for salvation. The black horse thrusts for darkness and evil. The charioteer determines his destiny and the quality of his life by the level of control over his steeds.”
The curator adds a bit of mystery.
“There is speculation that Etruscan descendants live on in a secret society with plans to resurrect their influence and power over Rome. These people, like the black horse, can be ruthless and, like the white horse, can be caring. They have great conviction in the preservation of ancient traditions and trust the laws of nature. They abhor the excesses of Catholicism and of faith. Many say they are stregone e stregas, male and female witches that practice witchcraft. The twin-winged horses are their crests.”
“It’s just a fairy tale, right, like Hansel and Gretel?” Christina, always skeptical, asks the lady.
“Doesn’t the charioteer have a whip? Does he whip the white horse, as well?” asks Mark Anthony.
I speak up before the curator has the
opportunity to respond to Mark Anthony’s fervor. “Perhaps the conflict between the horses
obliges the soul to endure personal suffering in
its quest for divinity. Both horses are a part of the same order of life. They must be educated to work together. If the black horsedominates, we have chaos and violence. If the white horse gains control, we are immersed in indulgence and righteousness. The conflict is true for individuals, groups and societies. The lash is a necessary motivator for both stallions.” The curator glares at me with breathless curiosity and a solicitous smile. She mindlessly twirls a strand of hair around her finger and raises
her chest. She comes closer to me. “Who are you?”
I hesitate. My lips are pursed. My glare is
inward.
“Ah, who am I, indeed?”
The question dehydrates me like a sun-dried
fig. I end the inquiry.
“I’m off. Thank you for this moment of scholarship. I need to walk and clear my mind.”
I proceed to exit. Raising my shades to cut the sun’s glare, I spy Emily at the Hotel Americano bar. Through open floor-to-ceiling glass doors beyond the hotel’s patio, I can see Emily’s short dress and exposed upper thighs.
“Dad, Christina and I are going to the beach at Lido di Tarquinia. We have a rented Vespa. We will come back before supper. Ciao, papa.”
Christina explodes with laughter at Mark Anthony’s singing salute. Mark Anthony blushes. He grabs Christina by the arm and pulls her toward the Vespa parked alongside the museum wall. Only Mark Anthony has domain over the fiercely independent Christina.
I am paternally amused. I drift away, not turning to look for Emily. I want my final thought for the moment to be pleasant. Sidetracking, I proceed away from the piazza wanting to explore the streets of my birthplace.
The thought of encountering my birth mother is fleeting. There is no longing. Too many years have passed. I would not recognize her, alive or dead.
I notice the museum curator, with a troubled look, at the entry door speaking on her cell phone. She is watching me walk toward Via Roma.
The Renaissance-era streets are alive with girls in colorful summer dresses, young men circling with their raucous scooters, priests walking with elderly widows dressed in black and old men on park benches eying passing ladies of all ages. The city is a canvas of family values and established mores. In contrast to the religious pomp of Rome, Tarquinia is a natural home for the old religion, Stregheria, based on family and nature. Medieval culture is deeply rooted here evidenced by the architecture of the many towers and austere churches. Modern barbarians are unlikely to invade and settle in Tarquinia. It is destined to remain attractive and antiquated. I surmise that settlers would prefer not to stay in such proximity to a vast stockpile of tombs.
In Rome, travelers are lost amidst hordes of tourists and citizens. In Tarquinia, I see that the visitors are on stage. The locals appreciate every visitor, treat them well, and make sure they fit into the day-to-day life and joys of the small town. Only an hour northwest of Rome, Tarquinia is Italy’s best-
kept secret. It is sheer aesthetic inventiveness. It is a place to calm the soul and call home.
Only a small town, I suspect, can teach its children so uniquely well. Unlike my wife’s preference for the skyscrapers and neon rain of metropolises, this ancient commune is my preferred place to have been born. It may be the idyllic place to die. However, along with the hospitality, I sense an air of suspicion. I am engrossed with doubt. I am not certain if the source comes from within, or from without. The feeling that “not all is what it seems” sticks. Every stranger seems scrutinized and shadowed by the local carabinieri. I am a stranger and I feel the eyes of the community upon me: first the waiter, then the curator, and now the police officer standing watch across the street.
This carabiniere shamelessly stares at me. His look is one of misgiving. I am ill at ease and walk away wondering if there is any truth to the curator’s words. Are there descendants of an Etruscan civilization living in secret, perhaps right here in Tarquinia? Are they planning to resurrect their influence and suppress Rome?
Chapter 21
Tarquinia, central Italy City Streets
Emily makes me feel old and inadequate. Rather than affirm me, she tears me down. If my wife physically wanted only me, I think I could handle the rest of the world.
Tarquinia, my homeland, is the empowering antidote. Fundamentally, I feel caressed like the embrace of a mother’s arms having found her figlio errante (errant child). The city’s essence billows through my veins like an infusion of perfectly aged, sweet almond-flavored Amaretto liqueur. However, the mood that this town is not what it seems still swells within my gut. I sense it repeatedly but I am not yet able to understand why. Am I just being paranoid?
But how can I not treasure Tarquinia with all its archeological finds? There are more than six thousand Etruscan tombs. There are colorful Greek vases, paintings, frescoes, sculptures and catacombs, underground cemeteries that served as subterranean burial chambers of early Christians. Tarquinia’s medieval charms bring me peace and comfort as I stroll the narrow, pedestrian friendly, cobblestone streets lined with venerable, unique homes.
What was I thinking when I was a mere toddler and tried to run away from home? I remember that I packed a banker box of my preferred playthings and straight-lined out of our house towards the main entrance of the city.
Mamma watched me depart. I cannot remember where I imagined going. Beyond the entrance was sprawling open country fields, beautiful but sparsely populated. Of course, when mamma realized I was not turning back, she ran after me grasping me by my upper arm and whisked me back home before our neighbors had more spices to add to the gossip soup.
Refreshed by the summer breeze, my senses and appetite awaken to the cascading smells of azaleas, roses, brick oven pizza, Nutella, freshly baked bread and simmering tomato sauce. The main throughway, bathed in a rose-colored glow, is a feast of aromas and sights.
I would love another cappuccino, but it is the common practice to shun the breakfast beverage after 11 a.m. How quaint. I must confess that such unspoken rules bring me comfort. It is uplifting to so easily
