Etruscans

by Morgan Llywelyn

  Khebet knew he was looking at the naked ka, the soul. Scores of souls, hundreds of souls, generations of souls, every one of them interlocked with the spirit of Horatius. Beside the young man, standing by his right hand, was a powerful hia who wore the flickering form of a Rasne lord.

  For once even the imperturbable Aegyptian was astonished.

  But his long years of training in the temples along the Nile stood him in good stead. He appreciated the wonder of what he was seeing and understood that he was in the presence of a very special human being.

  Recovering his poise, he put a hand on Horatius’s shoulder. “Thou art blessed,” he said in the secret and formal language of the temple, an archaic tongue long-forgotten by ordinary Aegyptians. “Doubly blessed,” he added, looking at the lordly shadow beside Horatrim.

  His astonishment returned, Horatius replied in the same language, “I do not feel blessed, Khebet. I am so worried about my mother and …” he broke off abruptly. Moving past the Aegyptian, his eyes had fixed on a large metal ewer standing on the counter of a streetside shop. Reflected in the polished metal of the ewer, Horatius saw the face that had stared at him out of the mirror. When the Aegyptian turned to follow his gaze, three faces were momentarily reflected in the metal.

  “Do you see that?” Horatius whispered.

  “I do.”

  “Then it is real?”

  “Very real.”

  Horatrim pointed toward the third face. “Just a little while ago he told me my mother was in danger, and that I should go to her.”

  Khebet nodded. “Believe him.”

  “Will you help me, Khebet?”

  With grave courtesy, the Aegyptian bowed. “I would consider it a great honor,” he replied.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  As members of the Senate, Propertius and Severus were among the first to be informed of the king’s murder. They were wakened in the dawn by messengers who spoke in hushed whispers. Hastily throwing on their clothes, the two men came at the run from their separate houses and arrived almost simultaneously at the palace.

  “Stop blowing those cursed horns!” Propertius shouted to the guards on the palace wall.

  Unless the horns were silenced, all Rome would soon converge on the palace, he knew. Once news of Tarquinius’s assassination was public knowledge, vast crowds would besiege the gates, either to declare their undying loyalty to the dead king or to learn who was going to replace him, more often the latter. Every foreigner in Rome would be trying to arrange for passage home at a time of social upheaval. Army officers would come pouring into the city, hopeful of improving their individual power bases. In the midst of all this, enterprising vendors would be hawking sausages and dates and leavened bread baked in the shapes of dogs, and taking wagers as to the name of the next king.

  Pandemonium. There might well be riots—and riots were bad for business.

  Any sensible, reasoned plan of action would be rendered impossible.

  “Stop those horns, I said!” Propertius screamed at the guards.

  The strident horns fell silent, but the air was still torn. Tarquinius’s wife and concubines were in full mourning; their shrieks and wails echoed from the palace. Meanwhile companies of grim-faced warriors continued to search the grounds, although no one really believed the assassins were still inside.

  “A dark day,” Propertius panted to his brother by way of greeting.

  “It is for a fact.” Severus wiped sweat from his brow. “Have you ever noticed that just when you think you have everything going right, it all goes wrong?”

  The trader nodded. “Hubris.”

  “Eh?”

  “The Hellenes have a word for everything, you know. Hubris means never count your accomplishments or you tempt the gods.”

  “I thought you didn’t believe in the gods.”

  “Things change,” retorted Propertius. “Do you recall what the seer said at my banquet the other night?”

  “Aaah … not precisely, no.”

  “She said, ‘When the moon hangs by its horns, a trader will pass through the gate and a king will dance with the black goat.’ Last night there was a crescent moon. I’m a trader, and I’m about to pass through the palace gate. And in Etruria a black goat is a symbol of death. I believe the gods spoke through that woman, Severus. Her prophecy is already … Ho, Antoninus!” he broke off to call to a passing warrior. “You certainly got here fast!”

  The Roman captain strode briskly toward Propertius. “I was coming to the city anyway to make a report to the king. Something quite bizarre happened at the northern frontier a few days ago, and we thought he should know about it. But I won’t be telling him anything now.”

  “Not unless you care to follow him across the Styx. Have you been inside yet? Do you know what’s happening?”

  “The captain of the guard is questioning Lars Porsena right now.”

  Propertius raised his eyebrows. “The prince from Clusium? Why, is he a suspect?”

  “Far from it. He tried to fight off the assassins and was badly injured in the attempt, so he’s quite the hero now. Flavius is hoping he can identify the murderers.”

  Severus spoke up. “They must be taken alive. It will be up to the new king to execute them once they are captured.”

  Propertius was thinking fast. “The new king indeed. The Senate will want to choose a nominee before news of the murder is made public, so we must ensure that not a word of what has actually happened gets out, at least for the present. A panic is the last thing we need. We will have to warn the servants and swear the guards to secrecy. Quiet those caterwauling women inside. Keep out everyone who does not have legitimate business in the palace. We can’t afford to deny all entry though; that would look suspicious. Antoninus, will you pass us through the gates?”

  “I’ll take you in myself; but I warn you, the place is in chaos.”

  “I’m a trader; I’m used to chaos. Come, Severus. There is much to do.”

  Antoninus conducted the brothers into the palace. However he seemed less interested in talking about the assassination than in describing some peculiar incident on the frontier. “ … and hacked off what he thought was a leg,” he was saying, “but it proved to be a snake. Or part of a snake. It actually crushed the wrist of one of my men and …”

  They passed a small antechamber just as Flavius, captain of the palace guard, came out. Over his shoulder they could see Lars Porsena inside. At the door Flavius turned and bowed low to the prince of Clusium. Very low indeed, Propertius noted.

  Taking Antoninus by the elbow, he said in an undertone, “Would you mind arranging it so that we have a few moments alone with Lars Porsena? Just to discuss a bit of trading business. I will, ah, make it worth your while the next time I cross the northern frontier.”

  Antoninus promptly engaged Flavius in animated conversation and steered him off down the corridor. As soon as they were gone, Propertius beckoned to Severus to follow him then entered the chamber. “I understand you’re the hero of the day,” he greeted the Etruscan.

  Lars Porsena looked at him blankly.

  “I’m your old friend, Propertius! We’ve done business together. I bought a quantity of fine silver jewelry from your craftsmen just last summer. Paid above the going rate for it, in fact. Under the table, of course.”

  Something shifted behind Lars Porsena’s eyes. “You must forgive me; I took a blow to the head last night. Now I remember you, Propertius. A man of my own stripe.”

  The Roman took this as a compliment. The prince was, he thought, looking unwell, with sunken eyes and a faintly greenish cast to his skin. “If Flavius has finished questioning you, Lars Porsena, have you time for a word or two with us?”

  “I already told Flavius what I know.”

  Propertius gave an impatient wave of his hand. “I’m sure you did, and they will or will not catch the assassins and we’ll have a grand trial and a splendid execution and that’s the end of that. It really doesn’t matter. What is important is t
he future.”

  “Forgive me again, but I do not understand what you mean.”

  “It is the responsibility of the Senate to nominate a new king as soon as we can agree on one. But that may take time. In the manner of all politicians, we’re more inclined to disagree. Furthermore, there are very few at the moment whom we would consider suitable candidates. But you, as a hero, a man who like Tarquinius can claim the most ancient noble blood … you are well-qualified to be king, Lars Porsena.”

  Severus looked at his brother with awe as he realized what was coming next. The plan was extraordinarily audacious, a plan worthy of Propertius in his youth, when his boldness and cunning had made his fortune.

  “I don’t think we could nominate you right now because you’re not well enough known.”

  “You are suggesting making me king! But I was not born in Rome,” Lars Porsena protested.

  Propertius shrugged. “A minor handicap. Such inconveniences can always be overcome if one is determined. If we can stall the deliberations for long enough, Severus and I may be able to bring the other senators around to our way of thinking in time. I trust you would not be averse to rewarding us for acting on your behalf?”

  In the eyes of Lars Porsena laughter sparkled, as if at some dark and secret joke. “Perhaps I have a better idea,” he said. “We can discuss the repayment of obligations later.”

  By the time Horatius and Khebet reached the palace, there was a crowd at the gates being held back by noncommittal guards. No one knew what disaster had occasioned the sound of the brazen horns, but every imaginable rumor was being floated. Some said the king was ill; others claimed there had been a military revolt. As the people grew increasingly frustrated in their efforts to gain information, they were turning sullen.

  The Aegyptian sensed danger in the air. Though his face remained impassive he tensed inwardly, wanting to turn back. “If your mother may no longer be in the palace,” he remarked to Horatius, “why did you want to come here?”

  “Because this is the last place she was.” His eye fell on a familiar face in the crowd. “There’s Quintus!” Horatius pushed his way through the throng to his new brother. “Is Propertius here?”

  Quintus turned a sullen face in his direction. “You mean my father? He’s inside with Uncle Severus. Why?”

  “I need his help.”

  Quintus said smugly, “They’ll never let you go in to him. No one’s being allowed inside but senators and a few foreign officials. Important people,” he added. “And in spite of my father’s recent action, you are simply not important.”

  Horatius drew himself up to his full height. “Is that a fact?”

  Within a matter of minutes he and Khebet were inside the palace.

  The Aegyptian remarked, “I have never been introduced to palace guards as an ambassador before. And as for calling yourself the son of a member of the Senate … !”

  “I am. Now.”

  “That may be, but it only worked because the courtiers are so distracted. Something is seriously wrong here. What do you want to do first, look for Propertius?”

  “First, I want to find out where my mother was kept. Perhaps I can pick up her trail.”

  “This is no forest; there are no tracks to follow.”

  Horatius replied incomprehensibly, “Wulv taught me how to read all sorts of spoor.”

  “Wulv?”

  The young man did not answer but set off down the nearest corridor, sniffing the air. Khebet hurried along in his wake. When they were challenged by a guard, Horatius cried, “Make way for the Aegyptian ambassador!”

  The guard bowed as the imposing Aegyptian swept past in a cloud of almond perfume.

  “Do you know where we’re going?” Khebet asked in a low voice.

  “No, but I have noticed that all of these Roman houses and palaces are built to a similar design. I’m hoping that the king’s chambers will be down …” Suddenly he skidded to a halt. “In there; she was in there!” Darting through a doorway, he entered a spacious chamber. This opened into one still larger, where a bed stood on a dais enshrouded with badly torn draperies. Khebet followed, slipping one hand up the sleeve of his other arm. In a moment more there was a knife in his hand.

  The bedchamber reeked of blood. The cloying stench hung heavy on the air, a sweetish-rotten odor that made Horatius gag. But after one shocked inhalation, he relaxed. “That isn’t my mother’s blood,” he said. “Her scent is still here though. And something else, an awful sink …”

  The Aegyptian’s nostrils dilated. “The smell of a demon,” Khebet said hoarsely. One step at a time, fearful of what he might see, he approached the ruined bed and drew the curtains aside. The linen sheets were soaked with clotted gore. On the floor beside the bed was a veritable lake of blood.

  For a long moment Khebet stared down without speaking. Then he crouched beside the pool and used the tip of his knife to crack the hardening surface of the blood. His lips began to shape an incantation. “Accept this gift, great Anubis. Not spilled in your name, but freely given to you. In return, I ask for the revelation of the blood.”

  The surface of the blood, already darkened by coagulation, turned black as jet.

  Khebet leaned closer as a vision began to form. Shaping itself from the essence of lost life, an image appeared of a woman on the bed with a man bending over her. Then another man rushed into the room and a scuffle ensued. Fascinated, the Aegyptian watched the recurrence of deeds whose sinister vibrations still resonated within the chamber. Once he gave a gasp of alarm.

  “What is it?” asked Horatius, peering over his shoulder. “What are you looking at?”

  But the blood revealed its secrets only to the priest of Anubis. Horatius saw nothing more than a tar-colored puddle. Khebet, however, made a choking sound and waved his hands as if warding off some invisible horror. The smell that he had identified as the stink of a demon grew stronger in the room. The surface of the blood began to bubble. “Oh, wretched being,” Khebet moaned, “thou art evil, evil!”

  Suddenly Horatius had a sense of immense vistas just beyond his gaze. A singing thundered through his bones. Unconsciously using the Aegyptian tongue, he said, “What are you seeing, Khebet? You have to tell me; I command you!” No longer was he a child asking questions. Power resonated through him, the imperious force of a hundred chieftains.

  Even a priest of Anubis could not resist. Bowing his head, Khebet murmured a different incantation and swept his hands in circles over the boiling pool. Its black surface quieted slowly. Then, just as slowly, gleamed silver.

  “Look,” said the Aegyptian as he moved aside to make room for Horatius. “This is the blood lore, the tale of life carried in the red liquid of life. See the past through the generosity of Anubis.”

  THIRTY-FIVE

  The king’s death would have far-reaching ramifications for Rome’s trading partners and her military alliances. The most immediate effect, however, would be upon the Romans themselves. Although politically conservative, they were emotionally volatile. Without someone strong in charge, they could stampede like cattle in a thunderstorm. The assassination of Tarquinius was tantamount to a major thunderstorm.

  The members of the Senate who gathered on the morning following the king’s death were aware of the precariousness of the situation. There was always the possibility that the assassination had been carried out by some ambitious patrician outside their own circle, who would then attempt to capture the allegiance of the Roman military. It had happened before. If successful, he could be declared king by popular acclamation. And if he was not one of their own, he might abolish the Senate altogether. That too had been threatened before. The ultimate power rested with the king.

  As soon as all the senators had arrived at the palace, an urgent meeting was convened. Propertius and Severus were last to enter the large chamber—walking on either side of Lars Porsena. His presence excited a buzz of conversation. They went to the head of the room and stood facing their colleagues. While they
waited for conversation to die down, Lars Porsena said to the brothers in a low voice, “Remember our deal. You help me, then I help you.”

  “Agreed,” Propertius murmured.

  “Absolutely,” echoed Severus. “We have your word on this?”

  “You have my word. And you know how much I value it.” Lars Porsena smiled.

  The room fell silent.

  Lifting his arms, Propertius announced, “Today we stand at a crossroads. We can undertake to nominate a new king immediately, knowing that suitable men of sufficiently noble blood are in short supply at present. The best are too old, too young, or simply unwilling to take on the responsibilities and hazards of the office.

  “Or we can consider something else.”

  His fellow senators stared at him dumbfounded. “But Rome must have a king,” someone said.

  Severus pointed out, “The Hellenes have no king.”

  “Oh, well, the Hellenes,” came the dismissive reply. Roman contempt for the Greeks was well known.

  “I am not suggesting we adopt a democracy,” Propertius went on, his mouth shaping the word with disgust. “However kingship offers many opportunities for abuses. I, as much as any of you, prospered under the reign of Tarquinius Superbius, but ultimately he behaved in a way that could only bring discredit to Rome.”

  Turning to Lars Porsena, he said, “Please tell us what happened last night. What really happened.”

  The prince from Clusium cleared his throat. “I did not wish to make this public out of respect for the kingship itself,” he said, “but my friend Propertius has persuaded me to do so. The statement I originally made concerning the king’s death was not accurate.”

  A low murmur ran around the chamber, like surf beating on a distant shore.

  “I am Etruscan, as was Tarquinius. As indeed was the prophetess he recently brought into the palace. Last night, while relaxing in my chamber, I heard a woman scream. I ran to the king’s chambers only to find him raping the seer. Brutally raping a holy woman!