‘One of my childhood passions. I collated all the German codes broken by the Allies during the First World War. I was just getting myself back up to speed. It was looking at some of those early Christian acrostics that did it. I’ve realized you can’t have too many skills in this game.’
‘It would appear,’ Jack said, scratching his stubble, ‘that you have the makings of an archaeologist. Maria was right. Maybe I should just give up now and hand it all over to you.’
‘Maybe in about twenty years,’ Jeremy replied thoughtfully, then grinned at Jack. ‘That should give me time for a stint in special forces, to learn everything about diving, weapons and helicopters, to overcome all fear, and, most importantly, to work out how to handle your esteemed colleague opposite.’
Costas moaned and snorted in his sleep, and Jack laughed. ‘No one handles him. He’s the boss around here.’
‘Trouble is, in twenty years’ time, all the world’s mysteries will have been solved.’
Jack shook his head. ‘The past is like the New World was to the first colonists. You think you’ve found it all, then you turn a corner and another El Dorado’s shimmering on the horizon. And look where we are today. Some of the greatest mysteries may always be there, half solved, constantly drawing you on.’
‘Sometimes that’s the best way,’ Jeremy murmured. ‘You remember the Viking sagas? The loose ends aren’t always tied up, virtue isn’t always rewarded. We don’t always want a conventional ending.’
‘And you won’t always get one, with me,’ Jack grinned. ‘Something else I’ve learned, the treasure you find is rarely what you think you’ve been looking for.’
‘There it is.’ The aircraft banked sharply to port, and Jeremy pointed to the coastline some ten thousand feet below. ‘I asked the pilot to take us into Los Angeles from the north, to give us a view of Malibu. It’s pretty spectacular.’
‘Beaches,’ Costas murmured. ‘Good surfing?’ He had been asleep for the entire trip from JFK in New York, and before that for most of the transatlantic haul from England. He looked as if he had just come out of hibernation, and leaned his forehead against the windowpane as he peered blearily down.
‘Not bad,’ Jeremy replied. ‘Not that I’d know, of course. When I was here, I was working on my dissertation.’
‘Right.’ Costas still sounded blocked up, but the worst of his cold seemed to have passed. ‘I’m looking forward to finding out what we’re doing here, Jeremy, but I’m not complaining.’
‘I told Jack the whole story while you were dead to the world. I found Everett in the California State Death Registers. Same date and place of birth, no doubt about the identity. He lived just north of here, in Santa Paula, arrived here after leaving England in 1912. On a hunch I called a friend in the Getty Villa. Turns out he can tell us more, a whole lot more. For a start, Everett was a devout Roman Catholic, a convert.’
‘Huh?’ Costas rubbed his eyes. ‘I thought this was all about the British Church, the Pelagian heresy.’
‘That’s what I hope this visit will sort out for us.’
‘So we’re not going surfing.’
‘The trail’s hotted up again, Costas,’ Jack said intently. ‘Jeremy’s made a real breakthrough.’
‘You can see it now,’ Jeremy said. ‘The Getty Villa. In the cleft in the hills down there, overlooking the sea.’
Jack peered at the cluster of buildings visible just in from the Coastal Highway. Suddenly it was if he was back at Herculaneum, staring at the plan of the Villa of the Papyri made by Karl Weber more than two centuries before. He could see the great peristyle courtyard, extending towards the sea, with the main mass of the villa structure nestled behind at the back of the valley.
‘The only big difference is the alignment,’ Jeremy said. ‘The villa at Herculaneum lies parallel to the seashore, with the courtyard and the main buildings abutting the seafront. Otherwise the Getty Villa’s faithful to Weber’s plan. It’s a fantastic creation, the kind of thing that’s only possible with American philanthropy, with unfettered vision and unlimited wealth. It’s also one of the finest museums of antiquities anywhere in the world, and the place where I’ve done some of my best writing. Whatever else awaits us down there, you’re in for a treat.’
Three hours later they stood beside a shimmering rectangular pool in the main courtyard of the Getty Villa. They had entered unobtrusively by a small door at the west end, and now they stood stock-still like the statues that adorned the garden, soaking in the sunshine and the brilliance of the scene. It was as if they had entered a movie set for a Roman epic, yet with an intimacy and attention to detail rarely seen in the sweeping panoramas of history. The pool was almost a hundred yards long, extending from the front portico of the villa to the seaward side where they had walked up from the Coastal Highway. At either end were copies of ancient bronzes found in the Villa of the Papyri at Herculaneum, a drunken Silenus and a sleeping faun, and opposite them was a seated Hermes so lifelike he seemed ready to slip into the pool at any moment. Between the pool and the colonnaded portico that surrounded the courtyard were trees and beds of plants that made the marble seem like natural extrusions of the bedrock, surrounded and cushioned by vegetation. The entire garden was an orderly version of the world outside, cocooned and protected by human ingenuity. The pool reflected the columns and trees, creating an illusionistic scene like the wall paintings they could just make out on the interior of the portico, as if they were being drawn beyond the garden to other, fanciful creations of the human mind, not to the disordered and uncontrollable reality beyond. Jack remembered the wall painting of Vesuvius he had shown Costas as they flew towards the volcano, an image that summed up all the Arcadian dreams of ancient Rome, a flimsy sheen over a reality that had blasted its way through on that fateful day almost two thousand years before.
‘Everything’s authentic,’ Jeremy said. ‘The plan’s based on Weber’s original record of the villa he saw in the tunnels in the eighteenth century, and the statues are exact copies of the originals they found then. Even the vegetation’s authentic, pomegranate trees, laurels, fan palms brought all the way from the Mediterranean.’
Jack closed his eyes, then opened them again. The California hills had the same stark, sun-scorched beauty he loved in the Mediterranean, and the smell of herbs and the sea transported him back. The villa was not an interpretation of the past but a perfect resemblance of it, full of light and shadow, alive with people, gesturing and breathing. Few other historical reconstructions had done this for him, and here it felt right. As he looked at the villa, rich with colour and precision, in his mind’s eye he saw the excavated buildings of Herculaneum, flickering in the background like a photographic negative. He found himself remembering the times he had witnessed death, the moment of transition when the body suddenly becomes a husk, when colour turns to grey. Herculaneum was too close after that moment for comfort, more troubling to behold than sites that had decayed and become whitewashed by time, like old skeletons. It was the blasted corpse of a city, still reeking and oozing, like a burns victim after a terrible accident. Yet here in the Getty Villa it was as if someone had injected a burst of adrenaline into the still-warm corpse and miraculously revived it, as if the ancient site was again pulsating and sparkling with a dazzling clarity.
‘Only in California,’ Costas said, shaking his head. ‘I guess with Hollywood only a few miles down the coast, this is what you’d expect.’
‘When the villa opened in 1974, the reaction was amazing,’ Jeremy said. ‘A lot of the critics panned it. The Romans can get a pretty bad press over here. It’s all Pontius Pilate, debauched emperors, throwing Christians to the lions. This place was a stunning revelation. The colour, the brilliance, the taste. Some scholars even refused to believe it was an authentic recreation.’