“I wonder how many thousands of pilgrims have stood at this quiet little stream to fill their cups with the sacred water of Sequana? When you think about it, it's not too different from Lourdes,” she muses.
“Or from the grotto of Monte Sant'Angelo in Puglia.” he adds. "Someday I'll be your guide there.” He reaches into the pocket of his windbreaker to pull out a small, flat, collapsible cup. “I always carry one of these--just in case, “ he laughs. “Too bad we can't get closer to the spring. Together we could drink from the sacred stream of Sequana's Seine. But since we can't, a kiss—or two—will have to do.” He pulls her close, and they stand mouth to mouth until the day begins to lose its light. Holding hands, they walk to the car and drive straightway to Châtillon .
Sketch of the great Krater by Eutropios, student of Pythagoras
Zatoria
When the sun comes up, I find my father pacing the courtyard. I tremble as I tell him of my frightful visions and he confides that he too has such fears. Now, he says, is the time to leave Sybaris. “We must make haste.” He thanks our hosts and tells them we will soon take leave of their ample bounty. He cautions that they, too, should forsake their home, for the future of Sybaris is at stake; he urges them to pass on this warning to friends and loved ones whose lives might well be threatened. Our hosts take heed of my father and make ready to desert their villa for a simple country dwelling in the midst of their vineyards and olive groves.
My father and I set out before the sun is high. We have not much to carry with us, just our clothing and my treasured kylix still wrapped safely in straw and sheepskin. When we are well beyond the walls of Sybaris, the cart driver turns down a country lane. He tells us that we will climb a hill to take a shorter, safer route to reach the other sea. On the way, he says, we will pass the workshop of a master craftsman who has forged a huge bronze krater, a vessel such as had never been seen in Sybaris. A slave runs ahead to announce our arrival. As we begin to approach the large stone forge, I hear ear-drum bruising sounds, the clang, the rhythm of hammers beating metal. Plumes of smoke coil to the skies, but the acrid stench is not from the burnt offerings of sacrifice. Even from this distance we feel heat from the smelting oven.
When we enter the compound, we are welcomed by a man clothed in white. From his robes I know he is a follower of Pythagoras. Eutropios informs us that we cannot see the Krater. It is now in seven pieces, protected by animal hides and wood chips, each section ready to be hauled in its own wagon. After the Krater arrives in Latisco, it will be welded whole by a Kelt from Bribacte, since those Keltoi have great skill in working bronze and iron.
And as the master smith describes for us the long and arduous journey the Krater will soon make, I hear a voice behind me, not a Hellene's voice --yet one I have heard before. I turn to face the Prince of the River People. He greets us and tells my father that his fame has spread from Thrace to the wise men in Latisco, men called druids who also believe in an afterlife.
When we are taken to the hot, deafening foundry, we see a likeness of the Krater drawn on its lime-washed walls by Eutropios. The Kelt tells Zalmoxis that he has ordered it not only for his father, the ailing King , but for his people as well. The crops have been meager and there has been a drought for three plantings of grain. His people fear they will spend yet another winter without corn in the bins. In payment for the Krater, the Kelt has sent boatloads of tin and copper ore as well as gold for the Sybarites who revere the precious metal. He shows us the design for the a gorgon with its gaping tongue to keep away evil spirits and the frieze with the horses and hoplites in parade around the rim of the Krater.
My father tells him of my prophecy, my visions, and of his own profound concern. He urges the Kelt to flee to Laus on the sea, then set sail north to Poseidonia of the Sybarites, where he is sure to be welcomed. The Kelt needs no persuading and, in very little time, he gathers his people, his belongings, his treasures. My father and I will leave with him and together we will cross the mountains to the other sea. The slaves begin to load the heavy cargo onto seven wagons drawn by mules. The Prince will furnish supplies and food, enough for each day that passes until we reach the coast where he will hire a boat to sail with us to Massilia of the Phocaeans.
We know we face hazards on the journey from Sybaris— bandits, harsh weather, bears, wolves , mountain lions—but the Prince of the River People will protect us. I trust in him.
*
After checking in at the Côte-d'Or in Châtillon-sur-Seine, they wash up and head straight for dinner in the hotel's popular bistro. The waiter leads them to a cozy corner table, and at Giovanni’s request, returns with a carafe of the vin de pays.
“I see someone I know-- that man in the opposite corner,” Giovanni says in a hushed tone. “Hermès Delaunay from the University of Dijon. A few years ago we dug with the Italian team at Ebla, on the Euphrates. I’m not sure he’ll recognize me.”
She glances toward the table. “He looks serious and professorial, even more so than you,” she teases. “Strangely, he also looks familiar to me.”
“Besides being an expert archaeologist, Hermès is also a brilliant historian of Burgundy.” He pulls out his card, writes a quick note and hands it to the waiter.
“Bien sûr, Monsieur. Professor Delaunay is an habitué. In the summer months he works on the excavations at Mont Lassois and, whenever he’s in Châtillon-sur-Seine for the colloques, he always comes here to dine.”
When Delaunay reads the card, his face breaks into a broad smile. He leaps to his feet and makes his way to their table.
“My dear Giovanni, what a pleasure to see you here!”
“And for me to see you again, Hermès,” he replies, throwing his arm around his friend’s shoulder. Please join us for dinner.”
“I accept with pleasure. “ He beckons the waiter to change his table.
“And permit me to introduce Bianca Caldwell—nom de plume, Fiore. You might have read her columns in Occhi e Anima.”
When Bianca extends her hand, Hermès, the consummate Frenchman, bows, puts it to his lips, raises his eyes and gazes intently into hers.
“I am an admirer of yours, Madame,” he says as though before him sits the loveliest, most desirable woman in the world. “I enjoy reading your imaginative column, but what I admire most is the way you have learned to take advantage of the most powerful source of your inspiration—although I might not always be in agreement with your intuitive insights.”
Giovanni laughs. “Don’t let his opinion bother you, Bianca. Hermès also considers my theories too subversively avant-garde for Greek ceramic scholars.”
Delaunay seems amused. “Madame, Giovanni knows that, despite our differences, I have great respect for his instinctual perceptions. We used to have long, philosophical conversations after dinner during those work days in Syria. He might even recall that I am a follower of Henri Bergson, our French Nobel Prize winner who believed that intuitive knowledge is more significant than any other kind for understanding reality.”
Giovanni, not wanting to be academically outdone, quickly responds, “His theory is more or less in agreement with Einstein's. But before we get to the subject of philosophy, perhaps we should order. I sense the waiter is becoming impatient. Bianca, Troyes is very famous for its andouilettes, tripe sausages, shall I order for you?”
Tripe has never been one of her favorite foods. “No thanks. I’m not all that hungry. I’d like the omelette and pommes frites, please.”
“Are you here to visit the museum and le Cratère de Vix?” Hermès directs his question to Bianca.
“Yes, this will be my fifth time.”
He seems surprised. “When was the first?”
“In 1996. I remember having the strangest experience. When I walked into the room, I was astounded by the Krater’s size, by its anses with the grinning gorgons, their snake tails wrapping around the immense vessel. I had the place all to myself so I could study its details undisturbed. Suddenly the lights dimmed. I heard
cymbals clash, the reedy sound of pipes, plucked lyre strings, then voices singing a paean in Greek. For a moment I was startled. I thought I’d traveled back in time. I felt faint. It almost took my breath away.” She laughs. “I guess you’d call me hyper- impressionable.”
Hermès smiles. “On the floor above, we were presenting a concert. A group of musicians from Munich was performing ancient Greek music on archaic instruments. When Giovanni introduced us, I thought that perhaps I recognized you from your photograph in Eyes and Soul. Now it’s all coming back to me. I remember walking down the stairs to check on the exhibit. A woman was standing before le Cratère . She was pale and her hands trembled. It seemed as if she were in—or from—another world. I asked her if she was feeling all right. She broke out of her reverie and told me that she’d discovered le Cratère by taking a detour and then found her way to the museum.”
“And then you kindly told me not to be frightened, that there was a live concert upstairs. I remember our conversation, very clearly now, even if I appeared to be far away.”
“Have you ever written one of your imaginative meditations about le Cratère or la Dame de Vix?”
“None that have yet been published. When I left New York on a self-imposed sabbatical, I thought I’d be sending my monthly columns to the magazine, but a few days ago I decided to quit my job, so my vignettes might never be published. My last contribution would have been on the mixoparthenos, Milouziena of the Scythians, the melusina.”
“Did you know that there was a cult of the Melusina, the double tailed mermaid, in this part of France? In fact, she was worshipped as a goddess throughout the early Middle Ages. She remains in our Burgundian folklore as Melusine. And you often see her image in many of our churches, including Vézelay, another of Burgundy's greatest treasures.”
“Yes—I’ve seen the Melusina chiseled in a column in the Church of the Magdalene in Troyes—she’s also in the mosaic floor in the cathedral of Otranto. And in Venice she can be found carved in the pillars of Santa Maria dei Miracoli—and many more sites in France, Italy and Spain,” she asserts confidently. Since the Professor asks so many questions, she decides to ask a few herself. “Are you here on a winter dig? “
“No, Madame,” he replies, still very formal. “I’m here for the annual colloque tomorrow afternoon, and to look over a site where my colleague, Bruno Chaume, and his Franco-German team have been digging.”
“I remember that René Joffroy unearthed the Krater in the winter of 1953.”
“You are correct. Joffroy deserves most of the credit for the discovery of the Krater and its treasures, and indeed his contribution is enormous. Then there was also Maurice Moisson, a local farmer who actually found the stones and the location of the tumulus, so he too deserves a bit of the glory.”
Bianca then asks, “Why is this inland part of Burgundy called la Côte-d'Or —the Gold Coast?”
Hermès smiles, “In this case, la Côte d'Or means golden hillsides, perhaps more for the 'gold' of its vines than for its crops of golden wheat. There's evidence that the very first wines in France were produced from the vines of Burgundy. Perhaps you already know that tomorrow, December 22, is the Winter Solstice, the shortest day of the first day of winter, an auspicious day for the Celts. Although the formal announcement was recently published—on October 14— it was on July 31 that an astonishing discovery was made.”
“Please tell us about it, Hermès.” Giovanni says eagerly.
“Bruno Chaume and his team uncovered the remains of a town on the plateau of Mont Lassois, where there was once a Celtic trading citadel. The site covers an area of 120 acres and was built in the last years of the Hallstatt Celts, 520-500 B.C., about the time of le Cratère when....”
“Forgive me for interrupting,” Giovanni remarks,” but I'm wondering why I haven't read anything about this amazing find—at least not in the Italian newspapers—but then I've been working on my own project in Calabria. What did you uncover in the town?”
“Plenty! We unearthed areas where there were once bins on stilts for collective grain storage, containers for water storage. The excavations also reveal a concise town plan, open and structured. We’ve also found the remains of three major buildings. The largest appears to have been a great hall over 35 by 21 meters, with a ceiling almost 15 meters."
Giovanni exclaims, “My God! He shakes his head in disbelief. "Larger than the
Archaic Temple of Athena in Paestum?! It's 33 by 14.5 meters. I know it well--I worked on some restoration there."
“Yes—and, to make it even more intriguing for you, Giovanni, the edifice was in the shape of a Greek megaron with an apse, and a stoa along the front. We call it 'le Palais de la Dame de Vix.' Most likely le Cratère stood in the center of this 'great hall,' where we’ve uncovered evidence of feasting and ceramic utensils, some of them imitating bronze.”
“Ceramics imitating bronze?” Giovanni asks, obviously hoping that this discovery might help to confirm the theory about Greek ceramics imitating metal.
“If you’d like, it would be my pleasure to show you the site tomorrow. You'll enjoy seeing it.”
There is almost no reaction from Bianca. Finally she murmurs. “Thank you, Professor, that’s very kind of you. Of course we'd love to see it. With you as our guide, and with your knowledge of historical Burgundy, it will be an unforgettable experience.”
Giovanni
After dinner, Bianca is silent, hands clasped in her lap, eyes staring down at the starched, white tablecloth, as Giovanni and Hermès discuss the scientific details of the astounding discovery. Giovanni wonders what's going on in her head, what she might be thinking— envisioning, or digging up in that mysterious right-brain of hers. And suddenly it occurs to him. Bianca is stunned. She knows, and now at this moment, he knows, that tomorrow, together, they will see the remains of the Palais de la Dame de Vix. The Grail Castle. Le Palais du Graal. The Grail Castle of Chrétien de Troyes. He reaches over and clasps her hand tightly and murmurs "Yes, Bianca, from ritual to romance.
“Let's wait until we're up in the room before we talk,” she whispers after they say goodnight to Hermès. He puts his arm around her as they trudge up the steps to their cozy room, tired but happy and excited. As soon as the door closes, she asks breathlessly, her words tumbling out. “Can you imagine what was going through my head when he told us about the discovery of the palace?”
He laughs and shakes his head. “I was sure that whatever was going through your head, was the same as what was going through mine. So what's your conclusion?”
She pauses to collect her thoughts. “Get ready for this, Giovanni.”
He looks at her attentively. “I'm ready and waiting.”
“I believe the Palais de la Dame de Vix was the Grail Castle of Chrétien de Troyes,” she says slowly, deliberately, watching his reaction. waiting for him to laugh at her.
He's not at all surprised. “Certainly with the discovery of the castle, and because the Krater—the Graal—is now thought to have been used ritually there, it's not hard to come to this conclusion. It entered my mind as well.”
“And—hold on to your hat—something else occurred to me while you and Hermès were in deep conversation and I was daydreaming.”
“Tell me, Bianca.”
“I am convinced that the Palais—the castle on the hill—was Camelot,—imagine—Camelot! C-A-M-E-L-O-T! You Giovanni and I Bianca Fiore, have found Camelot! I have chills when I think about it. Chrétien de Troyes was the first ever to mention Camelot explicitly in his romance, Lancelot, the Knight of the Cart. In it he describes Camelot as a city on the hill overlooking a river, surrounded by plains and forests. Since then, Camelot has come to mean a place of peace, of culture and wisdom, of prosperity. For the folk in the countryside and villages around Latisco, I say that these remained as distant memories of a place that no longer existed, Camelot, their yearnings for and their remembrances of a golden age and a good life. Not for nothing were the Sequani called the Trib
e of Sweet Goodness.”
“You're going way too fast. Take it easy, Bianca, slow down! I want to hear every word of what you have to say.”
She takes a deep breath. “This becomes all the more interesting because not only was Chrétien the first to write about the Grail, but let me repeat that he was also the first to write about King Arthur and his Court in his Four Arthurian Romances. Although Chrétien was writing in the twelfth century, it was way back during the late Roman occupation of Gaul, when a British general, Riothamus, the historical King Arthur, enters the picture. When Chrétien wrote his Four Romances and finally his last, unfinished romance, The Story of the Grail. I propose that he was writing from the memories of centuries, handed down for countless generations by storytellers, bards and druids! I've read that there were still druids in Gaul and in Britain as late as Chrétien's time. History, folklore, fireside tales, characters, ideas, situations, places, images— all this I believe was embedded in the Celtic imagination of a medieval poet, Chrétien de Troyes, author of the first romance novels.”
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