I'd pulled out a map and at random picked a town that was far enough away from Leclerc and the carabinieri but close enough to Volterra that I could still meet Lake wherever and whenever—and I sincerely hoped it would be soon—that he called. The town I chose was Arezzo.
The hotel had several advantages from my perspective. The staff was pleasant enough but not too familiar or, worse yet, curious, and the clientele was, by and large, transient: backpacking students and the occasional businessman who stayed only briefly. It also had a nice little breakfast room—it became the bar later in the day—and in it they served a decent cappuccino and a better than average breakfast of cold cuts, cheese, fruit, and lots of croissants and bread.
"Would you mind if I sat with you?" a voice asked the second morning I was there, as I was drinking my coffee and searching the newspaper in vain for any mention of a stolen Etruscan vase or the arrest of the man I knew as Pierre Leclerc. "The dining room is rather crowded, and I'm afraid there doesn't seem to be a free table."
I wanted to say no. A couple of days before, I'd been eager for some company. Now, given what had happened, all I wanted was to be left alone. I looked up to see a woman of perhaps sixty or sixty-five, gray curly hair and sunburned complexion, clad in jeans and a flowered shirt. She was tiny, an inch or two under five feet, with the delicate features that make me feel, although I'm average just about everything, like a galomphing giant. I found I couldn't bring myself to snub her. "Please," I said, gesturing to the empty chair across from me.
"Espresso, please," she said to the waiter. "Don't let me interrupt you," she said. "Go right ahead and read your paper."
"I'm finished with the first section," I said. "Would you like it? It's in Italian."
"I would, indeed," she replied. "And Italian is fine. You have saved me a few lire today. Thank you. I confess I'm watching my pennies. On a pension of sorts. I usually watch and see if anyone leaves one, then I pounce on it."
"My pleasure," I said. I turned back to the newspaper, hoping she wouldn't talk. I was disappointed.
"Are you touring around Tuscany?" she asked.
I set down the paper. It was hopeless. "Yes, I am," I said. Tourist was as good an explanation of my presence as anything. "How about you?"
"In a manner of speaking," she said. "I've been here in Arezzo for about a month now. No reason to go home, so I stay on."
"There are lots worse places than here," I offered.
"Indeed there are. I love it here. I even like this little hotel. I wish they'd use another color for the rooms though. I feel as if I'm staying in a bordello."
I laughed. "My sentiments exactly."
"Well, if you have nothing planned for today," she said. "You can always come and help me look for Lars Porsena."
"Who?" I said.
"You know," she said. " 'Lars Porsena of Clusium/ By the Nine Gods he swore.' "
" 'That the great house of Clusium/Should suffer wrong no more,' " I said. "I can't remember the rest of it."
" 'By the Nine Gods he swore it,' " she said. " 'And named a trysting day I joined in, and we finished it together. " 'And bade his messengers ride forth/East and west and south and north/To summon his array.' " We both laughed.
"I know I recited that in grade school, but I can't remember who wrote it, and I don't think I ever knew who Lars Porsena was."
"Thomas Babington Macaulay," she said. "That would be Baron Macaulay to you. Lays of Ancient Rome, published in 1842. Not much as poetry goes, but it has a certain schoolboy charm, wouldn't you say? We also have the baron to thank for Horatius at the bridge."
"I know that one, too," I said. " 'With weeping and with laughter/Still is the story told/How brave Horatius kept the bridge/In the brave days of old.' How's that?"
"Brava," she said. "I have only just met you, and already I know you are a woman of education and refinement. Even if you don't know who Lars Porsena was."
"I don't know where Clusium is, either."
"Clusium is Chiusi, just a few miles south of here. Several Tuscan towns are mentioned in the poem. Even Arezzo here, by its Roman name. 'The harvests of Arretium/This year, old men will reap.' Volterra, too. Volterra was called Volaterrae by the Romans. The Etruscans called it—"
"Velathri," I said.
"You do know about the Etruscans!" she said. ' 'From lordly Volaterrae/Where scowls the far-famed hold/Piled by the hands of giants/For godlike kings of old.' "
"Stop!" I groaned. "No more Macauley, please. 'Where scowls the far-famed hold.' What could that possibly mean? No, don't tell me. I want to know who Lars Porsena was."
"An Etruscan who tried to reestablish Etruscan rule in Rome sometime around 500 B.C.E. It is quite possible that he was successful, but if he was, it wasn't for long. His son was defeated at the battle of Aricia shortly thereafter. Porsena's supposed to be buried in an absolutely fantastic tomb, complete with labyrinth. It's never been found, although many have claimed to discover it. Giorgio Vasari was one who did. He was positioning, if that's the word, his patron, Cosimo de Medici. You know who he is, I presume?" I nodded. I most certainly did. Indeed I'd been lectured on the subject by none other than Crawford Lake, but I couldn't tell her that.
"Vasari was trying to persuade people that Cosimo was the new Lars Porsena. In any event, Vasari was wrong, I suppose about Cosimo, but certainly about the tomb. The tomb wasn't found then, and it hasn't been found since. For some reason, I took it into my head that I would come upon it first. It's supposed to be near Chiusi, Clusium, that is, which is just a few miles south of here. In fact it's supposed to be under Chiusi, 'sub urbe Clusio,' according to Pliny, who also said it was three hundred yards wide with a labyrinth, and topped by pyramids.
"There are tunnels under the city that some say are part of the labyrinth but I think were just drainage or water systems. I decided that the tomb could be just about anywhere in the area. I mean what did Pliny know? He was writing long, long after the event. I looked around Chiusi for a few weeks, then moved up to Cortona—that would be Curtun to the Etruscans— and then here. I'm working my way north. The wonderful thing about this project of mine is that many of the Etruscan cities evolved over the centuries into some of the most beautiful hill towns in Tuscany and Um-bria, if not all of Italy. You're welcome to come with me. I mean it. It's not too difficult, doesn't cost anything, gets you to some glorious countryside, and it's rather entertaining, in a way."
"I'm afraid I have a couple of things I must get done today," I said. I'd just confessed I was at loose ends, so this rang false, but if she was offended, she didn't give any indication.
"Maybe another time," she said.
"Yes, it sounds like fun," I said. I didn't tell her I'd already seen one Etruscan tomb too many. As I spoke, she quickly slipped a roll, a pear, and some cheese into her bag.
"I guess you saw that," she said. "I load up on breakfast. It saves me stopping for lunch. No, I suppose I should be truthful. It saves me having to buy my lunch. I'm on a rather strict budget."
"That's okay," I said. "I remember only too well doing that in my student days and even well beyond."
"Thanks," she said. "I'm Leonora Leonard, by the way. Ridiculous name, I know. Thank heavens women don't have to change their names when they get married now, so they don't have to be saddled with a name like that. Please call me Lola."