by AM Kirkby
***
And now they were on the way to Rome, and a new life. It had surprised everyone when they married, though there was no opposition to their plans, Tanaquil must have made sure of that. Everyone, that is, except Lauchme's mother, who said “Tanaquil gets what she wants, but gods know why she wanted you,” and cuffed him gently on the side of the head, the way she'd used to when he was a boy.
Demaratos had set them up handsomely, with the gift of the hill farm and a house in Tarchna, should they ever wish to come back. Some more cynical minded observers had noticed that in the meantime, Demaratos had moved some of his new intake of potters and painters into the new house. Tanaquil's family could hardly afford to be less munificent than a Greek immigrant, though their gift of a share in the Spurinna copper mine would prove difficult to draw on unless Lauchme went into the business personally.
Under the wide skies, in the blazing sunlight of an early spring, such considerations seemed irrelevant. Lauchme felt filled with a joy he'd rarely known; this journey was a time away from his responsibilities, away from the game of politics or the difficulty of trying to disentangle his mixed inheritance, or the curiosity or contempt of the Tarchna nobility. There was only himself, and Tanaquil, and the whole wide country before them; the sun shone on them, and when a squall drove dark clouds across the sky and soaked them, Tanaquil squealed with laughter and pulled him into the shelter of the cart's leather awning, and when they'd finished, the sun was shining again.
They were well wrapped against the cool of the morning, Tanaquil in a mantle of blue so deep it was nearly purple. He'd jammed a red felt hat down on his springy hair, and shrugged a rough felt cloak over his shoulders; he knew he looked like a peasant beside her, and felt strangely happy with the contrast, as if that were his right place.
He heard the tragic scream of lapwing on the wind. Tanaquil was driving, her hands relaxed on the reins; their pair of hunting dogs lay curled together, heads on paws, behind them, the energy run out of them that morning chasing down a hare, though for once they'd failed to make a kill. The wind was cool and light on their faces; the whole of nature seemed exultant and filled with grandeur that morning. He allowed himself to think of Rome; a place where he might discover himself, not half-Greek, not half-Etruscan, but a man complete, a man of his own making. (For a moment, he managed to shrug off the suspicion that without the incessant conflict, there might be nothing there to discover; the deeper unease that had lurked half-understood under the more obvious unease he felt in any social situation, where he never knew whether people were talking to the Etruscan or the Greek.)
He looked across at Tanaquil's face, hawkish under the mantle she'd thrown across like a hood, against the wind. Strange how you could love someone as much as he did her, yet still not feel quite at ease in their presence; it was stolen glimpses like this that he valued most, when he felt she was almost unaware of his presence.
Suddenly, everything changed. A cold wind buffeted his shoulder, and the sky seemed to darken; then he felt a blow against his head, and his scalp cold. He'd lost his hat. He hadn't felt himself fall, but he was lying on the floor of the cart looking up at Tanaquil, and when he rubbed his temple with one hand, he saw blood on his knuckles.
“Tanaquil? Help me...”
But she wasn't looking at him, she was standing up in the cart, her eyes asquint against the sun, watching something moving across the sky. Her body seemed strung like a bow; she smiled cruelly. She'd let the reins go; the horses, obedient, had stopped immediately. He pulled himself up with one hand; and at last, after a long moment staring into the sun, she turned to him, and her eyes were bright with reflected fire.
“The eagle,” she said to him, “the eagle of the kings,” but it made no sense to him. What eagle? What kings? His scalp ached. He felt tears prickling at the corners of his eyes, and bit his bottom lip hard, to prevent himself grizzling like a child.
Tanaquil
She'd known, the moment the eagle swooped, that it was an augury.
The sound of feathers beating air; the sky darkened by the bird's immense wing span. From the north-east; the auspicious north, the east that was the home of the highest gods.(That much anyone could have told you who had the least idea of the Discipline.) And the eagle, the king of the birds, messenger of Tinia the highest of gods. An omen, the best omen they could have.
It was when she saw the eagle flying off with Lauchme's cap in its talons that she realised the complexity of the foretelling; and even then, she suspected it might lie beyond her knowledge to interpret it fully. The eagle recognised Lauchme, crowning him with the air; that was one meaning. But she suspected the sign of its taking his hat might hold more occult significance. If she were back in Tarchna she'd know who to ask; and her old teacher was one of the very few people in the city who would give her a straight answer, not trimming it to suit what he thought she might want to hear. (She'd write, later, once they'd reached Rome; but she wanted to know now. There was nothing she could do; it took ten more years of study to become fully expert in the Discipline, and that could not be hurried, even for a lucumo's granddaughter.)
The sight of the eagle's huge wings, the vivid flash of white on the underside, its golden and black eye seemingly fixed on hers, had shocked her breathless; her mind was running through the meanings of the augury, while at the same time she realised she was standing frozen, unable to move other than to follow the bird with her eyes, unable to feel anything other than her lungs burning. Then the air came rushing into her, and she felt herself slipping back into time and humanity, her blood throbbing in her ears. Shaking her head angrily, hearing the golden hair rings on her braids click against each other, she tried to throw off the strangeness. Her mouth tasted of metal.
She couldn't help laughing when she saw Lauchme, lying sprawled on the floor of the cart. Her laughter turned to concern when she saw the blood at his temple where the eagle's talon had torn his skin; she knelt over him, and cradled his head in her hands. She saw with relief that his eyes followed her, that he struggled to speak.
“Tanaquil? Help me.”
She bent her head to his, pressing her lips to the wound that circled his forehead like a bloody diadem. She tasted salt and iron. Strangely moved, she licked the wound, pressing the edges flat with her tongue, holding his head between her hands; now she tasted her own tears, too, and she realised she was saying his name over and over again.
Afterwards she told him what the augury meant; that he would be a king in Rome.
“And you will be a queen,” he said, seriously; then his face changed, and he said lightly, “but then, you always have been.”
She didn't tell him her other thoughts.