the first beggar they’d seen in Rome, a dignified, one-legged, elderly man. Justine placed a euro in his hand as two Romas holding a young girl and a baby moved toward them. Miranda placed her hand on her purse; the other two women followed suit. Justine still knew Romas as Gypsies, a term that her mother had used to describe her own wandering life. That and “vagabond.”
The premier Etruscan museum in Italy occupied a garden-enclosed, eighteenth-century, rose-colored villa that had been used as a hospital during World War II. “To understand the Etruscans, you must understand the Greeks,” Miranda called over her shoulder. “The reciprocity cannot be untangled.” Justine would one day discover the profound significance of that simple statement.
Justine found what she was looking for on the second floor, the Sarcophagus of the Spouses, sixth century BCE, in terra cotta. She looked at the inscription and found that it had been discovered in Cerveteri. “Are these sarcophagi only found in Cerveteri?” Justine asked Miranda.
“No,” replied Francesca Boitani, the museum director, entering the room behind them. “These are molds that could be purchased. Like a tombstone. Nonetheless, there are very few of them in existence.”
A wave of disappointment moved through Justine. She didn’t want to know that the sarcophagus was a common mold.
“Is Dr. Andrea LeMartin here?” asked the director.
“That would be me,” said Andrea, puzzled by the recognition.
Dr. Boitani stepped forward and took Andrea’s hand. “Thank you for leaving your names in the gift shop. I’m familiar with your work, Dr. LeMartin, especially your translations of some of the Dag Hammadi finds in Egypt.”
“Andrea, please. I’m honored that you know of my work.”
“Etruscans are my specialty, Egyptians my avocation and passion. Your translations are thorough, detailed. Very professional. I am curious about some of your findings. Won’t you ladies join me in my office for tea?”
“Cicero smiled at us. ‘The art of life is to deal with problems as they arise, rather than destroy one’s spirit by worrying about them too far in advance. Especially tonight.”
—Robert Harris, Imperium: A novel of Ancient Rome
LATER THAT EVENING, a taxi drove the three women to the end of Via Veneto Boulevard to a stone wall surrounding the city. On the left stood Ristorante Harry’s Bar. A golden crest signifying the name hung amid a row of amber lanterns that lit a large patio of formally prepared tables. The name, Harry, was about the only consistent feature of the famous saloons found in New York, Paris, and Venice. The Roman Harry’s was Victorian in style. The interior featured delicate lights in the form of lilies, velvet curtains, and gold-embossed walls. Its waiters wore tuxedos.
“The drink of the house is the Bellini,” said Miranda, who was modestly attired in a city where women wear stilettos to pick up their children from preschool. She had changed at the hotel into a tailored salmon dress and small gold earrings for the evening, defying Justine’s expectations of royal glamour. “A blend of champagne and peach liquor. It’s yummy.”
Without waiting to hear Justine’s preference, Andrea turned to the attentive waiter and ordered three Bellinis.
“That conversation we had with Dr. Boitani was unexpected and welcome,” said Justine. “Kudos to you, Andrea. She was almost gushing about your work. And her belief that the Etruscans created literary works is exciting, even though such remains have not yet been found. Dad and Riccardo will want to talk with her.”
“I’ll be glad to arrange a meeting,” said Andrea. “I could pick up your father in Cerveteri.” She winked at Justine.
Justine stiffened at the thought of another liaison between Andrea and her father. “Aren’t you returning home soon?” she grinned, fingering the four strands of pearls at her neck that complemented her black linen dress.
Miranda looked from one woman to the other, clearly puzzled by the exchange.
“That I am,” Andrea admitted. “But just now, I want you to know that Miranda has been working with the Italian Culture Minister, Riccardo Rutelli.” Andrea slowly lifted her napkin and set it across her silk slacks. “I think she can fill us in on the Marion True story.”
“Marion True? I’ve read a couple of things in the International Herald Tribune,” said Justine, pushing the previous moment’s apprehension to the back of her mind.
Miranda shook her head, her auburn hair swinging from side to side. “Andrea overstates my importance in the ministry. I occasionally assist with translation, but my primary occupations are teaching two English classes and raising my two lovely daughters. Okay. Here’s what I know. Marion True was the Getty antiquities curator from 1986 to 2005, when she was released from her duties—fired, as you Americans would say.” She went on to explain that Marion True had represented one of the world’s most aggressive collectors, and had worked endlessly in the international markets, assessing and acquiring Italian and Greek antiquities. Italian authorities investigated her for years and charges were finally filed in court in 2005.
“So she was dismissed because she was guilty?” asked Justine, squinting at her friend. Andrea never pursues a story without a reason. So why Marion True?
“Really, no. The public reason was that she had taken a loan for a second home from a client. But I think it was because the Getty wanted an excuse to disassociate itself from her before the trial started in Rome.”
“Back up, please,” said Justine, confused but engrossed in the story. “Isn’t this case a bit extreme? After all, unprovenanced trafficking has been going on for centuries.”
“I know. I know, but things in the field of museum acquisition have changed dramatically in the last few years,” said Miranda. “At one time, asking ‘Where did you get this?’ would have been poor etiquette. And provenances were often unknown or shaky.”
The musicians started to play “La Vie en Rose.” Andrea shivered as though old memories encircled her. She held the sleeves of her beaded sweater and interjected, “As far back as ’72, I remember, there was a case of a vase involving the dealer Hecht.” The vase had been the work of the Greek ceramicist Euphronias, found in Cerveteri.
“Dad is working on a new dig in Cerveteri,” Justine explained to Miranda. “I’ve heard that the Etruscans were the largest importers of Greek vases.”
Miranda nodded. “The New York Met was charged with plundering many Etruscan sites. They focused on aesthetic qualities and didn’t ask too many questions about provenance. Today that wouldn’t do. Countries want their artifacts returned, so museums have to know where they came from.”
“True got caught in the crosshairs of history with some questionable characters, dealers such as Hecht, a collector named Symes, and Giacomo Medici, who was convicted in ’04, sentenced to ten years in prison, and fined a lot of euros,” said Miranda, now in her element. “There were letters, purchases, ample circumstantial evidence, plenty of
