Realms of Gold Page 13

  "Maybe that explains why we've both been involved--passionately involved--maybe even obsessed--with the Krater."

  He went on." Synchronism manifests itself with meaningfully related simultaneous occurrences, and our case is exactly that. As you Americans say, we’re on the same wave length."

  “But how can you possibly avoid reporting this kind of find? It’s far too important.” “I have my reasons. If it gets out that they’re here, the fresco and the design might be hacked off those walls and sold to the underground trade. Then they’d wind up in a vault in Zurich. I’ve heard about furnished and carpeted vaults where unscrupulous collectors display their antiquities and spend the afternoon in a lounge chair gazing at them. “And then Concetta knows very well that if we told the authorities, she’d be made to leave the house and then she’d be in trouble with her son-in-law. She made me swear to her that I wouldn't tell anyone. 'I’ll put the curse of the evil eye on you.’ She pointed her finger at me and made the sign of the devil's horns. I’m southern Italian enough to admit I recoiled. Even now the thought gives me pelle d’oca. She told me that her son had considered removing them from the wall and selling them to the local tombaroli, but his wife kicked up a fuss insisting they save them to decorate their house. She’d visited the villas of the Veneto and admired the frescoes of La Malcontenta and Maser and wanted her masseria to have some of the same feeling. Since her husband doesn’t need the money, he listened to her. I’ve helped Concetta cover the walls with canvas, as much to protect them as to save them from being seen and stolen by unscrupulous thieves. I also brought some bags of salt to absorb any moisture in the magazzino. This will help preserve them. But whenever her son is there, the signora removes the canvas and bags and hides them. Otherwise he would suspect that someone else has seen them.

  “When I took a sample of dust from the floor to a lab, the technician who examined it found particles of bronze verdigris, unusual for a storehouse. The latest supposition about the Vix Krater is by the famous French bronze expert, Claude Rolley. He theorized that the Krater was made right here in Sybaris and not in Taranto, as was once believed. I would like to propose that not only was it made in Sybaris, but also it might have been cast on this very site. An announcement should be made at the right time—in mid January—on the date of the discovery of the Krater. That’s why I'm keeping it quiet. I feel that it must have arrived at the oppidum in Vix circa 509 B.C.—not long after the fall of Sybaris in 510 B.C. We are now almost in 2008. Two thousand five hundred years ago.”

  “But are you absolutely convinced that the drawing on the wall is of the Vix Krater? What about the horses and hoplites? Are there sketches?”

  “No, the horses were obviously cast separately and applied to the surface, perhaps later on. Soon after my discovery, I took measurements from the main gate at Sybaris to Strombi, where there were many artisans who couldn’t work within the walls of the city. Bronze forgers made too much noise and too much heat and dust to suit the Sybarites who didn’t like to hear even the roosters' wake up call. Their workshops were on the road from Sybaris, in the countryside around the polis.

  Bianca is overwhelmed, dazed by these new-found revelations.

  “Here’s where you might be able to help me, Bianca. I am an archaeologist.” Archaeology is a science so I’m supposed to be a scientist. Perhaps I’m making assumptions I shouldn’t be making.” He heaves a deep sigh. “Even though I’m convinced that this was the site of a foundry, I realize I’ve made a giant leap elliptically.”

  “How can I possibly be of help?”

  “I don’t have a mind like yours. Give me some of your insights. They might lead me in another direction—the right direction. Remember what Einstein said about the imagination—how it sharpens one’s intuition?” He takes his hand from the wheel and reaches over for hers. “I have great trust in your imagination.”

  “So ask me, Giovanni, what you want to know.” She closes her eyes and waits.

  “Tell me how it happened. How did the Krater come to have been made here? By whom and for whom? What purpose did it serve? And how did it finally find its way to the Celtic oppidum at Vix, overlooking the banks of the Seine, then to its final resting place in the wheat fields of Vix?”

  “Strange, though, that you didn’t ask a fifth question.”

  “Oh?”

  “You didn't ask me her name.”

  “Whose name?”

  “The woman buried with the Krater. Who she was might give you the answer to your last question.”

  “I’ve been so focused on the sketch that I haven’t thought much about the priestess-princess. Of course she had to have been a woman of great importance—maybe mythic importance—to be buried in her elaborate, bronze-wheeled wagon, with such fabulous gold jewelry and that immense Krater. This enormous vessel was like the never-emptying cauldron of plenty--the symbol of life everlasting for the ancient Celts. Imagine what the local folk thought about it, how important it must have been in their rituals and lore for hundreds of years.”

  “Now’s not the time to tell you my own theory about the Krater and the woman. It’s far too late and we’re both worn out.”

  As he speaks, she closes her eyes and her mind begins to drift, to descend. When she opens her eyes, she can tell that he hoped she might have come up with a quick revelation.

  “Where do you think the woman came from?” she asks. He puts his arm around her shoulder, and she’s grateful even for that.

  “I’m not sure.” He ponders for a moment. “Mont Lassois was a citadel-trading post from the Celtic Hallstatt period in the sixth century B.C. She could have been from one of the local tribes, but she could also have come from somewhere else--these seem to have been a fairly sophisticated people judging by what was found in the grave of la Dame de Vix. The later, militarily-focused La Tene Celts, were a different lot from these early Hallstatt tribes who were farmers, successful traders, a traveling, aristocratic elite who were most certainly influenced by the Etruscans and the Greeks. Wine was probably their biggest import."

  “When did the Celts plant their own vines?”

  “Some oenologists claim the earliest vines were planted well before Julius Caesar's conquest of Gaul.”

  “What about weapons? "

  “In the princely tomb discovered in Hallstatt, Austria, there were no weapons. There was only one gold dagger, obviously used for ceremonial purposes, yet these early Celts were skilled metal workers in bronze and in what was then precious iron.”

  “Later on, around 450 BC we have evidence that the later La Tène Celts swarmed down from the North, having made their way from the Danube across Europe and over the Alps. They either overcame the Celts of Mont Lassois or they slowly merged with them. These new, perhaps 'hybrid' Celtic folk eventually found their way to the British Isles. The Celtic culture we celebrate today is derived from La Tène Celts, who were the same tough, ruthless and destructive Gaulish head-hunters and plunderers who sacked Rome, as described by Greek and Roman historians—later on by Julius Caesar.

  “But who this woman was, I don’t know. Bianca, you’re perhaps the only one who can answer that. Whoever she was, wherever she came from, pull her out from every fiber of your being--go ahead--reach for her soul.”

  “Maybe her soul and my soul are same,"she responds solemnly, “I already know her name.”

  “Will you tell me?”

  “Her name was Zato—but the Greeks called her Zatoria. "

  He looks thunderstruck. “When and how did you ever learn that?”

  “I’ve known for quite a while. Before leaving New York, I woke up one morning with the name ringing loud and clear in my ears. Now you must really think I’m crazy.”

  He shakes his head. “To the contrary. I’ve read somewhere that the Kabala says 'a voice that rings loud and clear upon awakening is the voice of God within, a voice you must listen to, take heed of...And don’t forget, I was a student of Julian Jayne’s when I was at Princeton.” He laug
hs. “I don’t need much convincing. "

  “If you really want to know more, I’ll have to go inside myself--deep inside--to find out who she was and what she meant to her people.”

  “And while you’re at it, give a voice to your visions—just as you do for the magazine.”

  “Since we've been on the road, I’ve been writing some articles to submit to Leonardo. Maybe the best way to do this would be to follow the famous short route the Krater might have taken from Sybaris to the other side of the peninsula, then continue to its ultimate destination, the village of Vix in Burgundy.”

  “How would you like to make the journey together? Since my Christmas break has already begun, I have free time off from the university.”

  “And I have no plans. I can’t think of a better way to spend my holidays. But what’s in this for you, really, Giovanni? Is it adventure you’re craving, or recognition by your peers, or is there something about my company that you can’t live without?” She hears both the sarcasm and the insecurity in her voice. “Why is it that you’re so keen on helping me, or why I should be helping you?”

  “It has to do with the connection we have.”

  “What connection?”

  “The Italian Connection.”

  “You to me?”

  “Yes, I've mentioned it before. The Norville connection. It’s too late to talk about it now. It's get off to an early start tomorrow. Get your bags packed so we can leave right after our visit to Sybaris.”

  *

  It's well past midnight when they arrive at the Hotel Oleandro. Giovanni rings the buzzer to wake up the concierge who shuffles to the door to let them in. They climb the steps to their rooms. He bends to kiss her cheek, this time not formally twice, but once, gently. Though she longs to wrap her arms around him and draw him close, she realizes she's physically and emotionally exhausted and wants only to get herself into bed and have a deep and dreamless sleep.

  Zatoria

  High fever rages through the city

  From a summer of rain and heat.

  In the temples, dampness oozes from the walls of the cella,

  Green fronds sprout between stones.

  Flying creatures buzz and bite, leaving welts

  Or oozing sores that turn the skin to yellow.

  Some Lokrians take to the mountains where the air is cool and fresh.

  Others must stay to watch over the temples of Aphrodite and Persephone.

  Many phases of the moon have come and gone

  Since the men of Lokri sailed to Miletus

  Where they trade for purple dye they will sell to rich Sybarites

  Who drape themselves in gold-edged purple tunics.

  At dawn, I find my way to the temple to stand by the image of Aphrodite and take pleasure in the gentle breezes. I bring an offering, a clay dove, to put at the feet of the goddess. I hear footsteps and move into the shadows, not wanting to appear as a hierodule.

  A tall Kelt enters the temple. His long hair, the color of wheat chaff, is combed back from his forehead and knotted. The southern sun has made his fair skin ruddy. His face is shaven like that of a Hellene or a Tyrrhenian, unusual for one of his people. Like other Keltoi I have seen, he wears trousers. Gold cords bind his felt boots to his ankles. He wears a birch bark hat with a peaked crown, the sign of a noble Kelt.

  When I move from the shadows, he greets me in a deep voice, and is less hesitant than I with the language of the Hellenes. He tells me that he is a prince of the tribe of the Sequani, the River People, that his people have a trading post atop Latisco, north of Massilia of the Phoceans. He is in Lokri to barter for land with the King of the Dauni, whose territories are in the north of Megále Hellás. The Keltoi look to have a trading oppidum on the coast, beyond the land of the Sabine and Samnite tribes.

  I tell him that my mother was a leader of a Tribe of the Gelonos, wheat growers by the Pontus Euxinus, and my father is the Thracian seer, Zalmoxis, teacher of Pythagoras of the Golden Thigh. When I say that we soon will be leaving Lokri for Kroton to visit the philosopher’s famous school, I can see in his eyes that he is sorry. He tells me that he has been to Kroton and that there are many Hellenes who find the great teacher Pythagoras strange because he believes that the soul travels from this world to the Other. He tells me that his people, the Keltoi, have the same belief that death is a passage from this life to the other.

  The Kelt is on his way to Sybaris where a master craftsman is forging a giant krater. The designer of the vessel is Eutropios, a student of Pythagoras. The Kelt ordered the great krater for his ailing father, the King of the Sequani, The River People.

  I tell him I have heard the altars of Sybaris run with blood and there is feasting throughout the year, but that Pythagoras speaks out against this.

  “Our bards and wise men tell stories of how the bull was honored. Pythagoras aims to change all that.” is what he says to me.

  Book V

  Then the Lady Blanchefleur turned away her face and bowed her head, and said in a voice as though it were stifling her for to speak: “Percival……take thou me for thine own, and then the castle and all shall always be thine.

  Chrétien de Troyes, Le Conte du Graal

  Bianca

  The next morning when she looks out the window, the sky over once golden Sybaris is a cruel gray. Below, in the hotel garden, a light frost hazes the small patch of grass. She shivers from the dampness, turns on the wall heater, and calls the front desk for a double cappuccino. It arrives just as she's wrapping herself in a robe after a hot shower. As she sips the strong, steaming coffee through milky foam, she congratulates herself for having had the good sense to pack fleece-lined boots and warm gloves.

  As soon as they arrive at the archeological site, Giovanni points out the excavated foundations, ancient paving stones, and the hunks of columns scattered about.

  “It’s hard to imagine this dismal place as the fabled Sybaris,” she admits,.“ She wonders if she can—or will—allow herself to envision it as it must have been. This morning the only thing golden about Sybaris is a network of bright yellow pipes connected to the motorized pumps that help drain water from the site.

  He must be reading her mind. “Who knows how much gold is buried below in the mud of centuries—my father believed it would be a staggering amount—more than Mycenae, more than Troy—in fact, more than one could ever imagine.

  “Sybaris was a city of 300,000—larger than Athens—a city where luxury and comfort were the norm. At least for the upper classes—but even the servants and slaves fared well.”

  “What about artisans,” she asks, “like the ones who cast the Krater? Where would they have lived?”

  “Outside the city—some only a few miles mile away—they’ve dug up evidence of potters' kilns and remains of houses of ordinary folk. Sybarites wouldn’t have wanted to hear hammering or smell the odor of smelting metal.” He drops his voice to a whisper even though there is no one else on the site. “Last night we continued north on that road to arrive at Concetta’s son’s masseria.”

  Il Parco del Cavallo is closed to tourists because of the accumulation of heavy rain. But Giovanni knows the guards and they are allowed in.

  “Why is it called The Park of the Horse?”

  “Some diggers found a stone horse hoof and tail, so the supposition is that there might have been a large equestrian statue in this area. The horses of the Sybarites were famous.”

  After they walk look over the area for at least an hour, Giovanni leads her to the remains of a partially excavated wall. Set into the wall are carved marble panels of women dancers, each linked arm to arm, one to the other. “These stones are clearly from the Archaic period, about 510 B.C. They were probably found and reused in this later building. So it’s here that you have tangible concrete evidence of life in Sybaris.”

  I lean against the wall for a moment and close my eyes. I see dancers in a white peplos, criss-crossing back and forth in rhythm—their bodies swaying. Two dancers co
me forward to grasp the handles of a trapeze, swinging themselves across one corner of the room to the other, almost touching the ceiling.

  She opens her eyes. The vision disappears. Giovanni hasn’t noticed. He's busy examining the joints of the stones.

  “The Orphics, contemporary with Pythagoras, also lived outside the city. Many of them must have been rich farmers who owned the lands where the famous cattle of Sybaris grazed.” He reaches into the pocket of his coat and pulls out a small plastic square, slips out a silver coin. “Have a look—it’s the famous stater of Sybaris, struck between 530-510 B.C. You can see that it depicts a standing bull with his head looking backward. They’re not particularly rare.”

  She examines the coin, remembering the episode of her gold coin.

  “There's a fine Archaic temple dedicated to Hera in Paestum, once Poseidonia, a Sybarite city, where citizens fled after the destruction of Sybaris.”

  “The hatred of the Krotoniates for the Sybarites had to have been fierce.”

  “The Krotoniates were the righteous ones. They thought they lived the pure life, dedicated to clean air, clean living. Pythagoras and his followers lived on grains and vegetables, and instead of offering the gods smoke from the ritual of cooking meat, they burned spices, myrrh and frankincense. It's said that Pythagoras lived on a diet of mallow and asphodel which probably kept him from hunger and thirst. It's been disputed that the Krotoniates never ate meat—they did, but in moderation.