Etruscan Chimera Read online

  Estruscan Chimera

  Lyn Hamilton

  PROLOGUE

  The man wiped the sweat from his brow and sighed. By all the gods, it was hot here by the kilns. He could only dream of a place in the hills where the air sighed in the cypress trees, or of the sea, almost near enough to see here in Velc, from the highest treetop, but not so close that its breezes cooled his face.

  He had chosen the vessel with care. He'd tested several, feeling their weight and their balance as he made a pouring motion and running his fingers across the surface to feel for imperfections in the clay that would destroy his work in the final firing. This one was perfect.

  He'd thought long and hard about the subject, too, how best to capture the heroic struggle, the fight to the death between two bold antagonists, how to place the black figures against the red background to best effect on the softly rounded surface.

  The choice of subject had been easy, the one he 'd heard first from some Greeks who toiled in his workshop, his son's favorite tale, the story the boy had asked to hear every night before sleep. He could recite it, almost without thinking, these many years later. About how Proteus, king of Argos, plotted against the brave and beautiful Bellerophon because Proteus's wife, the lovely but deceitful Antea, her advances spurned by the noble Bellerophon, had told the king terrible lies. How Proteus, enraged, had sent Bellerophon with sealed orders to Lycia, where the Lycian king, upon opening the tablet, had learned that Bellerophon was to die. How he had sent the young hero on an impossible mission to kill the dreaded chimera, a monstrous creature with the head of a lion, the hissing tail of a serpent, and a goat in between, who with every fiery breath scorched the Lycian soil.

  How Bellerophon, guided by the gods and aided by winged Pegasus, had triumphed. Flying over the monster, he 'd shot a bolt of lead down the throat of the terrible beast. Melted by the creature's own fiery breath, the molten metal seared her entrails. How in agony, the monster died.

  The man picked up his tools, and after a moment's hesitation, touched the surface. This one he was not doing for the workshop, not for the wealthy families who snapped up his work for their loved ones' tombs. It would not be for sale. This would be his masterpiece.

  PART I

  THE GOAT

  ONE

  ROME

  It struck me, as the cell door clanged shut, that the road to hell is paved, not so much with good intentions, nor even a single violent, murderous act, although that, too, occurred. No, the road is a series of small choices, almost imperceptible rents in the moral fabric, that, taken together, over time, like drops of water on stone, erode our sense of right and wrong.

  In my case, the journey began with a beast that could not possibly have lived, much less taken human form, and a man some still say didn't exist. The creature was a chimera, the kind of monster that lurks in your subconscious, rising up to haunt your sleep. The man was Crawford Lake.

  Lake was one of those people who, like former presidents and Hollywood legends, are saddled with a two-word descriptor permanently attached to their names. In Lake's case, those words were reclusive billionaire.

  I will leave the explanation of the latter word to the financial analysts, who have of late enjoyed something of a feeding frenzy over the carcass of Lake's once-powerful empire, a rather hydralike conglomerate with tentacles insinuating themselves throughout the so-called global economy. I can, however, speak with some authority on the first word, and I can assure anyone who wants to know that reclusive doesn't half cut it when it comes to describing the man.

  Indeed, when I first met him in his apartment in Rome, Crawford Lake had not been seen in public in at least fifteen years. The media was reduced to using photos taken, I swear, by the same people who purport to have spotted Bigfoot and the Loch Ness monster, grainy snaps of a shadowy figure disappearing in the distance, or, if not prepared to pay the price the paparazzi demanded for these pictures, suspect though they might be, to reproducing Lake's school yearbook portrait. Even in those youthful days, Lake exhibited a tendency to secrecy, but perhaps, being the sixties, the scraggly hair that pretty much hid his eyes was merely a fashion statement. Why he would want to live that way I didn't know at the time, but I suppose I assumed that anyone as rich as he was could be as antisocial as they pleased.

  Still, from my perspective, he took it too far.

  "Surely this isn't necessary," I told my escort, as he beckoned me to turn around so that he could tie a dark scarf across my eyes.

  "No, I suppose not," he said, smiling not at me but at his own reflection in the car mirror. He was an attractive young man, and he knew it, with perfect teeth, dark skin and eyes, dressed in a rumpled linen suit and shirt, with a flash of gold chain at his chest, one of those young Italian men who find themselves rather fetching and think the women of the world should, too. "But then," he added, placing the cloth over my eyes, "if you knew where my employer lives, I'd have to kill you."

  I wasn't entirely sure he was kidding. The scarf securely in place, he tapped the glass between us, and the limousine pulled away. My hotel was on a side street off the top of the Spanish Steps, and I tried to figure out—what else was there for me to do, sitting there blindfolded?—where we were going. I gave up, however, after several turns and stops and starts in the traffic. After about ten minutes or so by my estimation, the car stopped, and I felt myself being led up a couple of steps, then into an elevator that rumbled slowly upward, then just a few more steps and, as a door closed behind me, the blindfold was removed.

  I was standing in a room that almost defied description, filled as it was with so much to look at. Heavy, dark green curtains were drawn across the large windows and securely fastened in a way that prevented me from seeing outside and thereby gaining some clue as to where I was but still allowed a bright shaft of sunshine into the room near the top of the window. There was a jumble of furniture, most of it ornate but rather worn, and almost every inch of the place, walls, tables, even the floor, was covered with objets d'art. The most striking feature was two large frescoes, faded in spots, probably nineteenth-century, depicting bucolic Italian scenes. There were gold cupids, dozens of them, all over the place, and piles of old books on the floor and on every table, lovely old ones with leather covers and gold titles embossed on the spines. On top of some of these piles rested small sculptures, most of them bronze. A coffee table was awash in vases—urns in black and red, possibly Greek, but also perhaps Etruscan, and several in a burnished black material called bucchero—and a couple of very nice marble busts of eminent Roman citizens.

  It was almost as good as a museum. In just one glance I could see Greek, Roman, and Etruscan objects, Meissen porcelain figures, what looked to be a stone head from Cambodia, several oil paintings on the few inches of wall not covered with frescoes, baroque mirrors, a wooden horse, probably late eighteenth-century, and not one, not two, but three chandeliers, not in Murano glass, as one might expect in this part of the world, but rather crystal, probably eighteenth-century Bohemian.

  Two things surprised me about the room. First was that there was just way too much of it. And I'm not a neatness freak. As anyone who has seen either my antique shop or my house can tell you, less is more is hardly my decorating credo. I like a certain amount of clutter, different objects and styles playing off each other. This, however, was just over the top, the marriage of a compulsive collector with a bottomless pot of cash.

  Secondly, most of it was what people in my line of business rather condescendingly call stuff, which is to say that there were no really exceptional—by which we normally mean breathtakingly expensive pieces.

  There was a painting over the mantelpiece that was clearly a copy—the original was well-known and in an art museum. The other pie
ces were good, but there were few that would have cost him much over $25,000, not one that would have cost him over $75,000. I'd have been happy to sell Lake just about anything in the room, but there was nothing there that would indicate the kind of financial resources a man like Lake would have, and not the collector that I knew Lake to be. He regularly made the news in collector's magazines and was clearly prepared to pay millions if he had to for something he wanted. None of it was in evidence here.

  As I struggled to take it all in, a handsome man of about fifty, with a nice head of dark hair sprinkled with gray and the kind of perfect tan that makes you think tanning beds or extended holidays on a private yacht briskly entered the room. I searched in vain for vestiges of the rather retiring young man of the yearbook photo. Lake's self-confidence had evidently soared in the intervening thirty years or so. No doubt acquiring a net worth of six billion dollars will do that for you. He also looked young for a man who'd come of age in the sixties, but I put that down to the fact that he had the resources to take good care of himself.

  "Lara McClintoch," he said, extending his hand. He was standing in the shaft of sunlight, which gave a kind of halolike quality to him, which I found amusing. "I'm Crawford Lake. Thank you for coming. I apologize for all the drama and for keeping you waiting. I hope you will forgive me. Unfortunately, I find such secrecy necessary. I was attending to some business when you arrived, and given I am so rarely here in Rome, I needed to get it done. Now, tea? Or perhaps something stronger?"

  "Tea would be lovely," I replied, thinking that the fact that Lake used the apartment so infrequently explained both the art and the rather airless quality the place had. He rang a bell, and a maid appeared instantly, as if she'd been hovering in the hall, awaiting a summons.

  "Tea, please, Anna," he said. "And some of that lovely lemon cake of yours."

  "Right away, Mr. Lake," the woman said, inclining her head slightly, as if bowing to lesser royalty.

  "Well, what do you think?" he said, waving his arm around the room. "Do you see anything you like?"

  "The alabaster vases are exquisite," I said carefully.

  "Fourteenth century," he said. "Not very old, but yes, lovely, aren't they? What do you think of the paintings?"

  "The frescoes are superb," I said. "I have been admiring the oil over the mantelpiece," I added, choosing my words carefully. "I'm wondering where I've seen the original. The Louvre, perhaps?" It had surprised me, indeed, to see what was obviously a copy among all this exceptional art, and I wanted Lake to know I knew a copy when I saw it.

  He frowned. "This is the original," he said. "But you are correct in one respect. The copy is in the Louvre."

  "Oh," was the best I could muster. To my relief, tea arrived in a stunning silver tea service and, as promised, slices of lemon cake on a Sevres porcelain plate.

  We engaged in small talk for awhile, he pointing out a number of objects in the room and telling me how he'd acquired them, while I made appreciative sounds.

  I knew that Lake was South African originally, but his accent was what I think is called mid-Atlantic, a slightly British, slightly American sound that he must have worked hard to acquire. Everything about him was very polished, in fact, which came as something of a relief, given my sleepless hours of the night before when I'd imagined a cross between a Howard Hughes-type recluse, with long hair and toenails, and a pathologically shy computer nerd of some kind.

  "Now to business," he said at last, struggling for a moment to find an empty place on which to set down his teacup. "No doubt you're wondering why I asked you here."

  I nodded. I was delighted to be invited, to be sure, but perplexed as to why.

  "I need you to purchase something for me," he said. "A work of art. Very old. From someone in France. You'll get a commission, of course, and I'll cover all your expenses. Will you do it?"

  "I'm flattered to be asked," I said cautiously. "But if you will forgive me for being so blunt, why me? Why not send a member of your staff?"

  "They don't know antiquities," he said with a dismissive wave. "I'm told you do."

  "Mondragon, then," I said, referring to a well-known art dealer. "He often buys for you, does he not? And he knows antiquities rather well."

  Lake looked impatient. "You will no doubt understand that when my name is associated with an important purchase, the price invariably rises," he said slowly. "Way beyond its true value."

  "The Apollo," I said.

  "The Apollo," he agreed. "Aplu or Apulu to the Etruscans. Regrettably, yes. I see you do your homework, Ms. McClintoch."

  I did my homework, all right, mildly patronizing though his comment might be. Not that research on Lake was difficult to do. His financial escapades were regularly featured in just about any newspaper you'd care to mention, as were some rather aggressive art purchases. There was no question he was very rich. But he couldn't buy everything. He'd gone after a 2,300-year-old statue of Apollo, a gorgeous piece of work, Etruscan as he'd indicated, and he'd lost to a Texas collector who probably didn't have Lake's resources but who had proved adept at outflanking him on this particular acquisition. Before that, Lake had been on just about every art magazine's one hundred top collectors list on an annual basis. Post-Apollo,, however, he seemed to pretty much have abandoned the field to others.

  "It wasn't worth half what Mariani paid for it," Lake said, referring to the proud owner of the Apollo. "I still have regrets. Having said that, you will understand, I think, that I did not reach this rather enviable financial position by paying more than anything is worth, even for something as wonderful as that. I need someone who will not be linked to me in any way to purchase the object I wish."

  "Which is?"

  "We'll discuss that in a moment."

  "You've explained why you want to deal with someone new, but not, I think, why you chose me."

  He shrugged ever so slightly. "I do my research. You've just demonstrated you do yours. I'm told you're honest, know your stuff, and that you're persistent, if not stubborn. I admire persistence. It is a quality we may share. Furthermore—I hope I do not offend you in saying this—your business is not well-known internationally. McClintoch & Swain is not"— he hesitated—"the kind of firm with which I would normally do business."

  I could hardly disagree, being reasonably certain that McClintoch & Swain, the shop I co-own with my ex-husband Clive Swain, was pretty much unknown beyond a two-block radius of the store, let alone internationally.

  "Do you know what a chimera is?" he asked abruptly.

  "A mythological creature, isn't it? Part lion, part snake, part something else."

  "Goat." He nodded.

  "Goat," I agreed.

  "You do not disappoint me, Ms. McClintoch," Lake said. "You could have said it was a term used by scientists for any hybrid, plant or animal, or you could have said it was a name for a creature that changes its appearance at will. But you picked the right one, as far as I'm concerned. Now, do you know the Chimera of Arezzo?"

  "The bronze chimera in the archaeological museum in Florence, you mean? The one found in Arezzo in Tuscany?"

  "Yes," he said, reaching for a large envelope on the table beside him and then placing a photograph in front of me. "Lovely, isn't it? Bronze, late fifth or early fourth century B.C. One of the truly great pieces of Etruscan art. We owe its discovery to Cosimo de Medici. He rather fancied himself as an archaeologist. It is said that he cleaned the finds himself, a painstaking bit of work. He found the chimera in 1553, and also the Arringatore, the Orator, in 1566, both Etruscan. I expect he undertook the work because he loved it. But it also suited his political aspirations. His successor was declared dux magnus Etruscus, great Etruscan leader, did you know that? Not enough that Cosimo was declared grand duke of Tuscany in 1569. Silly really, the dux magnus Etruscus business, given that the Etruscans had been defeated by the Romans more than two thousand years earlier, but I suppose it speaks to the power the glorious past has over us. Magnificent work of art, is it no
t? Look at the power in the head and haunches of the lion, the menace in the serpent tail, and the intractable nature of the goat, so evident."

  No question about it, the Chimera of Arezzo was indeed a showpiece of Etruscan bronze work. It was a beast with the head and haunches of a lion, a second head of a goat, and a tail ending in a serpent's head that curved around and looked about to bite the goat.

  Interesting, though, that Lake was going on about Cosimo de Medici. Like the Medici family, Lake had made his fortune in banking—conventional financial services at first, but then moving aggressively and early into Internet banking—and he shared with Cosimo both aspirations to empire and a rather ruthless way of dealing with his adversaries. Where Cosimo had expelled all his rivals from his city of Florence and had annexed the neighboring city of Siena, sending his enemies to be beheaded or imprisoned in terrible dungeons, Lake had initiated and successfully completed a couple of really hostile takeovers of rival companies. Lake, allegedly a fan of all things Italian, had called his company Marzocco, after the heraldic lion of Florence. It is said that the defeated enemies of that city were once required to kiss the rear end of a statue of the animal, and figuratively speaking, that was pretty much what anybody who came in conflict with Lake eventually had to do.