by Mika Waltari
Arsinoe moved uncomfortably. “I myself am of a collateral branch of the Julius family,” she claimed. “That I proved at the time Tertius Valerius married me so that our son would be born a patrician. The Juliuses are few and they are poor, but they are descended from Ascanius, son of Aeneas of Troy who founded Alba Longa. You see, both my other children were unsuccessful. Hiuls is only a barbarian king and Misme will presumably be nothing. But certain omens lead me to hope for much from Julius. That is why, when poor Tertius is dead, I will not, after all, marry Manius Valerius. Besides, his wife is still alive and appears very healthy. But there is a poor but pleasing Julius who has become our family friend. When I have married him I shall forget the Valerius family completely and my son will be a Julius. The oldest vestal, who remembers the days of the kings and who best knows the old families, has advised me.”
But as she talked about her son I suddenly remembered Hanna. Arsinoe noticed it and became alarmed.
“Of course I did wrong in selling Hanna but I wanted her as far away from Rome as possible. A Phoenician merchant bought her.” She looked at me with bright eyes. “In the name of the goddess and in Hiuls’ and Misme’s names and by my own hair, the vessel sank with its slaves and cargo in a fearful storm off Cumae. Not a single person was saved, so you don’t have to worry about Hanna and her unborn child. Don’t hate me because of them.”
I knew that she was lying. But finally I said, “Be it as you wish, Arsinoe. So Hanna drowned. The guilt is mine, not yours. You don’t have to fear the evil lemures. I forgive you and ask that you forgive me for not being the man you wished. For the sake of our love, always remain as beautiful and glowing as you now are. Always and eternally, Arsinoe.”
Her face brightened, her hair began to gleam golden and the goddess’s light radiated from her as though the sun shone in the dark cell. I smelled the fragrance of roses and crocuses. Trembling and melting I recognized the goddess in her and rejoiced that in her heart she was not evil. Cruel, capricious, selfish and even false, she was the earthly reflection of the foam-born. A wave of desire, tenderness and love rushed from her to me, scorching my body as I looked at her. But I did not extend my hand to touch her. That time was past and I was free of her.
She raised her hand to her breast and exclaimed, “What did you say, what did you do to me, Turms? I am hot, my heart is pounding and the blood of youth flows through me. I myself feel how young and radiant I am. The goddess has returned to me!”
A thought came to her. “Roman law and justice cannot help you, but because of the goddess I know how I can save your life. Thus neither of us will owe the other anything, although we may never meet again.”
She stooped to touch her mouth to mine. Her lips were cool but her cheeks were as flushed as those of a young girl. It was the last time I caressed her, nor did we ever meet again. But my heart glows in being able to remember her like that.
Our meeting made me take an assenting attitude toward death and each morning I expected to hear the crowd shouting in the market place and the steps of the lictors. I paid little attention to Arsinoe’s promise. But a few days later the door was opened and in stepped the brown-robed woman whom I had seen in my dream. Only when the guard had bolted the door again did she reveal her withered face so that I recognized her as the oldest of the vestals. I had seen her many times at the circus in the vestal virgins’ seat of honor.
“You are the man I seek,” she said. “I recognize you by your face.”
I saw her but dimly and then in a moment of clarity the cell walls dissolved and I saw her sitting on a pedestal under a parasol. I knelt before her and bowed my head.
She smiled the thin smile of an old woman and touched my dirty hair. “Don’t you remember me, Turms? You met me on your first day in Rome nine years ago when you yourself found your way to the sacred cave, sprinkled water on your face and of the wreaths chose the ivy. That was sufficient proof for me. But already I had recognized your face. The gods have given me my task. The Romans must not dishonor and kill you, Turms, for it would bring disaster upon the city. For the sake of Rome you must be freed. And for your own sake as well, since Rome is also your city.”
I said, “I have not had much joy of Rome. Life has become bitter, so that I do not fear death.”
She shook her head. “My dear son, you who had to come, your wandering has not yet ended. You cannot rest and forget yet.” Her black eyes stared at me. “Blessed, blessed is oblivion,” she conceded. “But you were not born a human being merely for your own sake. You have wandered freely but now you have reached the ordained age. You must go north. That is a command. Obey your omens.”
“I must go under the axe,” I said mockingly. “What can you do about that, old woman?”
She straightened and lifted her head. “Your god is a strange god to the Romans, Turms, but he has given sufficient warning omens on your behalf. Hail has never hurt your fields. Your cattle have not been ill. Your ewes have borne twins. The Romans respect their laws but even more they fear strange gods. The wife of a noble senator came to talk to me about you. At first I did not know whom she meant and I suspected her. But her goddess took care of me when I was deaf and blind. Quickly I looked into the matter. The High Bridge Builder found your name in his book and the Senate had to yield, for the oldest families know well what is meant. Your sentence is revoked, Turms, and you will not even be flogged. But you must leave Rome. Go north, where you are expected. Your lake is awaiting you, your mountain is awaiting you.”
She rapped sharply on the door and the guard opened it immediately and carried in a bucket of water. Soon a smith came and removed my fetters. The old vestal bade me take off my dirty clothes; then she washed me with her own hands, and anointed and braided my hair. When she had finished, the guard extended a basket from which she took a shirt of the finest wool and slipped it over me. But on my shoulders she placed a coarse brown mantle similar to her own. Finally she placed a wreath of oak leaves and acorns on my head.
“You are ready to leave,” she said. “But remember, everything must happen secretly and without the knowledge of the people. Go, therefore. Hasten, holy deer. The field brothers are waiting to escort you to the city border and they will protect you should someone recognize you. You see, for the first time during the republic the consul has revoked a sentence. But the people do not know that.”
Taking me by the hand she led me up from the damp cell and a guard opened the gate for us. As we stepped into the market place I saw that a heavy fog had covered the market place so that the field brothers who awaited us in their gray mantles and wreaths of wheatears seemed like ghosts in the mist.
The vestal said, “You can see for yourself-the gods have descended upon the city as mist to shield your departure.”
She thrust me forward and I did not turn to bid her farewell, for something told me that a woman such as she was expected no farewell or thanks. The holy mist deadened the sound of footsteps and cartwheels as the field brothers who surrounded me steadied my faltering steps, for I was still weak after my illness.
On the bridge the guards turned their backs to us and for the last time I crossed the Roman bridge, smelled the stench of cattle manure and heard the creak of the worn planks under my feet. But the fog was so thick that I could not distinguish the water of the Tiber, although I heard it splash gently against the pillars as though bidding me farewell.
At the northern boundary the brothers wrapped their mantles about them and sat in a circle around me on the fog-dampened ground. The wind began to blow and the mists to disperse as solemnly they broke a barley loaf and each, from the eldest to youngest, took a piece and ate. The eldest poured red wine into a clay vessel which passed from hand to hand. But they did not offer any to me.
A strengthening north wind tore the mist into shreds and swept the sky clean. As the sun began to shine they rose as one man, hung a leather knapsack on my back, and pushed me across the border into the land of the Etruscans. In my heart I knew that
what they did was right. The north wind blew triumphantly in my face, the blood began to flow warmly in my veins, but I did not recognize the earth that my feet trod.
7.
The north was my fate and I wandered freer than ever before, for I had discarded my old life as I would a tattered garment. After my illness I felt as light and airy as though my feet had wings and did not even touch the earth’s dust. The sunshine was intoxicating, the green of the budding meadows soothed my eyes, and I smiled as I wandered. Spring wandered with me with twittering birds, swelling streams, gentle days.
I did not hurry but rested often in the homes of shepherds and the round huts of poor farmers. The water tasted fresh in my mouth. The bread was delectable. I regained my strength and felt my body was cleansed of life’s deadening poisons and the oppression of deeds, thoughts and tormenting reason. I was free, I was happy, I was blissfully alone as I wandered.
Then came the hills with shadows of clouds gliding over them. And at last, after weeks of wandering, I saw fertile fields, sloping vineyards, silver-gray olive groves and ancient fig trees. Atop its mountain rose a city with its grassy wall, archways and colorful buildings. But I did not turn toward it. Profound yearning compelled me instead to leave the road and climb through thickets straight to the peak of the next mountain. Birds startled into flight flew ahead of me to the mountain and a fox lying at the mouth of its den flashed ahead of me up the mountainside. A proud deer rose from a clump of bushes, lifted its antlers and also ran lightly before me. Stones under my feet rolled down the slope, my mantle was torn and my breath quickened from the effort, but as I struggled upward I felt the approach of holiness. Moment by moment it became stronger until I no longer was merely myself. I was one with earth and sky, air and mountain. I was more than myself.
I saw the entrances to the tombs, the holy pillars before them, the shelters of the stonecutters and painters. I saw the holy stairs but still I did not pause. I rose above the tombs to the highest peak of the mountain.
Suddenly a storm broke. The sky arched above me cloudlessly but the wind blew as it will blow when, in a new human body, I will ascend the steps of my tomb holding in my hand the stones of this life. Although my writing may disappear and my memory fail, I shall read the events of this life pebble by pebble and a storm will again blow from a clear sky over my mountaintop.
To the north I saw a lake. In the distance, surrounded by hazy mountains, it gleamed bluely and I knew it was my lake, my beautiful lake. I felt as though I could hear the rustle of reeds in my ears, smell the shores and taste the fresh water. As the storm roared I turned my glance westward over the tombs to where the goddess’s mountain rose in a bluish cone. This too I recognized. Only then did I let my glance wander down the steps lined with painted pillars and follow the holy road across the plain and up the slope on the other side of the fields. And there I recognized my city. This rolling land with its hazy, beautiful slopes was my land and my father’s land. In my feet and in my heart I had recognized it already upon crossing the border and as the shadows of clouds had leaped toward me from peak to peak.
Overcome with a glorious intoxication, I dropped to my knees and kissed the land that had given me birth. I kissed the earth, my mother, in gratitude for having finally found my home after my long wandering.
As I descended the slope, shapeless beings of light darted across the sky. I looked into the black darkness of the sacrificial well and stepped before the tombs. I did not hesitate but laid my hand on the round summit of a pillar decorated with graceful startled deer, and whispered brokenly, “My father, my father, your son has returned!”
I sank to the warm ground before my father’s tomb and an inexpressible feeling of peace and security swept over me. The sun set behind the graceful cone of the goddess’s mountain, coloring the hills and the painted images on the temple roofs beyond the valley. It grew dark and I slept.
In the middle of the night I awakened to the rumble of thunder. The wind roared, the clouds loosed warm rain, and thunderbolts flashed around me. Suddenly the earth beneath me trembled as lightning struck the peak before me and the smell of the cleft stone filled my nostrils. My limbs began to move as the ancient dance came upon me. In the warm rain I joyously raised my arms and danced the lightning dance as I once had danced the storm dance on the road to Delphi.
When I awakened, stiff with cold, the sun was shining brightly. I sat up to rub my limbs and saw that the stonecutters and painters had paused on their way to work and were staring at me with frightened eyes. When I moved they stepped back and the guard of the tombs raised his holy staff. Then along a winding path came the lightning priest dressed in his robe of authority and wearing a wreath on his head.
The guard hastened toward him, raising his voice, shouted, “Lo, when I arrived I found a brown-clad stranger before the royal tomb of Lars Porsenna. Upon my arrival a doe sprang to her feet and fled, but a flock of white doves swooped across the valley from the goddess’s mountain and surrounded the sleeper. Then the workers came and awakened him.”
The priest said, “I saw bright flashes of lightning in the middle of the night and came to see what had happened on the sacred mountain.” He stepped before me and looked at me sharply. Suddenly he covered his eyes with his left hand and raised his right arm in greeting as though I were a god.
“I recognize your face,” he said and began to tremble. “I recognize you by your statues and the paintings of you. Who are you and what do you want?”
“I have sought and found,” I said. “In my heart I knocked until the door was opened. I, Turms, have returned home. I am my father’s son.”
An old weather-beaten stonecutter flung down his tools, dropped to the ground and began to weep. “It is he, I recognize him! Our king has returned to us alive, as fair as he was in the best days of his manhood.”
He would have embraced my knees but I forbade it, protesting, “No, no, you are mistaken. I am not a king.”
Some of the workers ran to the city to spread the news of my arrival. The priest said, “I saw the thunderbolts. Your arrival has been discussed among the consecrated for nine years. Many feared that you would never find your way home, but no one dared interfere in divine matters and guide you. Our augur greeted you upon your first arrival in Rome, read you the omens and spread the news among the consecrated. From the high priest of lightning on the island we heard that you were coming and that the thunderbolt struck a full circle for you in elation. Tell me, are you a true Lucumo?”
“I do not know,” I said. “I know only that I have returned home.”
“Yes,” he admitted, “at least you are Lars Porsenna’s son. You have slept by your father’s tomb. One cannot mistake your face. Even if you are not a Lucumo you are of noble blood.”
I saw the plowers in the valley leave their plows and oxen and the hoers drop their hoes. One after another they stepped onto the holy road and began to climb toward us.
“I ask for nothing,” I said, “only my native land and a place in which to live my life. I demand no inheritance, I aspire to no power. I am the humblest of the humble now that I have reached my home. I knew the hills, I knew the mountain, the lake and my father’s tomb. That is enough for me. Tell me of my father.”
“Your city is Clusium,” he said evasively. “It is the city of black vases and eternal human faces. For so long as we can remember, our potters and sculptors have made eternal human faces of clay, soft stone and alabaster. That is why you were so easily recognized. Soon you will see your father’s likeness, for down in his tomb he rests eternally on his sarcophagus with a sacrificial cup in his hand. There are also many likenesses of him in the city.”
“Tell me of my father,” I pleaded again. “Until now I have known nothing about my birth.”
He said, “Lars Porsenna was the bravest of the inland rulers but he did not acknowledge himself to be a Lucumo, and we called him King only after his death. He even conquered Rome although he did not compel the Romans to reinst
ate their exiled ruler. Instead he taught the Romans the same form of government that we have followed in our city ever since his death. We have two leaders, a council of two hundred, and officials who are elected yearly. We also listen to the voice of the people. Ambitious men who followed Porsenna have all failed in their attempts to seize power. Unless we find a true Lucumo, we decided, we will not be ruled by any man.
“Your father was adventuresome and restless in his youth,” the lightning priest related. “He took part in a military expedition into Cumae and when we were defeated he asked, ‘What do the Greeks have that we lack?’ And so he traveled to the Greek cities to learn their customs.”
In the distance a white crowd began to swarm out of the city gate. The first farmers reached us and paused at a respectful distance to look at me, their hardened hands hanging at their sides. “The Lucumo,” they whispered to one another. “The Lucumo has come.”
The priest turned toward them and explained, “It is but Lars Por-senna’s son who has returned from strange lands. He does not even know what ‘Lucumo’ means. Do not disturb him with your foolish whispers.”
But the farmers mumbled and from lip to lip passed the words, “He brought a good rain with him. He arrived with the waxing moon on the day of the blessing of the fields.”
They bent leafy branches from the trees, waved them in greeting and shouted jubilantly, “Lucumo, Lucumo!”
The lightning priest was disturbed. “You are making the people restless. That is not good. If you are in truth a Lucumo you must first be examined and recognized. That can happen only in the autumn at the holy meeting of the cities by the lake at Volsinii. Until then it would be best if you were not to reveal yourself.”
But the first arrivals from the city, hastily dressed in their best, were already arriving, breathless from the climb. The babble rose to a roar as the people described what had happened. I even heard it said that I had dropped from the sky on a thunderbolt, while others claimed that I had arrived on the back of a doe. Ever more triumphantly rose the cry, “Lucumo, Lucumo!”