The Italian Letters. Linda Lambert

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, searching for the sense of mystery he felt.

      “Not at all. Riccardo would connect finds together and create a story. The story may or may not be true. What we can infer today may not be how people thought back then. For me, each artifact can have value in and of itself. Then I look for patterns. If I find enough artifacts of the same expression, of the same utility, I know it was in routine use. If I find a piece of technology, I know the level of progress of the civilization. There is a valid history of technology, although sometimes even that can be misleading.”

      “Such as?” She brushed her hands together to loosen the clinging soil, then wiped them on her pants.

      “Well, for instance, the indigenous Americans used rounded objects to grind corn and make pottery, yet they never invented the wheel for transport. Amazing.”

      “Amazing indeed.” She nodded. “Which led to a number of misinterpretations of native uses of technology . . . Regardless of some faulty assumptions, though, wouldn’t you say that some histories are defensible?” In spite of the heat, the damp ground soaked through her khakis and chilled her.

      “Defensible histories that are straightforward, linear, that use the pieces of knowledge necessary to achieve the next level of advancement, yes. But not quixotic histories that speculate on human motives and emotions. Too subjective for me.”

      “Psychological profiles are important to anthropologists. Otherwise, we couldn’t reason out the stories of civilization, understand human motivation. Perhaps there’s a niche for me there.” She shifted from side to side to loosen her slacks from the grasping earth.

      “The female brain is hardwired for such endeavors. I’m not.” Morgan was unaffected by the growing dampness. He was in his element.

      “Let me see if I get this straight: I’m an unrealistic girl who goes around with her head in a cloud wearing rose-colored glasses.”

      “Something like that.” He tipped his hat playfully.

      She stood abruptly, brushed herself off, and climbed the ladder. “I’m walking back,” she called down from above. Should I even consider working with him? He insists on such unimaginative thinking.

      “I had more to show you, Justine. Don’t be angry. I was just playing with you.” He climbed the ladder two steps at a time, walking rapidly after her, unable to catch up.

      As she emerged from the tree canopy into the heat of the day, her scalp began to sweat. The walk back into town didn’t soothe her frustration with her father’s chauvinism. He was either dismissing her work or trying to get her goat. Testing her all the time. She knew he was kidding, but it got tiresome.

      Justine opened her car trunk, threw in her jacket, changed out of her boots, grabbed her purse, and brushed the dried mud off her slacks. She headed toward the east side of Cerveteri and a gray stone castle that housed the Etruscan museum.

      A small sign indicated the entry through a ground-floor archway underneath the ramparts. She handed three euros to a young woman in a glass booth and stepped inside. An incline led to the upper ramparts and wound into a parapet and eventually a turret with barred windows. Crevices from missing stones offered homes to dozens of pigeons.

      In the darkened room, strategically placed lights beamed down on sarcophagi, pottery, tools, and delicate votive offerings behind glass walls. Light streamed in through the barred window onto ancient carved metal mirrors, one decorated with the Etruscan god Tinia, known in Greece as Zeus, holding a feather umbrella and touching the gown of a maiden wearing rose- and disc-shaped earrings and bracelets of gold filigree and granulated crystals. Long rows of perky ducks walked across brooches and fibula. Fingers of light caressed black Bucchero pottery scattered about, designed to serve both utilitarian and decorative function; amphora and drinking cups dedicated to the Etruscan god Fufluns; vases and funeral urns engraved with the names of men and women. Bronze tableware, bowls and pitchers, ladles and strainers. Halfway down the room she came upon a terra cotta sarcophagus that drew her attention with such intensity that chills moved up her bare arms. She stood mesmerized for several moments by the mystery