by AM Kirkby
“Well, there's you-yesterday, and you-today, and you-tomorrow, and so there is an infinite number of possible tutors.”
“Not infinite, not quite. Not in this world, anyway. But it's an interesting way of thinking about it. Anyway- he had the air of someone desperately trying to get back to the road he'd been on - ?hange and continuity. What would make me a different person? Or to take another example, you step in a river. A year later you come back and cross the river again. Is it the same?”
“Of course not.”
“Explain.”
“The river flows to the sea. So the water is always different.He smiled, thinking there, see, I've showed you what I've learned.
“No. The river is the same, isn't it? It has the same name, it flows in the same bed.”
Aranthur was crestfallen. He'd been certain he had the answer. And now it had receded again, that tenuous understanding, and his mind felt heavy and confused. Even so, he treasured the memory of that moment when he'd seen a glint of interest in his tutor's eyes.
***
If you'd asked Aranthur two years later whether he'd had any difficulties learning to write, of course, he would have said no. He'd started by reading slowly, forming the sound of each separate letter with his mouth, listening to his own voice to see if he could hear what the word was. Then one day, only a few weeks afterwards, he'd read; 'What is the principle of all things?' And he'd already spoken the words 'Everything changes, isn't that it?' when he realised he hadn't actually read the question with his lips, he'd seen it and understood it without the mediation of sound.
From then onwards he learned quickly. He learned the skills Ramutha wanted him to learn; how to write a business letter, to keep accounts, to write a eulogy of a wealthy patron. He learned about Etruria - his tutor had lived in Tarchna, and had visited Veii and Velzna, before moving to Cisra some years ago. They discussed the trade between towns; the way cities had specialised, Tarchna in the luxury trade, Vulci in bronze-working; even the distinctions of burial rite between the southern and northern cities of the federation. He learned Greek history, too; and through that, the history of the Persians, the Medes, the Phoenicians. The world grew as he looked at it; he began to dream of deserts, wide expanses, the dark sea in a storm.
But it was the philosophy he really wanted to learn; he even got his tutor to lend him writings, and spent his afternoons reading. By the end of the first year he was beginning to push his tutor for answers. By the end of the second, he was beginning to write his own answers, in inexact Greek where the Etruscan language didn't have the right words, or any words at all. He hoped, one day, his tutor would volunteer to stay after midday; but he never did. Aranthur told himself the tutor was no doubt engaged elsewhere in the afternoons, but even so, he was disappointed. He never let it show, any more than he ever allowed anyone to guess his hunger for ideas.
“I don't understand you any more,his mother said. He thought; you never did. ?hat use is that stuff? Why would you care about the beginning of the world?”
“Because it's where we come from,he said. ?ecause it explains.”
“I wish your father were here. He'd have put an end to this. It's all Ramutha's idea, isn't it? She just wants to take you away from me.She sobbed.
A year ago he would have turned away, dismissing her. But for the last few weeks he'd been discussing ethics with his tutor; not rules for living, but thoughts about how one might go about creating such rules. They'd talked about subjectivity; how the world as each person experiences it is different, how to frame a moral imperative in such a world. There were no answers; then, there never were any answers, that was something he'd learned over the course of his studies.
Now he looked at his mother, and saw not the desire for possession, but the neediness of a woman whose only love had ended in death and penury. He was no longer irritated by her; it was worse than that. He was deeply, woundedly sad that she had never been able to love him in any other way; that she could only desire to hold on to him, to grasp him tightly, too tightly. With tears blurring his vision, he went over to her and bent down - he'd grown, this last year - to put his arms around her.
She was shaking with sobs; he felt how gross as he'd thought her flesh was, there was very little weight to her. In a different world, he thought...
“Aranthur. I need you. Now.Ramutha's voice was sharp. Aranthur turned angrily; but he calmed as soon as he saw how flustered she was. He had never before seen her anything other than composed. ? may be poor, but I am still noble,she'd said once, ?nd as long as I keep this house, I shall keep up decent standards of behaviour and that, for her, included a certain frostiness and immobility. But today he saw her hands trembling, the veins clear and blue on the backs of her hands, her thin throat pulsing as she swallowed. He was suddenly aware she had grown old; when had that happened? (Was she still the same Ramutha she had been yesterday? Or a year ago? Or when she married old Vestiricina, when she was young, and he too, who had been dead since before Aranthur was born? His mind chattered incessantly, while he thought on another level, what could have broken her self-control?)
“There's a messenger. You must come.”
He let go his mother's shoulders, turning her face upwards so that he could look her in the eyes. Strange, he'd never noticed how light they were, brown flecked with green.
“I'll be back in a moment,he said, and squeezed her once, hard, before he followed Ramutha into the courtyard.
“He's from Tarchna. He'd never known Ramutha afraid to speak out, but as she muttered to him, she was looking sideways at the man who stood in the centre of the yard,; a tall man, his riding cloak folded over one arm. A golden brooch gleamed on one shoulder; the pointed toes of his red boots were covered with dust, but they showed fine, soft leather. Aranthur remembered his dreams; his grandfather had sent for him at last.
“Aranthur son of Arruns?”
He nodded.
“Then I've been sent to find you. Venel Camna, at your service.Venel dipped his head gracefully; his hair swung forward, and his golden hair ties clicked as he bowed.
Aranthur looked at Ramutha; she was holding her back rigidly straight, and had tilted her head up a little so she could look along her sharp nose at the messenger. Seeing her poise, he collected himself; he wouldn't give her cause to be ashamed of him.
“You have found me.”
The messenger's eyes widened very slightly. ?hen I have a message from your grandfather.”
Aranthur extended his hand. ?ive it me, then.”
The messenger looked puzzled. His hands remained by his sides.
“You said you have a message. Give it me.”
The messenger took a breath. When he spoke, his voice was high and musical, as if he were reciting a poem. Which, Aranthur realised, was not far off what he was doing; reciting from memory.
“Demaratos of Tarchna, sends greetings to the son of Arruns. For years he searched for his son, who is lost. But since a son of the family remains, he wishes to extend his hand to him. I am sent to bring him to Tarchna.”
It was that daydream, but made real; this was the different world, in which Aranthur's grandfather sent for him. He should have distrusted his luck, and yet he felt everything was playing out as happened in dreams.
There was a long silence; then Ramutha spoke. ?emaratos is an odd name.”
The messenger cleared his throat. ?t is a Greek name, lady.”
“A Greek name. How interesting.She had regained her control now, was icily, almost insultingly cool.
“He married into an Etruscan family in Tarchna.”
“We've heard nothing for thirteen years.”
“We didn't know where Arruns had gone. He said something about Phoenicia; he must have come back through Pyrgi, and eventually settled in Cisra.”
“He died here.”
The messenger had the grace to look sorrowful.
“And my grandfather,Aranthur broke in; ?ho is he? What is he?”
He dr
eaded now - now that he knew his father was no lucumo, not even an Etruscan - that he'd find out he was some shabby immigrant living in a squat outside the town. But he had enough clout to send a noble messenger, he thought.
“Demaratos was a noble of Corinth before events there made it, ah, advisable for him to leave. He is a wealthy man in Tarchna; his house is your house, Aranthur son of Arruns.”
“You'll be a wealthy man,Ramutha pointed out; ?ou'll be his heir.”
“Unfortunately not,the messenger said gently. ?is son Loukios is that. And there are the sisters, too. But he'll recognise you, none the less. You'll want for nothing, you can be sure.”
***
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. ? 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; ?our 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; ?h, 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. ?t's the house at the top. The portico is new. A new style, an idea Demaratos 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.
***
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.
***
They ate the funeral banquet outside the tomb, once Demaratos' body had been taken and laid on the stone bed inside. Two aulos players wove skeins of sound round each other's piping, the wild reedy notes flying faster and faster till some of the women threw off their mourning dress and began dancing. One, in a sky blue dress stained with her own blood, brought a c
up of wine to Aranthur, and he felt her breath on his neck as she bent towards him; then she was gone, throwing up her arms wide in the abandonment of the dance.
It wasn't till the guests began to drift back towards the city that Venel took Aranthur towards the widow and her family; the youth, and six young women, the youngest still chubby-faced, one with a fat baby held on her hip. It wasn't the homecoming Aranthur had dreamed of, but they were cordial, though the widow seemed brittle, like the thin skein of ice over melting snow.
“You must stay, of course,she said: ?emaratos wanted you to come home.”
“And father had to be obeyed,one of the older girls said, with a sideways look at her mother.
“Are you my new brother?the youngest piped up, rewarded with a vicious elbow from one of her sisters, who hissed ?ephew, silly,and flared up bright red.
“You might let Venel look after you for a few days. Things are... disordered. My husband...She broke off, and Aranthur could see how she pressed her lips tightly together, to stop herself breaking.
He nodded. He wanted to ask; who was Demaratos? What was my grandfather like? But it would all have to wait; perhaps he would never know.
The young man approached him as he was going back with Venel. ?ou must stay. Really you must. I know it looks like sheer politeness on the widow's part, but I think they are genuine; they really do want you. She loved Arruns so much; and you look so much like him. She told me, last night. Just like him.He seemed at a loss for a words for a moment, and reached out for Aranthur's hand. “
“But you're the heir.He hadn't meant to say it, though he'd thought it. To his surprise, though, the youth simply laughed, throwing his head back and tossing his crisply curled hair.
“No,he said, when he could manage to stop laughing. ?o,and he laughed again. ?'m so sorry. Really. I'm just the nearest man at the moment. I'm Thanchvil's brother.Seeing that Aranthur still looked blank, he went on; ?hanchvil; she's married to Loukios. And they're in Rome.”
This is a chapter from the forthcoming novel Etruscan Blood, one of a series of epic novels set in Italy at the time that Rome was beginning its rise to power. Etruscan Blood will be published later this year.