The Etruscan by Mika Waltari

Posted by admin_akashic on Mar 10th, 2022 in Stories

Book Ten
The Feast of the Gods
1.

The brightest and bluest of all the lakes I have ever seen was our people’s sacred lake surrounded by its high mountains. The darkness of autumn had settled on its calm surface when I first saw it and the temples, the sacred circle of stones, the plowed furrow from which Tages had sprung to speak his wisdom, and the spring of the nymph Begoe. Perhaps Tages and Begoe had appeared elsewhere as well, but tradition had hallowed those places in the land of Volsinii.

Most sacred to me was the temple of the mutable, Voltumna’s stone-pillared building in which the center chamber was empty. It was guarded by a beautiful bronze Chimera—a lion, a snake and an eagle in the same body—combining in itself the earth, the sky and the underworld as a symbol of the mutable. Invincibly it guarded the empty chamber of Voltumna. The Greeks claimed that their hero, riding on a winged horse, had vanquished and killed the Chimera, and in my youth in Corinth I had even been shown the fountain of Pegasus. But among my people Chimera still lives as the sacred symbol of the mutable, so the Greeks have not yet succeeded in killing him.

Crowds gathered from all the cities for the autumn festival although only the delegates with their escorts were permitted to enter the sacred area and to live in the sacred huts. The powerful and wealthy city of Volsinii rose from its mountain half a day’s journey away. It was famous for its crafts and articles of trade, and benefited by the autumn festival.

On the first morning I was led with covered head to the conference house where the twelve delegates from the twelve cities were gathered. Among them were the two true Lucumones, five others who but used the title of Lucumo, one who had been chosen king by his people, and four who were but delegates chosen by their city councils. Clusium’s delegate was one of these latter. Some of the twelve were old, but others, such as Lars Arnth Velthuru of Tarquinia who came as his father’s regent, were young. But all wore the sacred mantles of their cities and looked with equal curiosity at me.

I bared my head and knew that this was the first and simplest test. As my glance went from man to man each tried to give me a sign, some with a gesture, some by blinking, some by smiling, some by growing serious. They had turned their mantles inside out so that I could not guess their identity by their emblems, yet I knew and immediately recognized both true Lucumones. I cannot explain how I knew, but absolute certainty came over me and I smiled at the childishness of the game.

I bowed my head first before the old man of Volsinii and then greeted the dark-faced Lucumo of eternally cold Volterra, a sturdy man not yet fifty. Perhaps I recognized them by their eyes, perhaps by the smiling wrinkles at the corners of the mouth. I greeted the others merely with a nod.

Both Lucumones looked at each other and stepped forward. The old man said, “I recognize you, Lars Turms.”

Immediately the other delegates began to argue among themselves as though I were not there, with several of them declaring that this was not real evidence, since the appearance of the two Lucumones might have been described to me or the delegate from Clusium might have secretly signaled their identity to me.

But the old Lucumo placed his hand on my shoulder and inexpressible goodness, gentleness and mercy radiated from him as he said with a smile, “Go freely where and when you wish during these days, in holy or unholy places. Follow the sacrifices if you wish. Watch the games. No door will be closed to you. No door will you be compelled to open.”

The Volterran Lucumo touched my arm. A feeling of strength and security flowed from his hand. “Prepare yourself if you wish, Lars Turms,” he said. “No one compels you to do so. Why should a true Lucumo prepare himself? But by preparing yourself you will become responsive to receive and experience that which you have not previously experienced.”

“How must I prepare myself, my father? How must I prepare myself, my brothers?” I asked.

The old man laughed and said, “Exactly as you wish, Turms. Some seek the solitude of the mountains, others seek themselves in noisy crowds. There are many paths, but they all lead to the same goal. You may remain awake and fast during these days. That often enables a man to see that which he otherwise would not see. Or you may drink wine until you are in a daze and your knees fail, and drink still more when you have awakened and vomited the old. You may make love to woman and gratify your senses to the point of exhaustion. That also produces the right dreams and visions. At my age I regret that I did not try that path as well. Now it is too late. I am almost seventy, my son, and I have no desire to redeem time from the gods to endure this ailing body of mine yet another ten years.”

The man of Volterra said, “Senses caress a person to glorious exhaustion. They help us to endure this life, even to praise it. But remember also, Turms, that hunger, thirst and abstinence likewise become pleasures if they are continued to the point of visions, though I don’t claim that they are nobler pleasures than intoxication or satiety. Each follows his own path. I cannot advise you which to take; I can only tell you of my own path.”

The old man pointed to him with a hazel switch and said, “He was born a shepherd and saw his visions in the solitude of the mountains. My body was born into an old family. And yet, as a Lucumo, he may be older than I.”

More advice than that they did not give me, but I saw and felt that in their hearts they had recognized me. As Lucumones and men who had acknowledged themselves they needed no other test than that I, Turms, was I. But because of tradition they had to test me to enable me to find and acknowledge myself. That is the most agonizing test for a Lucumo.

On that day I watched them drive a new copper nail into the time-worn gray wooden pillar in the temple of Fate. It was studded with nails, head beside head, the oldest clumsily made and green with age, but there was still room for many more. The gods were still measuring time for the Etruscan peoples and cities.

For three days the delegates conferred on matters of foreign policy and the Veian war against Rome, until Caere and Tarquinia promised to support Veii with arms and troops. They also discussed the Greeks, and Lars Arnth maintained that war against Greece was inevitable. But he received no support. Neither Lucumo participated in the discussions since a Lucumo does not recognize war save in defense of his own city. Even then he loses his power.

But as the others argued the old man of Volsinii whispered in my ear, “Let them war against Rome. They cannot conquer it anyway. You probably know that Rome is your father’s city and that the most secret omens bind it to your city. If Rome were destroyed, Clusium also would be destroyed.”

I shook my head. “There are many things that I do not know and the consecrated in Clusium said nothing about that.”

He laid his hand on my shoulder. “How strong and fair you are, Turms! I rejoice that I could see you with living eyes. But I warn you, do not believe the consecrated, for they know only what they have learned by rote. Perhaps I should not yet reveal such secret matters as this to you, but I may forget to do so later. Your father conquered Rome and lived there for several years. He would have restored it to Lars Tarkhon or his son had not the Romans convinced him that they preferred to rule themselves. The Romans even tried to murder him. Then in the holy cave of Egeria he met the oldest vestal and she read and interpreted the omens for him. Your father believed her and voluntarily relinquished Rome. But because of the omens he bound its fate to that of Clusium. If danger threatens Clusium, Rome must come to her defense. So it is written in the sacred books and confirmed by a feast of the gods.”

“This you must know,” he continued. “Clusium can never embark upon a war against Rome, and Clusium must speak in its defense if its neighbors wish to destroy it. And should complete destruction threaten it at the hands of the Etruscans, Clusium must, for the sake of its own future, fight for Rome rather than against it. So binding and holy an agreement is it that the very gods themselves descended to earth to confirm it. And yet the only outward indication of it is the fact that no public sale can be made in Rome without the declaration, ‘This is Porsenna’s land,’ or ‘This is Porsenna’s house,’ or ‘These are Porsenna’s goods.’“

I remembered having marked the peculiar way in which Roman auctioneers had made their sales legal. I realized also why my feet had been irresistibly drawn to the holy cave; why I had recognized it and sprinkled its water on my face. I had but followed in my father’s footsteps. And the oldest of the vestals also had immediately recognized me as my father’s son.

For seven days the delegates discussed internal matters and resolved border disputes. Then the sacrifices and traditional games began. The sacrifices took place in the temples but the sacred combats were held within a circle of stones. The Lucumones and the delegates sat on twelve rocks covered with cushions and all who were admitted to the sacred area stood behind them while the ordinary people watched from the mountain slopes and the roofs of houses. No noise or shouts of approval were permitted and the combats were waged in deep silence.

On the day of the god Turms I had to choose a ewe to be sacrificed in my name on the altar. The ewe did not resist when the priest’s stone knife slit its throat, and after the blood had flowed into the sacrificial cups the priest cut open its belly and dug out the liver. The color was right and the liver flawless but twice as large as usual. The haruspex did not interpret the omens further, but he and his comrades looked at me thereafter with new eyes, bowed their heads before me and greeted me as the gods are greeted.

On the following day the old Lucumo of Volsinii summoned me to his house on some pretext. As I entered between the eight pillars I saw a man sitting tensely on a hard seat, staring straight ahead with glassy eyes.

Hearing my steps he asked anxiously, “Is it you, giver of gifts? Put your hand on my eyes, healer.”

I declared that I was not a healer but merely a chance visitor. But he did not believe me and so insistent was he that finally, in sheer pity, I placed my hand over his eyes. Immediately something seemed to burst within me and I felt myself growing weaker moment by moment until my head swam. Finally I withdrew my hand. His eyes still closed, he sighed deeply and thanked me.

In the Lucumo’s room lay a pale young girl, almost a child, extending her hands toward a brazier to warm them. She looked at me disconsolately and suspiciously. When I asked for the Lucumo she said that he would soon return and bade me sit on the edge of her couch meanwhile.

“Are you ill?” I asked.

She pushed aside the cover and showed me her legs. The muscles were so withered that they were like sticks although she was otherwise a beautiful girl. She told me that a bull had gored and trampled her when she was seven and that though the wounds and bruises had healed she had been unable to walk since then.

A moment later she whispered timidly, “You are good and fair, giver of gifts. Rub my legs. They began to ache badly when you entered the room.”

I was not a skilled massager although in my youth I had of course learned the proper ways of rubbing my muscles after exercise. Also after a battle one comrade helped another by rubbing his stiff muscles. But no matter how carefully I rubbed the girl’s legs she moaned in pain. When I asked whether I should cease she said, “No, no, it doesn’t hurt.”

Finally the old Lucumo entered and demanded, “What are you doing, Turms? Why are you torturing the poor girl?”

“She herself asked for it,” I answered defensively. “Will you then help every suppliant?” he snapped. “Will you give to whomsoever asks? There are good and evil suppliants, guilty and innocent sufferers. Don’t you realize that you must distinguish between them?”

I thought for a moment. “It is not this poor girl’s fault that she suffers. But if I see someone who suffers I probably will not distinguish between the good and the evil, the guilty and the guiltless, but help each if I can. After all, the sun shines with equal warmth on the evil and the good. I do not imagine that I have greater understanding than the sun.”

He nodded impatiently as though he would have protested. Then he sat down, struck a bronze shield and called for wine. “You are very pale,” he said. “Do you feel weak?”

My head swam and my limbs trembled with weakness but I tried to assure him that all was well. It was a great honor to be summoned before him in his own house and I did not wish to destroy the pleasure by complaining. We drank the wine and I felt better. But all the while he stared at the girl lying on the couch and she returned his gaze expectantly.

Soon the dark-faced Lucumo of Volterra entered and greeted us. The old man poured him some wine and as he raised the cup to his lips the Volsinian pointed suddenly to the girl.

“Arise, child, and walk.”

To my inexpressible amazement the girl’s face brightened, she began to move her legs and carefully placed them on the floor. Slowly, holding onto the couch, she rose to her feet. I tried to hasten to her lest she fall, but the old man restrained me without a word. The three of us stared at the girl. She swayed badly but took one step and then another, holding onto the painted wall.

Weeping and laughing she cried, “I can walk, I can walk!” Extending her arms toward me she staggered across the floor, fell before me and kissed my knees. “Lucumo,” she whispered devoutly. “Lucumo.”

I was as surprised by her sudden recovery as the girl herself. Trying her withered muscles, I shook my head and declared, “This is a miracle!”

The old Lucumo laughed benevolently. “You performed it. The strength came from you, Lucumo.”

I raised my hands in protest. “No, no. Do not mock me.”

The old man nodded to the Volterran Lucumo, who went to the door. “Come and show us your eyes, you who believe.”

The man who sat in the entrance hall came in, his hands over his eyes. Time and again he lowered his hands, looked around and again covered his eyes. “I can see,” he said finally. Humbly he bowed his head before me and raised his arm in a divine greeting. “It is you who have done this, Lucumo!” he exclaimed. “I can see. I can see you and the radiance around your head.”

The old Lucumo explained, “This man has been blind for four years. He was defending his vessel against pirates when it seemed as though a gigantic bearded creature struck him a fearful blow on the head. Since then he has seen nothing.”

The man nodded eagerly. “Yes, the vessel was saved, but since then I have seen nothing until you touched my eyes, Lucumo.”

I looked around in bewilderment, thinking surely I was intoxicated from the wine. “You mock me,” I said accusingly. “I have done nothing.”

Both Lucumones spoke at once. “The power and the strength are in you and of you if you but will it. Admit to yourself that you were born a Lucumo. We do not doubt it.”

Still I could not realize it. I looked at the young girl’s admiring face, at the eyes which but shortly before had been blind. “No,” I said again, “I do not ask for such power. I do not want such strength. I am only a human, and I am afraid.”

The old Lucumo spoke to the two who had been healed. “Go and offer thanks to the gods. Whatsoever you do unto others will happen unto you.” Absently he extended his hand in a blessing as they left, the girl tottering on her own feet and the seeing one supporting her steps.

When they were gone the Lucumo turned to me. “You were born into a human body,” he explained, “and that is why you are a human. But you are also a Lucumo if you will but admit it to yourself. The moment has arrived. Fear no more and do not flee from yourself.”

The younger Lucumo said, “Wounds are healed and blood ceases to flow when you touch the wound, you returned who are yet to return. Acknowledge yourself to yourself.”

The old man declared, “A Lucumo can even arouse the dead for a moment or a day if he believes in himself and feels his power. But such an act shortens his own life and oppresses the deceased by compelling the spirit to return to a body smelling of death. Do it only when you must. You may summon spirits if you wish and give them form so that they may speak and reply to you. But that torments the spirits. Do it also only when you must.”

Realizing that I swayed between certainty and doubt, the old Lucumo said, “Do you not know what I mean?” He took a piece of wood, held it before my eyes and urged, “Watch.” Then he tossed the wood onto the floor and said, “Behold, it is a frog!”

Before my eyes the piece of wood changed into a frog which gave a few frightened leaps and then paused to blink at me with round protruding eyes.

“Take it in your hand and feel it,” the old Lucumo urged with a laugh when he noticed how suspiciously I looked at the living thing he had created. Ashamed of my doubt, I nevertheless took the frog in my hand and felt its coldness and sliminess. It was a live frog that struggled in my hand.

“Release it,” the old man said, and I allowed the frog to leap from my hand. As it touched the floor it again changed into a dry piece of wood before my very eyes.

The Vokerran Lucumo picked it up in turn, showed it to me and said, “I summon not an underground creature but an earthly one. Behold how a calf becomes a bull!”

He tossed the piece of wood onto the floor and before my eyes it became a new-born calf which, still wet, rose on tottering legs. Then it began to swell. Tapering horns appeared on its head and its size increased until it finally filled the entire room and could not have squeezed through the narrow doorway. I smelled the bull and saw the bluish flash of its eyes. It was a terrifying bull.

The Lucumo snapped his fingers as though tired of the play. The bull disappeared and on the stone floor was again just a gray piece of wood.

“You also can do that if you wish,” said the old Lucumo. “Be brave. Take it in your hand. Say what you wish to have born and it will be born.”

As in a dream I stooped to pick up the piece of wood and turned it in my fingers. “I summon neither the earthly nor the underworld but the heavenly, and the dove is my bird,” I said slowly, looking intently at the piece of wood. At that very moment I felt the feathers, the downy warmth and rapid heartbeat of a bird in my hand. A snow-white dove took wing, circled the room and returned to my hand as lightly as air, flapping its wings so that I felt the caressing touch of its claws.

The Vokerran Lucumo extended a hand to stroke the dove’s feathers. “What a beautiful bird you have created. It is the goddess’s bird. Snow-white.”

The old man asked, “Now do you believe, Turms?” The bird disappeared and in my hand was again a piece of gray wood.

Undoubtedly I must have looked astonished, for they both laughed and the old man said, “Now do you understand why it is better for a Lucumo to find and acknowledge himself only at the age of forty? If you were a boy and discovered your ability you would be tempted to play and create innumerable forms, would alarm the people around you and would perhaps begin to compete with the mutable herself in creating shapes that have not previously existed. That is tempting the gods. If you are alone and depressed, you may create a pet animal to lie at the foot of your bed or warm you with its body. But do it only when you are alone and don’t show it to others. It will return when you summon it.”

Power radiated from me. “What of a human?” I demanded. “Can I create a human for a companion?”

They looked at each and then at me, shook their heads and said, “No, Turms, you cannot create a human. You can make only a vanishing shape and for a moment conjure into it a spirit that will reply to your questions. But there are both evil and good spirits and the evil may arrive to deceive you. You are not omniscient, Turms. Remember always that you were born into a human body which restricts you and determines the bounds of your knowledge. Learn to know the walls of your prison, for only death will tear them down. Then you will be free until you must be born again to another time, another place. But in between your rest will be blissful.”

They did not tire me further that day but allowed me to ponder in peace on what I had learned. The following morning, however, they again summoned me before them, showed me a garment stiff with blood and suggested, “Feel this garment, close your eyes and tell us what you see.”

I closed my eyes as I gripped the garment and a horrible oppression came over me. Mistily as in a dream I saw everything happen, and related: “This is an old man’s garment. He is returning home from somewhere and although he is dusty and sweaty, he is cheerful and is walking briskly. A frenzied shepherd leaps from the bushes and hits him with a rock. The old man falls to his knees, raises his arms and pleads for mercy, but the shepherd strikes again. He robs the body while glancing around apprehensively. Then there is only mist.”

Sweat flowed from my body as I opened my eyes and dropped the fearful garment.

“Would you recognize the shepherd?” they asked.

I thought of what I had seen. “It was a hot day,” I said hesitantly. “He wore only a loincloth and his skin was burned a blackish brown. He had a morose face and a large scar on his calf.”

They nodded and said, “Do not trouble your mind any more. The judges could not find sufficient evidence against the shepherd. We indi cated the place where he had hidden the loot and he was pushed into a spring with a willow basket over his head for not having mercy on a helpless man. But we are glad that you confirmed his guilt. We do not willingly do this, for the possibility of error is too great. But sometimes we must. An undetected murder encourages new murders.”

To help me forget my oppression they placed in each of my hands an identical black cup decorated with identical reliefs. Without even closing my eyes, I immediately raised the cup in my left hand and said, “This is a holy cup. The other is unholy.”

They declared, “Turms, you are a Lucumo. Are you not ready to admit and believe it?”

But I was still perplexed. The old Lucumo explained, “You can read the past from objects. The less you think at a time like that the clearer will be your vision. Again because of this it is better that a Lucumo has reached the age of forty before recognizing himself, otherwise he would constantly be tempted to hold objects and develop this talent which actually is of little significance. Many ordinary people possess that same ability.”

“You may leave your body if you wish and see that which happens elsewhere,” they said, “but don’t do it. It is dangerous and your effect on events would only be seeming. Everything happens as it must happen. After all, we have our signs and our omens. Lightning, birds and sheep’s livers indicate quite enough of what we should know.”

They raised their arms to greet me like a god and said, “So it is, Turms; you are a Lucumo. Much is possible to you but not all of it is beneficial. Learn to choose, learn to discriminate, learn to restrict. Do not trouble yourself unnecessarily or torment the gods. For your people and your city it is enough that you exist. It is enough that an immortal is born as a human in their midst.”

The words made me tremble. Once again I raised my hands in protest and cried, “No, no! Can I, Turms, be an immortal?”

With deep earnestness they assured me, “It is so, Lucumo Turms. You are immortal if you but dare admit it. Tear the veil finally from before your eyes and admit your true identity.

“In every man there is the seed of immortality,” they went on. “But most men are content with the earth and the seed never germinates. Such a one is pitiable, but let him have the lot with which he is content.”

They said further, “Our knowledge is limited because we were born into a human body. We believe that the seed of immortality distinguishes a human from an animal, but we are not certain. Everything living is in the guise of her, the mutable. Nor do we even distinguish the living from the lifeless. In a moment of splendor you may feel how a hard stone radiates beneath your hand. No, our knowledge is imperfect, although we were born Lucumones.”

Then they uttered a warning: “When you have acknowledged yourself to be a Lucumo you will no longer live for yourself but for the good of your people and city. You are a giver of gifts. But the grainfields will not billow and the earth will not bear fruit because of you and your power. Everything merely happens through you. Don’t permit yourself to be annoyed. Do nothing merely to please people but only to benefit them. Don’t fetter yourself to trivialities. Laws and customs, judges, governors, priests and diviners exist to take care of them. Make your prison as pleasant as you can without hurting your people and aggravating others. Although you are the high priest, the highest legislator, the supreme judge, the less you are appealed to the better. Nations and cities must learn to live without Lucumones. Evil times are coming. You will return, but your people will never return once their allotted time has ended.”

They were compassionate in their teaching because they knew from their own experience what a crushing burden they were laying upon me. The old Lucumo of Volsinii placed a protective arm around my neck.

“Doubt will be your greatest torment,” he said. “In our moments of weakness we are all tormented. Everything occurs in cycles. There are days when your power is at its peak and you radiate joy and confidence. Those are blessed days. But the cycle turns and your power ebbs and everything around you grows dark. At such times remain silent, be submissive and meek. When your weakness is the greatest, temptation is the strongest.”

The Volterran Lucumo said, “Your power may increase and decrease with the phases of the moon. Or it may vary with the seasons. Or the weather. We all differ in that respect. Perhaps the weather rules us rather than we it, even though we can summon the wind and raise a storm. When my weakness began to oppress me I climbed to a precipice. Temptation whispered in my ear, ‘If you are a true Lucumo, jump off the precipice into the valley. The air will bear you lightly to the ground and you will not be injured. If you are not a true Lucumo, it matters little if you crush your head.’ That is what temptation will whisper.”

I looked at his brooding eyes and became curious. “Did you jump off the precipice?” I asked. “Tell me.”

The old Lucumo began to titter merrily. “Glance at the scars on his knees. Not many of his bones remained whole when the people of Volterra removed him from the foot of the precipice. He had fallen onto a bush growing out of a crevice and that slowed his fall. Then he was hurled into a pine tree and fell from branch to branch, his bones snapping together with the branches. If he were not a Lucumo, he would hardly be able to walk. Even so his back is stiff although he cannot be called a cripple. A Lucumo is never so seriously injured as to remain maimed, but he is occasionally reminded of mortality lest he forget that he was born into a human body.”

That also was true. I had experienced the dangers of war and the terrors of the sea, but at no time had I been seriously wounded or injured. It was as though unseen wings had protected me.

The Volterran Lucumo lowered his glance and confessed in shame, “I felt not the slightest pain as I fell. Only when the people lifted me from the ground and I regained consciousness did the pain begin. Truly I have tasted bitterly of human mortality, but it served me right and was a good lesson.”

His tale brought me so near the point of collapse that I felt my weakness as though the bones in my body had melted.

“Release me from this burden,” I begged. “I am only Turms. Must I acknowledge myself as a Lucumo and believe in myself if I would not?”

They said, “You are Turms, an immortal and a true Lucumo. You must admit it to yourself for you can no longer deny yourself.” But they added consolingly, “We understand you, for we ourselves have experienced man’s most dreadful suffering—doubt and the pangs of one’s own imperfection. But on the night of the twelfth day you may share with us the feast of the gods just as we shared it upon finding and acknowledging ourselves. There are still three of us to share it, but on the day of your earthly death, Turms, you must meet the gods alone.”