During their heyday, before the birth of the Roman republic, there were Etruscan kings of Rome—the Tarquins—who, between 616 and 509 B.C.E., were instrumental in building the city that would ultimately defeat them. The last king of Rome was Tarquinius the Proud, who was expelled from Rome in 509 B.C.E. From that time on, Rome and the Etruscans were enemies, fighting over every inch of ground.
In the end, the Etruscan federation could not hold against the might of Rome. For whatever reason, the cities did not band together to protect themselves, and one by one, they fell. Their cities were abandoned, or fell into ruin, or were simply replaced by others, until they were reborn, in a different form, as medieval cities, some of the loveliest in Italy: Orvieto, Chiusi, Cor-tona, Volterra, Arezzo, and Perugia among them.
As mysterious as these people may have been, I noticed that many had opinions on them. Indeed, I would say that the Etruscans presented a blank slate, in a way, on which later people found a convenient resting place for their own hopes, beliefs, and desires. Cosimo de Medici was hardly the first to use people's rather vague notions about the Etruscans for his own purposes. A Dominican friar who went by the name of Annius of Viterbo, determined, in the fifteenth century, that the Etruscans, a noble and peace-loving people, according to him, had helped Noah repopulate the earth after the Flood. To prove his point, he argued that their language was a version of Aramaic. Despite his rather outlandish views, Annius's theories may have helped save some Etruscan antiquities from destruction by the church as pagan symbols. The Etruscans could have used Annius a century later, when something like six tons of Etruscan bronzes were melted down to adorn a church in Rome.
Lawrence, of Lady Chatterley's Lover fame, also thought the Etruscans were his kind of people, in touch with nature and their natural selves. He saw phallic symbols everywhere on his visits to Etruscan sites and wrote glowingly of what he saw to be their refreshingly natural philosophy. On the other hand, the philosopher Nietzsche, who arguably knew something about angst, called them gloomy—schwermutigen—although what made him think that was not clear. The art critic Ber-ensen dismissed all Etruscan art as being non-Greek and therefore unworthy, even though, if I'd interpreted what I'd read correctly, Greeks living in Italy had been responsible for some of it, and some of the art prized as Greek and Roman had later been revealed to be Etruscan. By the end of my reading, it was pretty clear to me that views expressed about the Etruscans said more about the holder of those opinions than about the Etruscans themselves.
My last stop in Italy was Florence, for a look at the famous Chimera of Arezzo itself, now housed in its own room in the archaeological museum. Lake was right. As public sculpture, it was not particularly impressive. At only about thirty inches or so in height, it needed the Bellerophon to make it into something you could picture sitting in front of a temple, for example, or in a public square. But it was a magnificent piece of art. Using the lost wax method of manufacturing, the artist had managed to show the muscles beneath the surface, the ribs through the skin. The animal had already been wounded, and you could even see the blood spurting from the wound in its haunches. But still it—she—fought on, ferocious in combat, the snake head swaying, the goat's head rearing up, and the lion, its mane erect, roaring in rage. The sculptor had cut an inscription into the wax model before the bronze one was formed. The inscription on one of the front legs read, according to the notes I had, tinscvil, making it a gift to Tinia, the Etruscan Zeus. I had seen what I needed to see. I called Boucher and arranged to meet him late the afternoon of my arrival, two days after my meeting with Lake, at the Cafe de Flore.
I booked myself into a lovely Left Bank hotel, rather nicer than the place I usually stay, but there was all that glorious expense money in the bank, and I did, after all, have to keep up appearances. They couldn't know Lake was my buyer, but they needed to know I could afford to move in these social circles. My check of the auction house catalogues told me I wasn't going to get the Bellerophon for less than a few million dollars, and that only if I got lucky. Still, Lake clearly knew he was going to have to pay big for it, and even if I couldn't get it for the lowest sum he mentioned and get the extra commission, I was going to do quite nicely, thank you.
Yves Boucher turned out to be a tall, thin man with short salt-and-pepper hair, nice cheekbones, and the requisite arty appearance: black jeans and boots, a collarless white and black striped shirt, and a black leather vest. He was seated at a table on the sidewalk, reading a newspaper, a glass of Pernod in front of him, when I arrived. I ordered a Kir Royale, for the equivalent of about twelve dollars, a ridiculous extravagance, but I was already enjoying being in Crawford Lake's employ.
I wasn't quite sure what to think of Boucher at first. Not that I could point to anything specific that bothered me. He was pleasant enough, rather courtly and old world, really. He had a habit of placing his right hand against his chest, palm flat, fingers splayed, when he spoke to you, as if expressing heartfelt sincerity and conviction with every word. He was soft spoken, and from time to time he'd have to lean forward to speak to me, as the roar of the traffic on Boulevard St. Germain threatened to drown out his words.
"Robert Godard," he said, reflectively. "Unusual man. Not easy to deal with, you'll understand. Rather anal, you know. Hates to part with anything. Despite the fact he needs the money, it will be difficult to get him to sell the equestrian bronze. I believe he will, but only if he likes you."
I had not realized this was a personality contest, although I understood the situation. Collectors tend to be rather possessive people, some obsessively so, and if they need to part with one of their treasures, they usually like to sell it to someone they feel appreciates what they have.
"Where can I find him?" I asked.
"Good question," he said. "He moves around quite a bit and can be a little cagey about where he is at any point in time. I have a cell phone number where I can contact him. I'll set up a meeting for you." By this, Boucher meant he wanted in on the deal. Well, there was money to spare.
"And your terms?" I asked.
"Oh," he said with a wave. "I don't charge very much for making contact. We'll talk about that later."
"I'd prefer to talk about that now," I said. "My client wants the bronze but doesn't have unlimited funds." A slight fib, but I suppose I could argue that even billionaires have their financial limitations.
"One percent of the selling price," he said. Assuming the Bellerophon sold for a couple of million, that was a $20,000 phone call he was going to make, but I didn't know how to get in touch with Godard any other way.
"And if the deal doesn't happen, despite the introduction?"
"A flat fee. Five thousand."
"Okay," I said reluctantly, hoping Lake wouldn't consider Boucher part of my expenses but would reimburse him directly. Boucher let his hand leave its apparently permanent position on his chest to briefly shake my hand.
"Canadian, is he?" Boucher went on, signaling the waiter to bring us another round.
"Who?" I said.
"Your client," he said.
"He moves around," I said.
"What business is he in?"
"E-commerce," I said. I figured that didn't narrow the field down much.