Etruscans

by Morgan Llywelyn

  Vesi stared up at Delphia.

  “You’re frightening my mother,” warned Horatrim. He stepped between them, gently but firmly pushing Delphia aside. But Vesi did not look frightened. Nor were her features misshapen; the distortion had faded, as had the peculiar dark hue. She looked like herself again, except …

  Except that once or twice, he thought he saw something move in her eyes. Something peered out of them. Something terrible.

  Until that moment Pepan had been unaware of any change in Vesi. When Horatrim ran to answer the Romans’s cry for help, Pepan had gone with him, fearing he was in danger. Then once Horatrim joined the Romans, their Otherworld signal, a strident blare of horns, had blotted out any other music. So Pepan had not detected the loss of the solitary pure note that identified Repana’s daughter. Now he realized it was gone. Instead she emitted a faint but ceaseless sibilance.

  Pepan was horrified. He had failed in his self-appointed duty; he had not protected his beloved Repana’s daughter against invasion by a malign force.

  When he sought to discover what had possessed her empty shell, his efforts were rebuffed by a solid core of blackness within Vesi. The voices of the ancestors, who had found it easier to speak through her unresisting mouth, were silenced, driven out.

  Though Pepan had thought himself beyond human emotion, he was stricken with guilt and the terrible feeling of helplessness.

  He had failed Repana and Vesi once, and now he had failed Vesi again. This time the cost would be much higher.

  When Delphia told her husband about the incident, Propertius said, “The woman must be what the Etruscans call a seer. Such people are holy, beloved of the gods.”

  “I thought you had no religion. ‘Sacrificing livestock to stone statues is a waste of saleable meat,’ you said. ‘I’m too practical to be taken in by hysterical priests and clouds of incense,’ you said.”

  “I am practical. Practical enough to recognize an opportunity when it is beneath my very roof. This Etruscan pair is exceptional. It only remains to decide how best to exploit their assets to our advantage.”

  “What assets? I suspect they are fugitives; we’ve seen such people before. Perhaps Vesi made an unpopular pronouncement and fell out of favor with her tribe. I’m sure Horatrim will tell us the story when he feels he can trust us enough. In the meantime they have come away from Etruria with nothing more than the clothes on their backs.”

  Propertius gave his wife a pitying look. “Those rags are the least of their fortune,” he told her. “I think we are going to hold a banquet, Delphia. A feast in honor of our rescue and our rescuers—and to introduce our pet Etruscans to a few select members of Roman society.”

  “Banquets are costly. Not that I’m objecting,” she added quickly. “We don’t entertain as much as any of the other Senate families. Do you plan to invite the king?”

  “Of course.”

  Delphia stared at her husband. “Then the banquet will be twice as costly. There must be something in it for you aside from the expense?”

  “Oh, yes,” Propertius assured his wife. “Yes, indeed there is.” He was positively glowing with anticipation.

  The household was thrown into a frenzy of preparation. Horatrim found himself very much in the way; everyone seemed to have something to do but him. Within the walls there was no place where a boy used to the silences of the forest could find peace and quiet.

  The front door of the Roman house opened directly into one large, rectangular room where most daytime activities took place, including meetings with Propertius’s business clients. Off this were several cramped cubicles that served as bedchambers for family and guests. Slaves had to be satisfied with sleeping on the floor in the kitchen or in one of the overcrowded storerooms at the rear.

  The house was stuffy and poorly ventilated, with only small windows high up under the eaves to keep passersby from peering in. In spite of the lamps that were kept burning throughout the day and polluting the atmosphere with malodorous smoke, the interior remained dark and gloomy.

  As he walked around the rooms, Horatrim could not help but imagine the alterations he would make if the house were his.

  Like all meals, the banquet was to be served in the main room. Couches were arranged around a large table so guests could recline as they ate. Horatrim was not sure he approved of eating while lying propped on one elbow. His mother and grandmother had done so, but Wulv had always insisted on squatting on his haunches while he ate, claiming it made the food easier to digest.

  “I miss Wulv,” he was saying to Vesi when the slaves Delphia had assigned arrived. It was their duty to bathe her and dress her and make her presentable for the king of Rome.

  Horatrim wondered what a king would look like.

  A dozen other guests arrived before the man known as Tarquinius Superbius was expected to appear. Several of them were members of the Senate, identifiable by the broad purple stripe on their elaborately folded and draped togas.

  “Only kings and senators wear purple,” Propertius had explained to Horatrim beforehand. “The color is very rare and precious because ten thousand murex shells must be crushed to produce a usable quantity of dye. Whenever you meet a Roman wearing purple you must show the utmost respect.”

  “What is so special about senators?”

  Propertius was surprised that anyone could be so naive, but replied patiently, “Every senator is the head, the paterfamilias, of a leading Roman family. Upon the death or discredit of the king, it is the function of the Senate to nominate a new king from among our own class, the patricians. The nominee is then voted upon by an assembly of the people, but in my time Rome has never failed to accept the choice of the Senate. Although the king has supreme power, the senators serve as his advisors. Our influence therefore is considerable.”

  Horatrim, who understood only a little of this, had contrived to look impressed. “So you are really the power behind the king?” he asked.

  “But of course,” Propertius lied.

  As his guests arrived, Propertius introduced the Etruscans as if they were at least as important as senators. “These are our valued friends,” he would say, while Delphia chirped, “They are of the Rasne, you know, the Silver People. The oldest and most noble line in Etruria.”

  Horatrim smiled politely and tried to remember names, but Vesi responded as usual, with no response. She merely stood, powdered and perfumed and silent.

  When Propertius’s brother Severus arrived, he proved to be as tall and lean as the trader was short and stout. He was accompanied by a fine-boned man with a dark complexion and a closed, enigmatic face. “This is Khebet, an Aegyptian, a trusted and honored associate, who is visiting me for a time on a matter of business,” Severus announced to the other guests, “so I brought him along.”

  Propertius already seemed to know Khebet; the two exchanged brief nods. The Romans took the Aegyptian’s appearance for granted, but Horatrim could not help staring at him like any small boy confronted with marvels. Khebet wore a narrow gown of striped, lustrous fabric fitted very close to his lean body and cinched at the waist with a broad swath of supple leather. Folds of white cloth formed an elaborate headdress, completely covering his bald head. But his clothing was not the most remarkable thing about him, Horatrim decided. Never before had he seen a man whose eyes were outlined with kohl, nor whose lips were touched with some red cosmetic. The young man briefly wondered if Khebet could be a woman.

  Introductions concluded, Severus caught Propertius by the elbow and led him off to one side. “Are you mad, brother? Whatever made you bring such a pair into your home?” he asked, nodding toward Horatrim and Vesi. “People you know nothing about—did it never occur to you they could be spies?”

  “Would you know a spy if you saw one?”

  “I am sure I would.”

  “And would the Etruscans send a mute woman and a mere youth to do their spying?”

  “Perhaps not,” Severus reluctantly conceded. “But they look hungry to me,
particularly the woman. They look like the sort of beggars who will rob you blind.”

  “You always were a good judge of character,” Propertius replied sarcastically.

  “And here you are displaying your foolishness to the rest of the Senate and in front of the king.”

  “As it happens, Severus, that young man over there saved my life. That’s all the recommendation he needs. In addition, however, he has some very interesting talents. You’ll be sitting next to him at table tonight; I suggest you ask him what he thinks of Rome’s streets.” The trader gave his brother a cryptic smile.

  When at last a yellow-haired slave announced “Tarquinius Superbius, King of Rome!” Horatrim turned eagerly toward the door. The person who entered was a profound disappointment. Although he wore a robe of royal purple and was flanked by a towering pair of Numidian slaves, Tarquin the Superb was a skinny little man with a nose like a vulture and the eyes of a ferret.

  “So that is what kings look like,” Horatrim whispered to Propertius.

  The Roman chuckled. “That’s what this king looks like, but he’s hardly typical. Anyone with the right bloodlines can become king if he’s determined enough or crafty enough or wealthy enough.”

  “Which is Tarquinius Superbius?” Horatrim wondered. “Determined, crafty, or wealthy?”

  “All three,” Propertius replied. “In addition, his father was once king of Rome himself. He was the late lamented Tarquinius Priscus of the tribe of the Tarquins.”

  As soon as the king had been greeted effusively, all females with the exception of the hostess were ushered from the room. This, Horatrim understood, was the Roman custom, although Livia threw a wistful parting glance over her shoulder as she left and made sure Horatrim saw her flutter her eyelashes at him.

  One other female did remain however. When a slave tried to lead Vesi away, her eyes came alive.

  I stay, said that peculiar, sibilant voice.

  The slave threw a questioning look toward Propertius.

  That one has no power over me, the voice announced.

  A silence fell over the room.

  When the moon hangs by its horns, a trader will pass Through the gate and a king will dance with the black goat.

  Now all heads were turned toward Vesi. The voice did not seem to come from her mouth in the normal way, for her lips did not move. Rather, it issued from some cavern deep within her, echoing eerily as if it had traveled a great distance through subterranean passageways.

  Khebet the Aegyptian sat bolt upright on his couch.

  “What did she say?” Tarquinius demanded to know, blinking shortsightedly at the woman. “Is there something wrong with her?”

  Delphia immediately shoved the slave aside and put her own arm around the Etruscan woman. “Vesi,” she told the king, “is a seer of visions. She described my grandmother in her tomb with details she could not possibly have known.”

  Propertius added, “This is a very holy woman, Lord Tarquinius. One of the reasons for tonight’s banquet was so you could meet her. I had planned to have her join us again after the meal, you see, and …”

  Tarquinius was not listening. With his bodyguards hovering close on either side, he approached Vesi.

  For a moment her eyes glittered like black stones seen through a thin layer of ice.

  “Do you know who I am?” the king demanded.

  Although her gaze turned in his direction, he had the disquieting feeling that she was not seeing him.

  “I am Lucius Tarquinius Superbius, King of Rome.”

  The gleam began to fade from Vesi’s eyes, and her head drooped.

  “Explain to me what you meant by what you just said about a king dancing with a goat?” Catching hold of Vesi’s chin, he raised her head. But the eyes into which Tarquinius glared were dull and lifeless, all intelligence extinguished.

  Tarquinius turned toward Propertius. “What’s the matter with this woman? Is she a fool? How dare she refuse to respond to me!”

  “She was badly injured some time ago, lord,” Propertius hastened to explain. “But she is a holy woman, I assure you. A prophetess, as you have seen. It’s just that her gift … ah … comes and goes. I fear it is not under anyone’s command, even a king’s. While we await its return, perhaps you would care to sample the feast we have prepared for you?”

  Giving Propertius a threatening look that indicated Vesi’s “gift” had better reappear before the evening was over, Tarquinius allowed himself to be shown to the table. But he insisted the Etruscan woman remain in the room. “Stand her over there where I can see her,” he ordered.

  Pepan was dismayed. The arrival of the king of Rome had thrown the Otherworld entities into a frenzy. Hia who had never been incarnated in the flesh were able to see past and future as one and therefore were aware of Tarquinius’s destiny. Something about his future excited them unbearably.

  Will he die soon? Pepan wondered. Are they hoping to capture his hia?

  The atmosphere darkened, portent of a struggle.

  Pepan hovered close to Vesi and Horatrim in order to protect them from whatever was to come. But he knew he could really offer little protection. Horatrim’s gifts were formidable and he was learning more about them all the time. Soon he would need no help from anyone. As for Vesi …

  She stood where the slaves had stationed her, half a dozen paces away from the table. Her blank gaze stared off into space. But she was no longer empty. Pepan was all too aware of the darkness within her, the seething blackness that roiled and hissed.

  The banquet Propertius had prepared was the finest the house could offer. As the guests reclined on couches around the table, slaves served the first course, which consisted of bowls of black and green olives and platters of dormice seasoned with poppy seeds and honey. This was followed by hens in pastry, horsemeat boiled with juniper berries, and an enormous roast pig.

  When the pork was presented, Propertius scowled in monumental displeasure and shouted at the slaves carrying the platter, “This pig has not been properly gutted! Send for the cook.”

  The cook was a handsome yellow-haired slave from Thessaly who appeared at a trot. Propertius repeated the charge. Bowing low, the man replied, “Oh, but it has been gutted, my lord. I would never embarrass my master with improperly prepared food.”

  “If you lie I will have you flogged. Slash open the belly and prove your words if you can.”

  Producing a large knife with a dramatic flourish, the cook slashed open the belly. Out tumbled a vast quantity of spicy blood puddings and steaming sausages, overflowing the platter and spilling onto the table. Propertius and the cook burst into laughter at the guests’ amazement.

  Even Tarquinius smiled. “Well done, Propertius. I trust you will breed more pigs like that and have them delivered to my kitchens?”

  “As soon as they can fly,” the trader assured him. Laughter rippled around the table. Horatrim’s childish whoop was the loudest of all.

  Flagons of wine and beer were kept refilled as course after course subsequently appeared, offering everything from globe artichokes to bulls’ testicles. By watching the other guests, Horatrim discovered how to eat both delicacies. He was quite enjoying himself, though he was uncomfortably aware of his mother standing like a statue in the background.

  He had been placed between Severus and Delphia. Between courses, Propertius’s brother turned to Horatrim. “For some reason known only to himself, my brother suggests I ask you about Roman streets?”

  New concepts leaped into Horatrim’s mind. He began describing drainage and paving techniques, sketching ideas on the edge of his toga with a finger wetted in red wine, while a rapt Severus listened and watched. “You could use the same method on the approaches to the city,” the young man elaborated. “Paved roads leading to Rome would surely improve trade.”

  Overhearing, Tarquinius leaned forward. “Does he know what he’s talking about, Severus?”

  “I think so, my lord. I’ve never seen that type of paving myself, b
ut I believe it is common in Etruria, where the streets have stood the test of centuries.”

  “Maybe I should order them built, eh?”

  At that moment an eerie, sibilant voice rang through the room.

  He who builds that which endures, becomes immortal.

  Tarquinius sat bolt upright as everyone turned to look at Vesi. “That prophecy was meant for me! Did you hear what she said; she said I could become immortal. I must have that woman!”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  A demon follows its child. Though the siu could not feel love, it was bound to Horatrim by invisible bonds that could not be severed while the child lived. And while the child lived, it remained a danger to its sire.

  Of all the creatures that were stalking Horatrim, the siu was the most deadly. It was in no hurry to close with its quarry however. Once the siu picked up the trail, it was confident Horatrim could not escape. Vesi was a handicap the youth could not overcome. The capture could be made in its own time; the kill in its own way. The siu followed the young man patiently, savoring the luxury of anticipation. Enjoying, too, the opportunity to observe the changes that had taken place in the world since it last walked upon the earth with human feet.

  Its human life had always been characterized by intellectual curiosity.

  The walls of Rome did not impress the siu.

  He recalled a much grander city, a citadel of unrivaled splendor where once his name had been almost as respected as that of the Great King, the Lawgiver. He had walked its streets in those long-lost days when he wore flesh, holding his proud head high while people excitedly pointed him out to one another.

  “There he is! Bur-Sin, with the light of genius in his face. See the wealth of the jewels on his breast, the gold and glass and lapis lazuli. They are gifts from the Great King, small payment in return for the fabulous creation he is erecting.”