Etruscan Blood
Page 22
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The messenger stayed that night, and another - the second to rest his horses - though it put Ramutha and the maidservant to some trouble to air a room for him, and find fresh bedlinen. He'd come with a spare horse, and provided with riding clothes for Aranthur, having guessed from his age what to provide. The only thing he hadn't brought was riding boots, since he couldn't have guessed the right size; Aranthur had to ride in his ordinary shoes.
They set out early, before Aranthur's mother was awake; Ramutha had insisted on it, though he felt ashamed when he remembered his last words to her. At least, he thought, his tutor - Agathos - would know he was leaving, and wouldn't think the worse of him for it.
It was a day's ride; a long day's ride, along the coast and then inland, towards the rising crest of Tarchna with its great temple at the top of the ridge. The day was cold; when they reached the coast road, a fresh breeze blew in from the sea. The great pines that bordered the beach were slanted, growing away from the wind; Aranthur looked at the sea and thought again, how large this world is, and how little I've seen of it.
He held himself aloof a little, not wanting to look too easily impressed by either the messenger or his message. When they talked, it was of the journey itself, which Venel had already made once, and which he was making again with Aranthur, in the reverse direction. Venel told Aranthur about his own family; he'd not wanted to come on this journey, as his old mother was ill, and likely to die before he returned. “I feel I might not see her again,” he said, and Aranthur felt pain at the thought that he, too, might not see his mother again, and had left without saying farewell.
Towards the end of the day, though, Aranthur felt he had to ask the one question that had worried him all night; how had Demaratos found out?
“Agathon,” Venel answered.
He didn't understand, either why Venel used the Greek word, or why he said, 'the good'. The good man, perhaps? His lack of comprehension must have shown, since Venel explained immediately; “Your tutor, Agathon of Mitilene.”
Aranthur remembered his tutor saying, once, that he'd lived in Tarchna for a while. He'd played his dice close, that one, though; he'd said nothing about Demaratos, nothing about the message he'd sent.
They rode into Tarchna late in the day; the town was grey and cold, like Cisra. The houses seemed to turn inwards, presenting blank walls to the street, and gates studded with iron, and firmly closed. A woman running down one street stopped and yelled to Venel; “Eh, get home, you're wanted.” A couple of boys scuffled in the gutter, screaming at each other till they saw the horsemen, and ran off.
“Nearly there,” Venel said, as they turned the corner into a wider street that ran uphill. “It's the house at the top. The portico is new. A new style, an idea Demeratos brought from Greece with his new stonemason.”
But as they approached, they heard a high, ululating wail; a single voice at first, then a whole crowd shrieking, piercing the air with noise. Aranthur's horse shied; he felt himself falling, but managed to throw his arms round the horse's neck before he slid completely from its back, so that when Venel managed to grab the horse's harness and pull its head round, Aranthur was hanging uncomfortably down one side of the horse, one leg trailing on the ground. This wasn't the way he would have wanted to arrive; he let himself fall on to his feet, and stood, his body aching from the change of position after the long hours riding.
Venel vaulted off his horse; together they led the horses up to the gate, which stood wide open. From inside, a crowd of masks stared at them, sightless eyes and soundless mouths, as the wailing started up again from inside the house. The masks swayed silently, above bodies swathed in grey rags that seemed taller and more elongated than they should be, as if their necks had been stretched out like a strangled chicken's. Aranthur felt the hairs on his arms stand on end; there was danger here. There was death.
“Someone's died,” Venel said, and as he did, a black figure ran from the house towards him, screaming. For a moment Aranthur thought it was another mask, then he realised the woman's face was white, and heavily lined, her dark eyes wet. She threw herself into Venel's arms, crying, then suddenly took Aranthur's head in her hands and started kissing his cheeks, sobbing.
He stood stiffly, wondering what he had to do with this woman, till a young man came out from the dark doorway of the house and stepped towards him. Though he had a rough grey mantle thrown over his shoulders, the rich red of his robe showed through where it opened at the front, and gold gleamed on his wrists. That must be Loukios, Aranthur thought, and stepped forward to grasp his forearm, putting his hand to the inside of the other man's elbow.
“This is Aranthur, grandson of Demaratos,” Venel said, rather grandly. The youth closed his eyes, as if in great grief; something Aranthur had hardly expected.
“Demaratos is dead,” the youth said, and bowed his head to Aranthur.