The Etruscan (62 page)
Haste availed nothing. That they both must have realized as they warily crept along the edge of the ring, for each took a moment to glance at Misme who stared at them with shining eyes. Later I heard that the Veian youth had been among those who had fetched Misme and that he had held her in his arms on horseback. Then and there he had decided to die rather than surrender. But despite his youth Lars Arnth had attended the bitter school of political life and well knew the power of patience and perseverance to overcome a rival’s endurance. Coldbloodedly he waited, even dropping his shield and stretching his limbs.
The youth from Veil could bear no more but plunged ahead, the shields clanging against each other and the swords striking bright sparks as they clashed. But the youths were of the same size and equally skilled, and neither succeeded in thrusting the other backward. After exchanging some ten rapid strokes they leaped apart to regain their breath. Blood streamed down Lars Arnth’s thigh, but he shook his head sharply as the augur prepared to raise his staff. The Veian youth forgot and looked at him and at that moment Lars Arnth charged at him with bowed head and thrust his sword under his foe’s shield. The youth dropped to one knee but kept his shield up and lashed out so violently with his sword that Lars Arnth had to retreat. The Veian had received a bad wound in his groin and could not rise, but with knee to the ground he slashed aside the augur’s staff and glared at Lars Arnth.
Lars Arnth was compelled to continue, willingly or not. He seemed to sense that the Veian had more endurance than he, and that thus he had to bring the combat to a quick conclusion. Holding his shield as low as possible, he attacked. But the Veian warded off the blow and with the speed of light dropped his sword, scooped up a handful of sand and threw it at Lars Arnth’s eyes. Then he snatched the sword again and plunged it at Lars Arnth’s unprotected chest with such force that he toppled off his knee and fell on his face to the ground as, more by instinct than skill, Lars Arnth thrust the blade aside blindly so that he suffered only a harmless cut. He could have struck the Veian youth on the neck with the edge of his shield or cut off the fingers grasping the sword. But Lars Arnth was content to step on his hand and press the youth’s face to the ground with his shield without hurting him. It was nobly done.
The Veian youth was fearless and tried once more to wrench himself free. Only then did he accept his defeat and a sob of disappointment rose from his throat. He released his sword and Lars Arnth, stooping to snatch it from the ground, threw it outside the ring. Magnanimously he extended his hand to his opponent and helped him to rise although his own eyes were still blinded by the sand and his own blood.
Then Lars Arnth did something the like of which had surely never happened before. Still panting from his exertion he glanced around searchingly, then stepped to the augur and pulled off the loose augur’s cloak so that the old man stood clad only in a shirt, his thin legs bare. With the cloak over his arm Lars Arnth stepped to Misme, cut the holy woolen band that bound her wrists, bent reverently to touch her mouth with his and, dropping onto the stone bed, took Misme in his arms and covered them both with the augur’s cloak.
This was so amazing that not even the most sacred tradition could stifle the laughter. At sight of the augur’s helpless air and thin legs we laughed still more, and when Misme extended a bare foot from the cloak and wiggled her toes at us even the Lucumones laughed so that tears rolled from their eyes.
With such relief did we laugh at Lars Arnth’s unexpected thoughtful-ness, nor was anyone opposed to it. On the contrary, everyone admitted later that such a noble youth as Lars Arnth and the granddaughter of Lars Porsenna could not have performed the traditional sacrifice before the stares of the people. Probably Misme and Arnth also laughed as they embraced each other under the augur’s cloak and left the sacrifice to a more propitious time.
When the laughter finally began to die down, Lars Arnth tossed off the cloak. They rose, holding each other’s hand and looking into each other’s eyes as though they had forgotten the rest of the world. They were a beautiful pair. The angry augur snatched back his cloak, flung it over his shoulder, rapped them both on the head with his staff harder than was necessary, and pronounced them man and wife and Tarquinia the supreme Etruscan city. Now Lars Arnth took the black collar from Misme’s neck and reversed it so that the white side was on top to indicate, in accordance with the ancient tradition, that life had conquered death. Hand in hand they stepped outside the circle, a wedding cloak was thrown over Misme’s nakedness and a myrtle wreath placed on her head. Lars Arnth took his own mantle, pulled on his shirt, and I hastened to embrace Misme as my daughter.
“How could you frighten me so?” I scolded her.
But Misme tossed her head capriciously and laughed aloud. “Now do you believe that I am able to take care of myself, Turms?”
Glancing at Lars Arnth, I whispered in her ear that from now on she must address me as her father, show the proper respect and remember that she was the granddaughter of the great Etruscan hero Lars Porsenna. She in turn told me that the field brothers had attempted to protect both her and my farm but that the enraged Romans had burned the buildings, stolen the cattle and trampled the fields when they had learned of my escape from the Mamertine prison. She and the old slaves had hidden themselves and that same night she had dug up the gold bull’s-head, chipped off the horns and given one to the old slave couple and the other to the shepherd youth who had become the keeper of my farm so that he might, in Misme’s name, obtain staffs of emancipation for the couple.
Then hardly had she returned the bull’s-head to its place of concealment than Veian patrols, aroused by the fire, had ridden across the border and abducted her. But they had treated her respectfully although the youth who had just fought had crushed her to him as they rode.
“It was not quite new to me and I wasn’t afraid,” Misme assured me.
“After all, our keeper always tried to touch and kiss me so that I learned to depend on myself and no longer wondered whether I was ugly. I could never have consented to him, but now with the gold horn he can obtain a suitable wife for himself and purchase land. He also promised to care for the old slaves whom I freed.”
She looked at me accusingly. “But why have you never told me how beautiful and refined life among the Etruscans is? I would have learned their difficult language long before this. I have known only goodness both in Veii and here, although I first feared that I was a prisoner and would be sold as a slave. But their beautiful women taught me how to bathe and care for my skin and curl my hair, called me beautiful and made me understand what an incomparable honor it was to be chosen as the maiden for the sacred combat. I thought it was for my own sake and because they considered me beautiful, but they probably chose me because of you, my father. I have heard many things about you.”
Lars Arnth hastened to swear by the names of the smiling gods that she was the fairest girl he had ever met and that he had risked his life because he had realized at first glance that life would be nothing without her. Probably he believed what he said, but I knew that his ecstatic dazzlement, as the goddess blinded him with her golden mist, was but one of his reasons for entering the combat.
Nevertheless I rejoiced for Misme and also for Lars Arnth, since I knew him and he was deserving of all human happiness, if Arsinoe’s daughter could bring a man more happiness than trouble. However, Misme swore that she was wiser than her mother and that she would remain faithful to her husband because in all the land there could not be a fairer man or one more to her liking. Still I could not trust her completely since she felt it necessary to swear such an oath. It seemed to indicate that she herself had begun to suspect that she was her mother’s daughter. Looking into her eyes I realized that Lars Arnth’s life with Misme would not be monotonous.
Everything was calm. As the sunset began to redden the dark surface of the lake and the hazy mountain peaks behind it, the priests erected the holy tent of the gods. Before it women were turning grindstones in order to bake the gods’ cakes of new flour. Nets had been thrown into the water and the gods’ red-eyed fish had been caught. A bull calf, a lamb and a pig had been sacrificed and consecrated to the gods. Cooking fires were burning in the open while the priests conferred among themselves and repeated the sacred verses so that the cakes would be baked and the foods prepared in the traditional manner. A feast of the gods had not been celebrated in many years.
As the sun set I felt the coolness of the lake, the lingering warmth of the earth, the fragrance of baking cakes and herbs. Finally both the Lucumones arrived, their holy mantles tossed over their shoulders. Behind them were borne the holy dishes of the gods.
“Have you cleansed yourself?” they asked.
“I have,” I assured them. “My eyes are clean. My mouth is clean. My ears are clean. My nostrils are clean. All the openings in my body are clean. My head has been washed. My feet and hands have been washed. My whole body has been scrubbed clean. For the first time I wear a shirt woven of the finest wool.”
They said with a smile, “Tonight you are host at the feast, Turms. You are the giver of gifts. You may invite two gods to eat with us. Whom do you choose?”
I did not hesitate. “I owe the goddess an invitation,” I said. “I invite her, the mural-crowned. Turan is her holy name.”
The old Lucumo feigned amazement and said slyly, “You yourself have told us how the goddess Artemis has favored you and as Hecate taken care of your earthly well-being. You also owe much to the foam-born who is worshiped in Eryx both as Aphrodite and Ishtar, as you have told us.”
“They are the same goddess,” I said, “although she appears in different guises in different places to different peoples. Her real name is Turan and the moon her emblem. That I have understood. Her I choose. Her I invite.”
They said, “What of your second guest? Whom do you choose?”
With a glow I said, “I choose him, the mutable himself. Voltumna. I did not understand him earlier. Now I want finally to know him. For his sake the sea horse was already sacred at the dawn of time. His likeness is Chimera.”
The smile faded from their faces, they glanced at each other and cried warningly, “Do you realize what you dare?”
In the grip of a holy joy I cried, “I choose him. I invite him. Voltumna, be my guest!”
Then they drew open the sacred curtains of the tent. In the bright light of smokeless torches I saw the high couch of the gods with its numerous mattresses and on each of the double cushions the two holy white stone cones. A low couch had been prepared for each of us three and low tables stood beside them. The wine was in the mixing vessel and I saw the sheaves of grain, the fruit of the earth and the wreaths.
The Lucumones said, “Wreathe your heavenly guests.”
I chose an ivy wreath and wreathed one of the white cones. “For you, Turan. You as a goddess, I as a human.”
Unspeakable joy seized me. I took a roseberry wreath and wreathed the second cone. “For you, Voltumna. Any wreath is as you wish it. Take the roseberry wreath, you as a god, I as an immortal.”
Thus did I finally acknowledge myself to be immortal. Why and how it happened and why I chose just the roseberry wreath I cannot say. But my doubts disappeared like a mist and the sky of my heart radiated the glory of immortality.
We reclined on the couches and heavy garlands of autumn flowers, berries and leaves were placed around our necks. The pipers began to blow wistful tunes on their double pipes, stringed instruments sounded and dancers clothed in holy garments danced the dances of the gods before the tent. Food was served to us from old black bowls and as we ate we used ancient flint knives, although we were also given two-pronged golden forks.
Gradually the sound of the pipes and strings grew wilder as the dancers performed the earth dance, the sea dance, the heavens’ dance. They performed the dance of the virgin goddess and the love dance, the dogs’ dance and bulls’ dance and even the horses’ dance. Pleasant fragrances arose in clouds around us from the high-legged censers, and the wine warmed my body and rose to my head. But the further the feast pro-> gressed, the greater my disappointment when I looked at the two motionless cones on the gods’ high couch.
The old Lucumo from his couch to my right saw my glances and consoled me with a laugh. “Do not be impatient, Turms, for the night is long. Perhaps the gods are preparing for us just as we prepared to meet them. Perhaps there is hustle and bustle in the eternal halls of the gods as festive garments are carried to and fro and hair is anointed and braided. Who knows?”
“Do not mock me,” I said angrily.
He extended his old hand and touched my shoulder. “This is the most exalted night of your life, Turms. But the people also must share in it. They can see the cones which you wreathed, they can watch us eating and drinking, they can see the holy dances and enjoy the music. Only then will we three be alone. Only then will the curtains be closed and the guests arrive.”
Outside the tent, under a canopy of stars, thousands of silent people had gathered to look at the lighted tent. The breathing of the dense crowd could be sensed but not a sound could be heard for the people were careful of every rustle and were afraid even to move their feet.
The cooking fires were extinguished, the servants departed one after the other, the dancers disappeared, the music ceased and all became still. The white cones with their wreaths seemed to ascend to the dimness of the tent ceiling. Now the last servant set before me a covered dish, and I saw both Lucumones raise themselves and stare at me tensely. The servant removed the lid, I smelled the strong odor of herbs, and seeing the pieces of meat in the sauce, extended my fork and brought a piece to my mouth. It had no evil taste from what I could determine, yet I could not bite or swallow it but had to spit it from my mouth.
At that moment the curtains were lowered with a thud. Silently the servant hastened from the tent, leaving the open dish to steam before me on the low table. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, rinsed my palate with wine and spat it out.
