While we talked Aruns had tottered to the yard and fetched a large wine crock which he had concealed under a heap of straw. He tore open the seal but was unable to remove the stopper. Finally his wife dexterously opened the crock, removed the wax and poured the contents into a large mixing vessel. She did not, however, insult Aruns and his friends by adding water to the wine. Instead, she brought out her best dishes and even filled a cup for herself.
“It is best so,” she said to me with the experienced smile of a knowing woman. “The years have taught me that everything is easier if I also become intoxicated. Then I no longer worry about broken objects, ruined floors and gate posts which guests carry away with them.”
She extended a cup to me. When I had emptied it I noticed that it was of the newest Attic ceramic ware with a picture of a cloven-hoofed satyr and a struggling nymph at the bottom. The picture remained in my memory as a symbol of that night, for soon two dancers appeared and we went into the garden where there was more room.
In Rome I had been told that even at their wildest the Etruscan dances are sacred dances, danced traditionally for the pleasure of the gods. That was not true, however, for when the women had danced awhile with fluttering garments they began to disrobe and with upper bodies bare danced joyously to permit us to enjoy their beauty. One of the guests proved to be a master at the flute and never in east or west have I heard such exciting melodies. They quickened my blood more than did the wine.
Finally those beautiful and ardent women danced on the grass in the moonlight with no clothing whatsoever save beads of pearls which one of the guests had indifferently tossed around their necks as gifts. I was told that he was the young Velthuru although he was dressed as modestly as his companions.
He spoke to me also, drank with me and said, “Don’t despise these drunkards, Turnus. Each of them is a master in his own field and among them I am the youngest and the most insignificant. True, I ride fairly well and can use a sword, but am a master at nothing.”
Carelessly he indicated the dancers, who were mature women. “I presume you have noticed that they also are masters in their own field. Ten and even twenty years of practice every day are required to enable a person to portray gods with his body.”
“I fully appreciate both the sights and the company, you noble,” I said.
Nor was he offended by the fact that I recognized him, for he was still young and vain even though he was of the house of Velthuru and no Velthuru need be vain because he already is what he is. He was of such an old family that he presumably instinctively knew me and hence did not inquire how I had joined the company. But that I realized only much later.
Since Aruns was so overflowingly at peace with the world and himself, I took advantage of the situation to inquire, “Why did you paint the horse blue, master?”
He stared at me with dull eyes. “Because I saw it blue.”
“But,” I insisted, “I have never seen a blue horse.”
Aruns was not hurt. Shaking his head in sorrow he replied, “In that case I pity you, my friend.”
We spoke no more of that matter but his words were a lesson to me. After that I often saw a horse as blue, regardless of its other color.
Hardly a week had elapsed when Aruns’ apprentice breathlessly came to me at my lodgings and shouted with flushed face, “Turnus, Turnus, the work is completed! The master sent me for you so that you might be the first to see it as a reward for having brought him good luck.”
I was so curious that I borrowed a horse and galloped down the valley and up the slope to the necropolis while the apprentice sat behind me clinging to my waist.
“The gods are looking at us,” whispered the bright-eyed youth behind me and his hands tightened around my waist. I was overcome by a strange certainty that he was a herald of the gods.
When I descended into the tomb I saw that the entire rear wall had been covered with bright colors that breathed harmony, beauty and wistful joy. Aruns did not turn to greet me but remained staring at his own work.
The draped curtains of an open summerhouse circled the ceiling. In the center, incomparably above everything earthly, stood the convivial couch of the gods with its numerous cushions. Both white cones in their festive wreaths rose from their double cushions, while both robes hung at the foot of the bed, side by side. To the right of the gods’ couch and far below on the humans’ couch lay the festive couple behind whom stood youths extending their hands in greeting to the gods. To the left was a mixing vessel and a woman with upraised arms. Looking at the picture closely, I noticed that the artist had extended the folds of the tent to both side walls so that the scenes which Aruns had painted earlier formed a part of the whole lofty picture which was dominated by the couch of the gods.
“The feast of the gods,” I whispered in the grip of a holy tremor, for my heart understood the painting even though my earthly mind could not explain it.
“Or the death of a Lucumo,” replied Aruns, and for a fleeting moment I realized with dazzling clarity what he meant and why it had been ordained that I witness the birth of the painting. But my moment of perception passed and I returned to earth.
“You are right, Aruns,” I said. “Probably no one has dared paint anything like this. The gods themselves must have guided your brush and chosen the colors for you, for you have attained the unattainable.”
I embraced him, and he buried his bearded, paint-smeared face in my shoulder and began to weep. Sobs of relief shook his strong body until he finally collected himself and rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand, thus smearing his face still more.
“Forgive my tears, Turnus,” he pleaded, “but I have been working night and day and have slept only the necessary moments on the stone bench until I have again awakened to the cold of the tomb. I have not eaten much. Colors have been my bread. I have not drunk much. Lines have been my drink. Nor do I know how I have been able to succeed or if I have succeeded at all. But something within me assures me that an entire era is concluded with this painting even though it may go on for another ten or twenty years. That is why I am weeping.”
At that moment I saw with his eyes and felt with his heart the death of the Lucumo and knew that a new age was indeed coming, uglier, more bloated and more mundane than this age which was still illumined by the radiance of the veiled gods. Instead of guardian spirits and beautiful earthly gods, monsters and cruel spirits would well up from the underworld pits, just as a bloated person sees nightmares after he has eaten his belly too full.
I need say no more about Aruns and his painting. Before departing I sent his good wife an expensive gift but to him I sent nothing, since no gift could have repaid him for what he had shown me.
How was I, who had left Rome as a shepherd, able to give expensive gifts? One day I happened to be walking outside the city and passed a colorful canopy under which a group of noble youths were playing dice. Among them was Lars Arnth Velthuru who extended a white hand and called to me.
“Will you join us, Turnus? Choose your place, have a drink and pick up the dice.”
His companions looked at me in surprise, for I was wearing my cheap traveler’s clothes and on my feet were the heavy-soled shoes. I saw the ridicule in their eyes but no one dared oppose a Velthuru. I saw their beautiful horses tied to the trees and guessed that they, like Lars Arnth, were high-born cavalry officers.
I seated myself opposite Lars Arnth, wrapped my robe around my knees and said, “I have not played much but I am always ready to try with you.”
The others exclaimed in surprise but Lars Arnth silenced them, dropped the dice in a beaker and extended it to me. “Shall we play for a whole?” he asked casually, “As you will,” I said, thinking that he was referring to a gold coin or perhaps, since such noble youths were playing, a whole mina of silver.
“Well!” cried the youths. A few of them struck their palms together and demanded, “Will you answer for that?”
“Silence!” snapped Lars Arnth. “He will. I guarantee it if no one else does.”
I tossed the dice, then he took them in turn, tossed and won. In that manner I lost three times successively faster than I could swallow my wine.
“Three whole,” observed Arnth Velthuru and indifferently tossed to the side three beautifully lettered ivory chips. “Would you like to draw breath for a while, friend Turnus, or shall we continue?”
I glanced at the sky and thought that three minas was a lot of money. Silently I called to Hecate, reminding her of her promise. As I turned my head I saw that a lizard had slipped onto a nearby stone to sun itself. The
