The Etruscan by Mika Waltari

Posted by admin_akashic on Mar 10th, 2022 in Stories

When I awakened the sun was high, the water was murmuring under the prow, the oarsmen were singing in time with the bronze beat, and to my surprise I saw from the sun that we were going southward instead of northward to Phocaea.

Dorieus was seated at the prow, holding a wet cloth to his head. I asked him, in the name of all the sea gods, where we were going, for there were brown hills to the left of us and shadowy blue islands to the right.

“I don’t know,” said Dorieus, “and I don’t care. There’s a swarm of bees in my head and the very sight of the sea makes me ill.”

The wind had picked up and the waves were beating at our sides, occasionally splashing in through the oar ports. Dionysius was cheerfully arguing with the helmsman about shadows and landmarks.

“Where are we bound?” I demanded. “You are taking us into Persian waters.”

Dionysius laughed. “The Ionian ships are fleeing northward to their respective cities, but we are behind the Persian fleet and no one would think of looking for us here.”

A dolphin leaped into the air, baring its glistening loins. Dionysius pointed to it. “Can’t you see that the sea nymphs are tempting us with their rounded hips? Any sign that takes us farther from the Persians and lost lonia is a favorable one.” I could see from the glint in his eyes that he was jesting and that he had already made his decision.

He indicated a large blue island before us, signaled to the helmsman, and said, “That is Cos, island of the healers. Stop talking and go below to see how many of us need a coin in our mouths to pay the ferry.”

Leaving behind the leaping dolphin, the glorious sea breeze and the chant of the rowers, I descended to the bottom of the vessel where the wounded lay on the blood-slippery planks. A feeble light shone through the oar ports and the moaning had ceased.

“A few are dead,” I told Dionysius, “others cannot lift a hand, and still others are trying to sit up and are calling for food and water.”

“Throw the dead to Poseidon and his nymphs,” said Dionysius. “I shall take with me only those who are able to reach the deck either on foot or on their bellies. The others we shall leave at the temple of the healer on Cos.”

He shouted the same instructions to the two vessels following us. The men of Phocaea unclothed the dead, thrust a coin into the throat of each and tossed them into the sea. Most of the wounded managed to drag themselves on deck, cursing and groaning and calling upon the gods to aid them, for no one wanted to be left behind.

Not all the men reached the deck. Under the strain some of their wounds reopened, their blood bubbled forth onto the planks, their hold slackened and they fell back into the darkness.

Seeing this, I said harshly, “You are merciless, Dionysius.”

He shook his head. “On the contrary, I am merciful. Who are you to talk, Turms? These wounded are my people. I have risen to be their leader, I have shared my bread and salt with them and have thrashed seamanship into them with my rope. But a man gets by in life only with his own strength. The immortals will not drag me by the hair onto the deck if I lie helpless in the dark of the ship. I am the one who must make the effort even if it means dragging myself onto the deck by my teeth. I demand no more of them than I do of myself.”

Still he did not consent to say what his plans were. With the temple of Aesculapius as landmark, we rowed into the harbor of Cos. Only fishing and diving boats remained, for the Persians had seized all the larger vessels. They had not, however, destroyed the city.

Priests and physicians came to meet us at the shore and Dionysius had the badly wounded men carried off the ships. Many were unconscious, others delirious, and the priests consented to give these asylum in the temple so that they might fall into a healing slumber.

“We are not afraid of the Persians,” said the priests. “A healer is not concerned with the nationality or language of the sick, or with their beard or the cut of their clothes. The Persians likewise left their wounded at the temple.”

Dionysius laughed. “I respect the temple and fortunately my men are either delirious or unconscious. Otherwise they would crawl over the temple floor and with their bare hands throttle the Persians lying beside them. But even if a healer is not concerned with the language of the sick, I have always thought that he looks carefully at their purse.”

The priests met his eyes frankly. “Many who have returned from the threshold of death have dedicated votive offerings to the temple. But the clay bowl of the poor is as cherished as the silver figure or the tripod sent by the wealthy. We do not heal for money but to develop the divine skill which Aesculapius has given us, his heirs. This we swear in the name of the eye, the hand and the nose, the flame, the needle and the knife.”

The residents of the city hastily prepared a feast for us, but diluted the wine with five parts of water, for they had had experience with drunken sailors in the past. The day ended, the mountain peaks flamed, and splashes of purple swam in the sea, but still Dionysius delayed our departure. The priests began to glower and hint that it had not been their intention to provide asylum for warships but only for the wounded.

“I understand,” said Dionysius. “lonia’s freedom has ended on sea and land and from now on you must welcome the Persians in preference to your own people. I shall leave as soon as I receive a favorable omen.”

As dusk settled over the island and the fragrance of spices rose from the temple gardens, Dionysius drew me aside.

“Advise me, Turms, you who are an educated man, for I am in worse than a fix. I wouldn’t for anything insult these elders and their god, but we are about to leave for dangerous waters and I can’t afford to lose a single sailor. That’s why I intend to carry off one of Aesculapius’ heirs. He must not be too old, otherwise he won’t be able to withstand the rigors of the sea, and he must be able to heal wounds, fevers and stomach complaints. In addition, it would be good if he also spoke Phoenician, as many of the priests do.”

“What are you planning to do?” I asked.

He glanced at me guiltily and finally confessed. “Don’t you understand, Turms? The Persians have enlisted in their service all the warships of Cyprus and Phoenicia as far as Egypt, leaving the sea open and defenseless as a cow’s belly. Kairos help me, I intend to serve the god of the opportune moment.”

“In the name of the immortals!” I cried in dismay. “Honest warfare for freedom is one thing, piracy on the open seas another. The life of a pirate is short, his death fearful, and his name forever disgraced. He is hunted from one end of the sea to the other, he can find no refuge, and his very name strikes terror into respectable people.”

“Don’t talk nonsense,” warned Dionysius. “You, a temple-burner, accusing me!”

“Dorieus and I certainly will not follow you.”

“Then remain here,” he said with sarcasm. “Remain with these friendly priests and explain to the Persians who you are and whence you came. We’ll meet sometime in the fields of Hades, but I swear that I’ll arrive there much later than you.”

His words made me hesitate. “It will soon be dark,” he said urgently. “Tell me how best to snatch a physician. We’ll need a good one before many days have passed.”

“Learned physicians are careful of their skin,” I pointed out. “That’s understandable, for if a sword punctures it, all their hard-learned knowledge will ooze out together with their life. Not even the physicians of Miletus consented to board the ships although they promised to care for all the wounded gratuitously in the city after the victory. No, you will never get anyone to volunteer as physician for your pirate ships.”

“We’re not pirates if we continue the naval warfare in the enemy’s waters after the others have given up,” argued Dionysius. “I’ll make the physician a rich man like all the others who follow me.”

“Even if he were to survive, what pleasure would he have from his riches if he were recognized and his past discovered?” I asked. “Nobody would shield him.”

“Turms,” said Dionysius slowly, “I’m afraid that I shall leave you on Cos, like it or not, unless you stop chattering and do something.”

With a sigh I left him and began looking around. Suddenly I noticed a short man standing apart from the others. There was something so familiar about him that I called out a greeting before I noticed diat he carried a caduceus. His face was round, his eyes restless, and there was a furrow between his brows.

“Who are you?” I asked. “In the dusk I thought I recognized you.”

“My name is Mikon,” he said. “I am consecrated, but unless you give the sign I cannot recognize you.”

“Mikon,” I repeated. “On the expedition to Sardis I met an Attic pottery maker named Mikon. He went to war in the hope of winning enough loot to open his own kiln, but he returned to Athens as poor as he had left it. He was a strong man with arms like gnarled tree roots, and there was a feeling of security in fleeing by his side from the Persians. Still I never felt as close to him as I do to you.”

“You came at an opportune moment, stranger,” he said. “My mind is restless and smolders like ashes in a breeze. What do you want of me?”

To test his views I lauded Aesculapius, the fame of the temple and the wisdom of the physicians of Cos.

He replied, “A white beard is not always a sign of wisdom. Tradition hampers fully as much as it cures.”

His words startled me. “Mikon,” I said, “the world is large and knowledge does not grow only in one place. You are not yet old. Why remain here in the path of the Persians?”

He reached out a friendly hand. “Cos is not the only place I know. I have traveled through many lands, even as far as Egypt; I speak several languages and am familiar with diseases unknown here. What is it that you want of me?”

His touch was as familiar as that of an old friend. “Mikon, perhaps we all are slaves of fate. You are the kind of man needed by our commander. I am to point you out to him, whereupon his men will hit you over the head and drag you aboard our vessel.”

He did not flinch but looked at me questioningly. “Why are you warning me? Your face is not that of a Greek.”

As he looked at me I felt an irresistible power surging through me, raising my arms, palms downward, towards the golden thread of the new moon.

“I don’t know why I am warning you,” I admitted. “I don’t even know who I am. I only know that the moment of departure has arrived for you as well as for me.”

“Then let us go!” He laughed, tucked his hand in my arm and led me to Dionysius.

Bewildered by the suddenness of it, I asked, “Don’t you want to bid farewell to anyone, or to collect your clothes and possessions?”

“If I leave, I shall leave as I am,” he declared, “otherwise my departure will have little meaning. It would be helpful, of course, if I had my medicine case, but I fear that my departure would be prevented even though I have not yet given my oath.”

Dionysius warned him against returning. “But if you come with me voluntarily, I shall reward you suitably.”

“Voluntarily or by compulsion—they are but words,” Mikon said cheerfully. “Only that will happen to me which must happen and which I cannot prevent.”

We led him between us to the galley. Dionysius had the conch blown to summon the men, and our three vessels rowed out into a sea that had turned a calm amethyst. The moon of the merciless virgin goddess shone thinly in the sky as we left the harbor of Cos.