He looked up at the boulder. The rough gray rock was taller than it would be later, in his own time. Probably dirt was going to drift around it during all those decades between now and the twenty-first century, covering it partway up the sides. He circled the rock closely. Suddenly, his foot slipped into a little hole at its base.
Well, that would have to do until he could come up with a better plan. The pulling was getting worse, and he knew he couldn’t resist it much longer. He carefully poked each statue into the hole, pressing them down into the soft earth as far as he could. A little red dirt fell around them, covering their glitter. He stood back and looked down. Was it enough to keep them out of sight until he could come back and find a way to return them to the temple?
Not a glint of gold shone through the red dirt, not a shadow—nothing. The voices from the town grew fainter, and the colors around him faded and then swirled around him. The next minute he was sitting on the floor of his room in Sporfieri, with his summer reading book lying open on the bedside table.
17
Hector leaped to his feet. He had to get back and find a better hiding place for the statues, or better yet, return them to the temple. Maybe he could go at night, when no one was around, and sneak them in with less risk. But most importantly, he had to see what happened to Arath. He held the eye, staring into it wildly.
Nothing. The eye looked like what it was, a lump of rock. He tried again. Still nothing.
He had failed. Arath would never come again. He had died a couple of thousand years ago, tortured and executed for something he hadn’t done. That must be it, because something was keeping him from coming back to Sporfieri. Now that Arath was dead, the eye had nobody to protect and no reason to pull Hector back in time.
Cai must have told everyone that Arath had stolen the statues, and the people must have searched Arath’s house. Even if the gods weren’t found there, Cai could have said that Arath had hidden them someplace or destroyed them.
Hector stifled a sob in his pillow.
“’Ector?” It was Susanna.
He didn’t want to see anyone but didn’t know what else to do, so he said, “Come in.”
She cracked the door and looked in. “We decided to rest for less time so we can perhaps find things before they close the dig the next week. Do you like to come?”
He nodded and got up. Better than lying there in that stuffy room, imagining what had happened to Arath.
“It’s still hot,” Susanna said. “You can wait until later, if you like.”
“No,” he answered. “I’ll come now. Maybe I’ll find another sherd and someone will give you more money.”
“That would be good,” she said. But she didn’t sound convinced.
She was right about how hot it was. The heat slapped Hector’s face as he jumped down into the trench.
“Wow,” he said.
“Wow,” agreed Ettore. “Why don’t you wait until the sun has moved and we’re in the shade?”
“But you’re in here,” Hector pointed out.
“I am accustomed,” Ettore said. “You are not. Sit in the shade and have some water.”
Hector didn’t feel like arguing, so he sat under the tree near the cooler. He looked down toward the olive grove and wished that Arath would appear, even though in his heart he knew it would never happen again. Arath would have come before now if he could have. He must have died that day.
The sun was almost directly overhead, so the tree cast little shade and didn’t provide much relief. The dry grass felt like crepe paper. The biggest patch of shade was by the boulder. Hector looked at it with loathing. Rotten rock. If only he’d found a better place to leave the statues.
Despite the heat and the stillness of the air, he suddenly felt the hairs on his arms stir with goose bumps.
He had left the statues under the boulder. What if they were still there? Gold didn’t rot, did it? They had to still exist. If they weren’t around in both Etruscan time and Hector’s time, he wouldn’t have been able to shove them into the dirt on that awful day.
He went back to the trench. “Ettore?”
“Mmm?”
“Is it okay if I dig over there?”
Ettore looked up over the edge of the trench. “Over where?” Hector gestured to the boulder. “Why there? There is no point. You never find things in that kind of place. Better to try where we have already found objects.”
“But I think maybe I can find something there.”
“What makes you think that?”
“I just think so, that’s all,” Hector said, knowing he was sounding like a kid.
Ettore said a little sharply, “Hector, if you really want to help, you must do what the person with experience says. There is no point in digging by that rock. Now either help one of the others who is working in the shade or go back to the house.”
Hector almost gave up. But Ettore himself had said that when something was important, you had to keep trying, no matter what. And this was important.
Susanna, who had been talking to someone in another trench, came up.
“Che caldo, eh?” she said, and wiped a handkerchief across her glistening face. “Are you too hot to dig, ’Ector?”
“He wants to work near that big stone,” Ettore said.
“Why there?” asked Susanna, like Ettore.
“I just feel like I’ll find something,” Hector said. The two adults looked at each other. He held his breath. Please listen to me, he begged inwardly.
“Well,” Susanna said, “you found that sherd after I and Ettore didn’t see it for two days. You have a good eye.” Please, Hector thought. Please let me dig there. Susanna turned to Ettore. “I think we can permit it, don’t you?”
Ettore made an exasperated face. “I don’t see why you want that place,” he said, “but Susi is the boss, and if she says it’s okay, it’s okay. Just stay in the shade so you don’t get too hot.”
Hector couldn’t promise that, so he didn’t say anything. He just collected a trowel and some extra water bottles. He carefully put the bottles in the shade, hoping to keep them from turning warm too fast. He walked around the rock. It was huge. How could he hope to find those three tiny statues?
Where exactly had he buried them? He looked back toward the dig. If that was the temple, and the road in Arath’s time had come out this way—he measured the distance with his eyes—and then he had circled around the boulder, the hole must be on the other side. Great, the sunny side. Nothing to be done about that, though.
He wished he’d made a mark on the rock when he had buried them, but it was too late to think of that. Any mark he’d made most likely wouldn’t have lasted all these centuries, anyway. Not like the spray-painted ANGELA TI ADORO, which would probably still be there when the world came to an end. He squatted down and started to dig.
The ground wasn’t too hard here, fortunately. He scraped a wide area right near the boulder and stuck in the point of his trowel. He dug and dug until the heat made his head swim and little dots of light danced in front of his eyes. He went back to the shady side and drank half a bottle of water, then dumped the rest on his head.
“What on earth are you doing?” It was his mother, and she didn’t sound happy.
“Ettore said I could.”
“I don’t care what Ettore said,” she answered. “It’s much too hot for this. You look awful. Go back to the house and rest.”
“Please, Mom,” he said, trying not to sound like a begging little kid. “Please. The dig is about to close and I’ll never get to do this again. This is my last chance.”
“But Heck—”
“Please,” he pleaded. “Why don’t you ever listen to me? This is something I really want to do. I’ll be careful. I’m drinking lots of water and I just got my head all wet.”
She hesitated. “Hector, honey,” she said finally. “I do listen to you. Really. It’s just that I don’t want you to get sick.”
“Just half an hour more,” he said
. “Then I’ll stop. I promise.”
“All right! I give up.” She took off her broad-brimmed hat and plopped it on his head. “At least wear this to keep your brain from frying.”
He knew he looked totally ridiculous, but the shade on the back of his neck did feel good.
“Thanks, Mom,” he said, and meant it.
“Half an hour, Heck,” she warned him.
But it turned out that he didn’t need that much time. His mother had barely gotten out of sight when his trowel hit something hard.
He threw down the tool and dug and scratched with his hands. As the sides of the hole got deeper, the soft, red earth slid down as fast as he could dig it out. He dumped in some water and scooped out the resulting mud with shaking hands.
And then he saw a glint of gold. Unmistakably gold. Time seemed to stand still.
He didn’t dare take his eyes off the sparkle. He was afraid it would disappear.
“Ettore!” he called. “Mom! Susanna!” He called louder. “I found something!”
He heard footsteps behind him. “What did you find?” Ettore asked in a tired voice. Hector pointed with a trembling finger. Ettore bent over and peered into the hole. “I don’t see anything,” he said. Hector’s heart sank. Were the statues going to be invisible to everyone but him?
But just then Susanna came up and said, “What is that thing there that is—” she turned to Ettore. “How do you say scintillando?”
“Shining,” he answered. “But I don’t see anything shining.”
Hector reached in and scooped out another lump of mud, revealing to even the most tired, sun-dazzled eyes a tiny gold arm holding a crooked stick.
Everything got confused after that. Ettore stood up and shouted something in Italian over his shoulder, and a woman came running with his tools. Ettore handed them to Susanna, who dug and prodded and scooped and at last gently, tenderly, pulled out the little male god.
“Tinia,” breathed Hector. Susanna glanced at him sharply. The others pressed forward to see. No one seemed to mind that the heat of all their bodies made it practically impossible to breathe.
“Oh, che bello,” said one of the young women, and another voice said, “Oui, c’est très, très beau,” and then other voices chimed in, in various languages.
Susanna kept scraping and digging carefully and pulled out another statue. Uni, thought Hector. In another few minutes, Susanna was holding the small figure of Menrva. She handed it along with the other two to Ettore, who held them as though he was afraid they would break. She turned back to dig again.
“There aren’t any more,” Hector said, before he thought.
“How do you know?” Susanna asked.
“W-w-well…” stammered Hector.
“Well what?” Ettore said.
“Well, there were three important gods, weren’t there? And you’ve found three statues.”
“True,” Susanna said. “But I still think we should assure ourselves, don’t you?”
Hector nodded. It couldn’t hurt, even though he knew there was no point. He got up and joined the crowd. Ettore was gently rubbing mud off the little gods and pointing out details to the others, who were nodding and looking and standing on tiptoe to see. They moved aside to let Hector in, as though he were a celebrity. One man slapped him lightly on the shoulder and said, “Bravo, molto bravo,” and others joined in saying words in other languages that must mean the same thing.
“Do you think they’re really Etruscan?” someone asked.
“Without a doubt,” Ettore answered. “Look at the encrustation,” and he indicated the tiny gold balls that made up the decoration. “And their faces and their clothes—they are certainly Etruscan, unless our friend Hector has learned how to make beautiful forgeries.” A few of them laughed, but happily and with no mockery.
“Hector.” It was his mother. She took her hat off his head. He had forgotten he was wearing it. The evening breeze had sprung up, and it felt delicious against his damp hair.
“Why on earth did you think to dig there? Really.”
He hesitated a moment. Should he try again?
“They were there all the time,” was all he could manage.
She studied his face for a moment. Then she laughed.
“Maybe that eye you found is Etruscan after all and it helped you see Etruscan things. You think?” She gave his shoulder a playful shake. “You sure have great intuition. You’ve saved the dig. Do you know that? These are extraordinary, wonderful objects. No one has ever seen anything like them before. The foundation will be sure to fund more work now.”
“Great,” Hector said. He wanted to be more enthusiastic and really, he was glad for Ettore and Susanna and the rest, but he couldn’t stop thinking about Arath. The Etruscans in Arath’s village were already suspicious of him and the way he seemed to talk with hinthials. Cai’s accusation of stealing the statues must have been the last straw.
They wouldn’t believe him even if he swore he didn’t touch those little gods, Hector thought, his stomach hardening with misery and with held-back tears. Nobody ever listens.
18
Hector couldn’t shake his gloom, even when reporters and photographers showed up at the dig the next day. Someone had cleaned the mud off the statues, and he had to stand next to the table where they were displayed on a black cloth to have his picture taken with them. Over and over they asked him why he had chosen that particular place to dig, and over and over he said, “It just seemed like a good spot, that’s all.” Everyone seemed satisfied with this answer, weak though it sounded to him. But he knew there was no point in telling the truth. No one would listen to him, any more than they must have listened to Arath.
The next day, Susanna packed the little gods in sheets of bubble wrap and put them in a wooden box. Two silent men, wearing camouflage outfits and carrying guns, arrived in the afternoon and drove the statues away to Florence in an armored car. His father called and said that Hector had been on CNN.
With the statues gone, the excitement died down and the archaeologists got back to work. Their energy had returned with Hector’s discovery, and new volunteers showed up to carve more trenches into the earth. Ettore managed a team of four of the more experienced people who were excavating the temple. Two different foundations and a university were offering to fund the dig.
Even though the danger of being closed down had passed, there was still a sense of urgency. A lot of the archaeologists were professors and graduate students who would have to leave soon to go back to their universities all over the world. Now that the “golden statue find” was making headlines, the archaeologists wanted to take advantage of every minute left to them to see if they could come up with something equally spectacular. One of the students rigged up an awning with cots under it at the edge of the dig. That way, they could take their breaks without going all the way back up to Sporfieri.
Hector started bringing his summer reading book down to the shady spot and after lunch, while the others dozed or chatted quietly, he tried to get interested in the story of some kid and his troubles with a gang. The situation was so far removed from the quiet heat of central Italy that it seemed like a dream, and he couldn’t follow it.
* * *
It was their last day in Italy. Hector’s mom was up at the house packing and had told him to get down to the dig and out of her way. It was the hot part of the day, so all the cots were taken by someone else, but he didn’t mind stretching out on the cool earth. At least there were no chiggers in Italy. He’d be back in Tennessee soon and wouldn’t be able to sit on the grass for months, until a frost killed all the invisible biting things. Odd how something you can’t even see is such a pain, he thought.
He flopped over onto his belly and pulled the stone eye out of his pocket.
Well, at least he had something to remind him of Arath. I did my best, he tried to console himself. I just ran out of time. Arath would be dead now, anyway, whether Hector had succeeded or not. Dead for more than
two thousand years.
Somehow, the thought didn’t console him.
It was so hot. He couldn’t concentrate on his book, and anyway the pages were getting droopy and sticky from the damp heat. He lay back and closed his eyes. The voices of the archaeologists in the nearby trenches became vague, the sounds mixing up and making no sense. The syllables sounded in a singsong rhythm, guttural consonants melting into liquid vowels. It sounds like Etruscan, he thought drowsily. And then he sat up, suddenly alert. It was Etruscan, not just mixed-up German and Italian and French and English.
In front of him, the small village had sprung up again. But the broken wall was now neatly mended and painted a cheerful orange. The laughing children and wrestling men were gone, but there was a crowd of people. Hector shrank back, dreading to see Arath tied up and helpless again.
But it was different this time. The crowd wasn’t the silent, apprehensive group of that awful day. The people were dressed in what had to be their finest clothes, and gold glittered on their arms and earlobes and in their black hair. The littlest children wore shiny stone necklaces. Hector heard excited talk and laughter, but fuzzily, as though it were coming from a radio that wasn’t quite tuned to the station.
As though at some invisible signal, everyone hushed and turned expectantly toward the temple. A tall figure stepped out of the shadowy interior and through the door as the crowd burst into high-pitched cheers. It was a shirtless man wearing a gray skirt that fell to his knees. He was tall and lean, with a smooth, hairless chest. A teenager, or a bit older, Hector thought. A dazzling white cloth draped over his head hid his face. A gold band shone on his upper arm, making Hector shrink back as he thought, Cai? But no, this man was much younger and more slender than the evil would-be priest.
In his right hand the man held a bowl. Even from that distance, Hector could see that it was filled with yellow grain. The man appeared not to notice the erupting crowd but stood quietly for a moment at the top of the stairs. Then he came down the short flight. The crowd fell silent again and moved aside to let him advance to the big stone fireplace in front of the temple.
On Etruscan Time Page 11