The Etruscan

4.

It was probably meant that I should struggle within walls for the nine long and certainly hard years indicated by the ravens, so that I would better learn to know life and achieve the proper age. That is undoubtedly why Arsinoe was ordained to be my companion, for it is doubtful whether any other woman would have succeeded in keeping me fettered to the earth and everyday life for such a long period. Indeed, it was because of her that Tertius Valerius took me aside one day to talk to me in his kindly old man’s way.

“My dear son Turnus,” he said amiably, “you know that I am fond of you and that your wife’s presence brightens my old days. But my illness in the forum was a healthy reminder of mortality. You yourself know that any day I may fall lifeless to the ground. And that is why I am so concerned about your future.

“You see, dear Turnus,” he continued in his quavering voice, “as much as I like you, permit me as an old man to say that the life you are leading is not worthy of a man. You must brace yourself. You have looked around long enough to understand Roman customs and you even speak the language better than some Sabine or other person who has been transplanted here to increase the population. You can pass for a Roman as well as anyone else if you but choose.”

He shook his head, smiled with wrinkled eyes and observed, “You probably think, as I do, that this is a brutal and merciless city. I myself would wish it to return to Saturn’s power, but the war god’s wolf is the suckler of Rome. The gods have decreed it and we can only submit. I don’t consider all Rome’s principles correct or its wars just. Greed is our weakness and we do not wish to yield even a portion of our land until we are compelled to do so.”

Again he shook his head, laughed and said, “Forgive an old man if I stray from the subject and return to the same old matter that has given me the reputation of a simpleton among my friends and relatives. But right or wrong, Rome is my city and that of my family ever since our progenitor left Volsina one hundred and fifty years ago to build a future for himself in a new land. Only a stupid man tries to turn his mistakes into virtues and rejoices in them. I am not proud of the death of my only sons. It was the bitterest error of my life even though the people point to me in the forum and fathers whisper to their sons, ‘There goes Tertius Valerius, who surrendered his own sons to the lictors to protect Rome from autocracy.’ I don’t turn around to shout that it was a horrible mistake, for it is better that people believe in a lie if it benefits Rome and helps the young to withstand future ordeals. And such there will be.”

His body began to tremble and saliva trickled from the twisted corner of his mouth. Arsinoe entered the room as though she had passed the doorway by chance, wiped the old man’s beard with a linen towel, gently stroked his sparse hair and spoke to me angrily. “Surely you are not tiring our host or distressing him?” Tertius Valerius ceased trembling as soon as he clutched Arsinoe’s hand, looked at her lovingly and said, “No, daughter, he has not been tiring me. Rather, I have tired him. I should remember that I am not speaking in the Senate. I have a proposition to make to you, Turnus. If you wish, I can obtain Roman citizenship rights for you in a fairly good tribus. As a plebeian, of course, but you had sufficient means upon entering the city to meet the property demands for a heavily armored soldier. You cannot enter the cavalry because that is separate, but you can enter the army and you have experience in warfare as your wife has related and your scars prove. There is your opportunity, Turnus. After that, everything depends on yourself. The gate to the temple of Janus is always open.”

I knew that a serious war was expected because the traitor Coriolanus was training the Volscians’ best warriors in Roman battle tactics. I surmised that I could become a Roman citizen by merely petitioning it since I had sufficient means to pay for my arms, and under those conditions I did not need Tertius Valerius’ recommendations. While it is true that he thought of my interests, as a Roman he also thought of the city’s. Even one experienced heavily armored soldier strengthened the army, and as a new citizen I could be expected to fight as well as possible to gain a reputation.

His suggestion was sensible, but I had had enough of war with Dorieus. The very thought of war made me feel ill.

I could not explain my feeling but it was so strong that I replied, “Tertius Valerius, don’t be angry with me but I don’t feel that I am yet ready for Roman citizenship. Perhaps later, but I cannot promise anything.”

Tertius Valerius and Arsinoe exchanged glances. To my surprise they did not attempt to persuade me.

Instead, Tertius Valerius asked carefully, “Then what do you intend to do, my son? If I can advise you in any way, speak.”

The thought had surely matured in me although it burst forth only in response to his question. “There are other lands besides Rome,” I said. “To increase my knowledge I intend to travel to the Etruscan cities. A great war is brewing in the East. Of that I have certain knowledge, and it may be that its repercussions will even extend to Italy. Before such an avalanche even Rome would be but a city among cities. Knowledge of other countries is always needed, and my knowledge and political astuteness may some day benefit Rome.”

Tertius Valerius nodded enthusiastically. “Perhaps you are right. Political advisers on distant lands are always needed, and Roman citizenship would be only a hindrance to you in obtaining this experience since it would obligate you to military service. I can give you letters of introduction to influential persons in both Veii and Caere, the nearest of the large Etruscan cities. It would also be wise for you to become acquainted with the Etruscan coastal cities of Populonia and Vetulonia, on which we are completely dependent for iron. In fact, the armed strength of Rome is founded on the free import of iron from the Etruscan cities.”

When Arsinoe stooped to wipe his dripping mouth I took advantage of the moment and said with a smile, “I have enjoyed your hospitality far too long, Tertius Valerius. I cannot impose upon you still more by requesting letters of recommendation. I shall probably wander alone and freely and I don’t know whether the recommendation of a Roman senator would benefit me in trying to befriend respected Etruscans. It is better for me not to tie myself to Rome even with your recommendations, as much as I value your friendship.”

He placed his hands cordially on my shoulders and said that I should not hasten my departure. As his friend I would always have a place by his hearth, whenever and for as long a time as I wished it. But despite the warmth of his voice I was certain that this was farewell. For one reason or another he and Arsinoe wanted me to leave Rome. My suggestion pleased them both.

Their behavior wounded my vanity to the extent that I was determined to get along on my own assets and if possible to augment my resources along the way. Thus Arsinoe bound me to the earth and to everyday life even more tightly than if I had remained with her. She sent me forth among the ordinary people to gauge the possibility of profit and if necessary to work with my hands, which I had never before done. For that reason my journey was to constitute a period of learning in which I would discover the needs of a simple person in a civilized world.

I exchanged my delicate footwear for heavy-soled Roman travel shoes and donned a simple shirt and gray woolen mantle. My hair had grown again and without anointing it I braided it into a knot at my neck.

Arsinoe laughed at my appearance until the tears came, thus easing the pangs of parting.

Tertius Valerius said, “You are right, Turnus, from the ground one sometimes sees more than from the ridge of a temple. At your age my palms were calloused and these hands of mine were as broad as shovels. When I see you like that I respect you more than before.”

I should have realized from that that I was setting forth on a new blind path. Naturally I still was accompanied by Hecate’s luck since she provides aid in small as well as large matters. So when I paused on the bridge to look at the flooding yellow waters of the Tiber, a skittish herd of cattle pushed past me and would have crushed me against the railing if I had not leaped over it in time. The angry cries of the guards added to the confusion, and finally the drover called for help and his half-grown daughter burst into tears. I jumped back onto the bridge and seized the lead bull by the nostrils, squeezing them as hard as I could. The bull tossed his head in vain and finally quieted down as though realizing that he had met his master. Then the entire herd grew calm and obediently followed the bull until we left the bridge and I guided the herd to the side of the road near the slope of Janiculum.

There I released the bull and wiped the mucus from my hand. The drover approached me limpingly and holding his back, for at the end of the bridge the guard had struck him with the shaft of a spear. He blessed me in the name of Saturn, from which I deduced that he belonged to the simple country people of Rome, while his daughter wiped her tears and hugged her cows.

The drover seated himself on a hummock and rubbed his back. “Now what, master? I can see from your face that you are not our kind. We are living in bad times and at our master’s command we are taking our cattle to the market at Veii before the Volscians arrive and steal them. They have never been so wild and I do not know how my daughter and I will be able to control them now that my back is hurt.”

His helplessness touched me and his daughter was a pretty girl although barefooted. “I don’t know much about cattle,” I said readily, “but I am on my way to Veii and in no hurry. I will gladly help you herd your cattle although I don’t know how to milk them.”

He was greatly cheered by my words. “That new god Mercury must be of some use, after all. As I was about to leave I made a hasty bow at the door of his temple, and look how soon that young and kind god has sent you to my aid.”

We joined forces and, paced by the slow herd, set off for Veii along the worn road. I picked up a switch but we soon noticed that we made the best progress if I walked ahead with my hand on the lead bull’s neck while the drover and his daughter followed behind, chasing the cows that paused at the roadside. Soon the journey progressed so well that the girl began to sing an old shepherd’s song. The sun shone between the clouds and my mind brightened after the sadness of parting. At dusk I was grateful for the slowness of our journey, for the new shoes were rubbing blisters in my heels. I took off the shoes and flung them over my shoulder. For the first time I felt how gloriously the earth’s dust responds to the steps of a bare foot.

When darkness fell we found a deserted cattle enclosure whose fence assured us a restful sleep, for otherwise we would have had to guard the cattle alternately. We made a fire to warm us in the biting dampness of the early spring. Father and daughter began to milk the cows, and when I noticed how painfully the man stooped because of his injured back I offered to help them. Laughingly the girl showed me how to use my hands, and the touch of her tanned fingers thrilled me, not with desire, but merely with the nearness of a young person. I was surprised at the smoothness of her palms and she explained, laughing at my stupidity, that it was caused by milking and milk fat. She said that noble Etruscan women even bathed in milk, but that in her opinion it was a crime against the gods because milk, butter and cheese were intended for human nourishment.

I said that to me it was as great a crime to let warm milk flow onto the ground.

The girl became serious and explained, “Necessity knows no law. We could not take any vessels with us and the cows must be milked. Otherwise they will suffer and their udders will become inflamed and we will not get the price that our master demands for them.”

She glanced at her father and confessed ruefully, “We will hardly get it anyway, for I see by the innumerable hoofprints on the road that all the patricians have had the same idea at the same time. I am afraid that the cattle merchants of Veii will pay whatever they wish for Roman cattle. No matter what price my father obtains for them our master will be dissatisfied and will beat him.”

“What a severe master you must have,” I observed.

But the girl immediately began to defend him and said proudly, “He is no more severe than the others. He is a Roman and a patrician.”

There were not many milch cows and they had a dipper with them so that each of us could drink his fill of warm milk. When he had closed the gate of the pen the drover gathered the cleanest of the straw and said contentedly, “I didn’t expect us to have such a fine bed. Sleep well, master.”

He removed his mantle and flung himself on the straw, covering himself with the coarse cloth. The girl stretched out beside her father and he covered her likewise.

When I remained standing in doubt, the girl sat up and urged, “Do lie down, friend. Let us warm one another, for otherwise it will be a cold night.”

Already in the Ionian war I had learned to sleep side by side with my comrades but this was something new and the smell of manure in the straw was repulsive. To avoid hurting the girl I removed my woolen mantle, lay down beside her and covered myself and her with it. One corner of it even reached her father.

The girl sniffed the odor of wool in the new mantle, fingered the fabric and said, “You have a fine cloak.” Suddenly she turned around, wound her arm around my neck, pressed her cheek against mine and whispered, “You are a good man.”

As though ashamed of her outburst she buried her face in my chest and a moment later I realized from her breathing that she had fallea asleep in my arms. Her body warmed mine delightfully as a little bird throbbingly warms the hand. I still felt the quick touch of her cheek on mine and happiness filled me. The night sky grew clear, the stars shone brightly and in the air was the cold breath of the mountains of Veii. I slept more soundly than I had in years, without a dream. So close to the earth and to humans did I become on the first day of my journey.

The next day as the mountains gleamed and the sky shimmered with sunshine we drove the herd up an increasingly steep road until before us, on an unconquerable mountain, rose splendid Veii, surrounded by its wall. The painted temple roofs with their statues of deities shone from afar. All the while we were met by Roman shepherds, who warned us against continuing our journey since the cattle merchants of Veii were taking advantage of Rome’s plight by paying wretched prices even for the best cattle. They themselves regretted their sales and urged us rather to drive our cattle back, for the rumors of a Volscian attack were probably exaggerated. Very likely it would take a long time for the Volscians to equip a real army that would dare advance within sight of Rome.

But despite his doubts the drover had to obey his master’s order. Sadly we drove the herd through the massive archway and the guards indicated where we should take the animals. In contrast to Rome, whose walled area included large meadows and swamps, Veii was a closely built great city with little pasturage even in the event of war. Its population was twice that of Rome, its wall longer than Rome’s flimsy wall, and its two main streets, which crossed each other, were broad and straight in comparison to the streets of Rome. They were paved with stone slabs worn deep by the traffic, and the fronts of the houses facing them were ornamented with molded and brightly colored clay statues and decorations. Even the people differed from those in Rome. Their faces were long and fine-featured, they smiled attractively and their clothes were gracefully cut and adorned.

Hardly had we reached the cattle market when a group of brawny men hastened toward us to inspect the bulls, try the udders of the milch cows and measure the distance between the heifers’ horns. When they had done so they spread their hands in customary dismay, began to criticize the cattle and called them worthless. In wretched Latin they declared that they were at best suited for slaughter and that even their hides had little value. Nevertheless, they hastened to make their offers while glancing at one another surreptitiously. Thus we learned that a large number of cattle merchants had just arrived in Veil from the inland Etruscan cities, tempted by the news that the Romans were selling their cattle at ridiculous prices because of the threat of war. Roman cattle were famous because the Romans had stolen the finest breeding stock during their wars against their neighbors and the Roman patricians were known to be skilled breeders.

The cattle merchants of Veil had joined forces and until that moment had been paying a low price upon which they had agreed and sharing the cattle that they bought. But the competition offered by the strange merchants broke down the ring of resistance and induced the city’s merchants to compete with the strangers and one another. The last sellers to depart from the city had clenched their fists and sworn to spread the word around Rome that it no longer paid to drive cattle to Veii, hence the cattle merchants feared that they would obtain no more good Roman cattle.

The injudicious drover would happily have accepted the first offer that met the price set by his master. But when I saw how matters stood I urged him to be calm and pointed out that it was still a long time until sunset. Leisurely we seated ourselves on the ground, ate our bread and cheese, and I called to a peddler for wine which he served from beautifully painted clay cups. The wine cheered our spirits and the weary cattle calmly chewed their cud around us.

The girl looked at me with smiling eyes. “You brought us good fortune, friend.”

I remembered then that it was necessary for me to earn my bread among people like the others. And so I suggested to the father, “The bread and cheese you have given me suffice to pay me for my help in driving the cattle safely here. Permit me now to participate in the bargaining. I ask half of whatever amount exceeds the price set by your master. That would seem only just.”

The drover was not at market for the first time. He had enough peasant shrewdness to reply instantly, “I can drive my own bargains, but I don’t understand the language of these strange Etruscans. You are probably wiser than I anyway and they would not dare to cheat you as much as me. But half the profit is too much for I must think of my master. If you will be content with one fourth I will shake hands on it gratefully.”

I pretended to hesitate but then extended my hand and we sealed the agreement. That was all I had wanted, for I would have been ashamed to accept more than one fourth of the good man’s profit that would spare him a beating. I rose from the ground and let my tongue sing from the joy of wine. I praised our cattle in Latin and Etruscan and even Greek which was well understood by the Tarquinian merchants. As I sang their praises the bulls, cows and heifers seemed to brighten in my eyes until they were almost like divine cattle, and the merchants began to feel them again with new respect. Finally the merchant who had come the farthest offered the highest price. The others covered their heads as though crushed, but behind the edge of their robes they laughed.

When we had weighed the silver and computed its equivalent in Roman copper, it became apparent that my eulogies had brought more than twice the price set by the patrician and almost equaled the actual value of the cattle in peacetime. The drover kissed his hands in joy and his daughter began to dance. Unhesitatingly the father paid me one fourth of the profit in good silver and whispered that he had hidden the best bull in the forest where the Volscians would hardly find it. There would be the beginning of a new herd when peace returned.

I thought it best to leave the drover for I was impatient to become acquainted with the gay and civilized city that differed so greatly from the previous cities I had known. The mountain height made its air fresh and its stone streets had none of the usual vile-smelling rubbish, for all dirt was carried away by sealed sewers under the streets.

I remained and thrived in Veii until summer, living in a neat inn where no one was unduly curious about me or asked about my comings and goings as was the custom in Greek cities. The silence and courtesy of the service pleased me. When I remembered the noisy and chattering Greek cities I felt as though I were in another, more noble world. In itself the inn was modest and appropriate to my appearance but not even there was it customary to eat with two fingers. Instead, a two-pronged fork was used at meals. From the very beginning the servant brought me a silver fork as though the world contained no thieves.

I did not attempt to make friends, but as I walked in the streets and the market places I enjoyed the composure of the people and the beauty of the city and began to feel that, compared to its neighbor, Rome was a barbaric place. Presumably the residents of Veii thought likewise although I did not hear them speak unkindly of Rome. They lived as though Rome did not exist, having signed a twenty-year pact of non-aggression with it. But there was something sad in the faces and smiles of the people of Veii.

On the first morning when I was content only to breathe the air of Veii, which was like medicine after the Roman swamps, I found myself in a small market place and sat down on a worn stone bench. I saw the shadows of people hastening by. I saw a donkey with its neat forelock and its basket of vegetables. I saw that a country woman had placed cheeses on display on a clean cloth.

With a catch of my breath I realized in a sudden flash of perception that once again I had previously lived that same moment of happiness. As in a dream I rose and turned a familiar corner. Before me rose a temple whose pillared front I recognized.

The mysteriously splendid and deep-hued statues on the temple roof represented Artemis defending her deer against Herakles while the other gods watched the scene with smiles on their divine faces. I ascended the steps and entered the gate behind which a sleepy temple servant sprinkled holy water over me with his whisk. I became increasingly certain that I had once before lived that moment.

Against the dimness of the walls, in light that streamed down from an opening in the roof, stood the divinely beautiful goddess of Veii on her pedestal, a dreamy smile on her lips. A child was in her arms and at her feet was a goose with arched neck. Nor did I have to inquire to know that her name was Uni. I knew it and recognized her by her face, the child and the goose, but how I knew it I cannot explain. My hand rose to my forehead and I raised my right arm in sacred greeting, bowing my head. Something in me knew that the image was sacred and that the spot on which I stood had been holy even before the temple and the city had been built.

No priest was visible but the servant guessed from my attire that I was a stranger and rose from his seat to describe the votive offerings and sacred objects along the walls. My devotion was so deep that I motioned him away, for I did not wish to look at anything in the temple save Uni, the divine personification of womanly tenderness and goodness.

Only afterward did I remember that I had seen that vision in the goddess’s dream at the temple of Eryx. In itself it was not unusual, for a person frequently dreams that which happens only later, but I wondered why my dream in the temple of Aphrodite had led me to the sacred house of compassionate love and maternal happiness unless it was merely the goddess’s mockery at my expense.

On the threshold of summer, news came to Veii that the Volscian army under Coriolanus was marching on Rome to avenge, as they said, the insult suffered by the Volscians at the circus. But the Roman forces did not advance to meet the enemy in open battle as they usually did. From that it was surmised that Rome would be in a state of siege, as unbelievable as it seemed.

By walking briskly I could have reached Rome in a day, but instead I turned away from it, first northward to see the lake of Veii and from there over the mountains westward along shepherds’ trails to the city of Caere, which was near the sea. For the first time in my life I saw the limpidity and red glow of a large lake at sunset. I do not know what so inexpressibly stirred me at the sight of that lake surrounded by mountains, but the mere rustle of the reeds and the smell of the water, so different from the stench of brine, made my breath quicken. I myself thought that I was only a traveler who wished to see something new, but my heart knew better.

In the city of Caere I suspected for the first time the true mightiness of the twelve Etruscan states when I saw the immense necropolis that rose, beyond a deep valley. On either side of its sacred way was a series of circular burial mounds heaped on stone bases within which were entombed the city’s ancient rulers surrounded by their sacrificial gifts.

Life in Caere was noisier than in noble Veii. From morning to night one heard the clink and clank of artisans in innumerable workshops, and sailors from all countries wandered through the streets glancing about in search of their customary diversion on land. Although the port of Caere was far away at the mouth of the river, the fame of the Etruscan cities’ splendor and gaiety had traveled so far that alien sailors willingly climbed the steep road to the city.

Instead of walking in the restless streets, I preferred to breathe the air of the holy mountain and the fragrance of mint and laurel shrubs in the city of tombs. The guard explained that the sacred roundness of the tombs had its origin in ancient times when the Etruscans had still lived in hive-shaped huts, and because of that the oldest temples, such as the temple of Vesta in Rome, were also round. He spoke of Lucumones instead of kings and I asked him to explain what he meant.

He spread his hands in a manner that he had learned from Greek visitors and said, “It is difficult to explain to a stranger. A Lucumo is that which is.”

When I did not understand he shook his head and tried again. “A Lucumo is a holy king.”

Still I did not understand. Then he pointed to several gigantic mounds and said that they were the tombs of Lucumones. But when I indicated the most recently built tomb on which the grass had not yet had time to grow, he made a negative gesture and explained as though to a barbarian, “Not a Lucumo’s tomb. Only a ruler’s tomb.”

My insistence made him impatient because he found it difficult to explain what seemed apparent. “A Lucumo is a ruler chosen by the gods,” he explained crossly. “He is found. He is recognized. He is the high priest, the supreme judge, the supreme lawgiver. An ordinary ruler can be dethroned or his power can be inherited, but no one can deprive a Lucumo of his power because the power is his.”

“How is he found, how is he recognized?” I asked in bewilderment. “Is not a Lucumo’s son a Lucumo?” I gave the guard a piece of silver to pacify him. ^

But he could not explain how a Lucumo is recognized and what distinguishes him from an ordinary person. Instead he said, “A Lucumo’s son is not usually a Lucumo although he may be. Very old, very divine families have given birth to Lucumones successively. But we are living in corrupt times. Lucumones are born but rarely these days.”

He pointed to a majestic tomb that we were passing. Before it was a white stone pillar topped by a round, instead of a peaked, headdress.

“A queen’s tomb,” he explained with a smile, and said that Caere was one of the few Etruscan cities which had been ruled by a queen. The reign of the famous queen was remembered by the people of Caere as a golden age, for the city had prospered more than at any other time. The guard declared that she had reigned in Caere for sixty years, but I suspected that he had learned the art of exaggeration from Greek visitors.

“But how can a woman rule a city?” I asked in amazement.

“She was a Lucumo,” explained the guard.

“Can even a woman be a Lucumo?” I asked.

“Of course,” he said impatiently. “It happens rarely, but through a whim of the gods a Lucumo can be born a woman. That is what happened at Caere.”

I listened and did not understand because I listened with prosaic ears and had bound myself to lead an ordinary life among people. But many times I traversed the difficult road and returned to the giant tombs that exuded an air of mysterious power.

In the city itself I saw another sight that moved me strangely. Beside the wall was a row of potters’ stalls, most of them selling cheap red funerary urns to the poor. In Caere the deceased were not buried as they were in Rome but were cremated and their ashes buried in a round urn which could be of expensive bronze decorated with beautiful designs or of plain red clay such as the poor used. Only the lid had some clumsy image as a handle.

I happened to be looking at the red urns when a poor country couple, hand in hand, came to select a resting place for their deceased daughter. They chose an urn with a lid bearing a crowing cock. When they saw it they smiled with joy and the man immediately pulled out a stamped copper ingot from his pouch. He did not haggle over the price.

“Why isn’t he bargaining?” I asked the potter in surprise.

The man shook his head. “One does not bargain over sacred things, you stranger.”

“But that vessel is not sacred,” I insisted. “It is merely clay.”

Patiently the man explained, “It is not sacred when it leaves the potter’s kiln. Nor is it sacred here on this table. But when the ashes of that poor couple’s daughter have been placed in it and the lid has been closed, it is sacred. That is why the price is modest and unconditional.”

Such a manner of selling was un-Greek and new to me. Indicating the crowing cock on the lid of the urn, I asked the couple, “Why did you choose just a cock? Would not it be more appropriate for a wedding?”

They stared at me in astonishment, pointed to the cock and said in unison, “But it is crowing.”

“Why is it crowing?” I asked.

They looked at each other and smiled mysteriously despite their grief. The man put his arm around his wife’s waist and said to me as to the most stupid of persons, “The cock is announcing the resurrection.”

They left the urn, and I remained staring after them with tears in my eyes. How touchingly and with what strange certainty and insight did the words pierce my heart! That is what I remember about Caere. Nor could I explain the great difference between the Greek and Etruscan worlds more effectively than by remembering that to the Greeks the cock is the symbol of lust, to the Etruscans of resurrection.

I had intended to return to Rome from Caere but word spread of Coriolanus’ liberation of one city after another that had been occupied by the Romans. He had conquered Corioli and even Lavinium which the Romans considered an important city. It seemed only a matter of time before the salt basins at the mouth of the Tiber would fall into the hands of the Volscians. For that reason I preferred to continue northward to see Tarquinia, which was considered the most significant and politically important city in the Etruscan league.

As I journeyed through the freshness of summer I did not know what to admire the most, the security of the roads, the hospitality of the country people, the long-horned cattle in the pastures or the fertile fields that had been created from the swamps by drains. The earth around me was richer and more fruitful than any I had seen before. The draining of the swamps and the clearing of the forests had demanded generations of skill and hard labor. And yet the lonians scornfully called the Tyrrhenians pirates and the Etruscans a tyrant nation which had degenerated through debauchery.

Tarquinia is presumably an eternal city on earth, and so it is not necessary for me to describe it. Many Greeks lived there, because the Etruscans in that advanced and lively city admired a stranger’s skill and were interested in everything new just as women are attracted to alien soldiers because of their odd-plumed helmets. Only in religious matters did the Etruscans know that they were superior to all other nations.

The residents of Tarquinia were eager to learn. Among them I found friends and despite my appearance was invited to banquets at the homes of the nobles when it became known that I had fought in lonia and knew the cities of Sicily. I had to buy new clothes so that I might appear worthy of my companions. Gladly I donned Etruscan clothes of fine linen and thin wool and wore a low, dome-shaped cap. I began anointing my hair once more, carefully shaved my beard and allowed my braid to hang freely to the shoulder. Looking at myself in a mirror I could no longer distinguish myself from a native Etruscan.

At banquets I willingly replied to such questions as were asked, even about Rome and its internal political problems. When the young men noticed that I was not sensitive about my Ionian blood they began to upbraid the Greeks.

“In ancient times the power of the twelve Etruscan cities extended from north to south on the Italian mainland. We had colonies along the shores and islands as far as Iberia, and our ships sailed all the seas to Greece, lonia and Phoenicia. But with the passing of time more and more new hungry nations came from the north. We permitted them to settle on our land and civilized them, although some we destroyed, but still they came from the mountain passes. The worst, however, are the Greeks who have spread their colonies even to Cumae and are sitting on all the shores as thickly as frogs. In the north we are being crushed by the recently arrived Celtic tribes and in the south the Greeks are destroying all reasonable trade.”

Thus we exchanged thoughts while drinking wine, but I myself spoke only when questioned and otherwise kept my mouth closed. By being an understanding listener I won many friends, for the Etruscans in that respect did not differ from other peoples.

Tarquinia was a city of painters just as Veii was the home of sculptors. Not only were there decorators of house walls and painters of wooden chests, but also a guild of tomb painters who were the most respected of all and whose few members had inherited their talent from their fathers and practiced it as a sacred craft.

The burial ground of Tarquinia was on the other side of a valley atop a bluff from which one could look westward over gardens and fields, olive groves and orchards to the sea itself and even beyond. The tumuli, while not so imposing as the tombs of Caere’s rulers, were more numerous, extending as far as eye could see. Before each was an altar for sacrifices and from a door steep stairs descended into the tombs hewn out of the soft rock. For centuries it had been the custom to decorate the walls of the tombs with sacred paintings.

As I wandered along the holy field I noticed that the temporary wooden door of a recently completed tomb was open. Hearing voices from the depths I called down and inquired whether a stranger might enter to look at the artist’s sacred work. The painter bawled back such a coarse oath as I had not heard from even the lips of a shepherd during my journey, but a moment later his apprentice ran up the stairs with a smokeless torch to light my way.

Cautiously I descended the uneven steps, leaning against the wall, when to my amazement I noticed the outline of a shell etched in the wall as though the goddess were indicating by a secret sign that I was on the right path. In that manner the gods now and then revealed themselves playfully to me in the course of my journey, although I paid little heed to the signs. Probably my heart was on a pilgrimage all the while although I did not realize it and although my body, bound to the earth, wandered with earthly, curious eyes.

The apprentice preceded me with the torch and soon I was in a chamber from whose walls had been carved benches for both the deceased. The artist had commenced his work from the ceiling and the broad central beam was ornamented with circles and capriciously scattered heart-shaped leaves of various colors. Both the slanting sides of the ceiling had been divided into red, blue and black squares as was the custom in Tarquinian houses. The painting on the right wall was already completed. There, reclining side by side on their left elbows on a cushioned couch, were both the future deceased in their festive garments and with wreathed heads. Eternally young, the man and his wife looked into each other’s eyes with hands upraised while dolphins played below them in the eternal waves.

The joy of life that exuded from that fresh painting so gripped me that I remained staring at it before moving on to the discus thrower, the wrestler and the dancers who played their eternal games along the walls. Several torches were burning in the chamber and a sweet fragrance emanated from the high-legged censer to dispel the smell of damp stone and the metallic odor of the paints. After he had granted me sufficient time for looking about, the artist swore again in Greek, thinking perhaps that I understood nothing else.

“Tolerable, perhaps, stranger,” he remarked. “Worse pictures have been painted in tombs, eh? But at the moment I am struggling with a horse which will not assume the shape that I wish. My inspiration is fading, my jug is empty and the dust of the paints is smarting unpleasantly in my throat.”

I looked at him and saw he was not an old man but approximately my own age. I seemed to recognize his glowing face, oval eyes and swollen mouth.

He looked eagerly at the clay bottle which I carried in its straw sheath, joyously raised his square hand with its blunt fingers and exclaimed, “The gods sent you to me at precisely the right moment, stranger. Fufluns has spoken. Now it is your turn to speak. My name is Aruns in honor of the house of Velthuru which is my patron.”

I kissed my hand respectfully and said with a laugh, “Let my capacious clay bottle speak first. Undoubtedly Fufluns sent me to you, although we Greeks call him Dionysus.”

He took the bottle before I even had time to remove the cord around my neck, and tossed the stopper in the corner as though to indicate that I would no longer need it. With incomparable skill he sprayed the red wine into the right place without wasting a drop, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and sighed in relief.

“Sit, stranger,” he urged me. “You see, the Velthurus were angry at me this morning and accused me of delaying my work. How could nobles understand an artist’s problems? And so they had water thrown over me and had me lifted into a cart with only a jar of Vekunian spring water as provisions. They even said sarcastically that it should provide sufficient inspiration for painting a horse since it had inspired the nymph to recite an eternal incantation for Tarquinia.”

I seated myself on one of the stone benches and he sat beside me with a sigh and wiped a bead of sweat from his brow. From my knapsack I took a thin silver goblet which I carried with me to prove if necessary that I was not a humble man, filled it, splashed a drop onto the floor, drank from it and offered it to him.

He burst into laughter, spat on the floor and said, “Don’t trouble to pretend. A man is known by his face and eyes, not by his clothes or his sacrificial habits. The rich flavor of your wine speaks more for you than the silver goblet. I myself am such a close friend of Fufluns that I would consider the sacrifice of a single drop to him sheer waste.

“So you are a Greek,” he went on without inquiring my name. “We have Greeks in Tarquinia and in Caere they make fairly attractive vases. But it’s best for them not to attempt sacred paintings. Sometimes we compare our designs with such enthusiasm that we break empty dishes over each other’s heads.”

He gestured to the youth who brought a wide roll. Aruns opened it and stared at the well-drawn and colored dancers and wrestlers, musicians and horses. He pretended to show me the traditional designs for the paintings but his eyes and wrinkled forehead betrayed his preoccupation with his unfinished work.

“These are of course helpful,” he said absently, groping for the silver goblet and emptying it without even realizing it. “One knows the right colors without guessing and the apprentice can scratch the outlines of the traditional pictures in advance. But a pattern is helpful only so long as it does not fetter but frees and eases the play of one’s own imagination.”

He thrust the roll of pictures into my lap without even troubling to wind it, rose and stepped to the opposite wall with a metallic graver in his hand. He had under way a picture of a youth holding a race horse by the neck. Most of it was completed, with only the horse’s head and neck and the youth’s hands still missing. When I carefully stepped closer I noticed that their outlines had already been scratched in the soft rock. The master, however, was not pleased with them. Suddenly he began scratching a new outline. The horse’s head rose more expressively, its neck arched more muscularly, it lived. The work took only a moment, then in a frenzy Aruns applied the color to the horse’s head without even following precisely the outline he had just made but improving on the position even as he painted.

Tiring a little, he mixed a light brown paint and effortlessly painted the youth’s hands around the horse’s neck without even troubling to etch the outline. Finally he outlined the arms with black so that the muscles fairly bulged to the blue border of the short-sleeved shirt.

“Well,” he said wearily, “This will have to do for the Velthurus for today. How could an ordinary person understand that I was born, I grew, learned, drew, mixed paints, raged and spent an entire life merely for these few moments? You, stranger, saw that it lasted but a few moments and probably thought, ‘He is very skilled, that Aruns.’ But it is not skill. There are enough and even too many with skill. My horse is eternal and no one has ever painted one precisely like it. Therein lies the difference which the Velthurus don’t understand. It is not merely color and skill but suffering and ecstasy almost to the verge of death that enables me to reveal life’s game and caprice in all its beauty.”

The youth said consolingly, “The Velthurus understand that. There is only one Aruns the painter. Nor are they angry at you. They are only thinking of what is best for you.”

But Aruns was not so easily appeased. “In the name of the veiled gods, take away this dreadful burden! I must swallow an ocean of gall before I can squeeze a drop of joy from it and for a few fleeting moments be content with my work.”

Hastily I filled the silver goblet and extended it to him. He began to laugh. “You are right. A few vatfuls of wine have of course gone down with the gall. But how else could I free myself? My work is not so easy as people believe. This sober youth will understand it when he has reached my age if he develops as I expect.”

He placed his hand on the youth’s shoulder. I suggested that we return to the city and eat together, but Aruns shook his head.

“No, I must remain here until sunset. Sometimes I remain even longer, for here in the bowels of the mountain there is neither night nor day. I have much to think about, stranger.”

He indicated the blank rear wall and I saw how the pictures alternately leaped alive and faded to a mist before his eyes. Forgetting my presence he mumbled to himself, “After all, I was at Volsinii when the new nail was struck into the pillar of the temple. The Lucumones permitted me to see that which an ordinary man does not see until the curtains fall. They believed in me and I must not betray their confidence.”

Once more he remembered me and my silver goblet. “Forgive me, stranger. Your face is still smooth although you are probably my age. I myself can see this swollen mouth, these tired eyes, the wrinkles on my forehead and the lines of discontent at the corners of my mouth. But I am discontented only with myself. Everything else goes well. I am gnawing at myself only to create that which has never before been created. May the gods be with me and with you also, stranger, for you brought me good luck and I was able to solve the problem of the horse to my own satisfaction.”

I understood his words as a farewell and did not wish to disturb his thoughts further, for he was staring at the blank wall and making impatient gestures in the air.

He was probably ashamed of having banished me so abruptly, for he suddenly said, “Well, stranger, those who do not understand are content with everything if it has the traditional lines and colors. That is why the world is full of skilled people and they are successful and life is easy for them. A real artist can compete only with himself. No, I have no competitor in this world. I, Aruns of Tarquinia, compete only with myself. If you wish me well, my friend, leave your clay bottle here as a memento of your visit. I feel that it is still half full and you will tire your fair shoulder if you carry it back to the city in the heat of the day.”

Gladly I left the bottle for that remarkable man since he needed it more than I.

“We shall meet again,” he said.

Not in vain had I noticed the goddess’s sign on the stone wall when I descended into the tomb. It was intended that I should meet that man and see the completion of the painting that he then planned. But I met him also for his own sake, to enable good luck to help him in his work and to rescue him from a human’s greatest despair. That he deserved. Already then I recognized him from his face and eyes. He, Aruns, was one of those who return.