gladly trade our best for the best that other peoples can offer, but our knowledge we will not barter. And speaking of trade, have you agreed on a price for that censer?”
I explained that I had not yet had time to bargain sufficiently. “I don’t really enjoy bargaining,” I explained, “but in trading with Greeks and Phoenicians I have noticed that bargaining is an even greater source of joy to a merchant than selling. A true merchant is deeply wounded by a ready acceptance of the price that he has set.”
“You may have the censer without money or price,” said the Etruscan. “I give it to you as a gift.”
I looked at him suspiciously. “What reason have you to give me a gift? I don’t even know whether I have anything suitable to give you in return.
The man suddenly grew grave, bowed his head, covered his eyes with his left hand, raised his right arm and declared, “I give you the gift expecting nothing in return. But I would be happy if you would drink a cup of wine with me and rest for a moment on the couch.”
I misunderstood his words and said sharply, “I do not indulge in that even though I am an Ionian.”
When he realized what I meant he was deeply hurt. “No, no. In that respect we Etruscans do not imitate the Greeks. I would not dare lay a hand on you, for you are who you are.”
He spoke with such significance that a sudden sadness came over me. No longer reluctant to confide in this unknown man, I asked, “Who and what am I, then? How can anyone know? For each of us carries within him another and strange self which takes him by surprise and drives him to actions against his will.”
The Etruscan’s oval eyes looked at me knowingly and a little smile touched his lips. “Not each of us,” he protested. “Far from that. For is not the majority a mere herd which is driven to the river to drink and back again to pasture?”
A deep poignancy gripped me. “The enviable and best human fate is to be content with one’s lot. But he also is enviable who is not content but reaches for that which is humanly attainable. I myself, however, am probably striving for something that is not humanly attainable.”
“And what is that?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “My mother I have known only in my dreams and my only father was a bitter friend of wisdom. I was born of a thunderbolt outside Ephesus and rescued by Artemis when the shepherds would have stoned me.”
Again the Etruscan covered his eyes with his left hand, bowed his head and raised his right arm as though in greeting. He said nothing, however, and I began to regret having confided so much to a complete stranger. He led me to a small banquet room, produced a jug of wine, and mixed some in a vessel with cool water. The room was filled with a fragrance of violets.
He splashed a drop onto the floor and said, “I drink to the goddess whose head bears a mural crown and whose emblem is an ivy leaf. She is the goddess of walls, but the walls of the body crumble before her.” He emptied his cup solemnly.
“Of whom are you speaking?” I asked.
“Of Turan.”
“I know her not,” I replied. But he said no more, merely smiled mysteriously as though doubting my words. Courteously I emptied my own cup. “I don’t know whether I should be drinking with you. Your violet wine might go to my head. As it is, I have noticed that I no longer can drink in moderation like civilized people. Already on two occasions in this city I have become so intoxicated that I have danced the obscene goat dance and finally lost my memory.”
“Thank the wine for that,” he observed. “You are fortunate in finding relief from your oppression in drink. But what did you want of me? My name is Lars Alsir.”
I let him refill the black wine cup and confessed, “I know what I wanted of you when I came. You could serve me best by obtaining a periplus of your sea, its shores, landmarks, winds, currents and harbors, so that we might reach Massilia safely in the spring.”
“That would be a crime,” he said, “for we are not friends of the Phocaeans. Several generations ago we were compelled to engage in warfare against the Phocaeans when they attempted to gain a foothold in Sardinia and Corsica where we had mines. Even were I to give you a periplus you would not reach Massilia, for Dionysius would first have to obtain a sailing permit from both the Carthaginians and the Etruscans. And that he could not buy for all his stolen treasure.”
“Are you threatening me?” I demanded.
“Certainly not. How could I threaten you if you truly are a son of a thunderbolt, as you claim?”
“Lars Alsir-” I began.
“What is it that you wish of me, Lars Turms?” he asked with mock gravity.
“Why do you call me that? My name is Turms, true enough, but not Lars Turms.”
“I was merely showing respect. We use the word in honoring another’s birth. And because you are a Lars no harm can befall you.”
I did not understand, but explained that I had bound myself to the Phocaeans and if he could not sell me a periplus perhaps he could obtain a pilot who would consent to guide us to Massilia.
Lars Alsir traced the design on the floor without looking at me. “Carthaginian merchants guard their sailing routes so closely that any captain who discovers his ship being spied upon by Greeks would rather run his vessel aground and destroy both himself and the Greek vessel rather than reveal his route. We Etruscans are not quite so secretive, but as rulers of the sea we likewise have our traditions.”
He raised his head and looked into my eyes. “Understand me well, Lars Turms. Nothing would hinder me from selling you a falsified periplus at a high price, or giving you a pilot who would run you into a reef. But I could not do that to you because you are a Lars. Let Dionysius reap what he has sown. Let us forget this unpleasant topic and talk instead of divine matters.”
I declared with some bitterness that I could not understand why people insisted upon discussing divine matters with me after a cup of wine.
“Do I really bear the sign of a curse on my forehead?” I asked. I told him of my rescue by Artemis and declared that since then I had feared nothing. “I don’t even fear you, Lars Alsir, or your smiling gods. In fact, at this very moment I seem to be sitting near the ceiling and looking down at you,-and you are small indeed in my eyes.”
His voice sounded distant as a whisper. “Precisely, Lars Turms. You are on a round seat, leaning against its round back. But what is that you are holding in your hands?”
Extending my hands before me, palms upward, I looked at them in surprise. “I have a pomegranate in one and a cone in the other!”
Far below me in the dimness Lars Alsir, kneeling on the floor, looked up at me. “Precisely, Lars Turms. In one hand you hold the earth, in the other the sky, and you need fear no mortal. But you still don’t know our smiling gods.”
His words were like a challenge. Something in me expanded to infinity, the veil of the earth was rent and I saw a shadowy goddess. She wore a mural crown and carried an ivy leaf, but her face was invisible.
“What do you see?” Lars Alsir’s words carried to my ears from an unfathomable distance. “What do you see, son of the thunderbolt?”
I cried out, “I see her! For the first time I see her whom I have heretofore seen only in my dreams. But a veil covers her face and I cannot recognize her.”
Suddenly I plunged from my height, the veil-like world became solid and impenetrable again, and I was aware of my body. I was lying on the couch and Lars Alsir was shaking my shoulders.
“What is wrong? You suddenly went from me into a trance.”
I clutched my head with both hands, drank the wine that he offered me and then thrust the cup from me. “What poison are you giving me? I don’t become intoxicated so quickly. I thought I saw a veiled woman taller than a mortal and I was like a cloud beside her.”
“This is only innocent violet wine,” protested Lars Alsir. “But perhaps the shape of the black cup stimulated your hand. You see, the Etruscan gods follow an Etruscan wherever he may be reborn.”
“Are you claiming that I am a native Etruscan and not a Greek?”
“You may be the son of a slave or a prostitute, but you have been chosen by a divine thunderbolt. But let me advise you. Do not reveal your identity or boast about your birth if you ever find yourself in our land, as I think you will. You will be recognized in time. You yourself must wander blindfold and allow the gods to lead you. More than
