Etruscan Chimera

by Lyn Hamilton

  "Everything is quite exceptional," I said. "Can you tell me what you want to sell?"

  "I don't want to sell any of it," Godard said.

  "Then perhaps I am wasting your time," I said. And he mine, of course.

  "I said I didn't want to sell any of it," Godard said. "I didn't say I wouldn't sell it. No doubt you noticed my somewhat constrained circumstances. Most of the furniture and paintings are gone. There is nothing else. Have a look. If you see something you like, and it's something I'm prepared to part with at this very moment, then perhaps we can do business."

  I supposed that was something, but, being cautious, I did not go right up to Bellerophon. Instead, I stopped at the chimera hydria. "This is obviously special," I said.

  "It's not for sale," he said.

  "How about this?" I said, pointing to a bronze mirror.

  "It's not for sale, either." This was sounding pretty hopeless, but I couldn't see myself going back to Lake and telling him I couldn't get what he wanted, so I soldiered on.

  "I can certainly understand your feelings about these objects," I said, doggedly trying to win the man over. "This is a very fine collection, and it would be difficult to part with any of it. How did you come to acquire it?" A touchy subject that one. Provenance is a really important concept in antiquities and essential in proving that objects have been legally acquired, or at least acquired long enough ago that you won't be in any trouble with various authorities.

  He looked as if he wouldn't answer, but then he said, "My father did most of the collecting. He spent summers in Italy—Tuscany—and made the acquaintance of some fellows who helped him collect. Probably tombaroli," he said with a slight smile. "I assume you know what that is."

  "Tomb robbers," I said.

  "Correct. In any event, no matter how he acquired it, it was a long time ago, and so all seems to be above-board now. There was an expert out here two maybe three years ago, before my father died, anyway. He took detailed photos and everything. If there'd been any problems, I'm sure he would have said something. My father also collected, purchased pieces at auctions and so on. I have all the receipts."

  "And you?"

  "I pretty much just sell it," he said.

  By this time, I'd managed to reach the horse. Taking a small pocket flashlight out of my bag, I began to study it carefully, as Godard watched. It was bronze, certainly, and the right size. I checked out the front legs, then the back. Carved into a back leg was Etruscan writing. "Tinscvil," I said, muttering aloud. Just like the Chimera of Arezzo. I'd looked at it carefully enough and had even tried to copy the writing on the chimera's paw.

  "What did you say?" Godard said, wheeling up to me.

  "Tinscvil," I said. "Dedicated to Tinia, or Zeus, isn't it?"

  "You read Etruscan," he said.

  It is a measure of how far gone I was, enthralled by the prospect of all that lovely money from Lake, and determined to convince Godard to sell, that I did what I did then. I didn't lie, exactly. I just said nothing. Or rather I just murmured something that Godard took to be assent, something like hmmm.

  He looked at me for a moment, and then pointed to a rather peculiar-looking object in one of the cases. "Do you know what that is?"

  Strangely enough, I did. Several of the books on the Etruscans I'd consulted had shown pictures of something similar, and I'd noticed it because it was so odd. "It's a bronze model of a sheep's liver, isn't it?" I said. "Etruscan haruspices, diviners, used them to foretell the future."

  "That's right," he said. "You can see the sixteen sections of the sky around the outside, and there are fifty-two names of divinities on it." He opened the case and took the object out, stroking it with one hand as he held it with the other. "People scoff at divination," he said. "But they shouldn't. The Romans believed in it. They left nothing to chance. Nothing. Before every battle, before every important decision, they called on Etruscan haruspices. They knew."

  "Well, the Romans were certainly successful," I said.

  "Exactly," he said, failing to notice the tinge of sarcasm in my voice. He put the bronze liver back in the case.

  "Are you by any chance a member of the Societa?" he asked.

  This one I couldn't fake, but still I wasn't entirely straightforward. "No, I'm afraid not," I said. I assumed he meant an academic organization of some kind, or an archaeological society.

  "But you know about it, of course. The chimera hydria."

  "Hmmm," I said again.

  "I don't know if there are any women in it, but that does seem a little old-fashioned, even by Italian standards, and come to think of it, the Etruscans themselves wouldn't have objected, would they? The Greeks may not have allowed women at their symposia, but the Etruscans rather welcomed them. Would you like me to put your name forward? You read Etruscan, and you certainly know Etruscan antiquities. You picked all the best stuff in the room in a matter of minutes. It's early days for me, of course, given that I've only been a member for a few months, but you never know. I'd give anything to go to the meeting," he said. "But I am a trifle constrained in what I am able to do," he said, gesturing to his legs, wrapped carefully in a blanket.

  "That's most unfortunate," I said. I meant whatever had happened to his legs, but he took it differently.

  "It is," he said. "I have waited so long to become a member. My father died a couple of years ago. I'm Cisra, by the way."

  "How do you do," I said.

  "Not too well, as you can see," he replied. "I have two weeks to raise the money and to figure out how to get there. If I could afford some help and perhaps a van equipped with hand controls, I might make it. I hope so."

  "That's too bad about your father," I said.

  "Yes," he said. "Left me in something of a financial pickle, as you can see. But at least I got to be Cisra. It's not automatic, you know."

  "What isn't?" This was the most baffling exchange, and I needed to get him off the subject, whatever it was, and back to the sale of the Bellerophon.

  "The name. It's not hereditary or anything. Someone has to die before you can get in. The numbers in the Societa are limited, as I'm sure you know, to twelve plus one. But there's bound to be a spot now that Velathri's gone."

  "Velathri?" I said.

  "You know," he said. "Velathri. Volterra. I'm surprised you don't recognize the Etruscan name for it."

  Volterra I knew. It was a town in the northwest part of Tuscany. Etruscan city, too, if I remembered correctly. As far as I could recall, though, it was still there. "Oh, right," I said. "Of course. Sorry."

  "Gianpiero Ponte," Godard said, as if I was being really dense. "Surely you read about it. It was in all the papers."

  "You mean the businessman who went over the edge of a cliff somewhere or other?"

  "Volterra!" he said. "That's my point. Velathri is now vacant, and you might get it."

  "Oh," was all I could muster.

  "I could consult the liver to see if you stand a chance. I've studied the sheep's liver for four years now, ever since this happened," he said, pointing to his legs again. "I think I'm ready to use a real one now."

  I thought of the sheep and the adorable little lambs outside and cringed. There was now no question in my mind that Godard was what Clive would call a few sandwiches short of a picnic. Not in terms of his intelligence, perhaps. If he'd read only a few books in his library, he was smart enough. But his grasp on reality seemed a little tenuous. I could see now that I looked at him more carefully that his pupils were dilated. Drugs, I thought, either for severe pain, quite possible, given his circumstances, or others of the more recreational kind.

  "Have you ever tried using a medium, by the way? I tried reaching my parents and grandfather that way, but it didn't work. I have a good feeling about this, though. As far as I'm concerned, that is," he went on. "All the signs are positive. Maybe that's why you're here. Yes, that is almost certainly it. The signs told me someone would come to help me get to Velzna, you know, Volsinii. I suppose you use the R
oman names. They told me you were coming. Of course it would be somebody who reads Etruscan. I wouldn't sell to anyone else. It must be you. I'm building my tomb. Would you like to see it?"

  "Sure," I said. Good grief, I thought.

  "Come along," he said, leading me back to his study.

  "I'm interested in the horse," I said, determined to stay the course no matter how bizarre it got.

  "Bellerophon, you mean?"

  "Yes. Bellerophon." There seemed no reason to be coy on that subject anymore. "Did you sell it to Leclerc already?"

  "Who's he?"

  "Pierre Leclerc. He was here earlier this afternoon. Fancy suit. Cufflinks, that sort of thing."

  "The cufflinks!" he said. "Yes. Fantastic! I wonder where he got those. That name's not right, though, is it? Leclerc? Close though. Le-something. Le Conte, isn't it? The horse, though. Did he ask about it? I can't remember. I didn't sell him anything. I don't like him. I'm quite sure he isn't the one. Here we are." He leaned over and pulled aside a carpet to reveal a trapdoor. "Get ready to be amazed, shocked, dazzled, whatever."

  I looked down into pitch darkness below. "I don't think I want—"

  "Of course you do," he said. "Give me a minute. I'll go first." He wheeled his chair back and grabbed a rope attached to a pulley on the wall behind him, pulled the rope and himself over near the edge, then slipped out of his wheelchair and, after lowering the chair down, pulled himself into a makeshift harness and eased himself down as well. "Come on," he said. "Take the ladder. We'll talk about Bellerophon down here. And you'd better bring that flashlight of yours. The light seems to have blown out."

  What I do, I thought, to serve a customer. Reluctantly, I climbed down the ladder. When I reached the bottom, I panned the flashlight around the space and gasped as the face of a man, one who looked exactly like Godard, stared back at me.

  "Fabulous, isn't it?" he said.

  "Fabulous," I agreed, catching my breath. And it was, in a way. I was in a room about twenty feet long and ten wide. There were two stone benches to either side of me, and an archway straight ahead. The ceiling was decorated in red and green and cream squares. Beyond the arch, the walls had been painted with scenes of a party, at least that was what I thought it was. A man, the one who looked like Godard draped in a dark red toga, lay stretched out on a couch of some kind, while various women, bearing platters of fruit and jugs of wine, lined up to serve him. Other men—I counted twelve in addition to Godard—also reclined on couches, some with women beside them. To one side of them, a door had been painted on the wall.

  In the background was the chateau—I recognized it immediately—surrounded by fields where little lambs gamboled. Beyond that stretched a forest. Other men dressed in tunics were hunting with bows and arrows. Another was playing a stringed instrument of some kind. The predominant color was red, but there were swirls and leafy vines that snaked their way around the picture, birds, painted in blue and white and green, flew through the trees and around the people, caught in the sweep of my flashlight. Above the archway, two leopards faced each other, fangs bared.

  Over to the right in the outer room where I was standing, three people were shown sitting in three chairs, staring straight ahead. The perspective wasn't perfect, but the faces were very lifelike.

  "My mother and father," he said, following my glance. "And my grandfather. Do you like it?" he said.

  "It's . . . extraordinary," I said.

  "It is, isn't it?" he said. "It's modeled on Etruscan hypogeum tombs like the ones at Tarquinia," he said. "The frescoes are contemporary, of course, although I tried to give them an authentic feel."

  "You painted this?"

  "I did," he said. "It's my project."

  "But a tomb!" I said.

  "Well, why not?" he said. "I'm not going to last long anyway. It helps me while away my final hours. I started it while I could still stand, but as you can see," he said gesturing to one wall where the top was bare, "I need help to finish it. Can you paint, by the way?"

  "I have absolutely no talent that way at all," I said. It may have been the first truly honest statement I'd made since I got there.

  "Too bad," he said. "I'll go up first, and if you don't mind, you could attach the wheelchair to the rope when I send it back down."

  "About Bellerophon," I said, as I climbed out of the basement.

  "I can't sell it to you," he said. "I know I should, but I just can't do it. Not to you. Not to the one who's going to get me to Velzna and the Fanum Voltumnae."

  "How much would it take to make you change your mind?" I asked.

  "I won't change my mind, but I need a hundred and fifty thousand dollars. That's all. I could get a van for that and cover the cost of finishing my tomb and putting me in it. Do you see anything else you'd like here that you'd be prepared to pay that much for?"

  "The chimera hydria," I said.

  "No, no!" he exclaimed. "Anything but the hydria, please. It's the last thing I would part with. What about the temple frieze? It's pretty spectacular, don't you think? Would you pay one fifty for that? It's worth it, you know. A good price."

  "Yes, it is. I'd have to consult my client, though."

  "Okay, but do it soon. I need it to get to Velzna. Do you think he'll want it?"

  The telephone ringing in his office saved me from having to answer.

  "I'd better get that," he said. "It may be about the arrangements. You can use my name as a reference, by the way, if you want to replace Velathri. Hold on a second," he said, grabbing the telephone.

  "Why don't I come back tomorrow?" I said.

  "A hundred and fifty thousand," he said grabbing my arm, and pressing the receiver to his chest. "It's a very good price. You must buy it. I know I have very little time left. That is what the portents tell me. I must go to Velzna and the gathering of the twelve before I die. Promise you'll come back."

  I fled the room just as fast as I could. It was dark outside, and Boucher was dozing in the car. The chateau now looked rather sinister, with very little light flickering in its windows, a massive black hulk against the night sky. I drove quickly into town, dumped Boucher as soon as I got there, and then found myself a hotel room. After a long, hot shower, an attempt to wash away that awful day and place, I went downstairs for a drink. The hotel was situated on a nice little square, and the bar/cafe spilled out of the lobby onto the street. I bought the local papers, and, over a glass of wine, combed through them. It took me about three minutes to find what I wanted. I was ready to head out to find Boucher.

  "Yoo-hoo! Over here," a voice called out, and I spied Dottie and Kyle having a drink in a cafe. At a table nearby, Boucher sat with Leclerc, or was it Le Conte? It wouldn't surprise me in the least if he used more than one name, given my impression of his insalubrious dealings. Both men looked grumpy. I wondered if Boucher had been able to find himself a cheap place to stay, and whether Leclerc really was intent on outwitting me. A couple of tables farther on was my friend Antonio the Beautiful, who smiled and waved as Dottie did. Funny how they all turned up in the same place, especially Antonio, whom I'd not caught sight of at any point during the several hours' drive from Paris to Vichy, but who obviously had managed to follow me, just the same. I went over to Antonio first. "I need to speak to your boss," I said. "Right away."

  "It will take me awhile," Antonio said. "But I will arrange it. He'll call you either very late this evening or first thing tomorrow at your hotel," he said, checking his watch. "I hope this means I will be seeing my beautiful Teresa soon."

  "I think so," I said. He brightened visibly and gave me his very best smile.

  "I think our relationship is at an end," I said next to Boucher, setting the newspaper on the table in front of him. I ignored Leclerc, who didn't acknowledge me, either.

  "But you promised me at least five thousand dollars," Boucher said.

  "Your presence could well have cost me this deal," I said. "Five thousand is rather more than your contribution is worth."

>   "I don't understand your attitude toward me," he said, placing his hand over his heart.

  "Oh, I think you do," I said, tapping the newspaper. He didn't even have to look at it. He knew exactly what I was referring to: a classified ad inviting anyone who cared to come, to a sale of contents at a certain chateau just outside Vichy.

  "I wouldn't be quite so sure the horse is yours," Leclerc said, dropping all pretense at charm. "Godard is quite unhinged, as I'm sure you noticed. He's invited me back for a chat tomorrow. We'll see who prevails here, won't we."

  "Yes, we will," I said.

  "That's more like it," Dottie grinned as I sat down. I had a couple of hours to kill, and Dottie was almost certainly going to be way more entertaining than Boucher.