“Where were you? In your body?”
“Someplace else. I was unaware of my body. My self was my consciousness, cradled by overwhelming love. Amore. Amore.” Riccardo sat quite still, embracing the verdant surroundings. “There is more you need to know about me now,” he said. “When I left the priesthood, it was so I could be myself. Mi. Io stesso, unicamente. I would no longer hide my sexuality within the comfort of the Church. Or protect my father from the truth, for he had sent me there.” Riccardo’s voice became harsh, intense: “‘You are the chosen one, Riccardo. It is you who will be our family’s contribution to the priesthood. It is right, my son.’”
“It wasn’t your choice? Nor your mother’s?”
“It made sense, you see. With my asthma, I couldn’t work with the vines. But history, not God, was my first love. My mother knew that too.”
“Your death experience brought you back to the Church?” Justine felt a profound curiosity.
“When I left the priesthood, I didn’t abandon my faith. Dying only strengthened it, but I have no intention of returning to the cloth. I can do more on the outside.”
“Yet you are different now . . .”
“Si, my dear friend. I can now see more clearly. Accept myself more fully. God doesn’t make mistakes; He made me as I am. With this experience, He has removed any lingering doubts, and the shame I felt. I am whole.”
Justine’s mind spun back to the revelation that Jesus had a twin sister, Elizabeth, in the codex. She had died and was buried just outside Cairo. Religious leaders in Egypt insisted that God doesn’t make mistakes . . . but why would he bring Elizabeth into the world only to take her away three short months later? Is Riccardo right—that God doesn’t make mistakes? She reached for her friend with open arms, pulling him into an embrace. After several moments, she rose and offered her hand. She whispered, “I feel your joy.”
He accepted her hand, walking with her toward the tumulus.
CHAPTER 15
In the beginning is Goddess and Goddess is One Source of All Things. And She creates Her Self from Nothing And out of Nothing She comes by Magic. And the Goddess is filled with Joy and Love And She takes great pleasure in Her Self And out of Her Self She makes Her Self And the Self She makes is Woman.
—Shekhinah Mountainwater
“THE MAREMMA, the rugged coastal region of southwestern Tuscany, encompasses part of southern Tuscany and part of northern Lazio, including the province of Viterbo on the border. The poet Dante Alighieri in his Divina Commedia places the Maremma between Cecina and Corneto, its modern name Tarquinia. It was traditionally populated by the Butteri, cattle breeders who until recently rode horses on exquisite leather saddles with horns often tipped with silver.” Justine paused in her reading of the travel guide to Amir. They were speeding south from Florence toward Santa Fiora. “I’d like to see one of those saddles,” she said.
“We’ll see what we can do,” he grinned. Amir had convinced her to accompany him to the Maremma in search of the unusual tombs of Sovana, particularly the Tomba del Sileno. He was somewhat surprised that she’d agreed to join him. “Read some more,” he urged gently. It wasn’t the travel information he wanted as much as to hear the sound of her voice.
“Okay,” she consented. “Endowed with significant natural and environmental resources, the Maremma is today one of the best tourist destinations in Italy, a region where ancient traditions have survived and Tuscan culture is preserved. It is being promoted as a destination for agritourism.” Justine observed Amir’s striking profile for a moment. Would he have any reason to know what agritourism means? “That means farms that offer lodging to the public. Sometimes they have great gardens,” she editorialized, and wondered about Miranda’s spring garden east of here. Silently searching the text, Justine skipped ahead. “Cows and wine. Oh, here we are: ‘The hills of the Maremma can be divided into three areas: the area del Tufo (literally, “the tuff area”), the Colline Metallifere (literally, “the hills of metals”), and the hills on the border with the Siena region. This is the heart of the Etruscan Empire.’ I don’t find anything here about the Tomba del Sileno.”
Amir steered Justine’s Spider into the Villa Narsi at Santa Fiora, a glorious period mansion reminiscent of Lucrezia’s home in Fiesole. A small stone chapel huddled close to the west side of the main house. They had planned for Justine to drive Amir to Cerveteri on Sunday afternoon and then go on to Rome. Friday and Saturday would be spent in this exquisite villa turned bed and breakfast, as guests of the proprietors, Suzanna and Max. She had been told about the villa and hosts by her friend Carolyn.
Suzanna escorted Justine through a brick archway, up mahogany stairs to the front bedroom on the second floor. “We’ll gather for wine and bruschetta in an hour or so. Will you join us?” She smiled invitingly. Suzanne had porcelain beauty. She seemed guarded—or was she shy? Clearly not Italian.
“We’d love to,” Justine answered for both Amir and herself. Suzanna allowed a flicker of satisfaction to express her pleasure and drew the heavy wooden door closed.
Amir had planned for them to share a room, but she’d insisted on getting her own room. He was disappointed. Justine turned to survey her room and the view. Arched wood casement windows with heavy shutters framed a vista of rolling southern hills scattered with homes with ochre roofs. A large bed with a black-and-white plaid cover, deep-red Oriental rug, small antique desk, and towering armoire furnished the generous room sparingly. She ruffled through her suitcase looking for Madame Bovary and shook out the white blouse and slacks she had brought for evening wear. Justine lay diagonally across the bed, the muted afternoon light sweeping across her shoulders, illuminating the pages of her recently acquired classic. Although her own experiences were markedly different from those of this eighteenth-century woman, she could understand the age-old conflict between reality and romance. Flaubert’s portrait of marriage left little room for heightened expectations. Did satisfaction destroy desire, as he claimed? She grinned as she pondered her own experiences with desire, her conclusions melting away into sleep.
Why aren’t I sharing a room with Amir? She enjoyed moments alone, and also sensed that she wasn’t entirely ready for such intimacy. That first wild night with Amir at Anna’s had been an accident of desire, although she didn’t regret it. She just needed time.
“Maremma, the most genuine and intimate part of Tuscany,” pronounced Max, the quintessential Italian host, pulling out a large map of the region. He paced the spacious, well-equipped kitchen with a cigarette in one hand, the other hand waving through the smoky air with a conductor’s flair. He was well along in his travelogue with Amir when Justine joined them. Her contented companion sat listening intently, a glass of red wine in one hand, the other anchoring the corner of the regional map.
Max paused to take in Justine, stunning in white linen and chunky silver jewelry, hair brushed loosely over her shoulders. Burgundy lipstick was her only makeup. “Ciao,” he said. “We’re talking about your trip tomorrow, to the heart of the Etruscan empire, and which route is best: Sovana, Sorano, Pitigliano. The tombs in the archeological parks are distinct, although they are all built into the tufa mountains.”
“So unlike the tumuli of Cerveteri.” She paused, leaning toward him. “If you don’t mind, Max, perhaps we could open the door behind you. A little circulation.” The smoke was a long-hanging cloud in the massive kitchen.
“Forgive me,” he said, immediately smothering his cigarette in a nearby ashtray and opening the door. Max reluctantly looked at his wife, who flashed a disapproving glance. His smoking was a frequent bone of contention with the couple. Suzanna found it particularly distressing when his smoke bothered their guests.
Justine wasn’t sure how to interpret Amir’s expression. Admiration for my directness? Displeasure? Embarrassment brought on by my criticism of our host? “Thank you,” she remarked easily. “You were recommending a route for us tomorrow?” She reached for her glass of wine and sat down beside A
mir.
Suzanna placed a plate of warm tomato bruschetta on the table. The pungent aroma of fresh garlic and simmering olive oil filled the air.
Max added a small board of pecorino and olives to the simple, delicious feast.
“I was telling our hosts that I am an archaeologist and that you are an anthropologist,” Amir said to Justine. “They asked the difference.” His dark, handsome face posed the question as he reached for the cheese board.
Justine felt playful, and decided to make sport of the difference between her profession and Amir’s—and her father’s. “Archaeologists are satisfied with the ‘what,’ but anthropologists want to know ‘why.’ We are the real mystery solvers.” She winked at Amir. “Take the mystery of the Anasazi of the American southwest. They disappeared from Mesa Verde hundreds of years ago, and no one really knows why. Meteorological computer programs suggest it was probably a change in weather patterns.” Justine was about to launch into her own theory but paused to give Amir his opening.
“You make archaeologists sound rather dull. We’re as interested in the ‘why’ as you are.”
“Of course you’re curious,” Justine said coyly. “You ask yourselves, ‘Now what museum would be interested in this rare artifact . . . and what would they be willing to pay for it?’” She winked at Suzanna, who laughed unreservedly.
“Women!” declared the amused Max. “We are slaves to their charm.” He patted Amir on the shoulder and picked up another cigarette, waving the unlit prop in the air.
Amir held up both hands in surrender.
“Archaeologists examine material remains,” Justine continued. “For their studies, anthropologists don’t have to dig as far . . .”
“Or as deep,” interrupted Amir, beginning to get the hang of the game.
“Toccato! Buona storta,” quipped Justine, raising her glass to Amir while reaching for a second piece of lumpy red bruschetta.
“Ah,” said Max, putting his arm around his wife and squeezing gently. “Good partners. An olive?” he asked, glancing at Amir.
A carpet of white daisies and gold poppies welcomed Justine and Amir into the ancient Etruscan necropolis north of Sovano. More than a hundred tombs, many accessible to visitors, lay along the edge of the tufa mountain. Following their host’s directions, they had driven south nearly an hour from Santa Fiora. One of the most famous tombs in the area was the Tomba del Sileno, the one they had come to see.
“The tomb was discovered fairly recently,” Amir explained as they climbed toward the tomb. “It has two peculiarities: it’s the only circular niche tomb in the area, and it was intact with all the funerary items, urns, and cinerary remains, which of course are now in museums in Tarquinia and Rome. A kind of King Tut’s tomb—all the riches still present.”
“I’ve seen a mold of the balding Silenus in Baltimore,” replied Justine, slipping her arm through Amir’s to scramble up the uneven stones leading to the entrance. They halted their ascent, staring at the entrance of the tomb. “A mythological creature, half-man, half-beast, with pointed goats’ ears, a large, bulbous nose, and an animal-skin cloak knotted under his long beard.”
“That’s him. I’d recognize him anywhere,” Amir agreed, placing his hand on her waist to escort her into the darkened tomb. Like kids on a treasure hunt, they entered through the tufa arch. The once-lavish tomb was now an empty, circular room with dove niches near the ceiling.
Holding a flashlight in his left hand, Amir slowly ran his right palm along the rough surface that housed undiscoverable secrets. Justine mimicked his actions, as though they were reading Braille together. Several minutes passed.
Standing close to Justine, his torch lighting her face, Amir announced: “Not much left to see, but I love being in here, imagining it in its full splendor. Smelling the lingering scents.”
“How do you think the sarcophagi were laid out? Rectangular cases in a round room seem awkward.” The light accentuated Amir’s angular features now and then, and Justine felt the warmth of desire seep into her body. Her eyelids lowered ever so slightly.
Amir moved closer to her, shifting the flashlight beams toward the perimeter of the tomb. They stared into the dark for several moments. “These sarcophagi were the short ones, no more than a meter or so long. They contained incinerated remains,” he said softly.
“It is unfortunate that DNA can’t be extracted from ashes,” she observed. “By the way, thanks for sending me the report on the extracted DNA from Mary’s comb.” In the same crypt, and in nearly the same place where the codex was found, Amir and Justine had discovered a yellowed ivory comb with lotuses carved across the top. Mary had sketched the comb herself into her diary, a gift from her husband, Joseph.
Outside, the sun was directly overhead; oak shadows encircled the two of them. “I’m afraid you were right,” she said. “The data don’t tell us much. European Haplogroup H2a2, not uncommon in the Mediterranean.”
“I have the comb, Justine. Smuggled it out of Egypt,” he said in a low, conspiratorial tone, despite their being alone.
“Oh my god, Amir! You are in one hell of a lot of trouble!”
Amir laughed. “And how about you? Little Miss Righteous. Carrying the codex out of Egypt on your lap?”
“A copy, I must point out,” Justine grinned and snuggled into his arm. His skin was alive to her touch. Disappointed with the bareness of Silenus’s tomb, yet heady with anticipation, Amir and Justine moved further along the path.
Justine found a moss-covered rock and sat down, staring in wonder at the crumbled tomb façade bearing carvings of a lion, a slithering snake, a ram. The most stunning feature, the image that captured her full attention, leaned upright against the mountain: an angel with a fully spread left wing, its face worn away. The erect body emerged from the bottom of a tufa tunic, feet wedged into mammoth snake coils wrapped symmetrically along the embossed wall. “Now this is more like it,” she exclaimed. “I wonder when images of angels first appeared? Certainly before the Christians.”
“Long before,” said Amir, joining her on the mossy stone, “but no one really seems to know exactly. Angels appeared before the Jews as well, in Persian and Sumerian art—even the Zoroastrians had angels. I guess man always dreamed of flying.” A lock of hair fell onto his forehead as he tilted his head toward Justine. He drew a sketchpad and pencil from one of the pockets in his Australian outbacker slacks.
I want him to turn around and take me in his arms . . . “Women dream of flying too . . . adventure is an aphrodisiac,” she said, scooting over to give him more room on the stone.
Amir looked up from his drawing and smiled in appreciation of her flirtatious demeanor, but resisted the urge to draw her closer. “Since no people have been found without some semblance of religion, perhaps men and women always imagined a messenger, some creature to communicate back and forth with the gods.”
“I assume so,” she gently conceded. They sat in tense silence for several moments as though waiting for the other to move. Justine continued, “Notice the snakes. They show up in the worship of Gaia, as well as in the hands of the Minoan Snake Goddess and in Hindu imagery.”
“And in the temples of Mithraic mysteries throughout the Roman empire. The ability to shed their skins gave them an opportunity for rebirth, which promised a new beginning, a form of fertility,” explained Amir. “I understand there is an amazing Mithraic collection in the basement of St. Clement. In Rome.”
Justine nodded and vowed to visit that collection.
“So what do you think all this means?” he asked.
“Well, we can assume that the Etruscans came from a goddess culture. Their deities were female, their governance and symbology. The least we can claim is that men and women were equal partners, partners in reciprocal relationship with one another. This is just further confirmation. The question is still: which one?”
“Exactly.”
Justine smiled. “Dad will resist any notion of a goddess culture, unless evidence hits him o
n the head.” She watched Amir sketch, wondering what evidence her father would accept. Imagining a culture ruled by women was outside of Morgan’s conceptual framework. Amir added the last flourish to the angel’s wings, then his warm black eyes gazed up into hers.
“Amir.” She broke the spell. “What would anyone have to gain from causing the collapse of the tomb?”
“I don’t know.” His voice shifted into a low, cautionary tone. “I can’t believe the superintendent would deliberately hire someone to damage the tomb and kill people in the process. Too dangerous. I found Donatello moody and distracted, but why would he kill his own brother? I suspect it was meant to scare us off, not kill us.”
“For what purpose? But there may be other forces that we aren’t aware of. The Mafia, for instance.” They were quiet for several moments, afloat in an array of unknowns.
“Or their charge might have been to slow us down, discourage us enough so that the international team would stop work, then a local den of thieves could take over and benefit from whatever we found,” she said.
“The reverse of the Luxor tombs,” Amir reminded her. “In that case, the locals got there first.”
“Except for King Tut,” she reminded him.
Amir grinned and nodded. “There is a parallel there. Tut was buried underneath Seti’s massive tomb. Whatever we find, it will be deep below the primary tombs. No matter what their objective, we must be careful. The superintendent has ordered guards to watch the site around the clock.”
“That’s reassuring,” she said, turning her head to the path ahead.
They soon entered an intimate tufaceous gorge cut into the hillside. The ceiling of undulating stone looked like a roaring river frozen in place. Moss hung from the oak roots clawing the cliff above.
The Italian Letters: A Novel (The Justine Trilogy Book 2) Page 12