2.

On the twelfth day occurred the traditional sacred combat that determined the leader among the cities. It was a bright autumn day and the sun shone with warm rays upon the holy lake and the blue mountains. The Lucumones and delegates from the twelve cities sat on the twelve sacred stones of the ring. I myself stood among the others in the crowd behind the delegate from Clusium, for I had not yet been publicly acknowledged as a Lucumo nor had the holy mantle been placed on my shoulders. For that reason everyone pretended not to pay any attention to me although space had been left around me and no one touched or brushed past me.

First to enter was the eldest of the augurs, a worn staff in his hand. He was followed by the twelve youths representing the different cities.

They were naked save for the purple band around their heads, and each carried his city’s round shield and sacred sword. Their order had been determined by lot, for no Etruscan city was better than the next, but once within the circle of stones each placed himself before his city’s delegate.

The augur fetched a maiden from a curtained litter and led her to a sacred bed of stones in the center of the ring. She, too, was naked, but tightly wound around her eyes was a sacred woolen band. She was a well-formed untouched young girl, and as the augur opened the knot at her neck and revealed her face, she looked around with a flushed, startled face and instinctively attempted to shield her nakedness with her hands. The youths straightened themselves as they looked at her and their eyes began to glow with eagerness for combat. But with a shock that touched the roots of my heart I recognized the girl as Misme.

True, I knew that the Etruscans’ most beautiful and noble maiden was chosen each year as an offering and that selection was considered to be the greatest honor that could befall a girl. Where they had found Misme, and why she in particular had been chosen, I could not understand. But the alarmed expression on her face made me suspect that she had not voluntarily submitted to the sacrifice.

Deep silence prevailed, as custom decreed, and I watched the rapid rise and fall of the youths’ chests. But a reluctant offering is worthless. Hence the augur reassured Misme until she lifted her head proudly, acknowledged her own youth and the beauty of her body, suffered the glances of the youths and permitted the augur to bind her hands with a woolen band.

I could endure no more. Despair came over me and I waved my arms violently. Both Lucumones looked at me searchingly and I saw that the other delegates were watching me as curiously as they were Misme. Abruptly I realized that this was also my test. They believed Misme to be my daughter and wished to see whether I was ready to sacrifice her in accordance with the sacred Etruscan customs to prove that I was a true Lucumo.

I was not certain what would happen but I knew that the bed of stones in the center of the ring was a sacrificial altar before which the youths had to fight one another with sword and shield. Only he who, wounded, stepped outside the ring, saved his life, although the augur might spare a badly wounded combatant from the mortal thrust if the youth, collapsed without relinquishing his sword.

I remained silent and suddenly I met Mismc’s glance. She smiled at me and there was something so irresistibly impudent and enchanting in her glance that I recognized a flash of Arsinoe in her. She was not so beautiful as Arsinoe and her body was still girlish and undeveloped. But her breasts were like little wild pears, her legs slender, her hips well rounded, and she was no longer at all shy. On the contrary, I could see by the provocative glint of her eye that she was well aware of the feelings which the sight of her aroused in those twelve youths.

No, I need not fear for Misme. She was her mother’s daughter and knew into what game she had entered. I calmed myself with the knowledge that no matter how the Etruscans had got hold of her, she had voluntarily consented to be the sacrifice. Seeing how beautiful she had grown, I knew that I was proud of her. Then as I looked around, I suddenly met the glance of Lars Arnth as he sat on the holy rock of Tarquinia. He had been staring at Misme with as great fascination as the youths. Now he looked at me and narrowed his eyes questioningly. Instinctively I nodded my consent.

Lars Arnth rose imperiously, doffed his robe and tossed it onto the shoulders of the Tarquinian youth who stood in the circle with sword and shield. Then he drew off his shirt, unfastened his armbands and the chain around his neck, dropped them onto the ground and finally pulled the gold ring off his thumb. As though the matter were self-evident, he took his city’s sacred shield and sword from the youth, stepped into his place and indicated that he should sit on the holy rock. So great was the honor that the youth’s disappointment was assuaged.

The augur looked around as though inquiring whether anyone opposed the change in combatants. Then he touched Lars Arnth with his staff as an indication of acceptance. Lars Arnth was slenderer than the, other youths and his skin gleamed white as a woman’s as he stood there naked and, with expectant, parted lips, gazed at Misme while she for her part looked straight into his eyes. It was obvious that the girl’s vanity was flattered by the readiness of the regent of the most powerful of Etruscan cities to risk his life to win her.

But I had to smile with inexpressible relief on realizing that it was all a jest of the gods intended to indicate to me how blind even the most clear-sighted man can be and how useless it is to consider anything on earth important. I read Lars Arnth’s thoughts as from an open scroll. Certainly the sight of Misme had enchanted him, but at the same moment he had perceived how much he would win if he were to emerge the victor in the holy combat. He had suffered a defeat in the foreign policy negotiations and his authority in Tarquinia had suffered as a result of the unsuccessful military expedition to Himera. Old Aruns still lived and his authority was unshakeable, but it was not at all certain that Arnth would succeed him as ruler of Tarquinia even though he had been raised to the regency. Lars Arnth’s decisive policy was farsighted and dictated by the times but it did not please the old people or those who were pro-Greek.

But should he emerge the victor in the holy combat, he would personally secure a position of honor for Tarquinia among the Etruscan cities. True, in ancient times the rulers themselves had stepped into the sacred circle to fight among themselves for supremacy, but it was unprecedented for a young regent in these times to risk his life for his city. Should he win, Tarquinia’s supremacy would be no mere formality and honor but the victory would be considered a divine sign. And at the same time he would win for himself the daughter of a living Lucumo who was also the great Lars Porsenna’s granddaughter.

The gods smiled and I smiled with them, for everything was a lie. Misme was merely believed to be my daughter. And yet, in comprehending that, I realized at the same time that there is little difference between truth and falsehood in the mortal world. Everything depends on what a person believes to be true. The gods are above truth and falsehood, right and wrong. In my heart I decided to acknowledge Misme as my daughter and to forbid her ever to tell anyone that I was not her real father. It was enough that we both knew; it did not concern others. And with all my heart I wished Lars Arnth victory, for a nobler husband Misme could not find, although to be truthful I did not know whether Arsinoe’s daughter could bring happiness to any man or to the Etruscans as a whole. But why should I care, if in my heart I acknowledged Misme as my daughter? In that case only the best among the Etruscans was good enough for her. Mockingly I thought how badly Arsinoe had been mistaken about Misme.

The augur laid the traditional black leather collar on Misme’s bare shoulders and forced her to sit on the edge of the bed of stones, her bound wrists before her. Then he gave a sign with his staff and the combatants rushed together so violently that the first clash blurred before our eyes into flashing confusion. Sooner than the eye could comprehend, two youths lay bleeding on the ground.

The other contestants would have been wise, I think, if they had all united to force Lars Arnth outside the circle since they dared not kill him because of his noble birth. They were fighting only formally for honor and a beautiful sacrifice. He fought for his entire future, for the kingship of Tarquinia, even for the salvation of the Etruscan peoples, since he believed that only his own policy could free the Etrus can cities from fatal Greek pressure. But how could his rivals have known that?

No, in the traditional manner they rushed six against six in the first skirmish, paused for the period of a breath to appraise the situation; then five plunged against five, swords flashed and shield crashed against shield. We heard groans of pain and only four youths drew back, gasping for breath. One had toppled outside the ring, two crawled out leaving bloodstains behind, one’s sword had been struck from his hand, severing his fingers, one lay on his back with the air bubbling from his gashed throat, and one was shielded by the augur’s staff as he still tried to wield his sword although on his knees.

Without a glance at those who had dropped out, the four measured one another. Lars Arnth was one of the four and I crossed my hands tightly, hoping that he would last and at least save his life. For a moment they stood there with their backs to the sacred circle, then the most impatient lost his nerve and rushed with upraised shield at his nearest opponent. This youth struck it in the air with his own shield and plunged his sword through the other’s body. Instantly the third rival recognized his opportunity and leaped to thrust his sword into the defender’s back, not to kill but merely to render him incapable of combat.

Everything had occurred with incredible speed and ten of the bravest and fairest Etruscan youths were already out of the game. I thought sadly of their hopes and how they had toughened their bodies and improved their skills with ceaseless practice. In a few fleeting moments all was over and hope gone. Now only Lars Arnth and the Veian youth remained, and the real battle could begin. Chance and good fortune no longer determined the outcome but only swordsmanship, endurance and nerves.

Haste availed nothing. That they both must have realized as they warily crept along the edge of the ring, for each took a moment to glance at Misme who stared at them with shining eyes. Later I heard that the Veian youth had been among those who had fetched Misme and that he had held her in his arms on horseback. Then and there he had decided to die rather than surrender. But despite his youth Lars Arnth had attended the bitter school of political life and well knew the power of patience and perseverance to overcome a rival’s endurance. Coldbloodedly he waited, even dropping his shield and stretching his limbs.

The youth from Veil could bear no more but plunged ahead, the shields clanging against each other and the swords striking bright sparks as they clashed. But the youths were of the same size and equally skilled, and neither succeeded in thrusting the other backward. After exchanging some ten rapid strokes they leaped apart to regain their breath. Blood streamed down Lars Arnth’s thigh, but he shook his head sharply as the augur prepared to raise his staff. The Veian youth forgot and looked at him and at that moment Lars Arnth charged at him with bowed head and thrust his sword under his foe’s shield. The youth dropped to one knee but kept his shield up and lashed out so violently with his sword that Lars Arnth had to retreat. The Veian had received a bad wound in his groin and could not rise, but with knee to the ground he slashed aside the augur’s staff and glared at Lars Arnth.

Lars Arnth was compelled to continue, willingly or not. He seemed to sense that the Veian had more endurance than he, and that thus he had to bring the combat to a quick conclusion. Holding his shield as low as possible, he attacked. But the Veian warded off the blow and with the speed of light dropped his sword, scooped up a handful of sand and threw it at Lars Arnth’s eyes. Then he snatched the sword again and plunged it at Lars Arnth’s unprotected chest with such force that he toppled off his knee and fell on his face to the ground as, more by instinct than skill, Lars Arnth thrust the blade aside blindly so that he suffered only a harmless cut. He could have struck the Veian youth on the neck with the edge of his shield or cut off the fingers grasping the sword. But Lars Arnth was content to step on his hand and press the youth’s face to the ground with his shield without hurting him. It was nobly done.

The Veian youth was fearless and tried once more to wrench himself free. Only then did he accept his defeat and a sob of disappointment rose from his throat. He released his sword and Lars Arnth, stooping to snatch it from the ground, threw it outside the ring. Magnanimously he extended his hand to his opponent and helped him to rise although his own eyes were still blinded by the sand and his own blood.

Then Lars Arnth did something the like of which had surely never happened before. Still panting from his exertion he glanced around searchingly, then stepped to the augur and pulled off the loose augur’s cloak so that the old man stood clad only in a shirt, his thin legs bare. With the cloak over his arm Lars Arnth stepped to Misme, cut the holy woolen band that bound her wrists, bent reverently to touch her mouth with his and, dropping onto the stone bed, took Misme in his arms and covered them both with the augur’s cloak.

This was so amazing that not even the most sacred tradition could stifle the laughter. At sight of the augur’s helpless air and thin legs we laughed still more, and when Misme extended a bare foot from the cloak and wiggled her toes at us even the Lucumones laughed so that tears rolled from their eyes.

With such relief did we laugh at Lars Arnth’s unexpected thoughtful-ness, nor was anyone opposed to it. On the contrary, everyone admitted later that such a noble youth as Lars Arnth and the granddaughter of Lars Porsenna could not have performed the traditional sacrifice before the stares of the people. Probably Misme and Arnth also laughed as they embraced each other under the augur’s cloak and left the sacrifice to a more propitious time.

When the laughter finally began to die down, Lars Arnth tossed off the cloak. They rose, holding each other’s hand and looking into each other’s eyes as though they had forgotten the rest of the world. They were a beautiful pair. The angry augur snatched back his cloak, flung it over his shoulder, rapped them both on the head with his staff harder than was necessary, and pronounced them man and wife and Tarquinia the supreme Etruscan city. Now Lars Arnth took the black collar from Misme’s neck and reversed it so that the white side was on top to indicate, in accordance with the ancient tradition, that life had conquered death. Hand in hand they stepped outside the circle, a wedding cloak was thrown over Misme’s nakedness and a myrtle wreath placed on her head. Lars Arnth took his own mantle, pulled on his shirt, and I hastened to embrace Misme as my daughter.

“How could you frighten me so?” I scolded her.

But Misme tossed her head capriciously and laughed aloud. “Now do you believe that I am able to take care of myself, Turms?”

Glancing at Lars Arnth, I whispered in her ear that from now on she must address me as her father, show the proper respect and remember that she was the granddaughter of the great Etruscan hero Lars Porsenna. She in turn told me that the field brothers had attempted to protect both her and my farm but that the enraged Romans had burned the buildings, stolen the cattle and trampled the fields when they had learned of my escape from the Mamertine prison. She and the old slaves had hidden themselves and that same night she had dug up the gold bull’s-head, chipped off the horns and given one to the old slave couple and the other to the shepherd youth who had become the keeper of my farm so that he might, in Misme’s name, obtain staffs of emancipation for the couple.

Then hardly had she returned the bull’s-head to its place of concealment than Veian patrols, aroused by the fire, had ridden across the border and abducted her. But they had treated her respectfully although the youth who had just fought had crushed her to him as they rode.

“It was not quite new to me and I wasn’t afraid,” Misme assured me.

“After all, our keeper always tried to touch and kiss me so that I learned to depend on myself and no longer wondered whether I was ugly. I could never have consented to him, but now with the gold horn he can obtain a suitable wife for himself and purchase land. He also promised to care for the old slaves whom I freed.”

She looked at me accusingly. “But why have you never told me how beautiful and refined life among the Etruscans is? I would have learned their difficult language long before this. I have known only goodness both in Veii and here, although I first feared that I was a prisoner and would be sold as a slave. But their beautiful women taught me how to bathe and care for my skin and curl my hair, called me beautiful and made me understand what an incomparable honor it was to be chosen as the maiden for the sacred combat. I thought it was for my own sake and because they considered me beautiful, but they probably chose me because of you, my father. I have heard many things about you.”

Lars Arnth hastened to swear by the names of the smiling gods that she was the fairest girl he had ever met and that he had risked his life because he had realized at first glance that life would be nothing without her. Probably he believed what he said, but I knew that his ecstatic dazzlement, as the goddess blinded him with her golden mist, was but one of his reasons for entering the combat.

Nevertheless I rejoiced for Misme and also for Lars Arnth, since I knew him and he was deserving of all human happiness, if Arsinoe’s daughter could bring a man more happiness than trouble. However, Misme swore that she was wiser than her mother and that she would remain faithful to her husband because in all the land there could not be a fairer man or one more to her liking. Still I could not trust her completely since she felt it necessary to swear such an oath. It seemed to indicate that she herself had begun to suspect that she was her mother’s daughter. Looking into her eyes I realized that Lars Arnth’s life with Misme would not be monotonous.

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