Although the depth of the sea surrounding Ischia precluded scuba diving, the fishing from Jason's small skiff was successful enough. Dorado and other fish were plentiful, and what he didn't catch was available in the openair market in Ischia Porto, the island's main town and ferry port. Pangloss seemed relieved that there were no crabs lying on the trays of ice, but the claws of the large prawns gave him pause.
Even with a dog, painful memories lingered.
Otherwise, Pangloss loved the people, color, and, above all, the smells of the market. Jason got the impression the dog would have preferred a car to having to keep his balance between the front wheel and Jason's feet on the floorboard of the Vespa, though.
Daily help was inexpensive and provided a form of company, once the old woman realized the dog was far more friendly than fierce. Her extended family basically adopted Jason, including him in an endless procession of weddings, saints' days, birthdays, and one funeral, all occasions for appropriate gifts to grandchildren, nieces, nephews, cousins, and others of whose relationship he was uncertain. The affiliation also provided him with numerous eyes and ears. Should someone come looking for him, he would know before they found him.
He took Italian lessons twice weekly.
At night he cooked, read, drank wine, or watched bad Italian soaps or, worse, American sitcoms on the rabbit-eared set the previous owners had correctly appraised as not worth taking with them.
Almost by accident one evening, he found the dog
eared magazine Adrian had given him, the one containing the condensed version of Eno Calligini's book. Only then did Jason remember he had not finished the misadventures of Severenus Tactus, the one facet of the Breath of the Earth operation still incomplete.
A glass of wine at his elbow, he had begun to read.
JOURNAL OF SEVERENUS TACTUS
Two days I remained in Agrippa's household. I began to despair that he would ever have restored to me what I had lost, for he rarely left the house, instead conferring for hours with men, many of whom I recognized as among the most powerful in Rome.
Late in the afternoon of the second day, I heard his guest depart and set out to speak with my host. I found him at the counting table
1
of his treasure house.
2
He looked up as I entered and smiled with a greeting.
I was about to inquire as to what had been done when I saw a small gold stature of Dionysus
3
on a chest. The same figure had adorned the little temple at which my mother, unlike my father, had worshiped all and many deities. Like most of the household treasures, it had disappeared shortly before my father's death. Without thought, I reached out to examine it.
Agrippa moved with greater celerity than his age would suggest, clasping my wrist in an iron grip.
“That statue belongs to my family,” I protested.
He shook his head. “There are legions like it. You are mistaken.”
I lunged and knocked the little figure upon the floor. On its bottom was my family's mark.
4
He did not release my wrist but said, “Your father owed much before he died.”
As though delivered by the gods, the words of my father's shade from Hades only two days past came back to me:
In the hand of the servant of the god.
Not servants, not gods.
A single servant.
A single god.
Augustus, the emperor, was a god.
Agrippa was his most devoted servant.
In the two years before he died, my father had hoped to do business with the imperial household, to have intercourse with government. It was an ambition never voiced before, nor hoped for.
But, I surmised, it had been one for which he paid dearly.
“You,” I said. “You took my father's money on a promise to return commerce from the emperor and state. You used your high office to induce him to believe you could do such things.”
Agrippa finally released my wrist. “As Augustus's confidant I could. Your father was foolish enough to believe I would. Who told you?”
“My father's spirit,” I answered. “And to him you will answer.”
Agrippa laughed. “I answer to no one but Caesar. But I shall have a response
to the priests who revealed my business to you.”
1
. Abacus.
2
. The villas of many wealthy noble Romans included a treasury, or
thesaurus
(from the Greek thesauros) within its walls. Usually small and windowless, it would also be where business was transacted.
3
. Roman god of wine, equivalent to the Greek Bacchus.
4
. This would have been a simple picture, design, or mark not disimilar to cattle brands in the United States.
Â
Â
The diary stops abruptly here. What may have happened to Severenus Tactus for confronting the second-most-powerful man in early first-century Rome is only a guess. We do know, however, that Agrippa had the Oracle of the Dead (Hades) filled in. Not buriedâfilled from the inside out, a task that occupied at least two years. We can only suppose that such thorough destruction was not the result of mere efficiency but to ensure that no more of the old general's schemes came to light, or as an example to others who might tend to reveal them.
Of course, we can never know, but this is one answer to the mystery of why Agrippa took such action.
Ischia, Bay of Naples
Jason had put the magazine down.
He had found a place to live and begun to enjoy life.
He was home free.
Almost.
He thought about Maria every day. Sometimes he brooded on the cosmic unfairness of falling in love twice and losing both times.
The affair with Maria, though, had had some positive results. He found himself painting again, as though his anguish at the loss of Laurin had been unlocked like some emotional jail. He also realized that, at least in principle, he might find romance again.
But not here, and he had no real desire to leave. At least, not until the artistic possibilities had been exhausted.
Pangloss's joyful barking almost drowned out Wagner, no trivial feat.
Someone was at the gate to the piazza.
Jason shaded his eyes and recognized Petro, one of his housekeeper's countless grandchildren, a young man who always had some small treat for the dog. Jason never was sure whether it was affection or tribute.
“It's unlocked,” Jason called down.
Pangloss met the visitor before he could climb the steps to the second floor.
“Signore . . .”
The boy was nearly breathless. He must have run all the way from Ischia Ponte, a half mile uphill. Jason waited for him to finish gasping.
The lad blurted out his brief story. Cousin Anna, who worked in a dress shop in Ischia Porto, had called Stephano, her husband's brother, to tell him to notify Antonio, Petro's father, that someone had gotten off the SNAV hydrofoil from Naples and begun asking questions about Jason. Where did he live? Where could he be found?
No, no one had mentioned what the stranger looked like, only the questions.
Jason pressed a twenty-euro note into the boy's grateful hand, thanked him, and shooed him off the premises.
Someone had found him.
Painting forgotten, Jason went into the bedroom and knelt beside the bed. He pressed on the series of tiles forming a colorful abstract mosaic and a section of the floor sprang open. Inside was a small arsenal. A reliable weapon with both automatic and single-shot options, accuracy not requiring the surgical precision of a scope, and enough range to effectively cover any part of the villa was required. Jason selected a standard U.S. Army M-14 rifle with flash suppressor and banana clip. If one person had risked attention by asking about him, it was a safe assumption that a number of others had already arrived.
Jason inserted the clip as he lay on his belly, sighting the weapon on the gate as the most likely place of attack.
Damn, but this was getting old. He could, he supposed, summon the local police. But what could he tell them? That some unknown person had been asking questions about him? Hardly a crime. By the time the peace had been breached, it would be far too late to seek help.
Pangloss's ears perked up just as Jason heard it: the sound of a straining auto engine.
A second later a battered Ford Fiesta poked its rusted grille around a turn a hundred yards downhill, the last turn before Jason's gate.
The car sputtered to a stop just before the bars of the gate, hiding its occupants behind the wall. A figure in khaki came into view, head turning, searching for . . .
Looking for the bell, a loud, jangling device so unpleasant Jason swore it made his teeth itch. Had he visitors on a regularâor anyâbasis, he would have replaced it.
There appeared to be only one stranger. Others quite likely were surrounding the villa. As the bell clamored
again with an angry insistance, he moved closer to the edge of the loggia in hopes of widening his view.
The only thing he could see was the brownish form below, brightened by a flash of brilliant green and fire engine red.
Red and green?
Like a . . .
Like a Hermès scarf!
He stood, dropping eight and a half pounds of M-14 plus clip on his bare foot.
“Shit!”
From below: “Jason, is that you?”
He was trying to pick up the weapon, hold his damaged foot, and not sound surprised, none of which he was achieving. “Yeah, yeah. I'll be right down.”
“You sound cross.”
Try a broken foot to improve your disposition.
Pangloss was already dashing for the gate in anticipation of another potential friend bringing treats.
Jason got almost to the stairs before he remembered the M-14. Leaving a weapon in view wasn't a smart move, not when he would be trying to explain how peaceful his life had become.
“Hold on,” he shouted. “I'm coming!”
“So is Christmas!”
His weapons cache again concealed, Jason stumbled down the stairs and across the piazza and opened the gate.
“I thought I was being turned away,” she said.
“No chance,” he said.
Pangloss ran in circles, barking during what he clearly considered an unreasonably long embrace.
The Fiesta drove off.
Jason picked up a single suitcase. “I'll take it upstairs.”
“What makes you think I am staying?”
“You've got a hell of a walk if you don't.”
“You will not take me back to town?”
“Not a chance.”
“Good.”
The piazza, stairs, and bedroom floor displayed a trail of increasingly intimate apparel. By the time they rolled onto the bed, she wore only the scarf.
Later, they both lay breathless, letting the overhead fan lazily stir the humid air.
“How'd you find me?” he asked.
“You kept in touch with Adrian. So did I.”
Jason sat up, slipping a thin gold chain over his head, the chain with a simple gold wedding ring dangling from it.
“You do not need to do that,” Maria said.
Jason folded the chain carefully, almost reverently, and put it in a drawer of the bedside table. “Yes, I do.”
Jason was running a hand along her ribs and hips. “He convinced you to come?”
“He gave up on that months ago. I decided myself.”
His hand had stopped in a particular place. She was beginning to breathe harder. “Either way, I am glad.”
“Nice of you to say. I was beginning to wonder.”
“As long as you are here.”
She was moving in rhythm with his stroking hand. “I am not quitting my job.”
“Good thing. You'll be supporting an artist.”
“No more violence?”
“There're those who say I do it to my subjects with my brushes.”
“I can live with that.”
“For how long?”
She rolled away from him to stare at the ceiling. “Until tomorrow. Then I shall rethink it.”
Jason was confident there would be a lot of tomorrows.
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