The rest of the journey passed without incident. Disregarding the official staging-posts, Xychus changed mules at small, isolated farmsteads, in squalid taverns, or in the stables of this wretched carter or that. On each occasion the change-over was made very quickly and without a single word being spoken.
They travelled for preference by night, and, at times when there were too many people on the roads, the slave would park his wagon in a thick clump of trees or among the ruins of an abandoned farm and with a massive double-edged axe placed within hand’s reach would get a little sleep, constantly ready to spring up at the slightest sound.
On the afternoon of the fourth clay, after passing Forum Aurelii, I hey crossed a bridge, left the Aurelian Way, and turning their backs on the sea, set off down a rough side-track strewn with huge potholes full of blackish water in which the mules wallowed Happing their long ears and making disgusting smacking noises as they pulled themselves out of the mud. The wagon rocked and swayed, bumped into obstacles, got stuck in ruts, and then started off again with a jerk as the whip came cracking down on the glistening rumps of the mules, which snorted and shook themselves before taking up the pull. Huge black crows with grey hoods wheeled overhead in a metallic grey sky, occasionally swooping down in wave after wave upon the near-by marshes with sinister cawing noises.
What looked like a big grey dog, dreadfully thin, with roughened hair, tail between its legs, and lowered hindquarters, slunk rapidly across the road some hundred paces in front of the wagon.
‘A wolf!’ commented Xychus.
Shivering with cold, her clothes penetrated by the damp, Fanina did not react.
‘There are more and more of them in these parts,’ said the slave. ‘There’ll soon be more of them than human beings!’
Now they were travelling along the banks of the Arminia, whose muddy waters flowed through a ravine that grew steadily deeper as they got farther from the sea and penetrated into the interior. The stagnant marshlands gave way to arid dunes then to fields of poor soil, terraced on the sides of hills that grew increasingly higher and higher and were topped with clumps of oaks or small clusters of parasol pines.
Here and there Fanina began to notice tumuli, small mounds covered with faded grasses and scorched brushwood, from which emerged decaying walls and crumbling pillars.
Ruins, more and more ruins; it was a weird landscape of decay. Then at last they reached a cluster of shapeless hovels from which rose vague traces of grey smoke; very old, massive constructions, half buried beneath a mantle of ivy, at the side of overgrown roads.
Up till then they had but rarely encountered anyone on the road, then little by little the ghost towns they crossed began to be peopled. Children with distended bellies, women in rags, men with weary faces, all very dark haired, watched Fanina go by. Most of them were dreadfully thin; their skins were like yellowish-green parchment and their eyes black as jet, slanting up towards their temples and shining with an unbearable feverish glint.
‘This is Vulci,’ said Xychus.
Vulci! ... The city from which, many centuries back, Fanina’s family had come....
No setting could have been more in keeping with Fanina’s heartache, her dejection, and the deadly sadness that held her in thrall. Vulci had once been beautiful, admired and envied, but it was now a fallen city peopled with ghosts. It had been fabulously prosperous; it had been among the twelve most powerful cities of mysterious Etruria. Now, at this late hour, it was nothing more than a poignant desert with the occasional tumbledown suburb standing out against the sky, where some sort of precarious activity still seemed to be going on.
‘Soon there won’t be a living soul left here,’ said Xychus. ‘The people of Vulci are nothing more than a shadow of their glorious ancestors. The marshes are no longer drained, no one mends the walls when they fall down, and marsh fever is the true ruler of the land.’
The slave paused, then added, with a sidelong glance:
‘Thus perish those who cease to fight for their happiness, illustrious Fanina.’
Fanina reddened, drew herself up indignantly and rounded on him.
‘I don’t know what you mean by that, Xychus,’ she said sharply.
Her expression hardened and the words rushed scathingly to her lips.
‘But let me tell you this, and make it known to those who placed me in your care, that I am weary of all this mystery! Tell them that I shall not remain for long incarcerated in this wretched place where they have had ... the goodness to exile me! I will return to Rome, Xychus, no matter what comes of it and much sooner than anyone thinks; that I swear by all the gods who hear and judge me.’
Avoiding Fanina’s gaze, his head sunk between his thin shoulders the old man urged on the mules, and soon the wagon had left what had been the suburbs of the proud city of Vulci.
Two miles farther on, arched over the void like a bow straining skywards, a black tuff-stone bridge straddled the ravine full of gnarled and twisted trees, in the depths of which, a hundred feet below, the raging torrent cascaded down with a thunderous roar.
In spite of herself, not believing her own eyes, Fanina straightened up. Before her, on the other side of the bridge, under a sombre sky now glowing with the last rays of the setting sun, across an endless moor covered in scorched heather, lay the most extraordinary necropolis. As far as the eye could see, there were nothing but tombs, mausoleums, and cenotaphs, a vast cemetery containing thousand upon thousand of ruined sepulchres, a dismal field of death that stretched right down into the ravine itself. Here score upon score of hypogea carved in the walls of volcanic stone descended row beneath row, and were finally lost in the sombre depths where roared the tumultuous waters of the Arminia.
But Xychus was already steering the cart at full gallop down a narrow path that ran in and out among the tombs, and suddenly, as they rounded a bend, Fanina caught sight of the most extraordinary building she had ever seen: a colossal, low tower, with a gigantic tumulus on top, like a small, grassy hillock. Its gate, framed by two huge green bronze sphinxes, opened towards her like a giant mouth about to engulf her.
Xychus brought the wagon to an abrupt halt, sprang to the ground and walked towards an old woman dressed all in black, who had appeared at the door of the monstrous edifice. Pointing to Fanina, he said simply:
‘Atia, here is she whose coming my most reverend master announced to you.’
So it was here, in this theatrical setting, in the heart of this boundless necropolis, before what was perhaps a temple of the ancient Etruscan gods, that her journey’s end was come. It was here that she was to live, for as short a time as possible, she had sworn it. Slowly, Fanina climbed down from the wagon.
Silent and motionless, the girl and the old woman faced one another.
Old woman? What might Atia’s age be? She was exceedingly slim, without being emaciated, very erect, arrogantly erect, with her long slender hands hanging at her sides; her face was without a wrinkle and of the purest Etruscan cast of feature, beneath a thick crown of spotlessly white hair.
Tight-lipped and chin set firm, she examined Fanina as if she had been looking at some object of no particular interest to her, then, without further ado, she turned her back on her and disappeared into the darkness of her lair.
‘Go, illustrious Fanina,’ said Xychus softly:
Fanina cast one last look about her. Night was falling. The shapes around them were becoming blurred in the shadows that imperceptibly cast their veil over this Kingdom of the Dead. Yes, this was indeed journey’s end, or rather it was here that she consented to dwell for a brief space before setting off again to fulfil her destiny.
Without further hesitation, she followed Atia across the threshold. She did not go far. A few paces from the entrance, in a narrow corridor that vanished into the darkness, there had been set up an extremely mean and primitive bivouac: a couple of crude straw mattresses lay on the bare ground on either side of a massive chest of dark wood the boards of which were splitting apart;
two smoky torches stuck into the stone walls, an old portable stove, a few dented metal utensils stacked in a niche, and that was all.
Atia was bending over the stove, poking the fire, on which she had set a bowl of water, then passing Fanina without even glancing at her, she went out again.
‘Here you will be safe, illustrious Fanina.’
As he spoke, Xychus dropped on to one of the mattresses a bag containing the few things Paulla had prepared for Fanina before she left Rome.
‘Don’t go wandering off down that corridor,’ he warned her. ‘You might find yourself in one of the many identical tunnels of the labyrinth that encircle this temple, and you would get lost.’
Then he made a slight bow.
‘May the gods watch over you, illustrious Fanina,’ he said. ‘May they inspire you favourably and guide you through the perils that threaten you.’
He seemed to hesitate, then, with lowered eyes, he added quickly:
‘That is my dearest wish....’
He turned abruptly and walked away. Fanina heard the familiar crack of his whip, the beat of the mules’ hooves on the ground, the rumble of wagon wheels on the stony road.
Xychus had gone. The last link with her past had been broken.
Still silent, Atia took the bowl of hot water and placed it on the chest along with a fine woollen towel, a mirror, and a comb. Then she went out again.
Mechanically Fanina untied the shawl covering her head, took off her cloak and, after damping the towel, passed it over her face, neck and arms. It made her feel better. The temperature in this strange building was warm and even. The stimulating perfume of dried herbs came to her from the depths of the gallery. Leaning on the chest, for the first time in many a long day, she relaxed.
Suddenly, almost without thinking, she leant forward and touched with her fingertips the rim of the basin steaming in front of her. No, she was not dreaming. It was blackened by smoke from the charcoal fire, dented and scratched, but it was made of gold, as also were the comb, the kitchen utensils, the platters, the nails in the decrepit chest and the mirror. Every metal object about her, even the humblest, the most battered and most roughly used, was made of solid gold, chased or embossed with extraordinary delicacy and refined elegance.
The swift beating of wings made Fanina shudder, and three bats fiew out of the shadows, brushing the ceiling of the narrow passage with shrill squeaks. They passed over her head, sped through the doorway in a trice and rose straight into the black sky.
Fanina felt her legs grow weak beneath her, and she fell to her knees on the palliasse, rested her burning brow against the chest, and gently massaged her temples. Her heart was beating as if it would burst. All the weariness of the past few days bore down on her like a leaden cope.... Proudly she drew herself erect. As she raised herself from the mattress so that she could breathe more freely, she encountered her gaze in the polished mirror. Since she had left the tomb in the Field of Evil-doers, she had not seen herself. She closed her eyes, then opened them again. It was certainly she, and yet it was no longer she. What was there in common between the young woman she had discovered at that moment and the adolescent girl, almost a child still, who, barely escaping death’s clutches, clinging to the man to whom she had just given herself, and to whom she had pledged absolute faith, had set out valiantly towards her dramatic destiny?
In this unknown face she saw an expression she had never known herself to wear; an expression both hard and pathetic. This face seemed to be made of a different, finer stuff, and at the same time to be more exquisitely tempered. It had become gaunter, finer, as if the gods had wished to efface from it all that was too tender and juvenile in the fascinating, unsophisticated youngster she had been.
What would Vindex think if he saw her again? In spite of herself this thought suddenly assailed her, and once again she was tormented by the painful riddle set her by the man she still loved.
She could not understand. It could not be and yet it was. Trembling, her fists clenched, fighting the rage within her, Fanina conjured up the image of her happy rival. She knew her from a long time before. Calpurnia was the same age as her, and, like her, had been one of the twenty little girls who ten years of age, had stood shivering in the cold morning air, waiting somewhat anxiously for Calvinus to draw from the golden urn the ivory tablet bearing the name of the unfortunate one among them who would be chosen to serve Vesta.
The Emperor had falsified the drawing of the lots and it had been she, Fanina, who had been shorn of her hair, scoffed at, handed over to an army of tutors who had dinned into her head that mass of useless knowledge; then she had been handed over to the servile judges of the College of Pontiffs, who had condemned her ignominiously and delivered her up to the public executioner who had buried her alive. During all those years the lovely Calpurnia, dark-haired Calpurnia, Calpurnia of the velvet eyes, had grown into one of the girls such as are often found among the Roman nobility: a suave creature with studied gestures, for whom the only things that mattered in life were society gossip, the latest fashion in tunics and the dictates of her Egyptian hairdresser.
If Vindex married that shrew, he would very soon realize how much he had lost by preferring her to Fanina.
Fanina hurled the mirror to the ground then gave a start of surprise. Atia, ever silent, had come back and was staring at her with eyes lacking all human warmth, soulless, passionless eyes. She shoved the precious mirror aside with her foot, and handed Fanina a large goblet full to the brim of a purplish liquid which gave off a strong, balmy smell.
‘Drink,’ she said, ‘and leave to the vanquished and the aged the bitter pleasure of looking back over their past lives.’
Her voice was deep, although somewhat broken, and was rather reminiscent of Vibidia’s dear voice. Fanina held out her hand towards the goblet, then, hesitating, without touching it, sniffed the contents. It smelled good, very good. It went to her head.
She gently pushed the goblet away, and with a wry smile, said:
‘Thank you, Atia, but I think I have had too many concoctions like that lately. If this drink is intended to make me sleep, do not worry: I am so tired that I certainly will not be long in falling asleep.’
Impassive, Atia had not moved. Fanina looked straight into the old woman’s eyes and went on:
‘And if it is intended to bring me forgetfulness, I want you to know that not only do I not wish to forget anything, but that I pray to the gods to reawaken in me the memory of everything I have lived through, even to the cruellest moments.’
She slid down on her back on to the palliasse that crackled beneath the weight of her benumbed, exhausted, and aching body. She lay with her hands crossed over her breast and added very quietly in a voice that grew progressively softer.
‘Don’t imagine that it is in order to take any morbid delight in it or to feed my despair. All I want is to know, to know, to know...’
Already half unconscious, her eyes grown vague, through the curtain of her long, half-closed eyelashes, she saw a living black scarf wind from the depths of the narrow gallery and undulate interminably over Atia’s head, as she stood motionless in the smoky torchlight: leaving their den in the depths of the mysterious and frightening labyrinth built by the Etruscans in the days of their glory, hundreds, nay, thousands of bats were flying off towards Vulci, the dying city in which her ancestors had reigned.
Was it a dream or was it real? A little later, emerging for a brief instant from the dark world in which she battled with formless imaginings, Fanina saw Atia’s vast shadow on the ceiling above her and thought she heard the old woman saying softly:
‘Much too young, too sentimental, too wholehearted, too proud, too suspicious, too impassioned: is it really you we have been waiting for?’
Chapter Seven
Fanina opened her eyes, raised herself up on her elbows and looked hazily about her.
That dismal gallery? Those flickering torches? That monumental black chest? She was in Vulci ... or to be mor
e precise, in the cemetery of Vulci, with Atia, in the gigantic temple to which Xychus had brought her.
Languidly the young woman got up. On the chest stood a precious plate of chased gold in which some coarse rye porridge was slowly congealing. Atia had obviously prepared it for her.
Fanina dipped her finger in it, tasted it, and pushed the plate away with a grimace, then suddenly blushed to the roots of her hair, for Atia had come in noiselessly and was standing there. Appearing not to have noticed Fanina’s reaction of distaste, she said: ‘Come.’
Cursing herself more than Atia, for having allowed herself to be caught unawares, Fanina wrapped her cloak about her and followed the old woman across the burial ground.
They walked in silence, one behind the other, Atia her face void of all expression, Fanina tense and frowning as she mulled over her dark thoughts. They crossed the bridge over the Arminia and followed the torrent upstream until they reached a little peaceful lake among the hills.
Beside the lake, in a wretched shepherd’s hut, on an unspeakably filthy pallet, lay an old woman. Her skin was a greenish-yellow and glistening with sweat, her teeth were chattering and she moaned ceaselessly in a low plaintive voice.
Pointing to Fanina, Atia said to the sick woman:
‘Her name is Bella; she has come to look after you.’
Then, showing the girl a big pot over the fire, she said:
‘Give the woman a cup of this liquid whenever she asks for something to drink. Keep it very hot but don’t let it boil, or it will lose all its virtue.’
On the threshold she turned.
‘Don’t stir from here until I get back.’
When Atia had gone, Fanina sank down on the edge of the hearth. Never in all her life had she been into so ugly, so wretched and so sordid a home. Never had she suspected that human beings could live in such hovels.
The floor was covered with rags, and a pile of cracked dishes and pots, thick with mould, lay stacked in one corner. A glistening coat of greasy soot covered the walls and the beams of the broken roof. As for the old woman, she was revoltingly dirty and the smell that rose from her withered body made Fanina feel sick.
Fanina, Child of Rome Page 8