Realms of Gold

by Terry Stanfill

  “What on earth are haplogroups?” She shakes her head and laughs. “Come on, Giovanni, give me a break. You know that science isn't my strong point.”

  “You should know that it's a term used in ancient genetics.”

  “Maybe I should but I don't,” She says unapologetically. “Come on, tell me about it but take it easy so it will sink into my left brain, my obviously deficient side.”

  He laughs. “Listen carefully and you'll catch on. “There’s the Y chromosome in the DNA that defines the male father to son, and the M DNA defines the genes passed down from the mother to child, the matrilineal—the DNA doesn’t change from generation to generation. In some recent studies they’ve concluded that the Lebanese are descendants of the Phoenicians. As for the Etruscans, the last I heard is that they’re now thought to be from Anatolia, in Western Turkey. When you think about it, Troy was also in Western Turkey, but no one to my knowledge has ever made a serious connection.

  “The ancient Greeks, who had such a male-oriented life style, were aghast at the important place women held in Etruscan society, which, in fact, was also the case with the Hallstatt Celts, as we know from the Lady of Vix . The Greeks, however, were downright patriarchal.”

  “But why then did the ancient Greeks worship so many goddesses— from Hera to Aphrodite and Athena and Artemis?”

  “In very ancient times the Great Goddess was worshipped all along the Mediterranean. After the Dorian Greeks appeared on the scene, they divided up her omnipotent power among several goddesses, Athena, Artemis, Aphrodite. No longer was there the one all-powerful Great Goddess of earlier times. And then with Zeus, Apollo, and finally Dionysos and Orpheus from Thrace, the patriarchy was on its way non-stop.”

  “It’s like having a vice-president in a company and then allocating his authority among three or more vice-presidents.”

  He smiles. “That’s a good way to put it in a contemporary context. Sometimes I think I must be boring you with all this information. I don’t want to sound like a dry, dull professor.”

  “Not at all—you’re educating me. Don’t forget, I spent those two years at Boar’s Hill where my reading was certainly not about Etruscans and their free and easy habits. I was reading Hildegard of Bingen's books of visions and Saint Teresa of Avila's Way of Perfection.”

  After surveying the site, Giovanni leads her to the museum to show her the fresco taken from the Tomb of the Diver. “I want you to see this because it’s stylistically so much like the one in the masseria—so far the only example of Greek painting with a figured scene to survive in its entirety. Among the thousands of Greek tombs known from this time—roughly 700–400 B.C.—this is the only one decorated with a human subject. The fresco you saw at the masseria will be the second.” After studying the painting of the young diver, his body in mid air about to plunge into the sea, she muses, “Do you think that he could have been diving for coral?”

  He smiles broadly. “Or maybe for a lost earring."

  *

  As they leave the hotel, Giovanni asks, “Have you been to San Remo?”

  “Years ago. on car trips with my parents, but not since. Because of my work I always seem to be drawn to museums, cathedrals, cradles of culture. And I usually stay away from holiday towns. I get bored lolling around on a beach in a bikini, getting badly sunburned, and never bronzing like Italian women.”

  “Even without a suntan you’d look fabulous, stupende, in a bikini.”

  In the past she would have demurred and muttered something about being too skinny and gangly. This morning she replies, “Thank you! I accept your charming compliment.”

  “The Ligurian Riviera has a sunny, mild climate almost the year ‘round. San Remo is known as La citta’ dei fiori. So, Bianca Fiore, it’s a natural for you. The scent of carnations perfumes the air at this time of year. There are fields of them terraced on the hills from Genoa to Ventimiglia. When we have a rest stop I'll call and book a room."

  By the time they reach San Remo, it’s seven-thirty. Lights twinkle from boats in the harbor and the locals are making the evening passeggiata, strolling along the esplanade or Christmas shopping in the old town’s crowded, narrow streets. They drive through avenues of palms and parks and olive trees until they reach the Hotel Costa Argentata. Giovanni called ahead to reserve. At the front desk the concierge checks out their passports, then hands the key to Giovanni. “I’ve upgraded you to a spacious suite with tall windows overlooking the beach and the sea. I think la Signora will be pleased."

  When Giovanni opens the door, Bianca gasps. The waves of perfume are intense, pleasingly powerful. Vases of white carnations, vases of red carnations adorn every table.

  "Happy Birthday!" he says with a wide smile on his face.

  "How did you know it was my birthday?"

  "Your passport. You left it on your bed table and I was curious."

  "Now you know how old I am, "she says jokingly.

  "You're just the right age for me."

  She throws her arms around him. “Thank you, thank you for this loveliest of surprises.” She kisses him and whispers seductively, “I may not want to leave this room.”

  “No need to, we can dine right here. We’re both worn out from the long day’s drive. Why don’t we order dinner right away? I just checked out the mini-bar and found a nice bottle of prosecco from Conegliano. I’ll open it for us now. “

  “By the time dinner arrives, we’ll be wrapped in our robes and cuddled up on the sofa with our glasses,” she responds, thrilled at the thought. “While you're calling room service, I'll take a quick shower.”

  Looking over the menu, he chooses the sauté of vongole, local clams steamed-open in their stony shells, followed by chicken cannelloni with white truffles. Gelato di frutto della passione for dessert.

  He reaches for the newspaper on the desktop. Corriere della Sera. Emblazoned on the front page is a photo of Sergio, captioned, Siderno, Calabria: Sergio Battistoni, publisher of Occhi e Anima magazine, arrested for dealing in smuggled antiquities.

  “Come on out, Bianca—they've got Sergio!” he shouts gleefully. “Tonight we celebrate!”

  *

  After devouring dinner, downing the bottle of prosecco, sipping Ligurian limoncello, they tumble into bed and sleep soundly until five when the alarm jolts them awake.

  Giovanni aims to arrive in Châtillon by six. It will take them about seven hours to reach Source-Seine. They can make it just before the sun sets on the eve of the Winter Solstice.

  *

  December 21, The eve of the Winter Solstice.

  As they’re about to leave the room, he stops to pull out one red and one white carnation from the vases and presents them gallantly to Bianca. Although she seems sorry to be leaving her bower, he can tell she’s excited that they’ll soon be arriving in France, only thirty miles away. “When we reach the French border,” he says, “we’ll drive to Arles to get a good sweep of the Rhone, and then head due north toward Châtillon. “

  “Do you remember when I mentioned that I had something important to tell you?’

  “I’ve been waiting for you to bring up the subject again.”

  “I wanted to wait until we set foot on French soil.”

  “Good— save it for Arles. We’ll find a simple place by the mouth of the Rhone where we can have a coffee and a leisurely talk— and a good view. If we press on we can take another short break on the way, a stop to look at Source-Seine, a site considered a part of the City of Paris. From time immemorial it's been a shrine to the healing goddess, Sequana, a place of pilgrimage for the Celts. I’ve always wanted to see it.”

  “I've been there several times. I'll be your guide—for a change.” She laughs. “I'm so happy to be here, Giò, so happy.”

  He’s pleased that Bianca is elated about being in France.

  “I love Italy, but, when I arrive in France, it feels as though I’ve come home.”

  He wonders why she feels that way but doesn’t ask.

&n
bsp; *

  Before entering Arles they stop at a cafe on the Quai de La Roquette, the ancient quarter, now well on its way to gentrification. From the Quai they have an astounding view of the mighty Rhone, at once both benign and treacherous. A herb garden surrounds the old stone inn, and, even though it’s late December, a hedge of lavender ready to burst into bloom billows over the pebble path. Bianca stops to pinch a sprig from a rosemary branch and holds it to her nose, inhaling the heady, aromatic scent. “There’s rosemary, that’s for remembrance” she whispers. “Pray you, love, remember.” He finishes the quotation and puts her hand to his lips.

  *

  Once the coffee arrives, Giovanni asks, “Are you ready to tell me your ideas about the Krater? Until a few years ago it was one of the best kept secrets in France. Now Châtillon-sur-Seine has a booming tourist industry because of it— and La Dame de Vix." She takes a deep breath and begins. “On leaving Boar’s Hill I decided I deserved the freedom to do what I’ve always loved—travel—whenever I had the chance. After I left Oxford, I rented a car and took the ferry from Dover to Calais. I was headed for Rheims because I wanted to see the cathedral of Joan of Arc. It was late afternoon so I stopped at a hotel in Arras, thinking that the next morning I could drive on to Rheims. That night I had a dream about Nina and Avallon.”

  “Do you remember it?"

  She nods. “Nina is sitting by my side as we drive in a wagon towards a quay. Ahead, across the water, I see a dazzling sight. I tell Nina that beyond are the towers and turrets of Avallon. The vision is so vivid, so powerful, it still gives me goosebumps. In my dream I know that Nina isn’t really dead, and that it is she who has led me to this wondrous place. The next day, after visiting the cathedral I thought I'd drive southeast to Dijon to visit the museum. I have a happy memory of stopping there with my parents on our way to Bern. Anyway, while heading for Dijon I turned west instead of east, driving on country roads. I lost my way and found myself in the little town of Châtillon-sur-Seine. When I stopped to fill the tank, the attendant asked if I’d been to the local museum. I told him I hadn’t, and he advised me not to miss the exhibit. This is the backstory. Now I’ll tell you exactly when my ideas, my revelation—you might even call it an epiphany—came to me. I don’t know why it took so long.”

  “Will you forgive me if I ask an impertinent question?”

  “Sure—impertinent questions are the only kind to ask. Please go right ahead.”

  He laughs. “How did you get this 'Paul on the way to Damascus' flash of insight?”

  “On the plane back to New York after the wedding, I was thinking about the Burgundy trip. By then I'd seen the Vix Krater five times since 1996. I sat there daydreaming while looking over the Michelin Green Guide map of Burgundy—for what reason I don’t recall. As I studied the map, I noticed that Troyes was quite close to the little village of Vix where the Krater was discovered. And Avallon was close to both. I asked myself what Troyes was famous for. Besides the famous medieval fair, there was also Chrétien de Troyes, court poet to the daughter of Queen Eleanor of Aquitaine. Have you ever read Chrétien’s Le Conte du Graal?”

  “We read Chrétien in my French literature class—though I don’t remember much about him or his Grail story.”

  “Since I write about ritual I’m very familiar with Jessie Weston’s From Ritual to Romance. I’ve even memorized one of her famous passages. If you'll permit me:

  'That the man who first told the story, and boldly, as befitted a born teller of tales, wedded it to the Arthurian legend, was himself connected by descent with the Ancient Faith, actually himself beheld the Secret of the Grail, and told in purposely romantic form, that of which he knew.'

  “Weston is, of course, referring to Chrétien, the 'born teller of tales.’ In his Four Romances, he was the first to tell the stories of King Arthur, Lancelot and Queen Guinevere, and Camelot, connecting them to the Arthurian Legend; Chrétien's Story of the Grail, his last, unfinished work is about the quest of Perceval. It's also about Perceval’s romance with Blanchefleur.”

  “I vaguely remember Weston from T.S. Eliot’s footnotes to 'The Wasteland,' " he remarks. "The poet claims he is indebted to Weston. But what does all this have to do with the Krater?”

  “Giovanni, just listen to me without butting in—and please don't laugh. Here goes, I believe— I know—that the Krater of Vix was deep in the collective unconscious of Chrétien and other descendants of these early Celts. The Krater was buried in the grave of a woman near the village of Vix. Overlooking Vix was the important Celtic trading citadel of Latisco. Think about how, over the centuries, the local folk must have heard about this fabulous vessel, the symbol of feasting and abundance and immortality. I believe that when Chrétien told his story, the Krater was lodged in his ancestral memory, perhaps from the legends and the oral traditions of his Celtic forebears. Because the Celts had no written language, they had strong motives for keeping alive an active, collective memory. As the centuries passed, their tribal histories, stories, and legends were transmitted from father to son, from mother to daughter. And I’m convinced that the Krater is the very source of the story of the Grail. To make it simple, the Krater of Vix is the Grail, the pagan grail, the grail of Chrétien de Troyes. And he set his Four Romances in the Court of King Arthur, whose legends of fame and prowess and bravery were told and re-told orally in the lays and songs and sagas, and lingered on in the memory of the Bretons and the Gauls of Burgundy, When Chrétien wrote his stories, he wasn’t writing about the Christian Holy Grail, as it later came to be called by subsequent writers, the so-called Continuers of Chrétien’s unfinished story.”

  She looks him in the eye, waiting for him to laugh at her hypothesis. “I believe that I have found the link, the golden chain that connects ancient ritual to romance. If you don’t agree with me, please, please don’t try to change my mind because you can’t now and you never will,” she says decisively.

  Giovanni doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t even smile. The look on his face is serious.

  “Bianca, have you ever studied Greek?”

  She shakes her head. “I wish I had.”

  “You’ve obviously studied Latin.”

  “Yes, in high school for four years." She smiles." Then later on I had a refresher course at Boar’s Hill.”

  “Then maybe you know that the word for 'grail' is derived from the Latin cratalis, which in Greek is krater. The word cratalis evolved into a vernacular cratale, in old French, then eventually to graal, which rhymes with cratale. So the word 'grail' is indeed a word originating from 'krater. There’s nothing mysterious at all about the word 'grail.' ”

  She cannot believe her ears. "Let me repeat what you said. You're telling me that that the Greek word, krater, changes until it becomes graal and then 'grail' in English?"

  "It's as simple as that, Bianca."

  She shakes her head in disbelief. “I've been thinking of the Krater as a graal-grail, for quite a while. And did you know that Chrétien was also the first to link the Grail— whatever it meant to him— to King Arthur and Camelot and Avallon. Giovanni, I believe that the Arthurian Avallon is right here in France, only a few leagues away from Vix. and from Chrétien's Troyes Avallon is a very ancient town of about seven thousand people, only a short distance from Vix, perhaps a day’s horse ride. There's no real place called Avalon in Britain, nor is there any indication that there ever was. But there is an Avallon in Burgundy and it has been there for well over fifteen hundred years. It doesn't make any sense that Avalon is in Wales or near Glastonbury. After all, Chrétien was court poet to Marie of Champagne, the daughter of Queen Eleanor of Aquitaine. He was influenced by the trouvères and troubadours of Eleanor’s court and by the jongleurs and bards of Brittany, who spoke, and to his day continue to speak, a Celtic language.

  “Unfortunately, and, strangely, the French have never made a concerted move to take back their heritage from the British. And when they do, they'll begin to wonder, as I have, about the location
of Camelot.”

  “Well, Bianca, given your theory--your marvelously intuitive theory--the French may change their minds and reclaim the mythical, magical Avallon as their very own. Then they can commence the search for Camelot.”

  Book VII

  Sequana

  Giovanni is intent on reaching Sequana's shrine before dark. The sun sets around five thirty, making it one of the shortest days of the year. When they arrive at Source-Seine, they park on the side of a country road and stride briskly up a path to the fenced enclosure. In the late afternoon light, the dark, leafless branches of ancient oaks seem like arms reaching wide to welcome them. Beeches and tall, slender white poplars tufted with balls of mistletoe surround the park area.

  They hurry down the path to a swampy pool and cross the small stone bridge towards a white stone statue of a river nymph reclining gracefully by the entrance of a mossy, man-made grotto framed by dangling vines. From this site trickles an obscure little stream that soon gathers force to become one of the most celebrated rivers in the world. An iron fence surrounds the grotto. They stop to read the sign, a decree by Napoleon III chiseled in stone: “The source is the property of the La Ville de Paris.”

  Bianca has been silent for a few moments, and then it's her turn to explain. “During the late La Tène period, this sanctuary of Sequana, the fast-flowing one, the healing goddess of the Celts, was taken over by the Romans, but most likely it had been a sacred place since the time of the Hallstatt Celts—or much earlier— since the Neolithic period. For centuries, these Gaulish Celts performed their rituals here, probably well into the Middle Ages.” She then exclaims, “Giovanni—just imagine what it must have been like—throngs of pilgrims hoping for a cure from Sequana, the place crammed with food vendors, hawkers of votive images—ex votos in clay or wood, of arms, legs or breasts, internal organs, or whatever ailing body part a pilgrim wanted to toss into the pool for healing--or to give thanks for cures or favors already received. They've found thousands of these votaries, some obviously fertility objects--women with bulging bellies, swaddled babies, and, for those yearning for love or looking for a mate,” her eyes meet his and she grins, “there are even images of entwined couples.”