Etruscan Blood
Page 23
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So the fatherless boy followed his grandfather's body to the tomb, the next day. Aranthur had gone back to Venel's rooms, out of the way of the rest of the household; it was strange, having been sent for so ceremoniously, now to be hidden out of sight. Venel's mother, a thin woman with a cough, served a cold supper; nothing would be cooked this night. They rested early; no one had the heart to stay up. Around him in the darkness, he felt the house drawing its breath, mysterious and silent.
They started early in the morning, while light still shimmered on the dew and the sun was low. The procession made its way out of the city, along a road flanked by burial mounds; their retaining walls whitewashed, their grassy summits topped by cypresses, they crowded the road, the shadow of the trees falling across it like bars of darkness.
The men of the city had stood outside the gate, watching as Demaratos' body was brought out and laid on the cart that would carry it to the grave. The man that Aranthur took to be Demaratos' son led the mourning, kneeling in the street, scooping up the dust, and raising his hand above his head to let dust fall on it; there was a certain grace in his movements, though his eyes looked troubled. Each man greeted the body, raising one hand in salute, in silence.
Behind the body came the female mourners, led by the woman who had sobbed in Aranthur's arms the evening before; that, he thought, must be Demaratos' widow. His other grandmother. A lined face, frank eyes, a hint of double chin. He looked curiously at her, wondering if his father had looked like her, or more like the man who lay on the flowered bier; bulky once, his face already sinking to show the bone beneath. She was scratching her face with her nails, till the blood ran down, smearing her clothes; other women tore out handfuls of their hair, or dug their nails into their palms till their hands were bloody. The wailing never stopped; a high keening that shivered his soul, like high wind on a cold night.
They came, at last, to the tomb; a new tomb, its stonework fresh, not like the Etruscan families' ancient tumuli on this stretch of the road, where lichen had already begun to cover the stone. Demaratos would be the first body laid here; he had no ancestors in this land.