“Believe me,” Charun assured him, “you don’t want to look down into the waters of the Styx.” He stood at the rear of the boat, hidden from Pepan and Horatius by its upcurving sides, and began to pole them through the water.
The small boat bucked like a fractious horse. Horatius had not thought the river wide, but they seemed to travel for an age, tossed violently about in the rapids. After the first few moments Horatius became accustomed to the motion and even began to enjoy it. He listened with fascination to the sounds coming from the water: horns blowing, pipes playing, wild laughter, somber weeping, voices of seductive beauty calling. More than once he wanted to peer over the sides, but Pepan warned him, “Charun is right; do not look into the Styx. What waits there could capture your spirit forever.”
As the boat leaped and spun on the current they could hear Charun mutter to himself like any disagreeable old man. When he let loose with a particularly colorful expletive, Horatius could not help laughing. At once Charun snarled, “Are you not afraid of me?”
“Should I be?”
“I am Death!”
Horatius laughed again. “Why should I fear Death”?
The tunnel was a shock. The boat suddenly upended and dropped prow first with frightening speed. Nothing could be heard above the roar of the cascading water but the sound of endless screaming, as if multitudes were forever falling. Horatius wondered what it would be like to spend an eternity falling … falling … falling.
As they plunged downward he was thankful he had no solid body. Even so the sensation was sickening.
I am not afraid, he told himself firmly. I am not afraid!
Abruptly they hit bottom. The boat struck the surface of the river below the falls with a juddering impact, seemed about to overturn, then righted itself. A few moments later they felt it grate on the shore. The sides unfurled, falling away like drooping petals. From being a devouring belly, Charun’s boat had been transformed by the journey into something resembling a giant lily.
Horatius scrambled from the boat. From the riverbank he turned and called to Charun, “When I return, will you take me back across the Styx?”
The boatman gave a derisive snort. “Return, you say? No one ever returns.”
“I shall return,” Horatius promised.
The young man found himself on a pebbled bank that gave way to rolling hills. A well-worn path meandered away from the river. Before setting out upon it, Horatius paused to look back.
To his surprise there was no sign of Charun or the boat, only the black waterfall roaring down into the black river.
He resolutely faced forward and set out along the path. “Are you still with me, Pepan?” he called over his shoulder.
“Of course. I told you, I am here to help you find your mother. You will not be able to track her in the Netherworld as you did on earth, but I can. I promise to stay with you as long as you need me.”
“And then … ?”
Pepan did not answer.
Horatius followed the path to a promontory overlooking a small, tranquil lake of opalescent water. Around the lake grew a variety of trees resembling giant ferns, with graceful, drooping branches. From the trees unseen birds called in piercing voices. When Horatius looked up he saw no sky. Instead there was an arching ceiling far overhead, like the top of an immense cavern, lit with a reddish glow. Across this background occasional streaks of gold blazed and died abruptly, briefly illuminating what looked like cursive lines of script. The boy in him wanted to know who had written those gigantic words on the distant ceiling.
“Here we are at last,” said a voice close behind him.
Turning, Horatius saw an elegant, middle-aged man in a close-fitting white robe with a dark red mantle over one shoulder. His face and curling beard looked familiar.
“Pepan?”
“I am.” The man smiled and held out his arm. Horatius hesitated before reaching for it.
“But you’re flesh and blood!”
“In the Netherworld all spirits are materialized. Those who have lived Earthworld lives take on the memory of the last form they possessed.”
Horatius reached out to touch Pepan’s bicep. “This is only a memory? It feels so solid!”
“I am as substantial,” replied Pepan, “as everything around us. Only the Otherworld is insubstantial. Yet it has the greatest power of all,” he added mysteriously. “Welcome.” He wrapped his hand around the younger man’s right forearm, and Horatius repeated the gesture.
“I have waited so long to meet you,” Pepan said with genuine warmth. “So long to do just this.”
Realizing he was feeling what seemed to be living flesh, Horatius looked down to discover his own familiar form. He was dressed in the badly folded toga he had put on this morning—so very long ago! Or was it?
He had lost all sense of time.
Extending his arms, he turned his hands palm up and studied the lines. “This is me all right, Pepan. But I don’t understand. What about my other body, the one back in the cavern with Khebet?”
“Your Earthworld flesh remains intact where you left it. As long as it is not destroyed, there is the possibility of your hia returning to it. But make no mistake, the Netherworld form your hia now inhabits is vulnerable and must be protected. Here there are countless varieties of vicious beings with no desire but destruction. You will require weapons from your armorers.”
“What armorers? I see no one but ourselves.”
“No one?” Pepan echoed. Reaching out, he pressed the palm of his hand against Horatius’s breast. “Although you now bear a Roman name, you are destined to become the greatest of all the Etruscans. Everything we are or were is carried forward in you. As I told you before, you have never been alone.”
FORTY-TWO
At first the pearly waters of the little lake were warm against Horatius’s skin. Concentric ripples spread across its translucent surface as the young man waded out from the shore.
“How far do I need to go, Pepan?” he called over his shoulder.
“To the heart of the lake. There, that’s it. Now …”
“Now?”
“Crouch down.”
“Is that all? Just crouch down?”
“Stop asking questions, Horatius, and do as you are told. Crouch down until the waters close over your head. Then you may stand again.”
Closing his eyes tightly, he took a deep breath although he was not sure if he would need it. Was breath necessary in the Netherworld? So many unanswered questions … .
“Do as I say!” called Pepan.
Horatius bent his knees until he was submerged. The lake at its center was much warmer than elsewhere, and swirled in sluggish tides about his body, thick and cloying, more like honey than water. It insinuated itself into every orifice; almost at once his belly knotted with cramp. He hugged himself against the pain and stood up again … to discover that he was not alone in the water.
Another man emerged with him, a man who bore a discernible resemblance to Pepan. He wore military dress, including a breastplate of highly polished bronze that reproduced every muscle of his torso.
He responded to Horatius’s look of astonishment with an amused smile.
“Fear me not, lad. I—and those who follow—are your ancestors; we are your past. I am called Zemerak and was your grandfather’s grandfather. Under my leadership Etrurians stood shoulder to shoulder with Athenians and Corinthians, and beat the warriors of Carthage to their knees. As a trophy of victory I returned home with the splendid breastplate I wear, which I personally removed from the commander of the Carthaginians.” He began unfastening the armor. “No weapon was ever able to penetrate its surface. I now bequeath it to you.”
As he handed over the breastplate, Zemerak gazed deeply into the young man’s eyes. Across his noble features a momentary regret flickered, for the life that had once been his. Then he smiled. “Hail and farewell, Horatius.” Between one breath and the next he was gone.
“Give yourself to the wat
er again,” instructed Pepan from the shore.
Once more Horatius bent down, felt the lake close over his head, felt the cramping under his heart. This time when he stood up he was facing a stocky man with long-lidded, drowsy eyes. After a moment, however, Horatius realized their expression was deceptive. They watched him with a keenness he could feel in his bones.
“I am called Emnis, and I too was a warrior,” said the stocky man. “In my time the tribes of Etruria were establishing themselves in many lands. From each of these we took the best and adapted it to our own use. The shield I carry is my favorite example.” He held up a long, slightly curved rectangle of highly polished blue metal with a grooved bronze rim. “When the edges of several of these are fitted together they form a covering like the shell of a turtle, and several men can shelter beneath.
“Take this to protect you from your enemies, Horatius. Equally important, be generous in sharing it with your allies.” The man smiled. “Enjoy your life, Horatius. Live every moment fully. Hail and farewell.”
After his next submersion in the lake Horatius was joined by a lantern-jawed man with laugh wrinkles and a merry mouth. He clapped the young man on both shoulders. “So this is what my line has become! I am not displeased. My name is Tarxies. Long before Emnis was born I was a famous horse-warrior. I led raids as far away as the land of the Lydians, and took many captives … mostly women,” he added with a wink. “A man astride a horse needs to protect his exposed legs from the knives and spears of his enemies, so I developed these greaves.”
Tarxies reached down and fumbled beneath the surface of the lake, then came up with a pair of dripping shin guards. “These are molded of boiled leather so they cover the entire front of the leg from kneecap to foot, yet do not hamper mobility. You will find they fit you perfectly. While your wear them your legs at least will be invincible,” he broke into a grin, “whether you have a horse between them or not. Hail and farewell, Horatius.”
Horatius had barely raised his head when his next ancestor appeared in a fountain of bubbling water. “Mastarna,” the man said simply, and the young man did not know whether it was a greeting or a name. Water dripped in pearly globules from the highly polished edges of the great two-headed ax he carried.
Horatius took a step backward in spite of himself. The man with the ax smiled grimly.
“They called me Mastarna of the Minoans,” he said, “because I conducted a profitable trade with the sea kings of Crete. When I saw this double-bladed ax in the palace of Knossos I coveted it for myself. One head faces to the right as you can see, the other to the left. Both blades are looking for blood.” He tapped the blade with a fingernail. It sang high and pure. “The metal is bronze sheathed in gold; the haft is ebony. A ceremonial weapon consecrated to the gods, it ultimately cost half my fortune and almost my life as well. But it was worth it. Now it belongs to you, Horatius of Rome.” With a curiously mocking bow, he held out the ax.
When Horatius closed his hands around the haft he gasped at its weight. Turning away from Mastarna, he tried an exploratory swing. The gleaming weapon was perfectly balanced, and sang effortlessly through the air like the very voice of death.
“Well done,” commented Mastarna. “I am relieved to see my prize is in strong hands. Use it well and often. Hale and farewell, Horatius.”
The next donor was not a man, but a woman. Horatius could only gape at the sinewy female who rose from the lake beside him. A wealth of brown hair was twisted atop her head and held in place with a skewer of ivory that might have been animal bone. Her broad cheekbones momentarily reminded Horatius of Repana, but this woman’s eyes were as wild as those of any animal in the forest. When she bared her teeth, they were very white against her deeply tanned skin.
“Bendis,” she introduced herself succinctly. “The Huntress. I understand weapons. I give you my favorite.” She handed Horatius a long strip of woven cloth, wide in the middle but narrowing at the ends and reinforced throughout its length with strings of supple rawhide. “You know how to use the sling,” she said. “I watched you.” Next she gave him a small doeskin bag and instructed, “Fill the bag with stones from the shore of this lake. Use them only when you must, but be assured you will never miss. Hale and farewell.”
“Again,” Pepan called from the shore, “bend down again.”
The figure that emerged from the water this time bore little resemblance to the others. He was a stooped, emaciated man with only one tuft of white hair remaining at the back of his skull, sticking upright like the crest of some exotic bird. His skin was yellow with age, his nose thin and beaky, his lips so narrow he seemed to have no mouth. Across his arm he carried a folded hide.
Nodding gravely to Horatius, he said, “Among the Etrurians I was known as Waylag the Traveler, but over a long lifetime I answered to many names in many lands. Some of these names are now legend, not only to my people, but to others you may never encounter. In the reign of Atys, Son of Ghosts, I ventured to explore the First Kingdom of the Kush. There I learned forbidden secrets.
“In those days the animal kingdom was composed of our brothers, and shared its wisdom with us. One of my greatest teachers was Pardus the Cunning. When he died he left me his skin, the book in which his wisdom may be read. Clothe yourself with it; learn both patience and guile from your long-dead brother.”
Reaching out, Waylag draped a magnificent leopard-skin around Horatius’s shoulders. “You travel in a new direction,” he said. “Your feet will create paths no one has walked before. I envy you, Horatius. Never stop traveling. Never stop looking, and learning, and seeking. The answers do not matter, remember that. But the questions are all-important. And now—hale and farewell.”
The young man stroked the silken pelt. It was as supple and glossy as if it had just been removed from the leopard and instantly warmed his chilled flesh. But once more Pepan gestured to him to immerse himself.
This time he had to wait until he felt as though his lungs would burst before the familiar cramp wracked him. Gratefully he surged to the surface and drew a deep breath.
The figure who emerged from the water beside him was barely half his height. Wild, coarse hair grew over most of its visible body. In appearance it reminded him, with a jolt, of the thing that had attacked Propertius on the road to Rome.
Automatically he lifted the ax. But Pepan cried out, “No, Horatius! He is the first of us!”
Without taking his eyes off the shaggy man, Horatius called, “What do you mean?”
“From that primitive creature’s loins sprang the seed that one day became the Etruscans. The gift he brings you is perhaps the most potent of all.”
The shaggy man did not speak; perhaps he had no words Horatius could recognize as language. But there was intelligence in his deep-set eyes beneath their shelflike brow. With great dignity, he drew something from the leather strip tied around his waist and held it on both outstretched palms.
Wedged into an antler-prong handle was a blade made of flint. When Horatius reached for the primitive dagger his fingers grazed the edge of the blade. He drew back with an exclamation. The weapon was incredibly sharp.
“Nothing cuts like flint,” Pepan observed from the shore. “With tools like those our distant ancestors carved out a civilization.”
Horatius cautiously reached for the dagger a second time. When he held it up to examine in detail, he was struck by the craftsmanship of the weapon. The flint blade had been painstakingly chipped into a perfect cutting edge. The antler handle was incised with a complex pattern carved into the bone. Using only the raw materials of nature, its maker had created both beauty and utility.
He looked at the shaggy man with new respect The other gazed back across untold centuries. As their eyes locked Horatius felt a change taking place within himself. The Silver People began with this man, he thought, and all the men and women who followed him. I have just met some of them. Each has given me the gift they value the most.
For the first time in his life Horat
ius felt the humility that marks the beginning of true maturity. He bowed his head.
The shaggy man grunted in response.
Slowly, with a sense of ceremony, Horatius raised the flint dagger and pressed it first to his forehead, then to his lips.
Its maker understood. Light leaped in his deep-set eyes. Reaching toward Horatius, for the briefest of moments he rested his palm on the exact center of the young man’s chest.
Then he too was gone.
Horatius stood alone in the water.
“Come out now,” Pepan called to him. “You have everything you need to be a man of the Silver People.”
FORTY-THREE
“I knew he would follow her!” Lars Porsena crowed in triumph.”I knew the fool would never desert his mother. Let this be a lesson to you, Justine. Love is the greatest weakness of the human race.”
“I should have thought,” she replied, “love was one of our greatest strengths.” She was beginning to know his mind. He liked to give lectures and expound upon his philosophies. Justine had known men like him before; men who paid for her time simply to talk. Lonely men. She found herself wondering if the demon was lonely.
The trio were crossing an arid plain beneath a crimson sky. The ground beneath their feet seemed firm enough, yet toward the horizon it wavered as if unstable, like the shimmering of a mirage.
Vesi walked between Justine and Lars Porsena with one of them holding each of her arms. When they first entered the Netherworld she had whimpered a time or two but now she was silent, docile.
They were accompanied by an ever-changing assortment of muttering, snarling entities, beings that lurked at the corner of the eye but were too frightening for Justine to turn and face. Some, she recognized. They were similar to the creatures who had inhabited her worst nightmares. Lars Porsena seemed unconcerned about them however. From time to time he even asked them questions and apparently received answers, though in a language Justine could not understand.
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