Etruscans (11 page)

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Authors: Morgan Llywelyn

BOOK: Etruscans
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Mama and Grandmama insisted Horatrim bathe every day, and fresh clothing always awaited him. “You are Rasne,” Grandmama frequently reminded him. She had even encouraged Wulv to begin bathing.
He was not too sure what “being Rasne” meant. But he felt confident it was something very different from the nature of the invaders crashing through the countryside.
He would be glad when they were gone. He had wanted to see others like himself, but these men were not like him at all. And he had no desire to be like them.
When the last sounds of their passing died away, he crept from his hiding place and resumed tracing the watercourse. The sky was darkening with a summer storm and he knew he should head for home, but he was stubborn. What he began, he would finish.
Yet his mind kept skittering back to the strangers. What sort of place did they come from? He would ask Wulv about them when he returned. Wulv would know. Wulv knew everything.
W
ulv ran as hard as he could, while with every step his foreboding increased. Dark clouds gathering overhead added to his sense of impending doom. He regretted having built his sanctuary so far from the village. At a walking pace it had always seemed a satisfying distance, assuring him privacy and freedom from the pitying stares of others. But he was running at top speed now.
Even at that he was too late however. He burst from the forest at the edge of the marsh to discover that his home was ablaze. The island was swarming with Romax warriors. Several were silhouetted against the flames of his burning house as they busied themselves with the two women.
Vesi lay unconscious beneath her ravager, but Repana was fighting back.
“Monsters!” Wulv screamed at the top of his lungs. “Monsters!” He hurled himself forward with no sense of personal danger, only a vast, reddening rage.
Within that rage a great shadow took form. As Wulv, roaring with fury, pounded across the causeway, the nearest Romax turned around in time to see a human running toward him embedded in what appeared to be the transparent image of a giant bear.
“Ho … !” cried the startled warrior. But he made no further sound. Wulv struck him such a mighty blow across the throat that his vocal cords were paralyzed. A second blow snapped his spine, sending him spinning into the lake, which immediately boiled with wriggling eels.
The nearby warriors were so taken aback that they hesitated, and in that slim space of time Wulv killed two more. Then they closed on him, swords thrusting, spears jabbing. Screams and grunts tore through the air as a company of highly trained warriors attacked, and were attacked by, something that might have been a huge and savage bear—or one desperate man.
“Repana!” Wulv called with all his might from the heart of the fray. He thought a faint voice answered.
The Teumetian was hopelessly outnumbered, yet somehow he stayed on his feet. A blade sliced through the big muscle in his upper left arm but the pain never reached his brain. Anger blocked all sense of agony; he felt only a desperate desire to get to his women.
Repana had heard him call out to her and it gave her renewed strength. From the moment the warriors had emerged from the forest she had anticipated her fate, but she was determined not to give up her life without a struggle. Life, to her surprise, had become very sweet again, even though Pepan was lost to her forever.
Besides, she had her daughter to protect.
“Kick and bite,” she had instructed Vesi when the warriors first approached the causeway. “Vomit on them if they try to rape you; that puts men off. Get your hands on a weapon, any weapon, and take as many into the Netherworld with you as you can.”
“And you, Mother,” gritted the younger woman as she
rummaged through the household's meager supply of implements in search of weapons. She equipped herself with a fish scaler and gave her mother a hand ax. Shoulder to shoulder they stood waiting in the sunshine for the enemy.
They had not long to wait.
With howls of delight the war party had pounded across the causeway and attacked the compound. The women fought back with a ferocity that gave the lie to the Roman belief that Etruscans were weak and soft, but soon they were overcome by superior numbers.
“Now you'll lick my feet, you scrawny bitch!” a warrior had demanded as he ripped the fish scaler from Vesi's fingers and flung her backward onto the ground. He hurled himself on top of her, neither noticing nor caring that she had struck her head on the stone quem as she fell. Panting, he tore at her helpless and unmoving body.
Meanwhile others had pillaged the compound. When they found nothing of value they set fire to the buildings and amused themselves by taking turns with the women. Vesi remained lifeless and unrewarding, so was spared the worst of it. Repana proved a more worthy trophy, fighting like a tigress. Each new man had to subdue her in turn, and she left the mark of her teeth and nails on every one. But she was growing tired, terribly tired. It was only a matter of time before pain and shock released her to unconsciousness, perhaps to death.
When at last Wulv's cry reached her ears, she struggled to free herself from her latest rapist and get to the Teumetian somehow. She meant to shout his name … but instead she heard herself scream, “Pepan!”
H
e never left Horatrim, yet part of him was always with Repana. His
hia
became aware of her pain. Then he heard her call his name, a cry of distress winging to him through the Otherworld. He had no flesh with which to go to her aid, but he had another resource.
Horatrim!
Pepan shouted voicelessly.
Horatrim, listen to me!
The child stopped in his tracks.
You must go home. Now!
The little boy cocked his head to one side, listening. But all his ears heard was the singing of the stream, the sighing of the wind.
Go home!
Now!
Dropping his fishing spear, Horatrim whirled around and began to run.
As he sped back the way he had come, the sound of the wind turned into the malicious hiss and snicker of a thousand evil voices.
The boy's heart began to pound in his breast. His feet thudded a frantic rhythm on the stream bank. The sky continued to darken as a massive summer storm advanced, but it was not fear of the storm that propelled him.
Hurry
, urged the silent intuition that drove him on.
Faster, faster!
He had not realized how far he had come; the journey back seemed to take forever. But at last he saw the lush marshland spread before him, with the small lake, shallow in the heat of summer, at its center. Relieved, he raced toward the glint of water. And stopped in horror.
Wulv's compound was ablaze. Invaders swarmed over the little island like ants, and in their midst some sort of struggle was taking place. With sweat pouring into his eyes Horatrim could not tell just what was happening until he wiped his forearm across his face. Then he saw all too clearly.
Outlined against the purple storm clouds a creature like a huge bear stood on its hind legs, surrounded by warriors. Roaring in fury, it flung itself from one side to the other while they slashed and jabbed at it with their weapons. A woman was staggering toward the creature, holding out her arms imploringly. Her clothing was bloody and torn to ribbons, exposing her bare breast. Long strands of gray hair streamed wildly over her shoulders. As the child watched she fell to her knees with her arms still outstretched, and her wail of despair drifted across the lake.
“Grandmother!” screamed Horatrim.
He must get to her, but there were warriors on the causeway so he flung himself into the lake instead. Thrashing wildly through water up to his chest, he waded toward the island. The eels surged toward him, then writhed in agony when they touched his flesh. Horatrim was unaware of them. Too late he remembered his abandoned fishing spear. What could one unarmed little boy do against a company of warriors? Remembering
the stakes Wulv had driven into the mud, he reached down and wrenched one free with surprising strength.
The boy pushed through the water. But the viscous mud at the bottom of the lake sucked greedily at his feet, holding him back. He gave a violent lunge to free himself.
From nowhere a shrill, mirthless laugh sounded in his ears. Something was watching; something was enjoying.
The sound distracted him. At that moment he lost his balance and tumbled face forward, inadvertently swallowing a mouthful of brackish liquid.
Choking, strangling, fighting panic, Horatrim struggled to get his feet under him. When his head at last broke the surface he desperately gulped air into his lungs. It burned like fire but it was better than drowning. The dark water terrified him; it seemed determined to claim him as a victim before he could reach Repana. And his mother …
“Ais, help me!” gasped the little boy.
His mother and grandmother believed in the gods implicitly and made sacrifices to them for every occasion. Aside from standing obediently silent throughout the rituals, he had never taken part in their devotions, which seemed very adult and mystifying. But if ever there was a time to seek supernatural aid, this was it.
“Help me,” he repeated urgently. “I'm frightened!”
You must not be afraid,
replied a voice. He could not tell where it came from; it was simply there. In him, around him … almost a part of him.
Fear can cripple you,
the voice warned.
Before Horatrim could recover from his astonishment a different voice spoke up, enunciating as if with great effort,
Fear is something you can step out of as a beetle leaves its shell
.
Walk away from your fear. Leave it behind you and never look back
.
“I can't!”
You can. I did And, having mastered the technique myself, I have given you that ability, it was my gift to you.
“But …”
Stop resisting! You make this too difficult. Just listen. Listen!
Never before had Horatrim conversed with
Ais
, but he was certain the gods were talking to him now. In their divine wisdom they were assuring him he could walk away from fear.
Your fear is like a shadow that is always with you. Look around. See the darkness that hovers close by? That is your fear.
The boy did as he was told. A faint, smoky cloud hung like a stain on the air beside him.
Now that you have seen it, recognize it for what it is,
the voice instructed.
Then walk away. Leave your fear behind you.
… and so he did.
Gritting his teeth, Horatrim floundered out of the shallow lake and onto the rocky but solid earth of the islet. Behind in the mud he left his capacity for fear, never to be reclaimed.
What he saw next would indeed have crippled him if terror still had any power over him. A sudden blast of lightning against the storm dark sky illuminated the scene with painful clarity.
The thing that Horatrim had mistaken for a bear was only Wulv—valiant Wulv—locked in a fight to the death with a score of men who were systematically hacking him to bits.
Thunder boomed.
Repana, obviously dying, was trying to crawl forward to meet her fate with the Teumetian. Beyond them Horatrim glimpsed the figure of Vesi lying on the earth like a broken branch while one of the warriors kicked her.
The lightning struck again, very close. Horatrim felt
the hair lift on his scalp and forearms, then a great shudder ran through him.
Wulv's fading cries were nothing compared to the roar that now burst from Horatrim's throat. It was not the shriek of a child but the full-blooded howl of an enraged man. His vocal cords swelled to accommodate the sound; his neck thickened, his shoulders broadened accordingly.
Faster than he had ever thought before, his racing brain analyzed the situation and made a decision. Wulv and Repana were almost beyond help, but Vesi's condition was uncertain. She might be saved. Horatrim raced toward her, the pointed stake clutched in one white-knuckled hand.
But they were not the hands of a little boy. The Romax who was kicking Vesi, more out of frustration than cruelty, stared in disbelief as a figure came toward him. With every step the child grew larger, older. The warrior's foot paused in midswing. The boy—the youth—the young man hurled himself forward in a great leap calculated to disable.
As Horatrim left the ground he heard yet another voice instructing,
Swing your arms for balance.
He landed easily before the Romax.
Twist, then kick.
His left foot shot out, slamming hard into the Romax's unprotected kneecap. The sound of breaking bone was clearly audible, and the warrior pitched forward.
Now use your weapon, drive it up beneath the chin
.
Horatrim rammed the stake into the Romax's throat, pushing it up through the roof of the mouth and into the brain. The man was dead before he hit the ground.
Horatrim bent over Vesi. She was still breathing, though both her eyes were swollen shut and a thin trickle of blood ran from the corner of her mouth.
Put your fingers to her throat and feel how the blood
pulses
, said another of his voices.
Ah, she is strong. She will recover in time if no further harm comes to her. Go to the others now
Leaving his mother, Horatrim ran toward Repana and Wulv. With a coldness that surprised himself his brain was planning strategy to free them from their tormentors. One piercing cry caught the attention of the warriors surrounding Wulv and they turned toward the newcomer.
On their faces Horatrim saw blank surprise. He would never know what they saw, for as he approached they began scrambling backward. When he was within a couple of paces of them, he pretended to lunge to the right, then darted to the left instead and scooped Repana into his arms. The child Horatrim would never have thought of lifting his grandmother; the young man he had become did so easily.
“Who are you?” she managed to gasp through bloody lips.
“Vengeance,” replied a voice—a voice she recognized even in her extremity, for it was Pepan's. Yet the face looking down at her belonged to the child Horatrim. But the features had matured inexplicably however, as if years had passed since the morning. Now he was both man and boy, familiar and a stranger.
Moaning, Repana closed her eyes.
Horatrim's actions caught the warriors off balance. One of them took a wild swing at him with his sword, but he easily ducked beneath the blow and in the same movement laid Repana at Wulv's feet. The mortally wounded Teumetian slumped down beside her and cradled her against his chest with a little sigh that might have been contentment.
The Roman warriors were tough and experienced; they swiftly regrouped. In a unit they rushed at him, then separated to flow around him like a river around a rock in order to trap him within their circle.
A child would have been overwhelmed by the strategy. The person Horatrim had become found himself drawing on the experiences of men who had been dead five hundred years. He fell to the ground, hugging his knees and rolling between pairs of running legs, then as soon as he was in the clear he was on his feet and turning to fight.
He had no weapons but his spirit and all it now contained: the accumulated wisdom of generations of people who had lived intimately with the gods.
Balancing a spear, a cursing warrior took aim at the man-boy who had appeared so unexpectedly. Horatrim met the man's eyes, then glanced up almost casually. “Tinia,” he murmured as if calling to an old friend.
A bolt of blinding light seared out of the boiling clouds to detonate at the feet of the Roman and engulf him in a ball of fire. In the resulting dazzle Horatrim envisioned a flame-haired figure with no face, no indication of gender, and yet a terrible beauty. In one hand the figure held a whip. When the whip was cracked, lightning crackled and snapped.
Cowering, the Romans shrank back as the smell of their comrade's crisping flesh tainted the air.
“Tinia,” Horatrim murmured again in acknowledgment and gratitude. Then from deep within himself came other names. “Sethlan, god of metals, give me fists of iron. Tuflas, goddess of healing, let me not feel my wounds. Culsan, god of destiny, grant me victory. Sancus, god of cities; Satres, ruler of the Netherworld; Ani, guardian of the gates; Veno, Protectress of the Dead; all you who are sacred to my people, be with me. I honor you now and fight in your name!”
His mother and grandmother had spoken those names within the hearing of the child Horatrim. Now he identified them with the multitude he felt inside himself. He had long been aware of the crowd of presences flooding his mind and his muscles, filling him with strength and
cleverness and courage. He had never known their origins, but now he made the assumption that they were gods.
Surely the
Ais
were with him.
How could a mere band of mortal warriors hope to stand against one whom the gods loved?
He attacked in fury, and in terror the Romans attempted to flee from him. They saw what he did not.
Behind the infuriated youth, bearing down upon them, strode a whole army. Led by the image of an aging figure dressed in the garments of a nobleman of Etruria, a shadowy host of men and women marched implacably forward. Through their spectral flesh could be seen the dying fires of the compound behind them. Spears hurled at them passed through them as if through thin air.
The youth from the lake commanded an army of ghosts.
“Manes!”
shrieked the Roman captain. His eyes rolled in his head.
“Manes!
”
Without effort, Horatrim understood what the word
manes
meant. But why did the man claim he was seeing ghosts? Was it supposed to be a trick? “Fool,” Horatrim muttered contemptuously. Locking his fists together, he slammed them against the Roman captain's temple and grinned with satisfaction as the man slumped to the ground.

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