His extremities were cold and numb and he was only able to walk by a supreme effort of will, clasping his locked fingers together across his abdomen and breathing between the stabs of pain. Something gurgled deep in his lungs with each breath he drew.
The injured Vesi had recently covered the same distance. So he could do it. He must
He went on. When he could no longer stand, he crawled.
Through the roaring in his ears he began to hear the sibilant snickering of malevolent spirits watching from the Otherworld, hopeful of seizing and feasting upon his hia if it left his body without protection.
Pepan was on his hands and knees when the hounds found him. The posture bewildered them. By his scent they knew he was not their quarry but the Two-Legs whom the other Two-Legs considered dominant. The hounds dare not be other than submissive in his presence. Yet how did it happen that he was walking like one of them?
Whining with uncertainty they capered around him, wagging their tails to demonstrate their friendship and licking at his bloodied face and hands. This was the scene that greeted their handlers when they arrived. They could only stare, as baffled as their dogs.
The Lord of the Rasne managed to groan, “Pursue the women no more. Just carry me to … Sacred Space,” before his final collapse.
Caile prepared for the Dying of the Lord of the Rasne with exceptional care. Purtani came into their own at a Dying, the focal point of their profession. But when the Dying was for a noble lord, a priest must excel himself. In a crimson robe of heaviest silk rewoven with silver thread, and wearing a headpiece of silver set with lapis lazuli, Caile was more vividly attired than any woman. This Dying demanded an explosion of joy.
Even before he left his chamber and made his way toward the templum, he began to sing. He called first on Pepan’s nearest living kin, his sons and daughters, to summon them formally. They fell into step behind him. They too were clothed in their best as befitted the occasion. Silver glinted on throats and sparkled on fingers and dangled from earlobes, gemstones glowed in armrings, hair was pomaded and curled and coiled into a dozen elaborate shapes.
They were people on their way to a celebration.
As they passed through the streets of the city, every door was thrown open. The Rasne—male and female, old and young—came flocking out of their houses to join the parade, taking up the glad song.
The Etruscan templum was large enough to accommodate the population of the city. A structure of flawless symmetry, it was built of the finest materials and followed a design handed down for untold generations. A deep, colonnaded portico ran the width of the building, allowing the maximum number of people to stand beneath the roof of the templum. Within the sacred precincts themselves, a long flight of steps approached a high podium upon which the final rites of Dying were celebrated. The atmosphere was at once solemn and joyous, as befitted a place where people celebrated kinship with the immortals.
If a city outgrew its Sacred Space, a new spura had to be built and a new and larger templum constructed according to the same plan, for it was unthinkable that even one person be denied access to the rituals. The throng that gathered for Pepan’s Dying could barely crowd under the roof, straining forward so as not to miss a thrilling moment.
Only the Uni Ati was not present. Her absence was interpreted as censure. As he lay dying Pepan had sent for her and demanded she forgive Repana, but the ancient crone had merely listened in silence then returned to her lonely cave.
There she now did her own praying to the Ais.
Meanwhile Caile led the Rasne in Songs of Summoning to the dead kin of the dying man. Their hia must make the journey from the Netherworld and be near when Pepan’s spirit left his body, to accompany it safely back to Veno. Sacrifices were offered to lure them; incense was burned to guide them.
Tingling with anticipation, the Silver People prepared to celebrate the advancement of their lord to a higher, richer state of existence. Children vied with adults for the best places in the templum in order to be the first to feel the rush of invisible forces gliding past. The exact moment Pepan’s hia sprang free of his ruined body would signal a great outpouring of joy.
Oblivious, the Lord of the Rasne lay stretched on an elaborately carved cedarwood altar in the templum, beneath a purple canopy embroidered with sacred symbols of sky and river and sea. A wisp of life remained to him. Like a curl of smoke it extended from his body into a hazy distance, already halfway to the Netherworld. He had only to let go and be drawn along that nebulous pathway.
But he was not ready to let go. His kin had not arrived; he could not sense their hia. So he waited, caught between life and death.
In the cave with the glassy walls, the being who lay there became aware of a vortex of forces gathering in the distance. Someone was initiating a Dying. He forced himself to focus, gathering the last of his depleted energy, allowing his consciousness to expand, to take in the surrounding forests and mountains, the rivers and valleys. Tiny spots of vibrating light shimmered and danced, pulsing with life and living.
Where … ah, yes … there! The city beyond the river was beginning to vibrate with a ritual summoning of the Rasne’s dead ancestors.
The prospect was tempting. If he timed it right, he could arrive before the ancestors, invade the Dying ceremonies, and snatch the departing spirit from the very grasp of its kinfolk. Such a trophy was the envy of every other demon.
The siu had a more immediate need however, to destroy the life he had inadvertently planted in the human female. The child’s fleshly link with him was too dangerous. And he had not the energy to do battle with the enraged ancestors of the dead.
There would be other Dyings, other chances for pleasurable predation. The Etruscans were preoccupied with death and all its trappings. He could remain here and feed off their dead, growing ever stronger and more powerful. Before he could take advantage of them, however, he must seek out the young woman he had violated. Her and her unborn child.
As his thoughts lingered on the woman, he became aware that she was the object of other thoughts. He was not alone in seeking her.
A surprising number of others seemed to be looking for her as well!
Wulv did not know just who was pursuing Repana and her daughter. Neither they nor Pepan had told him. Perhaps it was not even necessary that he know. Protection was protection, and he would defend them against all dangers. He had given his word and that was enough.
For the first time in his life the scarred Teumetian felt important. The Lord of the Rasne had entrusted him with an important mission … but more importantly, he had looked beyond the ruined face, the unkempt hair, and the crude clothing to see the man beneath. And had trusted him.
But as he led the way through the lightless depths of the Great Forest, Wulv could not quench his curiosity. Later, when they had stopped to rest the wearied young woman, whose name he gathered was Vesi, he asked the older woman, “What are you running from? Thieves? Romax invaders? A jealous husband? It would help if I knew what pursued us.”
Repana hesitated before replying. “My daughter and I defied the traditions of our people.”
Wulv waited, but she told him no more. He understood the power of traditions however. They were more important than laws, since they were enforced with emotions rather than regulations. One could disregard a law; one could not flout a tradition. Repana and Vesi were being pursued by their own people, then, who would probably hound them to their dying day.
Wulv nodded bitterly; one’s own tribe could be the cruelest of all.
When Vesi finally collapsed with exhaustion, he made camp for the three of them and stood guard. Repana fed herself from the supplies she carried and urged a few bites on her daughter, feeding her by hand, but Wulv rejected the food she offered him. Rasne food was sweetened and spiced, as if its natural flavor was not good enough. To eat such things would make a strong man weak. Instead he speared a rabbit for himself and roasted it over a small fire, devouring it when it was still half
raw. He refused even to season the meat with some of Repana’s salt, though he appreciated the generous gesture. The possession of a commodity as valuable as salt confirmed what he already knew: his charges were nobility.
After Vesi fell asleep, Wulv tried to talk with her mother. They had little common ground. Repana was plainly uncomfortable with anyone so crude, though she tried to conceal her distaste. But when she unthinkingly drew aside the hem of her stained and torn gown rather than let it be contaminated by his foot, Wulv felt the gesture like a knife to the heart. Once such an occurrence would have aroused him to a terrible anger, but now … now it merely saddened him. Perhaps he was getting old.
At length Repana asked, “How long will it take us to reach the glade of stones?”
Sucking on one of his broken teeth, Wulv calculated distances. “Traveling as slow as your daughter does, we can’t be there much before tomorrow sunset.”
“She is injured; she can go no faster,” Repana said. “And besides …” She broke off abruptly, realizing that in her weariness she was about to say too much.
But Wulv would not let it be. His hunter’s instincts were alerted. “Besides what? Is there anything else I need to know that might be important if I am to protect you?”
She turned and looked squarely at him in the somber glow of the dying campfire. He truly was an ugly creature, with that scarred face and twisted smile, and the dancing firelight lent his features a macabre cast. She came of a race devoted to beauty, mistrusting and abhorring ugliness as an abomination before the Ais. But these were hunting scars—bears’ claws, she thought—and thus honorably earned. Her own late husband had been scarred … and Pepan had trusted …
Repana could not bear to think of Pepan. “My daughter is with child,” she said in a voice so low Wulv could hardly hear her. “A most undesirable child. Our people want to kill her with the infant in her womb.”
Wulv thought he understood. Some inferior, a slave perhaps, had defiled Vesi, and now both she and the unborn infant were outcasts.
His heart went out to them. He was to some degree an outcast himself. “While I live your daughter and her baby will come to no harm,” he vowed. “I am strong and I know the ways of the forest. I can protect you from the wild animals and from outlaws; I can find food for you and show you where there is pure water to drink. You can trust Wulv; he will never let you down.”
His voice rang with such unsuspected fervor that Repana was taken aback. Tentatively, she laid one hand on the arm of their new ally. “I thank you, Wulv.”
Touching him was not as unpleasant as she expected. His face was hideous but his skin was warm; he felt like any other man.
ELEVEN
Although they were Rasne and the hunter had always been a little contemptuous of the effete Silver People, Wulv had to admit he was impressed by Vesi’s courage. When time came to be on the move again, she got to her feet without complaining in spite of her pain. He watched as her mother tended her wounds, so he saw how terrible they were.
But when he asked Repana what beast had caused them, she merely pressed her lips together and shook her head. “No animal did this,” she said shortly.
“No beast either,” replied Wulv.
“An … enemy,” Repana reluctantly admitted.
“You do have dangerous enemies,” Wulv conceded. “But you’ll be safe from them at the glade of stones.”
Or so he hoped. He was beginning to get an itchy feeling at the base of his skull, an old hunter’s wordless warning. As they forced their way through the dense thickets of the Great Forest, he kept his spear at the ready. His movements were stealthy, cautious; his gaze ceaselessly examined the dense undergrowth. Nothing attacked them, yet he felt the weight of watching eyes.
They reached the glade of stones, as he had predicted, late in the day. Gesturing to the women to stay in the shelter of the trees, Wulv went forward to reconnoiter the time-honored sanctuary before he would allow them to join him.
He walked into an eerie stillness.
This place always chilled him, so in the past he had avoided it whenever possible. A blood-red sun was setting, casting a lurid hue over the scene. The glade contained a circle of standing stones each as high as Wulv’s head, so roughly hewn that it was impossible to tell whether their shape was natural or carved. In the crimson twilight, with the shadows writhing down the ancient stones, they resembled a circle of gnarled and twisted old men. Local lore named these stones the Twelve Whisperers. At certain times of night and certain times of year, or so folk claimed, a question whispered into the ear of the tallest stone would result in a whispered response.
Wulv only half-believed that it was the wind.
But he knew that nothing living occupied the glade.
Relieved, Wulv beckoned to the women.
They set up camp between the stone circle and the trees. Wulv used fallen branches to build a wattle shelter and made a surprisingly comfortable bed for Vesi and her mother out of boughs and leaves.
“You are very skilled. And you are being very kind to us,” Repana said, as she observed the little touches he added: the crushed flowers and herbs among the boughs to scent them, the mud chinked into the walls of the shelter to keep out the wind.
The Teumetian mumbled something in embarrassment and looked away. But he was pleased she’d noticed.
“We will stay here,” he told the woman, “until …”
“Until what?”
“We receive word from your friend that it is … safe.”
A twinge of pain tightened the skin around Repana’s eyes. She doubted that they would ever receive word of any sort from Pepan. She knew also, from the look in the hunter’s eyes, that he too believed that Pepan was dead.
I will never see him alive again, she mourned silently. Oh, my love! My lost and never-to-be love. Why did I not speak to you as I should? Why did you not speak to me?
Guided by the sound of chanting, six hooded figures made their way toward the Rasne city. They moved slowly, with a peculiar gliding motion, but they never stopped. When they saw the walls ahead of them, glowing with the pale golden hue of delicately tinted brick, they lowered their hoods and exchanged congratulatory glances. Gathering closer to one another, they offered silent prayers to Pythia. Then they raised their hoods once more and approached the city.
The single guard remaining on duty at the gates of the spura was feeling sorry for himself. He resented being excluded from the Dying. There had been no Dying for several moons. He had felt cheated when the Repana woman ran off with her daughter rather than providing such a ceremony.
When he saw the six approach, he reacted more aggressively than he normally would have. “Halt!” he cried, striding toward them and dramatically flourishing his spear. Pilgrims, farmers, brigands—they could be anyone; they had no business in the spura when a Dying was in progress. As he drew nearer to them, however, the quality of the cloth in the heavy robes they wore put him in mind of the last Roman trade delegation to visit the city. Best to address them carefully. “Halt and state your business,” he called in measured tones.
The six continued to advance. He could not see their faces, overshadowed as they were by the large hoods, but a hollow voice replied, “We are looking for someone.”
The guard leveled his spear at the speaker. “Who?”
Again the answer came: “We are looking for someone.”
“I have to have a name,” insisted the guard, taking one prudent step backward but continuing to point his spear. The voice set his teeth on edge and caused a peculiar unease in the pit of his stomach, as if he had eaten spoiled meat. “I cannot let just any stranger off the road come in here.”
“We are not just any strangers; we mean to enter,” replied the hollow voice.
As they continued toward him, the guard grew nervous. There were six of them to one of him, and though they did not appear to be armed, their attitude implied menace.
He reached for the horn hanging at the side of the
gate to warn of intruders.
A nauseating odor swept over him. Suddenly his head seemed full of swirling mist. He drew a breath to cry out but that only sucked the foul air deeper into his lungs. As he choked, the lead figure had almost casually brushed aside his leveled spear. The other five followed.
Within the templum Caile and his fellow purtani were chanting incantations over braziers clustered at one end of a high podium to form a five-pointed star. At the other end was an altar on which a motionless Pepan lay. When the Dying was successfully completed, the emptied husk would be placed in an elaborately painted and decorated tomb, there to spend all eternity surrounded by beauty.
In a precise order the priests alternately trickled powders and water into the flames of the braziers. Scented smoke billowed; colored flames plumed. The sons and daughters of Pepan promptly used consecrated scarves to wave the smoke toward the doorways, while they repeated their own chants of summoning.
Supine on the altar, Pepan lay beneath his purple canopy and felt no sense of time passing. He was suspended between worlds. The weight of his flesh seemed an increasingly slight impediment. Soon he would break his last bonds with his physical body and go. And he would be pleased to go. He had no fear of Death. His only regret was that he had been unable to help Repana when she most needed him. It gave him some consolation to know the hunter would look after them however. Obviously this path was ordained by the gods. Though he had often doubted them during his lifetime, here and now Pepan found it easy to believe in the Ais.
Suddenly rising voices interrupted the ceremony. They buzzed like insects around Pepan. He just wanted to drift … away … away …
“Who are those strangers?” someone was asking.
Etruscans Page 6
