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Duke di Lama crouched in his windowless cellar, carefully ladling molten metal into a beaker. In the flickering candlelight around him were piles of books in Greek and Latin and some sketches of Egyptian hieroglyphics.

“Professore,” the Duke addressed another man sitting in the shadows beside him, “Be so kind as to pass me the transmuted mercury.” He poured again, and stirred. “Now we must bury it by the light of the next full moon and leave it for 7 days.”

The Duke’s companion stood and regarded him thoughtfully. “Your Excellency, we have worked for years to find a way to create gold from base metal. Perhaps it is not from metal that the secret of eternal youth shall be found.”

The Duke glared at him, but the other man continued.

“Your Excellency, I have been reading ancient texts that say there are crystalline properties in valuable gems that can restore youth. Perhaps it is there that our research should lie.”

“Professore, it would take more than some of your old scrolls to convince me that I have squandered these years working with metals instead of some gems. Find a way to convince me and until then stop wasting my time!”

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“Your Excellency, you look tired and these metallic fumes are strong, perhaps you should rest for a while.”

“Pah,” the Duke responded, “There will be time to rest when we find how to turn base metals into refined gold, for then we shall have found the secret of eternal youth, and we can sleep every night for thousands and thousands of years.” He put out the flame under the crucible. “And besides, when I sleep I have bad dreams.”

“Perhaps the fumes are working their way into your sleep as well.”

“No, I tell you. There is time to rest later. What of a bad dream?”

“Dreams can tell us much; they are portents of our future.”

“Well, perhaps you are right. This evening I shall retire early and I shall visit a soothsayer in a few days to understand whatever visions may come to me while I sleep.”

“Good day then, your Excellency, I shall hope to correspond with you by letter as before. Your estate here in Civitavecchia is a long two days’ carriage ride from Rome, so I shall not see you again for some time.”

“Yes Professore,” the Duke waved a hand dismissively. “I trust you can see yourself out.” And with that the Duke returned to his magnifying glass and the Egyptian manuscripts.

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Some days later the Duke climbed into his black carriage and swept out of the gates of his estate.

As they thundered along the country roads, people turned away and clutched their good-luck charms. The Duke was feared not only for the reckless speed of his carriage, but for having “malocchia,” the ability to bring bad luck to a person by simply glancing at them. Knowing this, the Duke’s expression became a little more sour as they drove into the hills, and when they pulled up outside the entrance to a cave, he slammed the door of his carriage even harder than usual.

It was cool and dark inside the cave, and in the light of his lantern he saw a stooped figure, casting a hunched shadow upon the walls. Under his large hooded cloak, the soothsayer cleared his throat loudly. He gestured to the Duke to sit on the ground and for once the Duke did what he was told, avoiding a pile of animal bones that the soothsayer had scattered in front of him.

“What do you seek?” the soothsayer asked. “I can unravel the past or foretell the future. See these bones? When I cast them on the ground they fall in patterns that tell me much. They have told me much about you. Your future could rest among a pile of bones, Duke.”

The Duke loosened his collar. “Well, speaking of bones, soothsayer, I seek the explanation for a dream - a skeleton, wearing a necklace of large glowing diamonds and emeralds.”

“That is interesting.”

“But tell me old man; is this true mystic exploration or just some foolishness?”

“Foolishness, never!” The soothsayer pointed a shriveled hand at him. “Listen and learn. Dream divination dates back to the mists of time. It was practiced by those most rational of Greeks, Aristotle and Plato, as well as by Cicero and others of our own Roman ancestry. Oh yes, even we simple people know of such things.” He leaned forward and the Duke turned pale.

“It is mystical and yet scientific – as you strive to be, Duke. That’s right, your practices in the depths of your castle are well known in these parts, and they are not looked upon with favor. But that is another matter and will follow its own course. Dreams portend the future, so listen carefully. What this dream tells you is this: ‘The secret of deathless life lies in finding and wearing your most precious jewels.’ If you heed this, you can outlive your time on this earth.”

The Duke scowled. “What do you mean, precious jewels? I don’t wear jewels.”

“Ha ha!” the soothsayer cackled. “Duke, years of crouching over mercury vapor have rotted out your brain. Do you think the Delphic Oracle of ancient Greece spoke plain language to those who came asking questions of her? The answer is never so obvious – it is a riddle that only you can solve. Perhaps it means you should seek what is pure and precious in your life, and by your shining example your name will be exalted and live on among men. Or no! Perhaps it means someone will suddenly show you a diamond and emerald necklace which will just happen to possess the power of extending life! Ah ha ha ha! If that happens, Duke, you should seize the necklace for yourself and wear it forever!”

The Duke mopped his face with a silk scarf. His thoughts refused to place themselves in any order. Could his brain be rotted out? No! He knew what the old man meant, didn’t he? Confound it all, it was perfectly clear! Rising, he threw a few coins on the ground and hurried out of the cave.

Back in his carriage, the Duke furiously struck the ceiling with his walking stick and cried out. “Take me out of this accursed place!”

As they rode away in a choking cloud of dust, visions of a diamond and emerald necklace started to swim before his eyes.

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The year 1789 was hard for many. French revolutionaries were storming the Bastille in Paris and in Rome the Tiber burst its banks with even greater violence than usual, flooding families out of their homes.

The twins, Marco and Elisa Primo-Pantaleone, came into the world in the bottom of the small wooden boat – as their mother was being rescued from the river that raced to fill the first floor of their family’s palazzo. Their father didn’t climb into the boat in time and a great wave threw him off his feet, tearing the boat out of his hands. The last that was seen of him was his hat, sailing alone underneath the Sant’Angelo Bridge. Whether it was this or the experience in the boat that affected her, their mother declined and passed away not long after.

Later, local people said that to be born into the bottom of a fishing boat would have significance. Some said it meant that these noble children would have a humble future; others said it meant that a boat would someday be a vehicle of change in their lives. People like to say these things, but who knows what the future will bring?

The children were fortunate in one regard, however. A local Capuchin monk, Padre Crispin, became like a father to them and oversaw their early care and education and ensured that the family’s wealth remained in safe hands. As Elisa sprang up in height and became a young woman, it was the Padre who helped to engage the services of a new lady-in-waiting for her. “Samantha Mandra,” he said to the servant, “This is a ponderous duty that is placed into your young hands. You are to be mother and sister to Elisa, and servant too. I know you have a strong spirit and a sharp eye. Are you up to the task?”

“Padre,” Samantha replied, “I will be all those things you said, and more. You can rely on me to take care of Lady Elisa, no matter what.”

As Elisa and Marco grew in years and maturity, Samantha and Elisa became close. Samantha was clever and a good judge of character. Among her more domestic talents, she could also use a piercing look to discourage Elisa’s many unwanted admirers. For although Elisa was celebrated for her beauty - and Marco had his share of hopeful admirers too – their chief interests were studying art and philosophy and the entertainment of a constant stream of fascinating people from abroad. Rome was full of visitors from Europe and the world beyond.

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---

Marco had been studying draftsmanship and through the recommendations of a mutual friend, he became apprenticed to an architect in the neoclassical style.

The excitement was marred somewhat by occasional visits from their second-cousin-once-removed, the Duke di Lama - a man whose harsh and unbalanced features were an accurate reflection of his mental state.

“Elisa, you are reaching an age where you must settle down,” the Duke said, pacing up and down before her. “It is all very well for a man and an intellectual such as myself to have never married, but women cannot spend their lives playing at being students and running around to parties.” Elisa knew she need not reply but could not resist pursing her lips slightly. To be sure, what an odious man her distant cousin was!

The Duke continued, “Now Elisa, I have already informed several of my suitable acquaintances of your situation and you should expect them to be visiting you soon. For although you are too young to have any discernment, I would still wish for you to have a choice of the husband with whom you would spend your future.”

Elisa felt the color drain from her face and then rush back. “Dear cousin, such careful consideration of my situation is truly astonishing. I can only wonder that you have not brought the bevy of potential husbands with you and a priest to bond the vows this very minute. Perhaps we could have played a game of Scopa to determine the winner of my hand. How extremely unusual for anyone to think of another’s well-being in this way!”

“I know Elisa, and I am heartened that you respond with such great understanding. Perhaps the benefit of my presence is finally having its effect on you.”

“Yes cousin, you are certainly affecting me and probably more than even you can know.”

“Excellent, excellent. I am sure your brother can raise a suitable dowry. Perhaps by selling some of the finer pieces of art and furniture you have here. In fact, I would be willing to help you with their disposal.”

“How selfless of you, cousin. There are pieces of value here, yet they need careful restoration after the many floods we have had over the years. I have in fact been training in restoration to repair and maintain this family home, as great skill is needed to return it to its former grandeur. It would have taken some years more before I have finished repairing the frescoes on the “piano nobile,” the ground floor. But a married life would be such a welcome change from these duties.”

The Duke frowned at her, but she bowed her head meekly.

“No doubt the value will be enormous once I am finished. But it would be such a pleasure to abandon it all and have someone else manage this and the accounts and the servants. Of course Marco will start to travel the world eventually and most likely would give the palazzo to you. But if it must fall into ruin and rot before you receive it, well, that is a small price to pay for maintaining the respectable appearances of our name. You are most generous and selfless, cousin.”

Di Lama breathed deeply and paced the room once more, examining the rich furnishings through his magnifying glass. He gazed at the white ring around the walls where the Tiber had left its traces.

“Well. Well,” he said. “We must make sacrifices to preserve the heritage of our family. No doubt you will be able to preserve your own face for a few years more before we find a husband for you, and if not, it can most likely be restored with some filler and colored paste.”

So saying, he strode from the room and left Elisa, her fingernails dug deep into the fabric of her chair. Samantha’s head appeared from behind a hanging tapestry. “Is he gone? What a nightmare! Come now young miss, a glass of watered wine and a hot bath to restore your spirits.”

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Marco continued his work as an architect and became successful in his own right. Over the next few years he traveled to Paris, London and even to the young nation of America, working in collaboration with other architects as they created the defining edifices of their day.

In 1805, after months apart, the twins were finally back together again, inviting friends to salons at their home, exploring Rome’s magnificent theater and opera and spending afternoons at the Caffe Anglais, where they met writers, artists and new friends, visiting from other countries.

They sighed over the political turmoil in France and in Italy. “Everything looks so unstable in the world,” she said. “I think I would rather live in the past.”

“But look at the past,” Marco replied, “You don’t think Rome got this ruined by itself, do you? It was invaded and sacked and invaded again.”

“Oh Marco, finally the war between France and Austria is over and nobody is fighting over our land, but I don’t think Napoleon will be content until he has come back and taken everything.”

At that moment they were interrupted by a tall young man wearing a fur-trimmed cape and black boots. Marco jumped to his feet. “Elisa, may I introduce my friend from the Russian court, Count Peter Petrov. Count Petrov, may I present my dear sister Elisa.” The Count bent over Elisa’s hand. “Please, call me Petya,” he smiled, “My friends do.” Elisa smiled back. “Enchanted to meet you Count Petya,” she said.

Elisa watched Petya take in the café with its small tables and crowded mix of artists and visitors. “Isn’t it wonderful?” asked Marco. “Here in Rome we can actually mingle together in this relaxed way – although if you want pomp and ceremony, there are cart-loads of that here too. It is the most fabulous and most hospitable of cities.” He waved to the waiter to bring menus.

Elisa caught Petya’s eye. He really was quite dashing. She sensed he wanted to stare at her, but was of course too polite to do so. He seemed a bit tongue-tied, which was a charming change from their usual talkative guests.

Just then, Elisa noticed that Petya was distracted by a mural of Egyptian columns and pyramids on the walls behind them. “That monumental vision of ancient Egypt was painted by Giovanni Battista Piranesi,” Marco told him. “He was a most astonishing Italian - he saw the glory in the ancient ruins here. His etchings of our views and antiquities in the “Varie vedute di Roma” started a fire of excitement.” Petya’s eye shone, “You must tell me everything you know about Italian art and architecture and archaeology and – everything!” Petya exclaimed.

“Ah well,” thought Elisa, “I may have more chances to capture his attentions. I shall ask Marco to invite him to our next salon.”

---

And so life continued in this happy vein. When Petya wasn’t exploring antiquities with Marco he spent hours talking and reading with Elisa, or escorting her to conversazione, entertaining evenings, at the homes of their friends.

The days rolled forward and the shadow from the sundial in their courtyard measured unceasing revolutions against its carved Roman numerals. Then it was summer and the sundial’s shadow was almost invisible as the sun leaned down upon it from directly overhead. The streets shimmered in the heat and people strolled in the shady gardens of the Galleria Borghese. In the evenings, Rome often shook with thunder-claps as lightning scorched the sky.

Marco wasn’t at all surprised when Petya approached him formally and asked for permission to make a proposal of marriage to his sister.

“Dear Petya,” Marco bowed, “Nothing would give me greater joy than to see my best friend and my dear sister united in matrimonial bliss. But it should tear my heart in two to lose you both to the great North.”

The Count’s black eyebrows shot up in surprise. Marco continued, “Aren’t you planning to return home then?” Petya shook his head. “How could I leave – all this? Are there Roman monuments on the shores of the Baltic Sea? Can I sketch pastoral scenes of peasants tending cattle in the ancient forum of St. Petersburg?”

Marco looked at him. “What of Elisa, is she just another beautiful monument to you?”

The Count drew himself up and clicked his heels together. “I promise you: archaeology may be my passion, but Elisa is my whole world.”

Marco stepped forward and shook his hand, “Dear friend, I consent to you asking her for her hand. I should be overjoyed to have you as my brother, and for you both to live here in this palazzo of our family.”

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