Diana sat on her stool without saying a word, staring straight at the clouds through the stately columns of radiant gold and polished ivory. After what seemed like an eternity, she turned to Opis.
“I want you to go back to Privernum and look after Casmilla’s daughter,” she said. “Keep an eye on her, but don’t ever intervene – you know as well as I do that we have certain limitations imposed upon us by the Fates, and also by the acts of the other deities. Now go, and, except for special circumstances, you will only come back every time the moon gathers her four horns and forms a perfect orb, to tell me how the girl is doing. I swear by the waters of the River Styx that I will make her my protégé.”
Out of nowhere, and while Diana was still speaking, the goddess Iris appeared, holding a cup filled with water from the River Styx. She poured it out, catching it in a golden jar that she held in her left hand. This she would save in case the goddess needed to be reminded of her oath in the future.
Once the oath was taken, Opis, who was never slack to do the goddess’ bidding, took off, and arrived just in time to see a number of armed mortals, men and women, approaching the palace. Perched on a high oak tree, she noticed that some were carrying knives, others rocks, and a few of them had spears. She knew that the people of Privernum, the most ancient town of the Volscians, had long complained about Metabus’ tyrannical ways. Now that she came to think of it, Opis was surprised that it had taken them this long to do something more than simply complain. It was clear that they were now ready to resort to violence.
The group was headed by Metabus’ own brother, Hostilius. Long ago the two men had been on good terms, but that had changed after their father passed away. Hostilius, being the older of the two, was meant to inherit the throne, the rich grain fields, and the flocks. He would have received the vineyards as well, which produced one of the best wines in the region. But Metabus had spread the rumor that his father’s death had not been natural. Instead, he had sworn that Hostilius had poisoned him by pouring wolf’s bane into his wine. Accusations of poisoning are not easy to disprove, but they are equally difficult to prove, as Privernum’s elders knew well. So instead of being condemned to death, Hostilius was allowed to keep his head, on condition that he let his brother become king. But even after twenty years his hatred for Metabus had not abated; quite the contrary, it had increased over time, and now Hostilius found an opportunity for revenge. The fact that Metabus had gradually morphed from a somewhat good ruler into an iron-fisted tyrant was a perfect excuse for Hostilius to further incite the already discontented people of Privernum and volunteer to lead a revolt, one that would finally put Hostilius on the throne that was rightfully his.
The group of mortals arrived outside the palace just a few hours after the baby was born. Metabus’ most trusted slave, Puer, was busy with Casmilla’s funerary arrangements, when he spied them through one of the windows. The slave needed no explanation as to what was going on. He had often heard his master referred to as a “cruel despot,” and the weapons that the group carried spoke volumes. Puer rushed into the room where his master was listening to his flute players, one of whom had just composed a sad, new tune, which was meant to be played at the Queen’s funeral.
“Master,” he said, catching his breath, “I fear your life may be in danger!”
Metabus turned to look at Puer and ordered him to continue.
“Your brother and a large group of people are outside,” said the slave, “and it looks like they are all carrying weapons. They are shouting threats and they are demanding your head. Even if we were to arm all the household slaves, young and old, I think that we would still be no match for them.”
“Try to distract them for as long as you can,” Metabus instructed Puer, throwing his silver wine goblet against the wall, spilling its contents, and completely ignoring the flute players. They had stopped playing when the slave came barging in and just stood there, staring at the floor. With that, grabbing his oakwood spear, which was leaning against the wall, Metabus ran to the women’s quarters of the palace. Kicking open the door of the nursery, he snatched the baby girl out of her wet-nurse’s arms, barking at her to get lost. The terrified wet-nurse did as she was told. After taking off his exquisitely-embroidered royal robe and quickly wrapping Camilla in it, Metabus flew out the back entrance of the palace, the one usually reserved for the kitchen slaves, and headed for the forest.
Metabus, who was far from young, was nevertheless in very good shape. And lucky for him, the forest was not too far away. Having hunted there countless times over the years, with and without his hounds, he was familiar with every tree, branch, and twig, with every shrub and bush, with every sound and smell.
Metabus ran through the pathless spots of the woods. His newborn was not a heavy burden and his pursuers, fewer in number as time wore on, spurred him on with their shouting and their threats. He knew he had to get away, if not for his own sake, for that of his daughter. But, after several hours, exhausted, he decided to sit down on the grass for a moment, on the bank of the winding Amasenus River, in the shade of some old holm oaks laden with acorns. He caught his breath and looked at his baby’s face, his beautiful daughter, the spitting image of his late wife. But, knowing it would not be long before Hostilius and the Privernates caught up with him, he soon decided to resume his flight.
But then Metabus realized he was cut off from any possible place of refuge. The river was still swollen due to the recent violent rains, and all the wooden bridges had been swept away. He considered plunging into the stream and swimming across. But he feared for his daughter, who might be snatched from his arms while he was struggling with the strong current. While standing there with his baby and hearing the sound of the approaching foes, out of desperation he made a quick decision, one that he would never have made under different, less dire circumstances.
Throwing his oakwood spear on the ground, he wrapped Camilla in some bark which he tore off a wild cork tree. Then he ripped a few strips off his robe and used them to tie the wrapped girl to his shaft. Poising the spear in his hand, and looking up at the heavens, he invoked Diana, saying:
“I, the father of this girl, dedicate her to you, goddess of groves and woods, and to your service. Accept her and this spear, the first spear she grasps as she flees her enemies, pleading for your mercy, O immortal one!”
Then, holding his breath and drawing back his arm, he threw missile and baby through the air, over the rushing, roaring waters, to the grove on the other side of the river. He knew that this grove, like all the rest in the area, was sacred to Diana, the one goddess he had often heard his wife talk about. He scarcely waited for the spear with its valuable load to land when, feeling his enemies closing in, he leapt into the nearly impassable river and, with great difficulty, swam across, with his pursuers’ arrows flying thicker than the hail of winter. Miraculously, only one of these managed to graze his back, but without doing any serious damage. Once he was on the other side he dragged himself out of the water and, although he was exhausted, he immediately went to find his daughter. The spear was stuck fast in the ground, but he effortlessly pried it loose. Then, unbinding the cocooned baby, he hurried away, going deeper into the recesses of the woods.
Opis had witnessed Metabus’ flight and the unusual way in which he had saved his daughter. As fast as she could, she flew back to the summits of Mount Olympus to tell Diana that the girl had been devoted to her by her father.
“Explain this to me one more time, Opis,” ordered Diana, with a broad smile. “And feel free to go into detail once more.”
The goddess had had no trouble with the story narrated by the Nymph. But she was thrilled at the prospect of having a new devotee, not any devotee, but the daughter of pious Casmilla, no less. Therefore she needed to hear Opis tell her, yet again, about the flying baby and her father’s vows.
As soon as Opis finished retelling everything she had witnessed earlier that day, Diana said to her Nymph:
“Opis, I now have fu
rther reasons to protect the little girl. You already know what your orders are. And I, myself, will go down whenever I feel it is necessary to aid her in any way. Now go!” she almost shouted.
Back in the woods, Metabus knew that he and Camilla were safe from their pursuers. None of them – no, not even his brother Hostilius – no matter how great the hatred for the deposed King, would attempt to swim across the swollen river, as he had done. But he also knew that he had nowhere to go. Not a single town would receive him and protect him inside its walls. So he decided to make earth his bed and the sky his blanket. He would roam the forest, hunting for food, if necessary digging up roots and plucking fruit from trees. He would lead a solitary life, with only his daughter for company.
The king’s musings were interrupted by the baby’s cries. She had been quiet since leaving the palace hours before, and amazingly, even through her whole ordeal as a human missile. But now she was wailing at the top of her lungs. Metabus figured that she had to be hungry. The hunting, digging, and plucking would have to wait. He first had to find a way to feed her, and he had to do so fast. Although, as a man, and a busy one at that, he had never learned much about young children, he remembered seeing, whenever he went to inspect his royal flocks, young lambs suckling their mother’s milk. But there were no sheep anywhere in sight, only a herd of wild mares peacefully grazing nearby.
“That will have to do,” thought Metabus.
Then he realized it was probably easier said than done. He was an excellent hunter and, had his intention been to kill the animal, he would have done so in the blink of an eye. But he needed to trap a mare alive and without hurting her. A hunting-net would have been helpful, but, having left in a hurry, he had none with him that day. He was rapidly turning several options over in his mind when, much to his amazement, one of the mares left the herd and calmly walked over to where he was standing with the baby. One could have sworn this mare was not wild. He wondered if one of the immortals had anything to do with that. If Casmilla were still alive she would have said that a god, or at least a nymph, had tamed her and brought her over. Poor, pious Casmilla! But Metabus stopped wondering and decided to get busy.
He spent the better part of the evening figuring out how to get the mare’s milk from udder to mouth, a mouth that was loud and getting louder by the minute. Finally, just as the late twilight was bringing on the night, the baby’s tender lips had been fed, and she fell fast asleep in the arms of her father. That lasted only a few hours, and then she awoke again, demanding to be fed once more.
In the brief moments that Metabus was able to sleep during those first weeks he had a strange recurrent dream. In it, Camilla was not a girl but twin boys, and it was not a wild mare but a she-wolf that did the nursing. To him that made no sense, and he tried to brush it off, blaming stress and lack of sleep. However, for years afterwards, he occasionally found himself wondering about the unusual dream.
Opis, back from Olympus, had been watching the events involving the former ruler and his baby, and she was more than amazed. Was this man, Metabus, the one whom everybody feared and hated in Privernum, who most of the time had not been nice to his own wife, the queen, the same one who was now bestowing so much loving care on the tiny newborn? Could there really be so much fatherly concern within his breast? She decided that those mortals sure were full of surprises!
II: Growing Up
From that time on, Metabus spent his days hunting and minding Camilla. He fondly called her “my little Amazon” and often told her bedtime stories involving famous hunters and warriors. As soon as she could walk, Metabus crafted a small bow and quiver for her out of the abundant resources he found in the woods, and then he began teaching her how to shoot arrows. The little girl had excellent hand-eye coordination as well as the indispensable sense of distance and timing. Before long she also learned how to handle a spear, not the spear that had helped save her life – that would have to wait – but a fir spear. And no sooner had Metabus taught her how to use a Phoenician sling than her little hands were shooting down white swans and cranes for dinner.
Metabus also insisted that Camilla learn other skills, such as running, useful to any hunter. Pretty soon she became such a swift runner that, once she saw that her missile had hit its target, she would race over, her long hair floating in the wind, and catch the dead bird in her hands before it hit the ground. Her father liked to say that she could outstrip the winds with her lightning pace and, had they been near the coast, “you would have swept the seas,” he would add, “hovering over the swell, and never dipped your racing feet in the waves.” This was often followed by a tale about some Greek runner or other who had become famous for winning the short foot-race and other events on the same day, but then Metabus invariably added that Camilla could have beaten him quite easily.
Food was not always plentiful, especially in the cold winter months, despite the fact that the god of the woods and the goddess of the hunt received their proper libations and sacrifices. It was then that Metabus and Camilla prepared traps for anything that was edible, such as snakes, turtles, lizards, and scorpions. That often meant staying up all night. And the father was not particularly fond of scorpions, but his daughter, who always had a good appetite, never once complained about the taste. She even volunteered to do the skewering and roasting after cutting off their stingers. Her dexterity at handling the little arthropods when she was still a little girl never ceased to amaze Metabus.
III: 1180 BC
One day, when the night was past and the dawn first began to grow red, Camilla and Metabus were out hunting and had just killed an elusive young doe when he started having trouble breathing. He sat down and leaned on a tree, and Camilla could see that not only was he extremely pale, he was also sweating profusely. As one who had never witnessed pain or suffering among humans – animals were of course a different story – Camilla did not know what was going on.
“Father!” said Camilla, as she sat on the grass next to him. “What is the matter? What is wrong?”
Metabus, feeling increasingly nauseous, fought back the urge to throw up. He looked at Camilla for a moment, then slowly turned towards the clearing. Stretching out his hands, he mumbled:
“Wait for me … my lovely Casmilla! I am already … eyeing the shores of … the River Styx!”
Then, whispering his daughter’s name for the last time, he closed his eyes, fell over, and gave up the ghost. Camilla sat next to him for a while, holding his hand and talking to him. But she finally understood that he was gone for good. She got up and went to sit on a moss-covered rock, while she tried to think about what she should do next.
Camilla knew nothing about the wooden coffins that her people, the Volscians, used for burying their dead. Coffins like the one in which, long ago, her mother Casmilla had been buried, her body extended at full length, by her two sisters and her faithful slaves. She had been sent down to Hades with her ivory and silver bracelets, with her gold necklace and fibula. Her spinning tools and several small decorated vases had also made the trip with her. But Camilla did know that she could not leave her father’s body lying there, in the grass. It would just be a matter of time before it attracted hungry carrion-seekers.
Camilla quickly found two long, straight, sturdy branches. Then she took off Metabus’ cloak, laid it flat on the ground, and placed the branches lengthwise across the center. Then she folded each end of the cloak over one of the branches and placed her father’s body on it. She dragged it back to the sheltered place in the woods which she had always called home, dug a deep hole, and carefully placed her father in it. Then she took his short iron sword, which he had found in the woods years before, after losing it during a hunting trip – one of many he took before she was born – and put it next to him before covering him with earth. No stone would ever mark his grave, just as her mother’s grave had none. But she would always remember the exact spot where he was laid to rest, and often, especially during the first months after his demise, she would visit
and talk to him.
Camilla spent much of the rest of the day sitting there, next to the murmuring stream, staring into the distance. She didn’t even feel hungry or thirsty. The doe she and her father had shot and killed lay forgotten in the woods. But unbeknownst to the girl, Opis, who always kept watch over her, had flown to Mount Olympus to inform the goddess Diana about the end of Metabus’ life. No sooner had the Nymph finished giving her report than Diana, ordering her to wait right there on Olympus, left and headed for her grove in the land of the Volscians. On her way down she had quickly seized her bow and quiver, a bronze battle-axe, and two of her iron-tipped spears.
The senses of Camilla the hunter were usually alert to any sound or movement. But, being distraught, she was quite unaware of Diana’s arrival. The goddess stood next to an oak tree and waited a while, smoothing invisible wrinkles out of her short tunic and adjusting the strap on one of her soft leather sandals. Finally, having decided she had waited long enough, she began hemming and hawing. Camilla, startled, turned to look at her and immediately tried to reach for her bow and quiver so that she could shoot at the newcomer. Diana stayed the girl’s hand with a spell as she slowly walked over to her.
“You have never seen me before, but you must not be afraid,” she said, with a smile. “I am your protector, and I am here to comfort you,” she added, putting her heavenly weapons down on the ground.
Camilla, whose hand Diana gradually released from the spell, was not sure what to make of the apparition. She had heard her father tell many stories about both mortals and immortals, yet she had never met one of either variety. But the aura surrounding the beautiful being made Camilla feel at ease in her presence, and soon she relaxed. Yet, although she was incredibly curious to find out more about Diana and about the weapons she had brought with her, and which she kept staring at, she did not know how to approach her.
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