designs. But I’ve been fooled before. From the air, ordinary rock can form outlines that look man-made.”
“I love being in on the beginning of a mystery . . . what do you expect to find?” She moved her chair slightly to avoid the direct sun and took off her sunglasses. Her amber eyes glistened.
“Probably not much.” Morgan was forever understating his excitement. “The tombs there already stretch over four centuries. Caere was an active community in the ninth century BCE and 200 years later it dominated the Tyrranean coast, including the Tolfa Mountains and Lake Bracciano, which you would have passed yesterday coming into Viterbo. But I’m hoping for a few surprises. Perhaps the tomb of an Etruscan king.” He laughed.
“I didn’t think you liked surprises.” She was incredulous.
“Only in archaeology, honey.” He grinned, finishing off his cappuccino, picking up his clipboard, and pushing back his chair.
They rode in his jeep to the necropolis five miles away. Sycamore, oak, and cypress created a canopy over the road into grounds adorned by white narcissus and salmon and ivory lilies, once known as asphodel. Persephone, the daughter of Zeus, had claimed the asphodel lily as her own during the half of her life she could spend on Earth. Abducted by Hades, she was condemned to spend the other half in his underworld. Justine compared the fable to her own life. Maybe Egypt was my underworld. I was smothered in an earthquake, run off the road, kidnapped, and kicked out of the country. But there were exquisite moments as well. Amir . . .
Morgan parked the Jeep near the miniature train and tourist center. They walked through the public area. Mounds of verdant earth ran wild with dandelions and green brambles. A door on each side of the tumuli led to two separate tombs. The tumuli themselves rested on four-foot-high stone foundations crusty with lichen and fungi. Set about twenty feet apart on either side of a common walkway, they fashioned a comely neighborhood. No other necropolis in Italy lived so lightly on the land.
At the end of the path they stepped over a low-lying fence and approached two tumuli whose foundations were ringed by a deep trench.
“Olives were actually found in this one,” a young man was saying as he stepped out of a nearby tomb. “That’s why it’s called the Tomb of the Olives. Furbo, clever.” He held out his hand, stepped forward, and took Justine’s hand into his. “Riccardo,” he said.
“Riccardo Chia, our historian,” offered her father, by way of further introduction. He dug the toe of his boot into the earth.
Justine read her father’s fidgeting as contempt. “Delighted to meet you,” she said. “I’m always eager to meet a historian. So tell me, how difficult is it to work with my father?”
Riccardo blanched, but quickly recovered. “He’s son of a bitch,” he said in broken English. An open khaki shirt revealed a chest of dark brown hair and a small scar near his trachea. A careless ponytail rested on his shoulder like a squirrel’s tail. His eyes were a little too close together, and that and his scraggly eyebrows, almost touching, gave him a look of intense concentration. Two days’ growth obscured his narrow chin. “But I expect to learn an enormous amount from Dr. Jenner.” He shifted his feet like a boy who has overstepped his authority.
Another charmer, she thought. If rather odd-looking.
Her father touched the rim of his hat and raised his left eyebrow, obviously uncomfortable with Riccardo’s portrayal of him.
“And what is it you’re hoping to learn from this dig, Riccardo?” Justine asked.
“In the best world, God willing, we find a house with scrolls of poetry and a few plays. But I’m dreaming, since no literature remains—burned by early Christians, mostly. And only a couple of Etruscan towns have been found.”
“Riccardo’s a romantic,” said Morgan. “Typical historian . . .” he muttered.
“Why do you think that is, Riccardo?” Justine asked, raising her voice to drown out her father’s rudeness. “That so few verified Etruscan towns have been found?”
“Most of the buildings were made out of wood so didn’t survive. Probably destroyed by fire or dry-rot. Later generations probably used the wood for cooking fires as well. But tombs tell us a great deal about what the homes probably looked like. Come on, I’ll show you.” Riccardo led Justine back over the low-lying fence and toward a nearby tumulus. Her father reluctantly followed.
Riccardo led them into the Tomb of the Shields and Chairs, its large vestibule adorned with intricately carved shields. Chiseled from the rear wall, funeral beds of stone that once held sarcophagi. Nearby, two chairs with footrests gave the enclosure the homey appearance of a bedroom. “Look up,” Riccardo pointed. “This painting of a home with a thatched roof supported by capitals and columns tells us something about how they lived. And, think about it, this tomb was built more than 2,700 years ago. Notice these tools for everyday use sketched here and on many of the other tombs. Clearly, they thought they stayed here for a while before traveling on to the afterlife. So they brought along what they needed for daily life.”
Justine noticed the carving of an ornate mirror as well, and an arched comb with small, graduated teeth. Clearly women were expected to continue their beauty regimens in the hereafter. She grinned to herself, then pointed to the finds.
“Speculation,” grunted Morgan. “There are conflicting theories about how they viewed the afterlife. I can’t imagine that vanity held sway.”
“Many theories,” confirmed Riccardo, unruffled. “I’m drawn to D.H. Lawrence’s . . .”
“The biggest romantic of them all,” interrupted Morgan. “He didn’t know a thing about the Etruscans. A novelist,” he added dismissively.
“Why don’t you come to dinner this weekend and tell us about Lawrence and the afterlife?” Justine extended the invitation without looking at her father. “A friend of mine from Paris is coming in.”
“Love to,” Riccardo nodded, the morning light streaming in, dancing dust particles alive in the air. “I’m sure Dr. Jenner will tell me how to get there.”
Morgan turned away and walked into another chamber.
“Perhaps you can ride together,” she suggested, turning to climb back out into the full sunlight. Maybe they can get to know each other a little better.
Justine following, Morgan led toward the newly ploughed trough and scrambled down a small wooden ladder. Justine followed. Riccardo returned to his work site. Father and daughter sat yoga-style on the damp earth. Morgan removed his gloves and ran his hands over the newly cut earthen wall as though it were a thoroughbred. “This is the moment I love,” he said. “Virgin soil hiding her treasures like Michelangelo’s marble.”
Justine watched her father with fresh insight. “You’re a poet,” she charged.
“In some ways,” he admitted. “When I’m close to the treasures of history, I try to seduce them into releasing their secrets.” He continued to run his palms over the dark earthen wall with witching sensitivity.
“If you seek the treasures of history, why do you give historians like Riccardo such a bad time? Aren’t you after the same thing?” Justine’s hand followed the motions of her father’s,
