The cord by the door turned out to be a long string that, when pulled, turned on a few lightbulbs that had been strung about the room. It felt a little bit like being in a dungeon, with the poor light and the cold stone of the walls. But while you might take issue with the ambiance, the collection was well worth a closer look. There was terra-cotta in abundance: kraters, bowls, jugs, amphorae. There was plenty of the black bucchero and painted pottery of different styles: red figures on black, white figures on red, and black figures on red, just about every permutation and combination in Greek- or Etruscan-style pottery one could ever hope to see. There were also bronze hand mirrors, incised on the back with scenes of gods and animals. All were top notch, as far as I could see, and a few definitely museum quality.
The very large sculptural piece on the wall I decided was a temple frieze, in terra-cotta. On closer examination, it showed a man on a winged horse, spearing a creature with two heads and the tail of a snake.
Lake had said he thought that perhaps Godard didn't know what he had in the Bellerophon, but seeing this collection, I was convinced that wasn't so. The clincher was a small case toward the back of the room, which held a single object only. It was a black figure hydria, a ceramic water jug, beautifully painted. It was smaller than average, maybe fifteen inches high, round on the bottom and tapering to a slim neck and the flaring out again, with three handles, one on each side for carrying it, and a third for pouring. Almost every inch of the neck and lip was covered in decoration, swirls, and so on, and on the rounded part was a scene showing a man on a winged horse battling a creature that was part lion, part goat, and part snake. Godard collected Bel-lerophon and the chimera.
"Sorry to keep you waiting," Godard said, maneuvering his wheelchair between the glass cases carefully. "Have you seen anything here that interests you?" He looked different, but I couldn't put my finger on why.
"Everything is quite exceptional," I said. "Can you tell me what you want to sell?"
"I don't want to sell any of it," Godard said.
"Then perhaps I am wasting your time," I said. And he mine, of course.
"I said I didn't want to sell any of it," Godard said. "I didn't say I wouldn't sell it. No doubt you noticed my somewhat constrained circumstances. Most of the furniture and paintings are gone. There is nothing else. Have a look. If you see something you like, and it's something I'm prepared to part with at this very moment, then perhaps we can do business."
I supposed that was something, but, being cautious, I did not go right up to Bellerophon. Instead, I stopped at the chimera hydria. "This is obviously special," I said.
"It's not for sale," he said.
"How about this?" I said, pointing to a bronze mirror.
"It's not for sale, either." This was sounding pretty hopeless, but I couldn't see myself going back to Lake and telling him I couldn't get what he wanted, so I soldiered on.
"I can certainly understand your feelings about these objects," I said, doggedly trying to win the man over. "This is a very fine collection, and it would be difficult to part with any of it. How did you come to acquire it?" A touchy subject that one. Provenance is a really important concept in antiquities and essential in proving that objects have been legally acquired, or at least acquired long enough ago that you won't be in any trouble with various authorities.
He looked as if he wouldn't answer, but then he said, "My father did most of the collecting. He spent summers in Italy—Tuscany—and made the acquaintance of some fellows who helped him collect. Probably tombaroli," he said with a slight smile. "I assume you know what that is."
"Tomb robbers," I said.
"Correct. In any event, no matter how he acquired it, it was a long time ago, and so all seems to be above-board now. There was an expert out here two maybe three years ago, before my father died, anyway. He took detailed photos and everything. If there'd been any problems, I'm sure he would have said something. My father also collected, purchased pieces at auctions and so on. I have all the receipts."
"And you?"
"I pretty much just sell it," he said.
By this time, I'd managed to reach the horse. Taking a small pocket flashlight out of my bag, I began to study it carefully, as Godard watched. It was bronze, certainly, and the right size. I checked out the front legs, then the back. Carved into a back leg was Etruscan writing. "Tinscvil," I said, muttering aloud. Just like the Chimera of Arezzo. I'd looked at it carefully enough and had even tried to copy the writing on the chimera's paw.
"What did you say?" Godard said, wheeling up to me.
"Tinscvil," I said. "Dedicated to Tinia, or Zeus, isn't it?"
"You read Etruscan," he said.
It is a measure of how far gone I was, enthralled by the prospect of all that lovely money from Lake, and determined to convince Godard to sell, that I did what I did then. I didn't lie, exactly. I just said nothing. Or rather I just murmured something that Godard took to be assent, something like hmmm.
He looked at me for a moment, and then pointed to a rather peculiar-looking object in one of the cases. "Do you know what that is?"
Strangely enough, I did. Several of the books on the Etruscans I'd consulted had shown pictures of something similar, and I'd noticed it because it was so odd. "It's a bronze model of a sheep's liver, isn't it?" I said. "Etruscan haruspices, diviners, used them to foretell the future."
"That's right," he said. "You can see the sixteen sections of the sky around the outside, and there are fifty-two names of divinities on it." He opened the case and took the object out, stroking it with one hand as he held it with the other. "People scoff at divination," he said. "But they shouldn't. The Romans believed in it. They left nothing to chance. Nothing. Before every battle, before every important decision, they called on Etruscan haruspices. They knew."
"Well, the Romans were certainly successful," I said.
"Exactly," he said, failing to notice the tinge of sarcasm in my voice. He put the bronze liver back in the case.
"Are you by any chance a member of the Societa?" he asked.
This one I couldn't fake, but still I wasn't entirely straightforward. "No, I'm afraid not," I said. I assumed he meant an academic organization of some kind, or an archaeological society.
"But you know about it, of course. The chimera hydria."
"Hmmm," I said again.
"I don't know if there are any women in it, but that does seem a little old-fashioned, even by Italian standards, and come to think of it, the Etruscans themselves wouldn't have objected, would they? The Greeks may not have allowed women at their symposia, but the Etruscans rather welcomed them. Would you like me to put your name forward? You read Etruscan, and you certainly know Etruscan antiquities. You picked all the best stuff in the room in a matter of minutes. It's early days for me, of course, given that I've only been a member for a few months, but you never know. I'd give anything to go to the meeting," he said. "But I am a trifle constrained in what I am able to do," he said, gesturing to his legs, wrapped carefully in a blanket.
"That's most unfortunate," I said. I meant whatever had happened to his legs, but he took it differently.
"It is," he said. "I have waited so long to become a member. My father died a couple of years ago. I'm Cisra, by the way."
"How do you do," I said.
"Not too well, as you can see," he replied. "I have two weeks to raise the money and to figure out how to get there. If I could afford some help and perhaps a van equipped with hand controls, I might make it. I hope so."
"That's too bad about your father," I said.
"Yes," he said. "Left me in something of a financial pickle, as you can see. But at least I got to be Cisra. It's not automatic, you know."