had become a good sailor. But the visit home, as I have already mentioned, was steeped in tragedy, bathed in blood and misery for all concerned. I regretted taking the boy into such a vile and brutal atmosphere at such an impressionable age.

  We arrived in Jerusalem on the day of Yeshua’s crucifixion. A carnival spirit prevailed in the streets. Those vehemently for and against this punishment were united by their morbid interest in the savagery on display. I left David with Joseph, his grandfather, who had refused to witness the agony of his son. The fierceness with which the carpenter greeted and clung to David concerned me. But I put this worry aside when confronted with the horror taking place on Golgotha.

  I found Yeshua atop that ghastly hill, nails driven through him, his head beset by a crown of thorns, Miryam standing beneath him, out of her wits, spattered with his blood. And there too stood a weeping Octavius, who even then was still in service, his Sicilian idyll long forgotten. It was to him I went without pausing. Fiercely I whispered into his ear, begging him to use the power of his office and the point of his spear to put our boy out of his misery. At least there was that.

  After Octavius released Yeshua from this life we took him down. Miryam wrapped her arms around his bloodied corpse. Those of his followers brave enough to be present wept openly. I owned a proper tomb I had once purchased for myself, and it was there we carried him, wrapping him in linen after anointing his ravaged skin with herbs and oils. The tomb was sealed, and Octavius placed a guard before it.

  I accompanied Miryam home and it was there she met David for the first time. Never have I seen a woman weep like that and never, I most fervently hope, shall I see anything like it again. Young David too, upset by so much turmoil swirling about, began to weep as well. I cursed Yeshua that day even though I had loved him dearly and treated him as if he were my own. For even in his death he continued to protagonize, ruining what should have been a joyous homecoming for his only son.

  Late that night I met with Octavius. Both of us had aged. We had a long discussion and he confessed he had made a mistake by staying on in Judea. The pull of his former comrades had been strong, and the compensation offered him significant – but now he was eager to leave. The trial and martyrdom of Yeshua had shaken him profoundly. And it was then I made up my mind to bring them all back with me to the villa, and the sooner the better.

  On the next day I visited a family of Egyptians who continued to maintain the knowledge and skills of embalmment. We came to an arrangement and within two days they had gathered together the necessary implements and solutions. Octavius and I went to the tomb at night and with help from the Roman guard on duty, rolled back the stone and carried Yeshua’s body to
where the Egyptians did their work. Two days after that his corpse had been emptied of its organs but preserved and a special container was made for him that was sealed tight with pitch and nails and loaded upon a wagon; we returned to Acre with it, David, Octavius and I, along with a complement of Roman soldiers. I invited Miryam and Joseph and their other children – all of them grown by then, but they refused. I am told that Yeshua’s followers, upon finding the tomb empty, saw in it the handiwork of God and the fulfilment of Yeshua’s own prophecy. Such is the extent of the madness and folly humans are capable of. The entire trip to Judea had been a nightmare of pain and disappointment. But I could not leave Yeshua there, even though he had freely chosen to go back. I wished to bring peace and sanity back into our lives.

  I had to pay extra for bringing the coffin aboard, such was the fear and superstition it instilled in the crew. They believed it would begin to stink and bring misfortune. But after a week at sea no one paid it any mind, lashed tight to the deck by the prow. More than once we would sit upon it and hold forth, regaling young David with tales about the first trip we had taken, with Lucca along, sixteen years earlier. The ship was scheduled to bypass Sicily and go first to Rome before turning around to head for Siracusa, and Octavius insisted we visit once again with his family. In all of my travels I had never been to the Imperial City and I thought the idea a fine one.

  The ship put in at Ostia and after securing Yeshua’s coffin below deck and hiring a guard to watch over it we made the journey by sailing barge up the Tiber. Our stay there was most instructive. The city’s architecture was magnificent but mixed with hovels where the less fortunate lived. There were too many people living there – and the stench on a warm morning was strong. Only in the hills above the river were the air and ambiance agreeable. Roman politics dominated everyone’s waking thoughts and though one saw luxurious homes belonging to senators, men of property, and relations of the Emperor, a current of anxiety seemed to pervade even the loveliest gardens.

  Octavius’ family had done well for themselves. His father, Claudius, had aged considerably and they were greatly saddened by the news we brought about Yeshua and by the sad tale of what had occurred in Belerion. Daphne was still very beautiful and like Canlia she was in the midst of her third decade. She became fond of David and was especially glad to see Octavius, whom she had known since they were young. I was able to convince her to return with us to the villa in Sicily. She had grown weary of Rome. The temple they had there that she tended was luxurious, but small, and when I told her how beautiful her former outpost of worship still was, up the hill, back at the villa, she began to weep.

  On the evening before our departure Claudius asked me to visit with him in his chamber. It had a spectacular view of the city. Torches lit the room and torches lit all of the buildings below lending a magical aura to the evening. A tone of burnt sienna illuminated the Tiber as it wended its way past palaces and courts, temples and amphitheatres.

  ‘I wish I could return with you,’ he said. He was reclined upon a pallet covered with silken cushions. His person still displayed great elegance despite the weakened state of his body.

  ‘Perhaps you will someday, when you are feeling stronger.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ he said, but with a smile. ‘You know, when I first learned you had bought the property, I had mixed feelings.’

  ‘I can imagine.’

  ‘A Jew from Judea, from the far provinces, taking the deed of such a fine estate from a Roman aristocrat like myself. I struggled with how to explain such a thing to my comrades.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘But I knew you, knew you to be a man of the world, an exceptional gentleman, a man not weighed down by his ancient culture and its punitive beliefs, a man at ease with Rome.’

  ‘I understand,’ I said. And I did. ‘Though I must confess,’ I added, ‘I am more at ease with Romans, especially with those like yourself and your family, than I am with Rome, which I find too populous and frenzied, too obsessed with power.’

  He reached for a goblet and took a drink of whatever was in it. The effort it demanded was considerable and we both waited for him to finish.

  ‘In coming here,’ he said, ‘not that I had much choice, for it behoves one to say yes to Tiberius, but in coming here we gave up bucolic relaxation for official pomp and circumstance. We exchanged lazy afternoons for power and its trappings. We traded servant girls happy to sneak in to one’s room at night with the scent of mimosa in their hair, for influence and the coin it brings. But it feels to me, because of when it happened, that I also exchanged my youth for old age. In a more natural scheme of things I would have spent my vigorous years here in Rome, and my waning years at the villa.’

  ‘It feels to me,’ I said to him, ‘that wherever you are Claudius, that is the place to be.’

  ‘What a flatterer you are.’ I had to laugh. We both did.

  ‘On two occasions,’ he said, ‘you have brought our beloved son back to us. For that we shall be forever grateful, and forever in your debt.’

  ‘But I have taken him away as well.’

  He waved his hand in the air. ‘That is of no matter. He has been a man for a long time now and a good soldier and he knows his obligations. But you have brought him to us. He has told me all that happened with your nephew, from the beginning to the end.’

  I only nodded and looked down at the ceaseless city.

  ‘He showed such promise and was so handsome and spirited, and he seemed to be heading in a better direction when we last saw him. But then, I hear, he reverted.’

  ‘He did indeed. It was the tragedy that did it.’

  ‘I remember his seriousness, his cunning too, and his great charm.’

  ‘He went mad when he saw what had befallen his wife and children and he took it as a sign, a punishment for straying away from his angry god.’

  ‘Who knows how one will react to such terrible things?’ he said.

  ‘All I wish for now, for all of us, and most especially for David, is peace, gentle sunlight, the sea breeze, good wine, and laughter,’ I said.

  ‘And some passion.’

  ‘That too.’ He pushed himself up and swung his feet down upon the floor so that he was sitting beside me.

  ‘I have two gifts for you, there on the table.’ I rose and approached the table and found a small marble bust and a thin scroll.

  ‘The bust is a likeness of Epicurus, my favourite philosopher. The scroll is a treatise by Titus Lucretius Carus – De rerum natura. I cannot imagine a more appropriate person than you to have them.’

  ‘I am very grateful sir.’

  ‘They have been with me for many years and once were kept at the villa – which is where they truly belong – with you and the boy, with Daphne and Octavius.’

  ‘I am honoured. I understand,’ I said.

  ‘One needs to make love more and worry less,’ he said in conclusion.

  Laura paused and smiled. She remembered thinking in her hotel bed hardly a week ago, that she had inadvertently become a sort of modern day Poggio Bracciolini, the early fifteenth-century scholar and admirer of Epicurus, who had dedicated much of his colourful life to hunting down ancient manuscripts. She had discovered him by reading Stephen Grenblatt’s book The Swerve that celebrates Bracciolini’s discovery of Lucretius’ De Rerum Natura in a German monastery. And here, in front of her, Joseph of Arimathea was referencing Epicurus and Lucretius both. Riveted by what she was learning in this section, she forged ahead.

  Three weeks later David and I, Daphne and Octavius, stood on deck with Yeshua’s coffin between us, watching Siracusa come into view. Upon our arrival at the villa Canlia was not with child but her joy at having us back more than made up for it. We buried my nephew up at the temple, sealing him within the marble chamber where Daphne had seduced him. Daphne married Octavius and they had two children. David is now the age his father was when Yeshua and I departed Nazareth together. He has a more generous nature than his father ever did. We
make our wines together. I have added to our lands and the grapes grow nobly along the terraced hillsides.

  Once again it is summer. Last week I found David lying with a girl from the village in the middle of the vineyard. It was a warm day, alive with bees. The grapes were green and growing, weeds flowered between the stalks, and a cool sea breeze whispered about. It was a day for an old man to rest in the shade. There he was, the son of God, according to some, lying with his girl, their limbs in motion just visible through the ripening vines, pollen, and wispy seeds floating in the full stillness, while a chorus of cicadas serenaded them. I looked a final time before sneaking away to let them be.

  Chapter 39

  James took Carmensina to dinner at their favourite restaurant, a carefully lit and cosy establishment where she would be reluctant to make a scene. Catalan to the core and located just off the Passeig de Gracia, it was nevertheless called Ondarreta. Half of the family who owned it were Basques from San Sebastian and the cuisine reflected the best of both regions.

  As usual they were immediately served a rosé cava and he was intrigued to see her sipping at it sparingly. Every other time they had eaten there that he could recall, she had downed almost an entire bottle of it on her own while he chose the dinner wine. James was the foodie of the family and Carmensina indulged him because of the people who frequented these sorts of restaurants, people she either knew from family connections or wished to know, and about whom she could gossip with her friends the following day. She preferred more traditional fare.