The Etruscan Net (3 page)

Broke said, ‘I’m sure it does,’ and smiled again.

‘Twice in one morning,’ said Elizabeth to herself as she drove to the Consulate. ‘If we go on at this rate, we may ultimately let our hair right down, go the whole hog, and
laugh.’
She opened the window of the car and said, in excellent Italian, ‘If the signore would spend less time sounding his horn, and more time using his eyes, he would observe that my left indicator is out, demonstrating that I intend to turn to the left. Thank you.’

The gallery shut for two hours in the middle of the day, and this gave Broke plenty of time to walk home to lunch. It was his custom to cross the Ponte Vecchio, and make his way back along the left bank of the river, thus completing the circuit which his morning walk had started.

As he passed the café on the corner of the Lungarno Acciaioli he noticed the two strangers, sitting at the table under the awning. They were clearly not tourists. He judged that they might be from Naples. Even, perhaps, from Sicily.

Tuesday Evening: Professor Bruno Bronzini

‘An instructive treatise,’ said Commander Comber, ‘could be written – I may even write it myself – on the difference between English and European drivers. As a nation we are law-abiding, intolerant, and insistent on priorities. One of the results of this is our morbid passion for queuing. We become bad-tempered if another driver interferes with those priorities by, say, cutting in, or jumping the lights, or pulling out into the wrong lane, even if –
get out of my way you cross-eyed cow.
Europeans, on the other hand, and more particularly Italians, regard driving as a sport. Provided the referee isn’t looking, you can cheat and bluff to the limit.
See that taxi? He thinks I’m going to give way, but I’m not.
But you must be cheerful about it, and good-tempered when your bluff’s called.
Molte grazie, signore.’

‘If I was running Florence,’ said Broke, ‘I’d put in a few more traffic lights.’

‘Of course you would. And
Halt
signs and
Give Way
signs and carefully marked traffic lanes and it’d take everyone three times as long to get through. We’ll be clear of the worst in a moment.’

They crossed the railway, and turned up the tree-lined Viale Alessandro Volta, out of the heat and turmoil of the city, and up into the coolness of the foot-hills.

It had been a blazing day. With the coming of evening a light mist, the thinnest of bridal veils, was rising from the valley of the Arno. The colour of the sky deepened from pale blue into indigo, and from indigo into steel. A few lights began to show.

‘Lovely, isn’t it,’ said Comber.

‘Most cities are more attractive,’ said Broke, ‘when you’re far enough away not to be able to hear them. Or smell them,’ he added.

‘Don’t be such a bloody realist.’

‘Who’s going to be there tonight?’

‘Apart from the Professor? I expect Mercurio will be there. He’s an adopted son. A remarkable specimen. Danilo Ferri will be somewhere in the background, running things in his usual quiet and competent way. He’s Bruno’s steward. Oh, and a lot of top brass from the Uffizi and the Pitti Palace, and, of course the Museo Archeologico. They’re the Etruscan experts – but I imagine you know them.’

‘I know Solferini and Bartolozzi, and I’ve met two or three of the others. What’s the form, will it just be drinks?’

The Commander laughed so heartily that the car nearly mounted the pavement.

‘I can see that you don’t know Bruno. This is an Etruscan orgy. There’ll be eats, drinks, music, dancing, if you like. The last guests leaving at daylight.’

‘I hope,’ said Broke, ‘that not everything one associates with an Etruscan orgy will be taking place tonight.’

‘Not in public, anyway. Here we are.’

The car turned off the road through high gate-posts of squared stone and passed down a tunnel of driveway between a double row of cypresses, which emerged with theatrical suddenness into a paved courtyard with lights.

A boy in dark overalls, belted at the waist and clipped at the wrists and ankles, ran up, almost before they had stopped, and opened the door. A second boy, similarly dressed, appeared at the other side, and said, ‘Leave the keys,
signori,
I will take the car.’

‘The devil you will. What are you going to do with it?’

‘Over there.’ The boy pointed to a row of cars on the far side. ‘She will be quite safe.’

The Commander said, ‘I’m not worried about it being safe. I want it parked where I can get it out quickly if I have to.’

The boy grinned, and said, ‘I put her at the end. You want to get her out, take a young lady for a ride perhaps, you can get her out quick.’

‘You flatter me,’ said the Commander, but handed the keys over. They walked under a semi-circular arch into an inner courtyard, set round with orange trees in terracotta urns, and up a shallow flight of steps. The front door was opened for them by a burly character, dressed in the loose-fitting overall which seemed to be the uniform of the place. He ushered them into an inner hall where a dark-haired, pale-faced man of medium height, unremarkable appearance, and entirely conventional dress, was awaiting them.

‘Danilo Ferri,’ whispered the Commander. And, as they reached him, ‘Allow me, Signor Ferri – Robert Broke.’

‘Good evening, Commander Comber. Good evening, Mr Broke.’ Ferri handled the tricky pronunciations with remarkable efficiency. ‘Let me take you in. The Professor will be so pleased that you could come.’

The Villa Rasenna had originally been built round a central courtyard. A later owner had enlarged it, roofing over the courtyard in the process, and the result was a complex of rooms of different sizes and at different levels. From somewhere ahead came music.

‘Watch the steps,’ said Ferri. ‘They’re tricky, even when you’re sober.’

The music was unlike anything Broke had ever heard before. Predominantly it was pipe music, with a background of strings and castanets.

‘Etruscan style,’ said Ferri. ‘A little monotonous at first, but you’ll find you’ll get used to it.’ They had turned a corner and were now in the main hall of the villa, a long, low room, with a beamed ceiling, hung with tapestries, Broke could see the musicians, and confirmed what he had suspected. The instruments they were performing on were the double flute and the zither. Considering the limitations of the instruments they were performing very well.

A small, round figure detached itself from the group in the far corner, and came bouncing across to meet them. It did not need Comber’s whispered warning to tell Broke that this was his host.

Professor Bronzini was dressed in pointed slippers and a robe, similar to that worn by his servants, but of richer and more elaborate stuff, with a short tunic, or chlamys on top. His small, round body was circled at the waist by an elaborate leather belt, hung with small gold ornaments. A cherubic Silenus countenance, crimson cheeks, flat nose, thick lips, and grey hair astart, seemed to be balanced on the high collar which topped this remarkable outfit.

‘Commander! I am so pleased. And you have brought Mr–?’

‘Broke.’

‘Mr Broke. Delighted. I saw you looking at the orchestra. The instruments they are playing are exact reproductions of the double flute or subulo, and the ancient lyre. You have studied the Etruscans, Mr Broke?’

Comber started to say, ‘As a matter of fact, he’s rather–’ but got no further. The Professor had turned away to clap his hands, and a boy came across with a tray. The glasses on it were heavy green beakers. The drink inside seemed to be an aromatic wine.

The Professor bounded away to greet some new arrivals and Broke had time to study his surroundings. Apart from the tapestries the only ornamentation consisted of two circular bronze mirrors on the stone shelf over the fireplace, and a remarkable bronze strigil, the handle formed in the shape of a goat on its hind legs. He was examining these, when he found Ferri beside him again.

‘Interesting work,’ said Broke. ‘Fine copies.’

‘Copies?’ said Ferri.

‘Well,’ said Broke, mildly, ‘they could hardly be the originals, could they? Both the mirrors are in the Archaeological Museum at Dresden, and the goat comes from the Villa Giulia, at Rome.’

‘I know very little about these things,’ said Ferri. ‘I expect you’re right. Let me get you another drink.’

The room was filling up. Broke spotted Doctor Solferini, curator of the Museo Archeologico, talking to a severe-looking lady in black and made his way across to join them. The Doctor greeted him warmly, introduced him to the lady, who turned out to be his wife, and said, ‘Is this the first Rasenna party you’ve been to?’

‘It’s the first party I’ve been to since I’ve come out here.’

‘A severe baptism of fire,’ said the Doctor.

‘What actually happens?’

‘We drink, and eat. In a modified version of the Etruscan style.’

‘Modified?’

‘We could hardly go the whole way. Wine served by naked slaves! Orgies under the table!’

‘I’m afraid,’ said Broke, ‘that I never really believed any of that. I think their paintings show the slaves waiting on them as naked in order to demonstrate that they were
slaves.
It was a convention. Like always showing women dressed in chiton and himation, or men in chlamys and tebennos. And as for the orgies–’

‘Orgies,’ said Professor Bronzini, popping up behind them like a porpoise out of the waves. ‘Lies. Lies invented by that Greek gossip, Theopompus, and propagated by the Romans, in a deliberate attempt to vilify the Etruscans. Your glasses are empty, gentlemen. More to drink.’ He clapped his hands again and a boy slid through the crowd towards them. The Professor disappeared as suddenly as he had arrived.

‘Where on earth does he get all these servants from?’ asked Broke.

‘He breeds them,’ said Doctor Solferini.

‘My dear!’ said his wife.

‘I don’t mean literally. I mean that he has two or three large properties in the neighbourhood of Volterra, and the young men from the farms come up and help at the Villa. I expect they enjoy it.’

‘I see,’ said Broke, trying to keep the disapproval out of his voice.

One of the difficulties, he foresaw, was going to be the disposal of drinks. He had no idea how long the preliminaries were going to last, and the idea of consuming half a dozen beakers of wine before dinner was not one which appealed to him at all. At a civilized cocktail party there would have been a number of useful little tables on which you could have deposited one nearly full glass before accepting another. The furnishing of this room inhibited such tactics.

He edged his way towards the entrance at the far end. This gave on to a small and much darker room. It seemed to be some sort of conservatory. There were plants growing in pots, arranged on slatted shelves, and other plants trained on trellis-work. Broke tipped the contents of his glass into a pot which contained a very large and very prickly cactus, and was on the point of retiring when he heard a low chuckle behind him.

He swung round and saw a young man watching him. Seen even in the half-light of the ante-room, it was a remarkable face. It was the blond, straight featured, Anglo-Saxon face which came over with the Crusaders, and has never died out in Northern Italy; a remarkable contrast to the coarser, black-haired, thick featured farm boys. The features had more than regularity. They had a sort of prettiness which was startling. This was a young divinity, descended for a whim from Olympus, to consort with hinds and satyrs. The fashionable Florentine drawl dispelled the illusion.

‘I don’t blame you,’ said the youth. ‘Personally I’d prefer a martini every time, but unfortunately martinis weren’t invented in the fifth century bc. My name’s Mercurio, by the way. I’m the son of the house. The adopted, not the natural son.’

‘My name’s Broke – I’m running the Galleria delle Arti for Welford Hussey.’

‘Oh yes. I heard he’d gone off chasing Incas. Whilst you’re here, would you like to look at the holy of holies? The old man will take a conducted tour later, I expect.’

Broke said, ‘Thank you. If you think your father wouldn’t object.’

The young man led the way across the conservatory and down three steps to a low door. ‘Have to mind your head here,’ he said. ‘The whole thing’s constructed to look like a tomb. Ghoulish sort of idea. Typical of the old man though.’ He took out a key and unlocked the heavy wooden door, which swung back with a soundless ease which betokened good workmanship. Mercurio clicked on the electric light.

The room was in two parts, divided by an arch. It was paved with stone and walled in naked brick. A low stone bench ran the length of one wall, continuing through into the far part of the cellar, and along the short wall at the far end.

‘That’s for the corpses,’ said Mercurio.

The other long way was covered with shelves of varying depths. On them were set an astonishing collection of objects; terracotta vases, hydria and kraters; figures human and animal, kouroi and kriophoroi; candelabra, stampiglia, small oil lamps, locks and keys, pots and pans, mirrors of polished bronze, and a bewildering array of personal ornaments, fibulae, diadems, bracelets, earrings and finger-rings in worked and knurled gold and set with precious stones. Hidden lighting from behind the shelves showed up these treasures in artful relief.

‘Sort of mixture between a funeral parlour and museum,’ said Mercurio. ‘Do you know anything about these things?’

‘A certain amount,’ said Broke. He was particularly interested in the terracotta figures. It was impossible, without a closer examination than he could make as they stood on their shelves, to be certain whether they were genuine Etruscan relics or very fine copies.

‘I always feel a bit embarrassed about this one,’ said Mercurio, with a giggle. He indicated an incense burner. It was in sculptured bronze, and the stem in the form of a dancing boy, naked except for the leather shoes which came halfway up the calf. ‘That’s me.’

‘I see,’ said Broke. ‘Are the others all modern copies too?’

‘Some are, some aren’t. I believe most of the pottery things are real. There wouldn’t be much point in faking them, would there? I mean, they’re so ugly.’

Broke made no comment on this. He was wishing that he could have a few hours alone in the place, with direct instead of indirect lighting, and a strong glass.

‘I take it the rule is, don’t touch?’ he said.

‘As long as you don’t drop anything,’ said Mercurio. ‘The old man thinks rather highly of these bits and pieces. They’re the ones he means to take with him into the next world.’

‘Do you mean to say he intends to be buried here?’

‘That’s the big idea. Embalmed, and laid out on that shelf.’

‘But would the authorities allow it?’

‘I’ve no idea,’ said Mercurio. ‘But since the old coot’ll be dead, it’ll be no skin off his nose if he does end up in the cemetery, like other people.’

Broke had nothing to say to this. Presumably Mercurio owed anything he had to the Professor. He thought that he might have spoken a bit more kindly about him.