The Etruscan by Mika Waltari

Posted by admin_akashic on Mar 10th, 2022 in Stories

When we had won her confidence, Aura took us outside the city to the woods and the mountains where she showed us the sacred springs, trees and rocks of the Siculi.

A stranger would not have been able to distinguish them but Aura explained, “When I touch this sacred stone my limbs prickle; when I place my hand on this tree my hand grows numb; and when I gaze into this spring I seem to fall into a trance.”

As we wandered together I realized that I likewise was beginning to sense our approach to these hallowed spots. If I held Aura’s hand I would suddenly exclaim, “This is the place! That tree, that spring.” How I knew it I cannot explain.

Soon it was no longer necessary for me to hold Aura’s hand, but a mere indication of the direction sufficed. Far ahead of the others I would stop and say, “Here is where I feel the power. This is a sacred place.”

Dionysius had asked me to make friends with the Tyrrhenians who sold iron goods and incomparably beautiful golden jewelry in their own mart. He was anxious to learn more about the sea across which we must sail in order to reach Massilia. But something made me shun those silent, odd-featured men who refused to bargain and chatter like the Greeks and instead competed with the excellence of their wares. Listening to their talk I had the feeling that I had heard the language long ago in a dream and could understand it if only I could cross some unfathomable threshold.

When I questioned the Himerans about the Tyrrhenians and their customs I was told that they were a cruel and pleasure-loving people and so licentious that at banquets even high-born women lay on the couches beside the men. On the seas the Tyrrhenians were formidable opponents and as iron-makers none could surpass them. It was also said that they had invented the anchor as well as the metallic ram on warships. They called themselves the Rasenna but the other peoples on the Italian mainland called them Etruscans.

Unable to explain my own reluctance, I nevertheless decided to visit the Tyrrhenian mart. But already in the yard I felt as though I had stepped into the domain of strange gods. The sky seemed to darken before me and the ground tremble underfoot. Nevertheless I seated myself on the bench which the merchants offered and began to bargain for a beautiful censer on raised legs.

While I was doing so their employer appeared from one of the inner rooms. His oval eyes, straight nose and long face seemed strangely familiar. He asked the others to leave, then smiled and said something to me in his own language. I shook my head and explained in the Himeran jargon that I didn’t understand.

He replied in excellent Greek, “Don’t you really understand or are you merely pretending? Even if you must appear as a Greek you surely realize that if you were to comb your hair like ours, shave your curly beard and don our clothes, you would pass for an Etruscan anywhere.”

Only then did I realize why he seemed so familiar. The oval face, the eyes with a fold at the corner, the straight nose and wide mouth resembled those I had seen in a mirror.

I explained that I was an Ionian refugee from Ephesus and added playfully, “Probably his hairdress and the cut of his clothes make a man. Even the gods of the various peoples can be distinguished more readily by their clothes than by their faces. I have no reason to doubt my Ionian birth but I shall remember your remark. Tell me about the Etruscans whom I resemble and of whom so much bad is said.”

“We have twelve allied cities,” he began, “but each city has its own customs, laws and government. We have twelve smiling gods, twelve birds and twelve compartments in the liver which determine our lives. Our hands have twelve lines and our lives are divided into twelve eras. Will you hear more?”

There was sarcasm in my voice as I replied, “In lonia we also had twelve cities fighting the twelve Persian satrapies, and we defeated the Persians in twelve battles. We also have twelve celestial gods as well as twelve gods of the underworld. But I am not a Pythagorean and will not argue about figures. Instead, tell me something about your customs and conditions.”

“We Etruscans know more than is generally believed,” he replied, “but we also know how to hold our tongue. Thus, I know more about your naval battle and your expeditions than is good for you or your commander. But you have nothing to fear since you have not violated the Etruscan naval might, at least yet. We share the western sea with. our allies the Phoenicians of Carthage, and Etruscan vessels sail in Carthaginian waters as freely as the ships of Carthage in ours. But we are also friendly with the Greeks and have permitted them to settle on our shores. We gladly trade our best for the best that other peoples can offer, but our knowledge we will not barter. And speaking of trade, have you agreed on a price for that censer?”

I explained that I had not yet had time to bargain sufficiently. “I don’t really enjoy bargaining,” I explained, “but in trading with Greeks and Phoenicians I have noticed that bargaining is an even greater source of joy to a merchant than selling. A true merchant is deeply wounded by a ready acceptance of the price that he has set.”

“You may have the censer without money or price,” said the Etruscan. “I give it to you as a gift.”

I looked at him suspiciously. “What reason have you to give me a gift? I don’t even know whether I have anything suitable to give you in return.

The man suddenly grew grave, bowed his head, covered his eyes with his left hand, raised his right arm and declared, “I give you the gift expecting nothing in return. But I would be happy if you would drink a cup of wine with me and rest for a moment on the couch.”

I misunderstood his words and said sharply, “I do not indulge in that even though I am an Ionian.”

When he realized what I meant he was deeply hurt. “No, no. In that respect we Etruscans do not imitate the Greeks. I would not dare lay a hand on you, for you are who you are.”

He spoke with such significance that a sudden sadness came over me. No longer reluctant to confide in this unknown man, I asked, “Who and what am I, then? How can anyone know? For each of us carries within him another and strange self which takes him by surprise and drives him to actions against his will.”

The Etruscan’s oval eyes looked at me knowingly and a little smile touched his lips. “Not each of us,” he protested. “Far from that. For is not the majority a mere herd which is driven to the river to drink and back again to pasture?”

A deep poignancy gripped me. “The enviable and best human fate is to be content with one’s lot. But he also is enviable who is not content but reaches for that which is humanly attainable. I myself, however, am probably striving for something that is not humanly attainable.”

“And what is that?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “My mother I have known only in my dreams and my only father was a bitter friend of wisdom. I was born of a thunderbolt outside Ephesus and rescued by Artemis when the shepherds would have stoned me.”

Again the Etruscan covered his eyes with his left hand, bowed his head and raised his right arm as though in greeting. He said nothing, however, and I began to regret having confided so much to a complete stranger. He led me to a small banquet room, produced a jug of wine, and mixed some in a vessel with cool water. The room was filled with a fragrance of violets.

He splashed a drop onto the floor and said, “I drink to the goddess whose head bears a mural crown and whose emblem is an ivy leaf. She is the goddess of walls, but the walls of the body crumble before her.” He emptied his cup solemnly.

“Of whom are you speaking?” I asked.

“Of Turan.”

“I know her not,” I replied. But he said no more, merely smiled mysteriously as though doubting my words. Courteously I emptied my own cup. “I don’t know whether I should be drinking with you. Your violet wine might go to my head. As it is, I have noticed that I no longer can drink in moderation like civilized people. Already on two occasions in this city I have become so intoxicated that I have danced the obscene goat dance and finally lost my memory.”

“Thank the wine for that,” he observed. “You are fortunate in finding relief from your oppression in drink. But what did you want of me? My name is Lars Alsir.”

I let him refill the black wine cup and confessed, “I know what I wanted of you when I came. You could serve me best by obtaining a periplus of your sea, its shores, landmarks, winds, currents and harbors, so that we might reach Massilia safely in the spring.”

“That would be a crime,” he said, “for we are not friends of the Phocaeans. Several generations ago we were compelled to engage in warfare against the Phocaeans when they attempted to gain a foothold in Sardinia and Corsica where we had mines. Even were I to give you a periplus you would not reach Massilia, for Dionysius would first have to obtain a sailing permit from both the Carthaginians and the Etruscans. And that he could not buy for all his stolen treasure.”

“Are you threatening me?” I demanded.

“Certainly not. How could I threaten you if you truly are a son of a thunderbolt, as you claim?”

“Lars Alsir—” I began.

“What is it that you wish of me, Lars Turms?” he asked with mock gravity.

“Why do you call me that? My name is Turms, true enough, but not Lars Turms.”

“I was merely showing respect. We use the word in honoring another’s birth. And because you are a Lars no harm can befall you.”

I did not understand, but explained that I had bound myself to the Phocaeans and if he could not sell me a periplus perhaps he could obtain a pilot who would consent to guide us to Massilia.

Lars Alsir traced the design on the floor without looking at me. “Carthaginian merchants guard their sailing routes so closely that any captain who discovers his ship being spied upon by Greeks would rather run his vessel aground and destroy both himself and the Greek vessel rather than reveal his route. We Etruscans are not quite so secretive, but as rulers of the sea we likewise have our traditions.”

He raised his head and looked into my eyes. “Understand me well, Lars Turms. Nothing would hinder me from selling you a falsified periplus at a high price, or giving you a pilot who would run you into a reef. But I could not do that to you because you are a Lars. Let Dionysius reap what he has sown. Let us forget this unpleasant topic and talk instead of divine matters.”

I declared with some bitterness that I could not understand why people insisted upon discussing divine matters with me after a cup of wine.

“Do I really bear the sign of a curse on my forehead?” I asked. I told him of my rescue by Artemis and declared that since then I had feared nothing. “I don’t even fear you, Lars Alsir, or your smiling gods. In fact, at this very moment I seem to be sitting near the ceiling and looking down at you,-and you are small indeed in my eyes.”

His voice sounded distant as a whisper. “Precisely, Lars Turms. You are on a round seat, leaning against its round back. But what is that you are holding in your hands?”

Extending my hands before me, palms upward, I looked at them in surprise. “I have a pomegranate in one and a cone in the other!”

Far below me in the dimness Lars Alsir, kneeling on the floor, looked up at me. “Precisely, Lars Turms. In one hand you hold the earth, in the other the sky, and you need fear no mortal. But you still don’t know our smiling gods.”

His words were like a challenge. Something in me expanded to infinity, the veil of the earth was rent and I saw a shadowy goddess. She wore a mural crown and carried an ivy leaf, but her face was invisible.

“What do you see?” Lars Alsir’s words carried to my ears from an unfathomable distance. “What do you see, son of the thunderbolt?”

I cried out, “I see her! For the first time I see her whom I have heretofore seen only in my dreams. But a veil covers her face and I cannot recognize her.”

Suddenly I plunged from my height, the veil-like world became solid and impenetrable again, and I was aware of my body. I was lying on the couch and Lars Alsir was shaking my shoulders.

“What is wrong? You suddenly went from me into a trance.”

I clutched my head with both hands, drank the wine that he offered me and then thrust the cup from me. “What poison are you giving me? I don’t become intoxicated so quickly. I thought I saw a veiled woman taller than a mortal and I was like a cloud beside her.”

“This is only innocent violet wine,” protested Lars Alsir. “But perhaps the shape of the black cup stimulated your hand. You see, the Etruscan gods follow an Etruscan wherever he may be reborn.”

“Are you claiming that I am a native Etruscan and not a Greek?”

“You may be the son of a slave or a prostitute, but you have been chosen by a divine thunderbolt. But let me advise you. Do not reveal your identity or boast about your birth if you ever find yourself in our land, as I think you will. You will be recognized in time. You yourself must wander blindfold and allow the gods to lead you. More than that I cannot say.”

In time we became friends, but not once did Lars Alsir again refer to my birth.

I told Dionysius that the Tyrrhenians were difficult to approach and that a stranger could not hope to bribe them into revealing their maritime secrets.

He became enraged. “The bones of Phocaeans rest on their shores, and if the Tyrrhenians choose to bite iron rather than peacefully allow us to sail to Massilia, they can blame only themselves if they cut their lips.”

Dionysius had begun the construction of a new warship while supervising the elevation of Himera’s wall by three Greek ells. He did not compel the men to work too hard, merely enough to maintain discipline. Many of the Phocaeans married Himeran women and planned to take them to Massilia.

The Sicilian winter was mild and gentle. I was happy to live in Himera while seeking myself. But then I met Kydippe, the granddaughter of the tyrant Krinippos.