Book Seven
The Siccani
1.

Thus it was that we met the Siccanians by their sacred rock. As was their custom, they explained that they had expected us and had known in advance of our coming. A skeptic might think that their young men had secretly followed our progress, since the Siccani were able to move unseen in their forests and mountains until such a time as they wished to appear.

But the Siccani did, in truth, possess the power to know who and how many people were on their way. They knew where their tribesmen were located at a given time and even what a specific chief happened to be doing at a given moment. In this respect they were like an oracle. Nor were their priests the only possessors of this ability. Most of the people had it, some keenly, others less distinctly, and could not themselves explain it. They erred only seldom, as even an oracle can err, or at least as the inspired words of the oracle can be misinterpreted. Nor did they consider their ability in any way remarkable, but thought that other people had the same ability.

They had anointed their sacred rock with oil and as they awaited our arrival they danced sacred dances around it. Their priest had donned a mask of carved wood as well as a sacred tail and horns. A fire was burning and on the fire were clay pots ready for the donkey which they sacrificed and cooked upon our arrival. They considered the donkey a sacred animal and respected us because we arrived in their midst under the protection of a donkey. Being skilled hunters they did not lack meat but believed that the donkey’s tough flesh gave them strength and patience. Above ail they wanted a donkey’s head to put atop a pole so that they might worship it in their secret rites. The donkey’s skull, they believed, shielded them from lightning. Nor did the donkey resist but meekly submitted to the sacrifice. That also they considered a good omen.

But they feared the cat, found no name for it and would probably have killed it had not Arsinoe taken it in her lap and indicated its tameness. They respected her because she had arrived on a donkey with a male child in her arms. After the sacrifice their priest performed triumphal leaps before the boy, indicated that he was to be placed on the anointed rock and sprinkled donkey blood on him. Then they all shouted in one voice, “Erkle, Erkle!”

Mikon had hoarded a few drops at the bottom of the wineskin, and I doubt whether he would have withstood the rigors of the journey without the wine. He offered some to the Siccanians to win their friendship but after tasting it they shook their heads. Some even spat out the wine. Their priest laughed and offered Mikon a drink from a hollowed tree knot. When he had tasted it he said that it was not the equal of wine. A moment later, however, his eyes widened and he claimed that his limbs were numb, that the roots of his hair were tingling and that he could see through tree trunks to the very depths of the earth.

The Siccanian priests and chieftains brewed their sacred potion at secret rites, using poisonous berries, mushrooms and roots that they gathered in certain cycles of the moon during various seasons. They drank it at such times as they wished to come in contact with the spirits of the underworld and obtain their advice. I suspect they drank it also to become intoxicated since they had no wine. At least Mikon gradually began to drink it and became fond of it while we lived with the Siccani.

As the sacrificial rites continued, the exhaustion induced by our journey, the proximity of the sacred rock and the feeling of relief at finding sanctuary with the Siccani, who had shown us friendliness instead of hostility, combined to transport me beyond myself. In the silence, as everyone waited for a sign, the hoot of an owl sounded in the dark of the forest, time and time again.

“Arsinoe,” I said, “our son has no name. Let his name be Hiuls after the cry of the owl.”

Mikon burst into laughter, struck his knees and declared, “Just so, Turms. Who are you to give him a name? Let the forest owl give him a name, and as for his father’s name, it is useless to mention it.”

Arsinoe was so exhausted that she could not protest. After we had eaten the tough donkey meat she tried to nurse the boy but the exertion of our dangerous journey and the shock of Dorieus’ death had dried her breasts. Hanna took the boy in her lap, fed him hot broth from the horn of a buck, wrapped him in a sheepskin and hummed him to sleep. When they saw that the boy was slumbering, the Siccanians led us along a secret path to a cave hidden in a thicket of brambles. Reeds had been spread on the stone floor for a bed.

Upon awakening in the gray of dawn and realizing where we were and what had happened, my first thought was of our next move. But as I stepped out of the cave I stumbled over a hedgehog which curled up into a ball at the touch of my foot. I knew the animal was a warning and realized that we must remain among the Siccani. That would also be the safest course, for it would be useless to wander so long as I did not know where to go.

After I had reached the decision an indescribable feeling of relief came over me, as though I had at long last found myself again. I went to the stream to drink and the water tasted glorious. I was still young and strong and full of the joy of living.

But Arsinoe, when she awakened, was not pleased to see the sooty ceiling of the cave, the hearthstones, and the misshapen clay dishes. She reproached me bitterly, saying, “So this is what you have made me, Turms, a pauper and an outlaw. At this moment, with the reeds pricking my body, I again don’t know whether I love you or hate you.”

Joyous laughter bubbled within me despite her words. “Arsinoe, my dearest, you have always asked for security and your own hearth. Here you are surrounded by strong walls. A hearth is a hearth though it consist of only a few sooty stones. You even have a servant, as well as a physician to care for the health of our son. With the aid of the Siccani I will soon learn to obtain food for you and the boy. For the first time in my life I am completely happy.”

Realizing that I spoke in earnest, she fell upon me, scratching and spitting and screaming that I must take her to some Greek city in Sicily to a life worthy of her. Nor do I care to relate how long her fury lasted since all that was unpleasant has vanished from my memory of those times. But by the end of the summer, when she saw how big and robust her son had grown despite the primitive existence, she began to reconcile herself to her fate and to look upon matters in a more favorable light.

Until that time she kept her head tightly swathed in a cloth night and day to conceal her hair. She claimed that she did so in grief for the good life that I had destroyed, but I myself believed that she did so to annoy me, knowing how I loved her fair tresses. Finally, during a moment of ardor, she flung off the cloth to show me that her fair curls had become straight black hair during our life with the Siccani.

“See for yourself what you have done to me,” she said accusingly. “Do you finally realize my suffering? Formerly I had the fair hair of the goddess. Now the surroundings to which you have subjected me have shaped me to them, and my beautiful hair is like the black, coarse mane of the Siccanian women.”

I touched her hair in disbelief. It was still as soft as before, but black it was. At first this seemed a miracle to me. I remembered her amazing skill in transforming herself and thought that the darkness of the gloomy forest and the terrifying nights had in truth blackened her hair. But reason triumphed and I began to laugh. “How vain you are, Arsinoe! As a priestess you naturally had to dye your hair, since the goddess’s tresses are like the sun. No wonder you have mourned the loss of your beauty case. This is your real hair, and I love it just as I love everything about you, even your vanity, for it proves that you wish to be more beautiful in my eyes than you are. Of course miracles do happen, that I cannot deny, but how could even the most capricious deity have thought of turning your fair hair black?”

Eyes shining with anger, she said, “I am a woman of the goddess, and the goddess is the most capricious of all deities. You should know that, Turms, and believe her. This is evidence of your cruelty toward me. If I succeed in propitiating the goddess, perhaps she will yet restore my hair to its fairness.”

“Precisely,” I mocked her. “If we ever reach a civilized city and you have sufficient money with which to buy the necessary dyes. You cannot deceive me in this matter and make me believe the impossible.”

Her slender fingers gripped my shoulders and her eyes turned to dark pools as in our moments of passion. “Turms, in the name of the goddess and in the name of our son, I swear that it is the truth. Of course I am a woman and as such lie to you in insignificant matters because you are a man and unable to understand everything. I admit that. But why should I lie about something that changes my whole appearance and life and makes me a completely different woman? You must believe me.”

Looking into her eyes and hearing her oath, I began to tremble. If she had sworn only in the name of the goddess I would not have believed her, for that she had done also in the past and lied. Aphrodite, after all, is the most deceptive of goddesses and still one is compelled to love her. But I could not believe that she would lie in the name of our son.

Little Hiuls was crawling on the floor of the cave beyond the reach of Hanna’s eye. I took him into my lap and gave him a greasy bone to suck.

To Arsinoe I said, “Lay your hand on our son’s head and repeat your oath. Then I will believe you even though I cannot understand.”

Without a moment’s hesitation Arsinoe placed her hand, brown from the sun, on Hiul’s head, rubbed his sprouting hair and repeated the oath. I had to believe her. Age grays a man’s hair, so why couldn’t displeasure blacken the hair of a capricious woman? It is not an ordinary occurrence but Arsinoe was not an ordinary woman.

When she had finally convinced me she began to smile, wiped the tears from her eyes, wound her arms around my neck and scolded me.

“How could you hurt me so, Turms, when just a few moments ago we were swaying on a cloud? I thought I had lost you when you doubted my words. Now I know that you are all mine just as you should be.” She touched her hair and asked shyly, “Am I much uglier now than before?”

I looked at her. With her bare shoulders and black hair which emphasized their whiteness she was more beautiful than ever. She had strung a necklace for herself out of red berries, and the moonstone gleamed between her breasts. My heart swelled at the sight of her.

“Arsinoe, you are fairer than ever before. There is no one like you. Each time I take you in my arms you are like a new woman. I love you.”

After that Arsinoe conformed to Siccanian life and ornamented herself with colored stones, coral, feathers and soft pelts. From the women she learned how to color her brows slantingly and to widen her mouth. The Siccani valued circles on their cheeks and serpentine streaks on their bodies, but such marks were irremovable and Arsinoe did not wish to have her skin slashed. I realized then that she had no intention. of spending her entire life among the Siccani.

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