The Etruscan (59 page)

But he had replied, “I have not acknowledged myself to be a Lucumo though men have tempted me, for I am not a Lucumo. Intelligence, courage and integrity suffice for a man. Pity the suffering, support the weak, slap the insolent across the mouth, tear the pouch of the greedy, concede the plowman his plowed land, protect the people from robbers and usurpers. A ruler needs no other guide and does not have to be a Lucumo to follow it. If my son is a true Lucumo he must be able to find himself and his city as the Lucumones did in former times. No one is a true Lucumo merely because of birth. Only at the age of forty can a Lucumo acknowledge himself and be acknowledged. That is why I must give up my son.”

So when I was seven my father had taken me to Sybaris, the most civilized Greek city in Italy, and entrusted my care to a friend from whom he extracted a promise not to tell me of my birth. It must have been hard for him to do that for I was his only son. My mother had died when I was three and he had not wished to marry again. But he considered it his duty to his people to sacrifice me because he did not wish me to be a false Lucumo.

It was probably his intention to follow my development from afar, but the war with Croton broke out suddenly and Sybaris was destroyed more thoroughly than any city previously had been. Of the four hundred families of Sybaris only the women and children were sent by sea to the safety of lonia and Miletus. Not even in the moment of greatest danger did my father’s friend break his oath and reveal my birth to those who took me to lonia with them. And after the destruction of Sybaris had been mourned for a time the wretched refugees had been forgotten and pushed from place to place.

My father was killed unexpectedly by a wild boar before he had even reached fifty, and after his death many considered that he had, after all, been a Lucumo who had chosen to conceal the fact. Others again claimed that he was not since he had gone to war, and these considered his death a punishment for having interfered in Roman politics. After all, the wild boar was the sacred animal of the Latins, even older and more sacred than the Romans’ wolf.

My father’s sisters came to meet me but they did not embrace me and their children stared at me with wide eyes. They declared that they would gladly share my father’s inheritance with me even without proof of my birth, but when I told them that I had not come in search of an inheritance they left relieved. It would have been difficult for them to have persuaded their husbands to agree to a division of the legacy although among Etruscans the wife controls her own property and inherits on equal terms with a man. Hence a man who is proud of his family always mentions his mother’s name together with that of his father. My real name was thus Lars Turms Larkhna Porsenna, for my mother was of the ancient Larkhna family.

During the summer the youths of the city practiced zealously for the holy game to be held that autumn. From among them would be chosen the strongest and fairest to represent Clusium in the traditional combat which yearly determined the leading city. He would be crowned with a wreath and receive the city’s sacred round shield and the sacred sword so that he might become accustomed to them. But the consecrated explained that the outcome of the combat had not had political significance for centuries. Now the winner merely won the maiden whom he had freed, and the city gained a place of honor at the conference for a year.

I did not listen carefully to the tales about traditions for I had enough to do in learning to know myself, no longer as a mere human but as something more than a human. Sometimes dazzling perception filled my mind and I was happy. Then again I felt the weight of my body and my limbs.

But it was nevertheless the happiest summer of my life as I groped to find my true self. Then, as autumn approached, I became so melancholy that I could no longer rejoice. In the dark of the moon I journeyed to the shore of the sacred lake at Volsinii with the delegates from my city. But I was not permitted to walk on my own feet or ride on the back of a horse or a donkey. Instead I was drawn in a closed cart by white oxen. Red tassels ornamented the forehead of the oxen and heavy curtains concealed me from the eyes of the people.

In the same cart, hidden from human eyes in the same manner, both white stone cones have just been brought to my city from the temple of the mutable. Once again I shall recline on the couch of the gods and partake of the feast of the gods as beads of death glisten on my brow. For that reason I, Turms, am hastening my writing to conclude all that I would not forget.

The brightest and bluest of all the lakes I have ever seen was our people’s sacred lake surrounded by its high mountains. The darkness of autumn had settled on its calm surface when I first saw it and the temples, the sacred circle of stones, the plowed furrow from which Tages had sprung to speak his wisdom, and the spring of the nymph Begoe. Perhaps Tages and Begoe had appeared elsewhere as well, but tradition had hallowed those places in the land of Volsinii.

Most sacred to me was the temple of the mutable, Voltumna’s stone-pillared building in which the center chamber was empty. It was guarded by a beautiful bronze Chimera—a lion, a snake and an eagle in the same body—combining in itself the earth, the sky and the underworld as a symbol of the mutable. Invincibly it guarded the empty chamber of Voltumna. The Greeks claimed that their hero, riding on a winged horse, had vanquished and killed the Chimera, and in my youth in Corinth I had even been shown the fountain of Pegasus. But among my people Chimera still lives as the sacred symbol of the mutable, so the Greeks have not yet succeeded in killing him.

Crowds gathered from all the cities for the autumn festival although only the delegates with their escorts were permitted to enter the sacred area and to live in the sacred huts. The powerful and wealthy city of Volsinii rose from its mountain half a day’s journey away. It was famous for its crafts and articles of trade, and benefited by the autumn festival.

On the first morning I was led with covered head to the conference house where the twelve delegates from the twelve cities were gathered. Among them were the two true Lucumones, five others who but used the title of Lucumo, one who had been chosen king by his people, and four who were but delegates chosen by their city councils. Clusium’s delegate was one of these latter. Some of the twelve were old, but others, such as Lars Arnth Velthuru of Tarquinia who came as his father’s regent, were young. But all wore the sacred mantles of their cities and looked with equal curiosity at me.

I bared my head and knew that this was the first and simplest test. As my glance went from man to man each tried to give me a sign, some with a gesture, some by blinking, some by smiling, some by growing serious. They had turned their mantles inside out so that I could not guess their identity by their emblems, yet I knew and immediately recognized both true Lucumones. I cannot explain how I knew, but absolute certainty came over me and I smiled at the childishness of the game.

I bowed my head first before the old man of Volsinii and then greeted the dark-faced Lucumo of eternally cold Volterra, a sturdy man not yet fifty. Perhaps I recognized them by their eyes, perhaps by the smiling wrinkles at the corners of the mouth. I greeted the others merely with a nod.

Both Lucumones looked at each other and stepped forward. The old man said, “I recognize you, Lars Turms.”

Immediately the other delegates began to argue among themselves as though I were not there, with several of them declaring that this was not real evidence, since the appearance of the two Lucumones might have been described to me or the delegate from Clusium might have secretly signaled their identity to me.

But the old Lucumo placed his hand on my shoulder and inexpressible goodness, gentleness and mercy radiated from him as he said with a smile, “Go freely where and when you wish during these days, in holy or unholy places. Follow the sacrifices if you wish. Watch the games. No door will be closed to you. No door will you be compelled to open.”

The Volterran Lucumo touched my arm. A feeling of strength and security flowed from his hand. “Prepare yourself if you wish, Lars Turms,” he said. “No one compels you to do so. Why should a true Lucumo prepare himself? But by preparing yourself you will become responsive to receive and experience that which you have not previously experienced.”

“How must I prepare myself, my father? How must I prepare myself, my brothers?” I asked.

The old man laughed and said, “Exactly as you wish, Turms. Some seek the solitude of the mountains, others seek themselves in noisy crowds. There are many paths, but they all lead to the same goal. You may remain awake and fast during these days. That often enables a man to see that which he otherwise would not see. Or you may drink wine until you are in a daze and your knees fail, and drink still more when you have awakened and vomited the old. You may make love to woman and gratify your senses to the point of exhaustion. That also produces the right dreams and visions. At my age I regret that I did not try that path as well. Now it is too late. I am almost seventy, my son, and I have no desire to redeem time from the gods to endure this ailing body of mine yet another ten years.”

The man of Volterra said, “Senses caress a person to glorious exhaustion. They help us to endure this life, even to praise it. But remember also, Turms, that hunger, thirst and abstinence likewise become pleasures if they are continued to the point of visions, though I don’t claim that they are nobler pleasures than intoxication or satiety. Each follows his own path. I cannot advise you which to take; I can only tell you of my own path.”

The old man pointed to him with a hazel switch and said, “He was born a shepherd and saw his visions in the solitude of the mountains. My body was born into an old family. And yet, as a Lucumo, he may be older than I.”

More advice than that they did not give me, but I saw and felt that in their hearts they had recognized me. As Lucumones and men who had acknowledged themselves they needed no other test than that I, Turms, was I. But because of tradition they had to test me to enable me to find and acknowledge myself. That is the most agonizing test for a Lucumo.

On that day I watched them drive a new copper nail into the time-worn gray wooden pillar in the temple of Fate. It was studded with nails, head beside head, the oldest clumsily made and green with age, but there was still room for many more. The gods were still measuring time for the Etruscan peoples and cities.

For three days the delegates conferred on matters of foreign policy and the Veian war against Rome, until Caere and Tarquinia promised to support Veii with arms and troops. They also discussed the Greeks, and Lars Arnth maintained that war against Greece was inevitable. But he received no support. Neither Lucumo participated in the discussions since a Lucumo does not recognize war save in defense of his own city. Even then he loses his power.

But as the others argued the old man of Volsinii whispered in my ear, “Let them war against Rome. They cannot conquer it anyway. You probably know that Rome is your father’s city and that the most secret omens bind it to your city. If Rome were destroyed, Clusium also would be destroyed.”

I shook my head. “There are many things that I do not know and the consecrated in Clusium said nothing about that.”

He laid his hand on my shoulder. “How strong and fair you are, Turms! I rejoice that I could see you with living eyes. But I warn you, do not believe the consecrated, for they know only what they have learned by rote. Perhaps I should not yet reveal such secret matters as this to you, but I may forget to do so later. Your father conquered Rome and lived there for several years. He would have restored it to Lars Tarkhon or his son had not the Romans convinced him that they preferred to rule themselves. The Romans even tried to murder him. Then in the holy cave of Egeria he met the oldest vestal and she read and interpreted the omens for him. Your father believed her and voluntarily relinquished Rome. But because of the omens he bound its fate to that of Clusium. If danger threatens Clusium, Rome must come to her defense. So it is written in the sacred books and confirmed by a feast of the gods.”

“This you must know,” he continued. “Clusium can never embark upon a war against Rome, and Clusium must speak in its defense if its neighbors wish to destroy it. And should complete destruction threaten it at the hands of the Etruscans, Clusium must, for the sake of its own future, fight for Rome rather than against it. So binding and holy an agreement is it that the very gods themselves descended to earth to confirm it. And yet the only outward indication of it is the fact that no public sale can be made in Rome without the declaration, ‘This is Porsenna’s land,’ or ‘This is Porsenna’s house,’ or ‘These are Porsenna’s goods.’“

I remembered having marked the peculiar way in which Roman auctioneers had made their sales legal. I realized also why my feet had been irresistibly drawn to the holy cave; why I had recognized it and sprinkled its water on my face. I had but followed in my father’s footsteps. And the oldest of the vestals also had immediately recognized me as my father’s son.

For seven days the delegates discussed internal matters and resolved border disputes. Then the sacrifices and traditional games began. The sacrifices took place in the temples but the sacred combats were held within a circle of stones. The Lucumones and the delegates sat on twelve rocks covered with cushions and all who were admitted to the sacred area stood behind them while the ordinary people watched from the mountain slopes and the roofs of houses. No noise or shouts of approval were permitted and the combats were waged in deep silence.

On the day of the god Turms I had to choose a ewe to be sacrificed in my name on the altar. The ewe did not resist when the priest’s stone knife slit its throat, and after the blood had flowed into the sacrificial cups the priest cut open its belly and dug out the liver. The color was right and the liver flawless but twice as large as usual. The haruspex did not interpret the omens further, but he and his comrades looked at me thereafter with new eyes, bowed their heads before me and greeted me as the gods are greeted.