The Etruscan (61 page)
Then they uttered a warning: “When you have acknowledged yourself to be a Lucumo you will no longer live for yourself but for the good of your people and city. You are a giver of gifts. But the grainfields will not billow and the earth will not bear fruit because of you and your power. Everything merely happens through you. Don’t permit yourself to be annoyed. Do nothing merely to please people but only to benefit them. Don’t fetter yourself to trivialities. Laws and customs, judges, governors, priests and diviners exist to take care of them. Make your prison as pleasant as you can without hurting your people and aggravating others. Although you are the high priest, the highest legislator, the supreme judge, the less you are appealed to the better. Nations and cities must learn to live without Lucumones. Evil times are coming. You will return, but your people will never return once their allotted time has ended.”
They were compassionate in their teaching because they knew from their own experience what a crushing burden they were laying upon me. The old Lucumo of Volsinii placed a protective arm around my neck.
“Doubt will be your greatest torment,” he said. “In our moments of weakness we are all tormented. Everything occurs in cycles. There are days when your power is at its peak and you radiate joy and confidence. Those are blessed days. But the cycle turns and your power ebbs and everything around you grows dark. At such times remain silent, be submissive and meek. When your weakness is the greatest, temptation is the strongest.”
The Volterran Lucumo said, “Your power may increase and decrease with the phases of the moon. Or it may vary with the seasons. Or the weather. We all differ in that respect. Perhaps the weather rules us rather than we it, even though we can summon the wind and raise a storm. When my weakness began to oppress me I climbed to a precipice. Temptation whispered in my ear, ‘If you are a true Lucumo, jump off the precipice into the valley. The air will bear you lightly to the ground and you will not be injured. If you are not a true Lucumo, it matters little if you crush your head.’ That is what temptation will whisper.”
I looked at his brooding eyes and became curious. “Did you jump off the precipice?” I asked. “Tell me.”
The old Lucumo began to titter merrily. “Glance at the scars on his knees. Not many of his bones remained whole when the people of Volterra removed him from the foot of the precipice. He had fallen onto a bush growing out of a crevice and that slowed his fall. Then he was hurled into a pine tree and fell from branch to branch, his bones snapping together with the branches. If he were not a Lucumo, he would hardly be able to walk. Even so his back is stiff although he cannot be called a cripple. A Lucumo is never so seriously injured as to remain maimed, but he is occasionally reminded of mortality lest he forget that he was born into a human body.”
That also was true. I had experienced the dangers of war and the terrors of the sea, but at no time had I been seriously wounded or injured. It was as though unseen wings had protected me.
The Volterran Lucumo lowered his glance and confessed in shame, “I felt not the slightest pain as I fell. Only when the people lifted me from the ground and I regained consciousness did the pain begin. Truly I have tasted bitterly of human mortality, but it served me right and was a good lesson.”
His tale brought me so near the point of collapse that I felt my weakness as though the bones in my body had melted.
“Release me from this burden,” I begged. “I am only Turms. Must I acknowledge myself as a Lucumo and believe in myself if I would not?”
They said, “You are Turms, an immortal and a true Lucumo. You must admit it to yourself for you can no longer deny yourself.” But they added consolingly, “We understand you, for we ourselves have experienced man’s most dreadful suffering—doubt and the pangs of one’s own imperfection. But on the night of the twelfth day you may share with us the feast of the gods just as we shared it upon finding and acknowledging ourselves. There are still three of us to share it, but on the day of your earthly death, Turms, you must meet the gods alone.”
On the twelfth day occurred the traditional sacred combat that determined the leader among the cities. It was a bright autumn day and the sun shone with warm rays upon the holy lake and the blue mountains. The Lucumones and delegates from the twelve cities sat on the twelve sacred stones of the ring. I myself stood among the others in the crowd behind the delegate from Clusium, for I had not yet been publicly acknowledged as a Lucumo nor had the holy mantle been placed on my shoulders. For that reason everyone pretended not to pay any attention to me although space had been left around me and no one touched or brushed past me.
First to enter was the eldest of the augurs, a worn staff in his hand. He was followed by the twelve youths representing the different cities.
They were naked save for the purple band around their heads, and each carried his city’s round shield and sacred sword. Their order had been determined by lot, for no Etruscan city was better than the next, but once within the circle of stones each placed himself before his city’s delegate.
The augur fetched a maiden from a curtained litter and led her to a sacred bed of stones in the center of the ring. She, too, was naked, but tightly wound around her eyes was a sacred woolen band. She was a well-formed untouched young girl, and as the augur opened the knot at her neck and revealed her face, she looked around with a flushed, startled face and instinctively attempted to shield her nakedness with her hands. The youths straightened themselves as they looked at her and their eyes began to glow with eagerness for combat. But with a shock that touched the roots of my heart I recognized the girl as Misme.
True, I knew that the Etruscans’ most beautiful and noble maiden was chosen each year as an offering and that selection was considered to be the greatest honor that could befall a girl. Where they had found Misme, and why she in particular had been chosen, I could not understand. But the alarmed expression on her face made me suspect that she had not voluntarily submitted to the sacrifice.
Deep silence prevailed, as custom decreed, and I watched the rapid rise and fall of the youths’ chests. But a reluctant offering is worthless. Hence the augur reassured Misme until she lifted her head proudly, acknowledged her own youth and the beauty of her body, suffered the glances of the youths and permitted the augur to bind her hands with a woolen band.
I could endure no more. Despair came over me and I waved my arms violently. Both Lucumones looked at me searchingly and I saw that the other delegates were watching me as curiously as they were Misme. Abruptly I realized that this was also my test. They believed Misme to be my daughter and wished to see whether I was ready to sacrifice her in accordance with the sacred Etruscan customs to prove that I was a true Lucumo.
I was not certain what would happen but I knew that the bed of stones in the center of the ring was a sacrificial altar before which the youths had to fight one another with sword and shield. Only he who, wounded, stepped outside the ring, saved his life, although the augur might spare a badly wounded combatant from the mortal thrust if the youth, collapsed without relinquishing his sword.
I remained silent and suddenly I met Mismc’s glance. She smiled at me and there was something so irresistibly impudent and enchanting in her glance that I recognized a flash of Arsinoe in her. She was not so beautiful as Arsinoe and her body was still girlish and undeveloped. But her breasts were like little wild pears, her legs slender, her hips well rounded, and she was no longer at all shy. On the contrary, I could see by the provocative glint of her eye that she was well aware of the feelings which the sight of her aroused in those twelve youths.
No, I need not fear for Misme. She was her mother’s daughter and knew into what game she had entered. I calmed myself with the knowledge that no matter how the Etruscans had got hold of her, she had voluntarily consented to be the sacrifice. Seeing how beautiful she had grown, I knew that I was proud of her. Then as I looked around, I suddenly met the glance of Lars Arnth as he sat on the holy rock of Tarquinia. He had been staring at Misme with as great fascination as the youths. Now he looked at me and narrowed his eyes questioningly. Instinctively I nodded my consent.
Lars Arnth rose imperiously, doffed his robe and tossed it onto the shoulders of the Tarquinian youth who stood in the circle with sword and shield. Then he drew off his shirt, unfastened his armbands and the chain around his neck, dropped them onto the ground and finally pulled the gold ring off his thumb. As though the matter were self-evident, he took his city’s sacred shield and sword from the youth, stepped into his place and indicated that he should sit on the holy rock. So great was the honor that the youth’s disappointment was assuaged.
The augur looked around as though inquiring whether anyone opposed the change in combatants. Then he touched Lars Arnth with his staff as an indication of acceptance. Lars Arnth was slenderer than the, other youths and his skin gleamed white as a woman’s as he stood there naked and, with expectant, parted lips, gazed at Misme while she for her part looked straight into his eyes. It was obvious that the girl’s vanity was flattered by the readiness of the regent of the most powerful of Etruscan cities to risk his life to win her.
But I had to smile with inexpressible relief on realizing that it was all a jest of the gods intended to indicate to me how blind even the most clear-sighted man can be and how useless it is to consider anything on earth important. I read Lars Arnth’s thoughts as from an open scroll. Certainly the sight of Misme had enchanted him, but at the same moment he had perceived how much he would win if he were to emerge the victor in the holy combat. He had suffered a defeat in the foreign policy negotiations and his authority in Tarquinia had suffered as a result of the unsuccessful military expedition to Himera. Old Aruns still lived and his authority was unshakeable, but it was not at all certain that Arnth would succeed him as ruler of Tarquinia even though he had been raised to the regency. Lars Arnth’s decisive policy was farsighted and dictated by the times but it did not please the old people or those who were pro-Greek.
But should he emerge the victor in the holy combat, he would personally secure a position of honor for Tarquinia among the Etruscan cities. True, in ancient times the rulers themselves had stepped into the sacred circle to fight among themselves for supremacy, but it was unprecedented for a young regent in these times to risk his life for his city. Should he win, Tarquinia’s supremacy would be no mere formality and honor but the victory would be considered a divine sign. And at the same time he would win for himself the daughter of a living Lucumo who was also the great Lars Porsenna’s granddaughter.
The gods smiled and I smiled with them, for everything was a lie. Misme was merely believed to be my daughter. And yet, in comprehending that, I realized at the same time that there is little difference between truth and falsehood in the mortal world. Everything depends on what a person believes to be true. The gods are above truth and falsehood, right and wrong. In my heart I decided to acknowledge Misme as my daughter and to forbid her ever to tell anyone that I was not her real father. It was enough that we both knew; it did not concern others. And with all my heart I wished Lars Arnth victory, for a nobler husband Misme could not find, although to be truthful I did not know whether Arsinoe’s daughter could bring happiness to any man or to the Etruscans as a whole. But why should I care, if in my heart I acknowledged Misme as my daughter? In that case only the best among the Etruscans was good enough for her. Mockingly I thought how badly Arsinoe had been mistaken about Misme.
The augur laid the traditional black leather collar on Misme’s bare shoulders and forced her to sit on the edge of the bed of stones, her bound wrists before her. Then he gave a sign with his staff and the combatants rushed together so violently that the first clash blurred before our eyes into flashing confusion. Sooner than the eye could comprehend, two youths lay bleeding on the ground.
The other contestants would have been wise, I think, if they had all united to force Lars Arnth outside the circle since they dared not kill him because of his noble birth. They were fighting only formally for honor and a beautiful sacrifice. He fought for his entire future, for the kingship of Tarquinia, even for the salvation of the Etruscan peoples, since he believed that only his own policy could free the Etrus can cities from fatal Greek pressure. But how could his rivals have known that?
No, in the traditional manner they rushed six against six in the first skirmish, paused for the period of a breath to appraise the situation; then five plunged against five, swords flashed and shield crashed against shield. We heard groans of pain and only four youths drew back, gasping for breath. One had toppled outside the ring, two crawled out leaving bloodstains behind, one’s sword had been struck from his hand, severing his fingers, one lay on his back with the air bubbling from his gashed throat, and one was shielded by the augur’s staff as he still tried to wield his sword although on his knees.
Without a glance at those who had dropped out, the four measured one another. Lars Arnth was one of the four and I crossed my hands tightly, hoping that he would last and at least save his life. For a moment they stood there with their backs to the sacred circle, then the most impatient lost his nerve and rushed with upraised shield at his nearest opponent. This youth struck it in the air with his own shield and plunged his sword through the other’s body. Instantly the third rival recognized his opportunity and leaped to thrust his sword into the defender’s back, not to kill but merely to render him incapable of combat.
Everything had occurred with incredible speed and ten of the bravest and fairest Etruscan youths were already out of the game. I thought sadly of their hopes and how they had toughened their bodies and improved their skills with ceaseless practice. In a few fleeting moments all was over and hope gone. Now only Lars Arnth and the Veian youth remained, and the real battle could begin. Chance and good fortune no longer determined the outcome but only swordsmanship, endurance and nerves.
