The Etruscan (64 page)

Hanna related how she had jumped into the sea one night from the Phoenician slave ship near Greek Poseidonia to escape the fate that Arsinoe had planned for her. But the waves had carried her gently to shore where she had met a friendly shepherd. He had concealed her and protected her and after the birth of my son he had cared for the boy as well. In time she had realized that she loved him.

“Good fortune came to us with the boy,” said Hanna, “and we have our little house, our fields and vineyards and also cattle. But we have had no other children, so that we still have only your son, Turms.”

The man looked at me pleadingly. “The boy believes me to be his father, thrives with us and loves the land. He has learned to play the pipes and to compose songs. He has not an unkind thought. But we have grieved because of him, not knowing what to do. Finally we had to come here before you. Do you demand your son or will you permit us to keep him?”

Hanna said, “You are a Lucumo. You know better than we what would give the boy happiness.”

With a quivering heart I asked, “Where is he, your son?”

I followed them outside and saw a curly-haired youth playing the pipes on the edge of the market place. So beautifully did he play that people had gathered to listen. His skin was burned brown and his eyes were large and dreamy. He started when he saw me and stared suspiciously, afraid that I had harmed his parents. He was barefooted and wore only a home-loomed country garment. He was fair, so fair. They three belonged together. My prayer had been answered.

I looked at my son to implant his features in my heart for all time. Then I returned to the solitude of my house. I thanked Hanna and the man for coming, gave them gifts and acknowledged the boy to be their son. I asked them to turn to me if they should ever be in need, but they never did. And I sent them simple gifts until they moved from the path of the Greeks without leaving word where they had gone. Hanna understood. That was best, both for her and the boy.

Since then I have lived for the good of my people. For them it suffices that I live among them as a Lucumo.

I did not permit them to war, not even against the Romans. Nor would I allow them to join in Lars Arnth’s war. Only after Misme’s scolding* made me weak did I permit those desirous of going to war to do so. It happened six years after Himera. But the bottom had dropped off and the vessel was broken. At sea off Cumae our fleet suffered the greatest defeat ever suffered by Tyrrhenian vessels. The sea is no longer ours. Greeks are founding colonies on the islands of our sea. Instead of ships, we have begun to build walls to defend our cities. The wealth of generations has been spent on them now that the Greeks have destroyed our trade. And every year the Romans grow bolder, more insolent and more intolerable.

When I heard of our people’s defeat in the sea battles off Cumae I did not show myself to my people until I had marked the site of my tomb. As a Lucumo I had transgressed in permitting participation in the war. For ten years I have not shown myself to my people. They have been long years, but my people have done well and by writing I have made the time pass. Now the years have finally ended.

And the Etruscan people still live, the inland cities still prosper, and the Veian potters, the Tarquinian painters and my own city’s sculptors still vie with one another in perpetuating humans and gods. My own image lies ready within the mountain on the lid of the alabaster sarcophagus with a sacrificial cup in its hand and a garland around its neck. I would rather rest on a stone bed surrounded by wall paintings and my people’s gifts. I could not, however, hurt my sculptors because their art preserves a person as he has lived. In the work of its artists my people and city will live even after its death. I am proud of my people, proud of my city.

But I am weary of my body’s prison and the new day will be the glorious day of liberation. The tent of the gods has been erected before the tombs on the holy mountain. The holy stone cones have been lifted onto the double cushions of the gods’ couch. In the air is the smell of autumn, the taste of fresh flour and wine. The water birds are flocking. Women are singing as they turn the grindstones to bake the cakes of the gods of new flour.

This much yet must I endure. With my hands, arms and face painted red, with the holy mantle of the Lucumo on my shoulders and an ivy wreath on my head, I will be carried on the gods’ litter to my deathbed in the tent of the gods. As the beads of death spring to my forehead, as the black hem of death flutters before my eyes, I must watch the dances of the gods and partake of the feast of the gods before my people’s eyes. Only then will the curtains be closed. I will remain alone to meet the gods and to drink the wine of immortality.

For the last time I will taste life in the barley cake baked in ashes, in the wine mixed with fresh water. Then the gods may come. But more than for them I long for my guardian spirit. As a body of light, a body of fire, she will spread her wings over me and kiss the breath from my mouth. At that moment she will at last whisper her name in my ear and I will recognize her.

Because of that I know that I will die happy, as ardent as a youth upon finally enfolding her in my embrace and recognizing her. Her powerful wings will carry me to immortality. Then I will have my rest and oblivion. Blessed, blessed oblivion. For one hundred years or one thousand, I care not. Then some day I, Turms the immortal, will return.

The End