Etruscan swan song

by Pier Isa Della Rupe

CHAPTER 11

  On the seventh day of the second decade of the new moon, the time that had passed since Janu set off into the wilderness, Orphea raised her eyes in the direction of the Cimina Mountains again and again. Where their peaks thrust up into the blue skies, she sought in vain to interpret the flight of the birds and the cawing of the crows and ravens. For several days now she had no longer being keeping strict watch over her sheep swollen with milk as she sat anxiously under the oak tree next to her vegetable patch; nor did she heed the black ram if he strayed too far in search of tender young shoots of grass. She no longer paused, as she had done before she had met her love, to admire the last smudge of lacquered pink which stained the western horizon where the angelic blue sea met the land at the twilight hour when a fluttering bat would announce the onset of night. Nor did she wait to catch sight of the evening star twinkling out from behind the clouds. As she listened to the jackals howling at the moon she thought she could hear the laments of her injured love far, far away.

  That morning Orphea had just got up when the foxes started to bark as if they had all gone mad, then their voices were drowned by a huge volcanic explosion, like the crack of a thousand bulls’ horns against a cliff. Instinctively she turned to look at Mount Venus and realised that it was in full eruption, like a diabolic forge, cloaked in dense black clouds shot through with gouts of flame and jets of purple lava. Her thoughts flew to her love and without a moment’s hesitation or fear she abandoned the ripe fruit hanging from the trees and prepared to go and seek him. To face the perils of the forest she took her father’s cloak and tucked her long hair up under a wide-brimmed hat, thus disguised as a charcoal-burner she set off towards the mountains.

  Running like a wounded deer she reached the old oak tree by the stream with its myriad nests and found the linen thread Janu had tied around its trunk. All day and all night she struggled through the woods following the thread, crying and praying:

  “Where are you my love? For you I scatter my flowers to the wind and now my basket is almost empty. Where are you my heart? Days go by and the evening shadows lengthen to their allotted span, but where are you, my love? I waited for you in front of my tent for days and days, from dawn till dusk and on into the night, but the hours passed in vain and you did not come. How long must I wait? Look, my love, the light is fading and in the last rays of the sunset all the birds are returning to their nests, but I am still alone. Can’t you hear my silent footsteps? I walk on and on and on.

  Night and day I walk but where are you my love? Darkness is nigh and in the vast emptiness the stars sail through the sky like drifting boats hiding their broken masts with the brightness of their glow. Perhaps like me they are frightened of this enflamed darkness, this burnt earth oozing blood. I am tired, my love, tired and ship-wrecked in this emptiness, in this lack of you, my poor body in this sunset that inflames the sky’s vault with burning gold. In a while all the leaves and all the birds in the forest will be asleep, my love, and only I will not be able to sleep, fearful never to wake again. Help me, my love, help me to stay awake, and you, dark-plumaged night birds of the forest, come and entertain me with singing and dancing; make a new song for my love and I.”

  Finally at dawn on the seventh day Orphea’s efforts were rewarded and she spied her love in the distance. Janu appeared out of the mist, stretched out on the grass among the buttercups like a poor bird with broken wings.

  Orphea’s heart leapt and she summoned up the last of her energy to run to him. Love, joy, worry, all jostled for supremacy until they were overcome by fear that bound her in iron shackles as she realised that her love lay unconscious without moving on the ground.

  Janu lay lifeless like a felled tree, bare-chested, wounded and bloody. His whole body had been grazed and bruised in his calamitous fall, he was covered in festering sores and dried, crusted blood and his feet had the marble chill of death.

  Trembling Orphea knelt down beside him and covered him with her cloak. Bending over him she stroked him and murmured soothingly as she gathered him into her warm embrace, calling his name and whispering the sweet words of love. When she had washed his wounds she took a handful of golden fern seeds from her pouch and chewed them into a paste to anoint his hurts. Then she lay down next to him and prayed:

  “Bring him back to me all-powerful god of love. You, who have the power to set the world ablaze, send a spark of your heat to warm this poor body back to life. He is in your hand, save him from death’s cruel talons, have mercy on this vulnerable young poet who never wanted more than a smile from the world. Give him breath to hymn the eternal water song to the heavens in a shower of poetic beauty. Save my love I beg you, my god, you, who hold sway over life and death, you, who guide our souls to the light, do not let him drink the bitter chalice of death now that I have found him. Save him and he will be your root here on earth for all his allotted span. Out death, go so that he can see me again, but… if you cannot go empty-handed, if you have to have a soul, then take mine, take it now, immediately, because I couldn’t go on living without him, otherwise go and do not return.”

  Exhausted, Orphea stroked her lover’s eyelids murmuring softly to him:

  “Wake up, my love, wake up. My heart is calling yours back to life and its wings will carry us both far away, to where we can listen to the hooves of time beating on the waves of the sea. Speak to me, my love, say something so I can hear the sweet sound of your voice once again, but never mind if you cannot speak, but don’t go, my love, don’t fly away alone like a migrating bird. Stay here with me. I have walked many miles and stayed awake many nights and now I am tired, my knees ache and my eyelids droop, but I’m frightened of losing you if I sleep. I’ll rest here with your hands clasped in mine, but please my love, my migrating bird, don’t go without me, don’t fly away.”

  As an aeon of time went by Orphea steadfastly warmed Janu’s frozen body with the flame of her love and with agonising slowness it warmed. Finally Janu managed to open his eyes. As soon as he realised who the girl next to him was he made a desperate effort to pull himself up but he was too weak and fell back into Orphea’s arms. He longed to talk, to tell her of his love, but he was not strong enough and his eyes clouded over. A tear and a smile said what his tongue could not. Orphea was still clinging to his hands but at this she embraced him and kissed his forehead, his mouth, his eyes and dried the tears which trickled down his emaciated cheeks with her lips. Then she gathered him to her breast and in a tone as sweet as the breath of life she whispered:

  ”Weep, my love, weep and fear no more now you are safe in my arms. You have come back from the kingdom of the shades, our love has triumphed over death and while ever my heart beats I will not leave you again. No more wandering for you, your travels are at an end. Now don’t tire yourself trying to talk, your breath is like a thousand words for me. Listen to me instead and I will tell you all I have done since you left:

  I heard you call me and I got up from my bed, abandoning my father’s tent to walk over the grass. The night dew soaked my dress and the sun’s rays guided my daytime footsteps and now I’m here with you, ready to follow you to the ends of the earth until the end of my days without once looking back. Do you remember? You promised to bring me a bouquet of almond blossoms bound up in a rainbow when you returned; now the time has come and I will deck my hair with one of the buds and draw your head to my breast. You will be mine forever, without you I was like a flower imprisoned in the night, but now the dawn has come to free me. My fingers will caress your eyelids when you reawaken, your eyes have opened to the sun’s rays and the clamour of life’s hooves echo from every cave, every crevasse, every hole in the earth’s crust. Together we will plant a lilac grove, my love, and our dwelling will overflow with flowers, we will follow their scent as we walk barefoot on the strand between the sand and the frothing sea and not even the waves will be able to erase our united footprints. Life with you will be wonderful, my love, I will listen to your poet’s heart everyday.”

>   At sunset the lovers found a refuge in a cavern and for weeks Janu hung between life and death, but his love gave him the strength to heal and Orphea was always by his side, protecting him like the snow protects the delicate seeds in the ground until spring comes. For love of Janu she made up new ballads every day and would rock him in her arms like a child and there, hidden in the earth’s embrace, Janu was reborn in the midst of the dewdrops.

  Finally came the time to leave and the lovers set off arm-in-arm in the depths of the night. Their way was lit by a full moon which bathed the countryside in a green light like day and they were hymned by the sweet song of the nightingale as they left the sacred Cimina Mountains forever. ”

  “Did Janu the poet manage to regain his freedom?” I asked divineThetia.”

  “As free as a migrating bird, as the leaves drifting down from the autumn trees. Never to wear chains again, he was reborn in his love for Orphea. Together they reached the coast and found a ship to carry them far away from their enemies’ grasp.

  The Roman patrician, Marcus Fabius Cesus, never saw nor sought his slave again.

  When the time came for him to leave the Cimina Forest he swore solemnly to old Hanibald that he would have waited to tell the Senate what he had discovered until the Etruscans had completed their cycle of life on earth. He promised that for the time being all he would say was that he had crossed the hostile mountains without finding a way through to Etruria.

  It would have been sufficient for Rome if he had merely shown how he, the first Roman in history, an arrogant adventurer from a noble house, had risked his life, crossed the rivers and lakes to explore the terrible forests of the Cimina Mountains. He would have been the first to have seen beyond the terrible, thorny wilderness to the north that shut Rome off from the world and history. But on 25th December, during the festival of the winter solstice in the Campidoglio, during the Senate meeting fixed so many moons ago, the general forgot the promises he had made and pressed by the Senators’ questions he told the whole tale of his adventures. Thus he became both a liar and an executioner.

  The tale of his discoveries spread around Rome like wildfire, Marcus was the man of the hour. The great patricians fought to entertain him at their famous banquets, even the deaf and the blind wanted to hear his tales. The crowds climbed up on the walls merely to catch a distant glimpse of him as he passed in the streets of Rome, roofs and windows were crowded with admiring faces and everyone tried to push their way to the fore to see him. When he came out of the Campidoglio, matrons would lie in wait for him for hours and hours, collapsing at his feet shrieking and crying, tearing their veils in joy. Maidens blushed merely at the sight of him. Rome was full of tales about his mission; his detailed description of the terrain he had explored, the rich lands of Etruria: its houses, gardens, the treasures found in the tombs, the hot and cold mineral springs, the bulicame – the boiling sulphur pool, even the plebs wanted to hear his stories. So for the first time in his life the noble general Marcus Fabius Cesus sat down and talked to the masses, and they, who had hated him, ended up loving him. Rome was one in giving thanks to the gods for their brave, bold son…

  His information forced the Consul Quintus Fabius Rulliano to advance through the wooded mountains. In the euphoria which Marcus’s tales generated, the death-knoll for the Etruscans, smiths and other craftsmen sprung up like mushrooms. They worked day and night to forge arms to defeat the peaceable Etruscan people.

  The Roma militia refused to invade the terrible Cimina heights for months, terrified of Arius’s curses on those who violated Etruscan lands. The terrifying wilderness still paralysed men’s souls, the military leaders finally managed to persuade the troops to penetrate the marshes which devoured men and horses worse than any quicksands. But the soldiers’ terror only served to postpone Etruria’s fate.

  As time went by the brave Roman warriors were persuaded to attack that land where peace reigned supreme. In the fields, the vineyards and the olive groves the peasants went about their usual work without suspecting a thing. All the flocks were out grazing and there wasn’t even one sentry on guard, so the Consol found it child’s play to bring up his men who crept forward quietly to throw themselves on an enemy still half-asleep. Instead of fierce hand-to-hand fighting it was a sack, the Romans dragged their victims off by their hair. The native Rasèni were anything but soldiers, their light vessels carried out trade with Corsica, Sardinia and other nearby islands.

  Divorced from material goods, the Etruscans had no desire to conquer other people or extend their natural borders through violence, they had never subdued other races into slavery. Their true mission on this earth was wrapped in mystery, but they certainly did not know how to live in hate, they were born to love, and their pacific nature could not survive against the brutal ferocity of their invaders avid for booty and prey, ready to conquer and betray. Many of the so-called Etruscan army threw their arms away and exposed their breasts to the invaders and even those whom the Romans would have spared to make slaves, strong, young men and pretty girls, killed themselves to conclude their destiny in this life forever with a massive migration into the next world.

  For them the secret of immortality was worth far more than all the gold in the world, this was why so many women, children, priests, warrior-kings, magicians and vestal virgins decided to immolate themselves in the stinking, boiling waters of the bulicame pool as a sacrifice to their supreme god. Never had a column of condemned victims been so desperate and so happy at the same time. Thousands of people offered themselves up as a sacrifice and disappeared forever more without trace. The total disappearance of that noble breed was the beginning of a whole tradition of silent heroes who preferred suicide and death to submitting to barbarian conquest.”

  “Even the maidens and the mothers preferred to die?”

  “Yes! It was better to die than to wander around the ruins in rags and in bitter tears calling on sons who would never have answered again. Over the years the peasants have found rusty Roman javelins and Etruscan helmets as they ploughed the earth and children playing in the woods and caverns have unearthed white bones with no names. But all this is ancient history.”

  “And what about the crystal ark?” I couldn’t stop myself from asking.

  “When all was over, some of the priestesses freed the ark and left on it to bring life to other worlds.”