The Cairo Codex (50 page)

Morgan stood, stretched his muscular arms, and walked to the carved nineteenth-century buffet table, methodically filling his plate with cold cuts, tomatoes, eggs, and a large piece of banana bread, Maria’s specialty. “You’re right, honey. Not the usual Roman dig.” He placed a whole egg in his mouth before returning to the table.

“Tell us about it,” coaxed Lucrezia, falling effortlessly into her familiar role as attentive Creta, as he often called her. Her backlit black hair gleamed, and her arched eyebrows shadowed luminous green eyes that reminded Justine of a silent movie star. Only direct light revealed the hairline wrinkles around her eyes and tiny creases above her lips.

It seemed to Justine, even now, that her mother needed Morgan to find her attractive. What woman wouldn’t, especially one who had shared his bed for so many years?

“Thanks for the invitation, Creta.” Taking a large bite of banana bread, he assumed a relaxed pose at the head of the table, and smiled charmingly when Maria reentered the breakfast room with a large plate of fruits. Like her mother before her, Maria had worked for Lucrezia’s family all her life. Justine always felt reassured by Maria’s maternal presence—round face, generously curved body. Even her feet were round. She was all that “round” implies: warmth, connection, accessibility. Good food.

“It’s an Etruscan dig at a UNESCO site in Cerveteri. Do you know the place?” He gazed at Lucrezia, and his temples flushed with excitement. “Teams from the local superintendent’s office have been excavating there for a couple of years, but now they may be onto something new. Startling, really. UNESCO insisted on an international team, so they called me. The superintendent resisted hiring a foreigner at first, but I think she’s come around. Or will.” As a professor emeritus at the University of California, Berkeley, Morgan knew he had choices.

“I know Cerveteri a little,” said Justine, refilling her coffee cup and taking a heaping spoonful of the fruit salad. “About an hour’s drive north of Ostia, isn’t
it? Charming little town.” She paused. “Not much is known about the Etruscans, I understand. Not sure why.”

“What’s going on there?” Lucrezia asked.

“That’s the strange part. I know little. They’ve been very mysterious . . . which makes me think this is something big.”

“You wouldn’t take the job unless it was promising, Dad. You know something,” challenged Justine. “Another origin myth?”

“They didn’t mention origins, but yes, I suspect that’s what they have up their sleeves. Finding evidence of the genesis of the Etruscans—or the source of their isolated language—could change the course of history!”

“Ah . . .” Justine studied her father’s sculpted face. “Now that is something worth getting excited about. Are we Neanderthal or Turkish? Or Egyptian?” adding the last option for fun.
He knows more, but is holding back.

“The Etruscans are hotly debated in European history!” exclaimed Lucrezia. “Herodotus claimed they came from Lydia around 800 BC, but that theory has been nearly debunked by recent studies. At least we do know they taught the brutish Romans how to start an empire.”

“I’m impressed,” said Morgan, winking at his ex-wife. “I don’t think you can call yourself a casual scholar of ancient Italian history anymore.”

Lucrezia shifted uneasily in her chair and smoothed the lap of her linen kaftan.

Justine noticed her mother’s self-conscious move.
They’re both such unremitting charmers. This flirting probably means nothing. Would I want it to?
As these perplexing thoughts whirled through her mind, the eastern light penetrated the drawn gauze panels of the French doors. She forced her thoughts back into the room. “I thought no Etruscan artifacts had been discovered in Italy dating back earlier than eight or nine hundred BCE.”

“That’s what makes this hunt so appealing. And, of course, my favorite daughter is now in Italy.”

“Your favorite and only daughter, I assume,” said Lucrezia, one eyebrow arching.

“As far as I know,” Morgan teased. He stood up and circled the table, snatching grapes from Justine’s fruit salad. “For now, I’m concerned about the
composition of the damn team. I haven’t been able to choose anyone to my liking, and they’ve now added a historian. Damn historians! Worse than anthropologists, if you ask me. What I need is a couple of seasoned archaeologists, like Ibrahim.” Morgan’s Egyptian mentor, Ibrahim El Shabry, was well into his eighties now, his arthritic knees barring him from archaeological digs.

Justine refused to take the bait. A few years ago she would have swiped at it like a kitten batting a ball of string. Not now. She smiled sweetly and picked at her fruit salad. “So what is it with you and historians?”

“Historians have theories. They try to make connections that aren’t supported by the facts.” He sat down and spread lemon curd on a second piece of banana bread, which he then devoured in one great swallow.

“All people have narratives, Dad.” Justine cut open her croissant before meeting her father’s intense cobalt eyes.

“Facts. That’s what’s important. The evidence should speak for itself. Find the evidence, verify its authorship and timeframe, and display it in museums so the public can understand how the ancients lived. Scientific. Straightforward.”

Lucrezia sighed. “That’s why museums are so lifeless, except for the one in Orvieto, perhaps. Generally the evidence is presented without a narrative. I find it tedious.”

Morgan laughed. “I see my girls are ganging up on me again.”

Lucrezia’s face recoiled. She had no intention of allowing her former spouse the pleasure of infantilizing and possessing her again. The spell of his charm was broken.

Maria reappeared in the doorway. “The phone. It’s for you, Justine.”

“Who is it?” Justine asked, feeling rescued by the interruption.

“A Dr. Andrea LeMartin. Calling from Paris.”

C
HAPTER
2

We would like to live as we once lived, but history will not permit it.

—John F. Kennedy

“W
HO
’
S
D
R
. L
E
M
ARTIN
?” asked Morgan, folding his napkin and placing it on the left side of his plate.

Does he plan to stay?
Justine wondered. She had mixed feelings about the possibility.

“A colleague of Justine’s from Egypt and long-time friend of mine,” Lucrezia answered, also taking notice of Morgan’s gesture with the napkin. “I’m sure you’ve heard us talk about her.”

“The name’s familiar,” he said, staring appreciatively at Lucrezia, his eyes warm with memories of their youth together, making love on the summer porch in Berkeley.

“She’s coming to Italy in a couple days,” offered Justine. “I’ve invited her to join us to discuss the codex that dropped into my lap in Egypt. As far as I know, the original hasn’t shown up in the black market. Perhaps we’ll take a little side trip to Rome.”

“It’ll show up. Probably in Milan or Rome,” said her mother, helping Maria to clear the table.

“Catch me up here,” demanded Morgan. He already knew about Justine’s discovery of a codex during the earthquake in Cairo and the involvement of the infamous Supreme Antiquities Director. What he wasn’t sure of was where things stood now.

A soft morning breeze carried the fragrance of damp grasses and early spring plantings from the garden below. At Christmas, Justine had told him
about his old mentor Ibrahim El Shabry’s complicity in the theft of the codex from the Supreme Director’s safe in the Egyptian Museum. At very least, Ibrahim had known about the theft and hadn’t done anything to stop it.

“I found it hard to believe that Ibrahim was involved. Impossible, really. Not the man I know.” Morgan and Ibrahim had been colleagues during several digs in Egypt, particularly a notorious one at Darshur. Friends and colleagues for thirty years. He was pensive for several moments. “Come work with me, Justine. After the Egyptian fiasco, you could reestablish your reputation as a fine anthropologist.”

Justine cringed at the word
fiasco
. “I thought you didn’t need an anthropologist. We just muddy the water.”

“
Touché
. We’ll figure out a role that you’ll find appealing. Think about it.”

“Okay. I will.”

“What can you expect from this Andrea? Will she bring more translations? Whatever you two reveal about this codex, you can expect all hell to break loose,” he said, concern washed across his face.

“It already has. Hell, that is. No telling what will happen next.” Justine attempted to sound casual; she knew efforts to prevent further findings from surfacing could get much worse.
Who am I kidding? Myself? Or am I trying to comfort my parents?

“You haven’t tackled the Catholic Church yet, my dear,” said her mother, leaning across the table to refill the coffee cups.

Justine sat back in her chair, watching her mother’s face closely. For several moments she watched the morning sunlight dance across the crystal glassware still on the table
. Is that worry? Is she afraid of what the Catholic Church could do to me?

“How about your own work, Dad? No small controversy there. Many Italians insist Etruscans are native to Italy. If we challenge that, maybe we’ll both be thrown out of Italy!” She reached over and patted his arm.

Morgan squeezed her hand. “Italy tolerates controversy a little better than Egypt, my dear. What we uncover about the Etruscans might shake things up, yes. Are you ready for that? But too, Cerveteri has already been combed pretty thoroughly. And Mussolini’s long gone.”

“What does Mussolini have to do with it?” asked Justine, slowly withdrawing her hand from her father’s grasp.

“Mussolini and a few archaeologists, Massimo among them, tried to reestablish the Roman Empire during the 1920s and ’30s,” said Lucrezia, sitting back down at the table, taking up her coffee cup. “Part of those efforts was to portray the Etruscans, who taught the Romans how to build, as militaristic warriors . . . and indigenous Italians, of course. But I don’t think this portrayal of the Etruscans is accurate. They seem very unlike the Romans and the Greeks, I would say.” She paused and let her eyes linger on Morgan, forgiving him for the earlier slight.

Morgan and Justine remained silent. They knew when other thoughts were simmering in Lucrezia’s mind. “I’d like to think women played a greater role in Etruscan society. And yet some things never change,” she said finally. “Look at today. We’re saddled with Berlusconi, who considers women playthings. And he’s corrupt, yet he’s bound to be elected president again next month!”

“I doubt women held as much sway or played as powerful a role among the Etruscans as your mother suggests,” Morgan said to Justine. “The Greek and Roman women who followed them certainly didn’t have as much power as their male counterparts.”

“We know that, Dad! But what if it really was matrilineal culture?”

“Never!” Morgan almost shouted. “And I, for one, am willing to give Berlusconi another go.” He turned toward his ex-wife and displayed the grin that had once swept her away. “By the way, Justine. This Andrea. Is she my type?”

“Decidedly not your type,” Lucrezia answered for her daughter. “She’s a tad independent for your taste.”

“
Buon punto!
” said Morgan, grabbing the last remaining piece of banana bread as Maria left for the kitchen.

Justine wondered when her parents’ predictable script would morph into tediousness. They could combine forces when it came to protecting her, but they couldn’t bury their individual competitive natures for long. As they sought to arouse one another’s jealousy, Justine slipped into her sandals and extricated herself from their sport.