Lavinia

by Le Guin, Ursula K.

  But I had scarcely slept the night before, and the day had been long and strange. I was so tired I could not keep my eyes open. I saw the little leaping gold of the altar flame waver and blur. Then I was lying down, looking up into the branch-circled sky dense with stars as the sea beach is dense with sand, a pavement of white fire. And it too wavered and blurred.

  I woke. The stars blazed, but other stars. The fire was dead. A small owl called from far on the right, hii-ii, and another answered from yet farther, ii, i.

  He was there, the shadow. He stood between me and the altar. His tall form was vague in the grey starlight. On the far side of the altar, near the wall, I saw a glint of bronze, a motionless bulk on the ground: my father sleeping. The feel of the air was that of the hour before the beginning of dawn.

  "The time when the dying die," my poet said, very softly.

  I sat up, trying to see him more clearly. I was frightened, distressed, and did not know why, and knew why. I whispered, "Are you dying?"

  He nodded.

  The nod of a head is such a small thing, it can mean so little, yet it is the gesture of assent that allows, that makes to be. The nod is the gesture of power, the yes. The numen, the presence of the sacred, is called by its name.

  "I don't have long," he said.

  "Oh, I wish—" But wishes were no use.

  "Your father has heard Faunus speak," he said, with a ghost of laughter in his ghost of voice.

  "Then—"

  "You will not marry Turnus. No fear of that."

  I stood up, facing him. Though he spoke so gently I was still frightened.

  "What will happen?"

  "War. The bees swarmed to the great tree. The king's daugh ter ran through the house with blazing hair, scattering sparks and smoke. And war and glory followed her."

  "Why must there be war?"

  "Oh, Lavinia, what a woman's question that is! Because men are men."

  "Then Aeneas is coming to attack us?"

  "Not at all. He comes in peace, to offer alliance to your father, and marry you, and settle down to bring up his family. He brings the gods of his household here. But he brings his sword too. And there will be war. Battles, sieges, slaughter, slave taking, town burning, rape. And men who rant and boast, and then kill sleeping men. And men who kill young boys. And the growing crops laid waste. All the wrong that men can do is done. Justice, mercy, does Mars care for them?"

  His voice had grown stronger, not loud but curiously strident, so that I glanced at my father to see if he had heard; he slept on, unmoving. "I can tell you the war, Lavinia. Shall I?" He did not wait for my answer. "It begins with a boy killing a deer in the woods. There's a good cause for war, as good as any other. First to die is young Almo—you know him. An arrow in his throat chokes off his speech and breath with blood. Next old Galaesus, who's rich and used to being in control, tries to keep them from fighting, comes between them, and has his face smashed in for his pains. And then Turnus sees his chance, and war begins in earnest. No man will spare another man in this battle, though he beg for his life. Ilioneus kills Lucetius, Liger kills Emathion, Asilas kills Corynaeus, Caeneus kills Ortygius. Turnus kills Caeneus, and Itys, and Clonius, and Dioxippus, and Promolus, and Sagaris, and Idas. The blood foams from the pierced lung. The man killed while sleeping vomits blood and wine as he writhes dying. Ascanius shoots his steel-pointed arrow through Remulus' head, and Turnus' javelin pierces Antiphates' throat and lodges in the lung till the steel grows warm, and his sword cleaves Pandarus' skull between the temples so that the man falls to the ground in his brain-spattered armor, his head dangling in two halves from his neck. And when Aeneas joins the battle, his spear crashes through Maeon's shield and breastplate, on through his body, to sever Alcanor's arm from his shoulder. And Pallas drives his sword into Hisbo's swollen chest, and sweeps Thymber's head from his neck, and severs Larides' hand that twitches and clutches with dying fingers at the sword. And Halaesus kills Ladon, and Pheres, and Demodocus, and lops off Strymonius' hand raised against him, and strikes Thoas in the face with a stone, scattering fragments of skull mixed with blood and brains. And Turnus hurls his steel-tipped lance of oak through Pallas' shield and breast, and the boy falls forward eating dirt with his bloody mouth. And Turnus puts his foot on the corpse and tears away Pallas' golden sword belt, boasting of the plunder that will be his death. Then hearing of this, Aeneas rushes out again in blind rage against the enemy, and though Magus begs him for mercy, Aeneas bends the man's head back and cuts his throat, and he kills Anxur, he kills Antaeus, he kills Lucas, he kills Numa, he kills tawny Camers, he kills Niphaeus, he kills Liger and Lucagus, and Turnus is saved from him only by the goddess who loves him and draws him away from the battle. But Mezentius the tyrant of Caere kills Habrus, he kills Latagus, striking him full in the mouth and face with a huge rock, he hamstrings Palmus and leaves him slowly writhing, he kills Evanthes and Mimas. Acron, dying from Mezentius' spear cast, hammers the dark earth with his heels. Caedicus kills Alcathous, and Sacrator kills Hydaspes, and Rapo kills Parthenius and Orses, Messapus kills Clonius as he lies fallen from his horse, and Agis is killed by Valerus, Thronius is killed by Salius, and Salius by Aealces. They kill together and are killed together. Then pious Aeneas obeying the will of fate and the gods pierces Mezentius' groin with his spear, and kills Mezentius' son Lausus as he tries to protect his father, driving his sword through the young man's body to the hilt: the point pierces the shield and the tunic his mother wove for him, blood fills his lungs and his life leaving his body flees sorrowing to the shadows. And Aeneas is sorry for the boy. But when Mezentius challenges him, he goes to meet him with a shout of joy, and though Mezentius rains darts on him, Aeneas kills his horse, then taunts the fallen man, and cuts his throat. And the next day he sends Pallas' body to his father, King Evander, with four prisoners to be sacrificed alive on the grave. How do you like my poem now, Lavinia?"

  After a long time I managed to answer him, "That might depend on how it ends."

  "With the triumph of the glorious hero over his enemy, of course. He will kill Turnus, lying wounded and helpless, just as he killed Mezentius."

  "Who is the hero?"

  "You know who the hero is."

  "He kills like a butcher. Why is he a hero?"

  "Because he does what he has to do."

  "Why does he have to kill a helpless man?"

  "Because that is how empires are founded. Or so I hope Augustus will understand it. But I do not think he will."

  He turned away from me and neither of us spoke. I had begun to cry while he sang his hideous chant of slaughter, and my face was still wet. When the poet spoke again, his voice had softened. "But that's not where it ends for you, Lavinia."

  I took a step towards him, for I could no longer see his face. "Tell me, then."

  "Not with the end of his reign, after only three summers and three winters. You may think all is over at the bloody ford of the Numicus, but it is not there it ends, nor at Lavinium, nor Alba Longa. Not with your death, or your son's. Not with the Kings, not with the Consuls, the fall of Carthage, the conquest of Gaul. Not even with the murder of Julius, or Augustus' godhead. The great age returns ... maybe ... I thought so once. But be of good heart, my daughter, my young grandmother! The gods of Troy are coming to a good house, your house of Latium. And you will marry the son of Spring, the son of the evening star."

  I had hated him while he told that tale of slaughter, but I was losing him, now, already, moment by moment, and I loved him, yearning to him. "Wait—Only tell me—your poem, my poem, did you finish it?"

  He seemed to nod, but I could hardly see him, a tall shadow in shadows.

  "Don't go yet—"

  "I must go, my glory. I am gone. I join the crowd, return to darkness."

  I cried out his name, went forward, reaching out my arms to hold him, to keep him from death, but it was like holding a breath of the night wind. Nothing was there.

  I sat on the fleece, my arms around my knees, the
toga with the burnt corner wrapped around me for warmth, till the sky was light above the altar place. I went then to my father and said, "Do you wake, king? Waken!" He sat up. We had brought a little drinking water, for there is none near there; I gave him the flask, and he drank a swallow and rubbed a handful of water on his face.

  "You heard the grandfather speak," I said.

  Looking up at me as if still not fully awake, he said, "The voice among the trees."

  I waited.

  He looked off into the dark trees and said in the low, level voice of prayer, but clearly: " 'Do not let the daughter of Latium marry a man of Latium. Let her marry the stranger that comes, that even now is coming. And the kingdom of her sons will be far greater than the kingdom of Latium.' "

  He looked up at me again. I nodded. "I understand. I will obey."

  My father got up, stiff and ponderous; he was not used to sleeping out, on hard ground, these days. He rubbed his thighs and stretched his arms painfully. "I am old, daughter," he said. "And now I have to face those young fellows with this refusal." He shook his head, hunched up his shoulders. "If only my sons had lived. I am too old, Lavinia!"

  It was not like him to say that. I did not know what to say to him; I was too young to feel anything but surprised, uncomprehending pity, and I did not want to pity my father the king.

  He went off into the woods to piss, and when he came back he was holding himself a little straighter. "Don't be afraid," he said. "I'll take no insolence from them. I can still protect my daughter and my house and city." We gathered up the little we had brought, and as we did so, he said, "I could wish your mother hadn't set her mind on your marrying Turnus. But I can see, because he's her nephew, it seems to her like getting one of her sons back. Well. Come along, my dear." He set off, walking heavily, and I followed.

  When we came to where the men had camped, they were just waking. The sky was bright behind the eastern hills and all the birds in the world were singing. There was a little brook there, and my father and I both knelt on the bank to wash our hands and faces. As the knights joined us, I heard my father telling them what the oracle had said. That surprised me again. I had assumed he would announce it formally at home, perhaps summoning the suitors to explain to them that their request had been denied by the powers and the ancestors. To talk about it openly now was to ensure that it would be common knowledge in Laurentum as soon as we got back, and throughout all Latium within a day or two. I could not think why my father had done this, unless he thought he could not face my mother with the news himself, and wanted her to hear it from me, or from hearsay among the women.

  But she came to meet us, almost running across the courtyard, flushed and beautiful in her excitement. "I know! I dreamed of you there," she cried. "I am so glad!"

  We both stopped, staring like cattle, no doubt. She took my hands and kissed me. "I am so happy about it!"

  "About—?"

  "Oh! The bridal bed! In Ardea! I saw it all in my dream!"

  After a blank pause my father said, loudly and awkwardly, "The oracle forbids Lavinia to marry a man of Latium. She must wait for a foreign suitor."

  "No. That's not what it said at all. I saw it. I heard it!"

  "Amata, calm yourself," he said. "We will speak of this in private. Lavinia—call the women—take your mother with you—" And he strode off to his rooms.

  My mother started to run after him, then stopped, bewildered, and said to me, "What is wrong with him?"

  "Nothing, mother. Come with me." I tried to go on to the women's side, but she protested, and only when her women Sicana and Lina came to urge her to come with them did she fall silent, the happy brightness dying out of her face, and follow me.

  The news was all over the house and town at once, of course. The king's daughter is not to marry Turnus, or Messapus, or any of them, she's got to wait for a foreigner to come marry her. That's what the bees meant, that's why her hair caught fire yet didn't burn. War! War! Who'll fight? Who's the foreigner coming? And what will King Turnus have to say to him?

  And what will I have to say to him, I wondered, as everybody chattered on.

  Amata seemed stunned. She did not tell us what the dream was that she had taken to be a true dream and that the oracle had so cruelly belied. She did not join in the general talk, did not speak to me at all. We kept away from each other. It was easy enough, we had kept apart for twelve years.

  By nightfall I was sick of the chatter and commotion and wanted only to be free of the women, away from the house, outdoors, alone, where I could think. My mother was at her loom. I went and asked her permission to go get salt at the river mouth next day.

  "Ask the king," she said, not looking away from her work.

  So I went to him. He pondered a minute. "I suppose it's safe," he said.

  "Why would it not be safe?" I said, amazed. Our possession of the salt beds was one of our great strengths as a nation, and we guarded them accordingly. Nobody had tried to raid them for decades.

  "I'll send Gaius with you. And take a couple of your women."

  "What do we want Gaius for? I'll have Pico with the donkey, to carry the salt back."

  "Gaius will go with you. Go by the west path. Be back before dark."

  "I can't, father. We have to dig the salt."

  He frowned. "You can do that and be back in a day easily!"

  "I hoped to spend the night there, father. By Tiber."

  I very seldom pleaded with him. "Well, why not," he said after a long pause. "My mind is vexed, troubled, I hardly know ... Go on, then. Give worship to our father river. But one night only!" As I thanked him and left, he said, "And look out for Etruscans!"

  Everybody always said that when you went to Tiber, as if the northern bank were forever crowded with Etruscans waiting to leap in, swim across, carry you off, and torture you. There were awful stories about Etruscan torture. But we had always been on good terms with Caere, except when Mezentius ruled it. And it would be a mighty swimmer who swam the river there at its mouth. People said, "Look out for Etruscans," when you went to the river the way they said, "Look out for bears," when you went up into the hills—out of habit.

  All the same, as I went to find Tita to tell her to find Pico and tell him to be ready with the donkey in the morning, I wondered if the foreigner I was to marry might be an Etruscan.

  For when I was not in Albunea, when I was among people, the things my poet had said to me came and went in my mind, sometimes seeming as real as they did when he spoke them, but more often fading away like the shreds of a dream that vanish as you try to remember them. It was a true dream, but you cannot live your life in a dream even if it be true. Hardest of all to remember was what the poet had said last night—was it only last night? He was dying. I did not want to remember that. I did not want to remember what he had sung, the endless hideous deaths. I knew he had told me the name of the man I was to marry, his wife's name and his son's, I knew he came from the far city, Troy, I knew there was to be a war, men would kill men ... and yet, here in the courtyard of the Regia, passing by the great laurel, where women were gathered talking and singing at their work, the names and all slipped away from me, and I wondered if the foreigner I was to marry might be an Etruscan.

  They were foreign enough, the Etruscans. They saw the future in the livers of sheep. I liked Maruna's bird lore, but I could do without the tortures and the sheep livers.

  My spirits had risen as soon as I had permission to go, and when we left the city next morning I felt like a sparrow let go from the snare. All the trouble about suitors, the threats, the strange portents, the dark prophecies, dropped away from me. I forbade Tita to say a word about all that. We joked and told stories all the way to Tiber, and even grave Maruna laughed like a child. That was a joyous day, and that night I slept a quiet sleep on the dune under the stars.

  And in the twilight of morning of the next day, alone, kneeling in the mud by Tiber, I saw the great ships turn from the sea and come into the river. I saw my h
usband stand on the high stern of the first ship, though he did not see me. He gazed up the dark river, praying, dreaming. He did not see the deaths that lay before him, all along the river, all the way to Rome.

  There was nothing but commotion and discussion and agitation in the Regia and the town all that day. Everybody knew what the oracle had told Latinus and they all had to discuss it endlessly—and then word came across the fields of a fleet of ships seen going up the river, and of a crowd of armed strangers making camp on the Latin shore. The talk about that made me think of the great, dark, humming mutter of the swarming bees.

  Very early the next morning, I slipped out of the Regia and out of Laurentum without asking permission or telling anyone, and ran through the oak grove to Tyrrhus' farm. Silvia was in the cool stone dairy with some of the dairy women, skimming cream. I said, "Silvia, let's go to the river. Let's take a look at these strangers."

  It was usually Silvia, not I, who proposed anything daring or dangerous, and I took her by surprise.

  "What do you want to see foreigners for?" she asked—a reasonable question.

  "Because I have to marry one."

  She'd heard the decree of the oracle, of course. She frowned at first, no doubt thinking of Almo, but after a minute she looked up with a half smile. "You want to see if they have two heads?"

  "Yes."

  "Maybe these aren't the foreigners you have to marry one of."

  "I think they are."

  She was standing with the skimmer in hand, her hair tied back, her bare arms shining in the dim cool place and her bare feet on the wet floor; the dairy was kept very clean, sluiced out constantly with water. She couldn't resist the escapade. "Oh, all right!" she said, and gave the skimmer and a few orders to Valenta the dairy keeper, and came out into the sunshine with me. She put on her sandals and we struck off across the pastures. It was six miles or so to the river; we had done it often in our rambles and explorations, and knew the ways through the woods.