Tear the veil finally from before your eyes and admit your true identity.
“In every man there is the seed of immortality,” they went on. “But most men are content with the earth and the seed never germinates. Such a one is pitiable, but let him have the lot with which he is content.”
They said further, “Our knowledge is limited because we were born into a human body. We believe that the seed of immortality distinguishes a human from an animal, but we are not certain. Everything living is in the guise of her, the mutable. Nor do we even distinguish the living from the lifeless. In a moment of splendor you may feel how a hard stone radiates beneath your hand. No, our knowledge is imperfect, although we were born Lucumones.”
Then they uttered a warning: “When you have acknowledged yourself to be a Lucumo you will no longer live for yourself but for the good of your people and city. You are a giver of gifts. But the grainfields will not billow and the earth will not bear fruit because of you and your power. Everything merely happens through you. Don’t permit yourself to be annoyed. Do nothing merely to please people but only to benefit them. Don’t fetter yourself to trivialities. Laws and customs, judges, governors, priests and diviners exist to take care of them. Make your prison as pleasant as you can without hurting your people and aggravating others. Although you are the high priest, the highest legislator, the supreme judge, the less you are appealed to the better. Nations and cities must learn to live without Lucumones. Evil times are coming. You will return, but your people will never return once their allotted time has ended.”
They were compassionate in their teaching because they knew from their own experience what a crushing burden they were laying upon me. The old Lucumo of Volsinii placed a protective arm around my neck.
“Doubt will be your greatest torment,” he said. “In our moments of weakness we are all tormented. Everything occurs in cycles. There are days when your power is at its peak and you radiate joy and confidence. Those are blessed days. But the cycle turns and your power ebbs and everything around you grows dark. At such times remain silent, be submissive and meek. When your weakness is the greatest, temptation is the strongest.”
The Volterran Lucumo said, “Your power may increase and decrease with the phases of the moon. Or it may vary with the seasons. Or the weather. We all differ in that respect. Perhaps the weather rules us rather than we it, even though we can summon the wind and raise a storm. When my weakness began to oppress me I climbed to a precipice. Temptation whispered in my ear, ‘If you are a true Lucumo, jump off the precipice into the valley. The air will bear you lightly to the ground and you will not be injured. If you are not a true Lucumo, it matters little if you crush your head.’ That is what temptation will whisper.”
I looked at his brooding eyes and became curious. “Did you jump off the precipice?” I asked. “Tell me.”
The old Lucumo began to titter merrily. “Glance at the scars on his knees. Not many of his bones remained whole when the people of Volterra removed him from the foot of the precipice. He had fallen onto a bush growing out of a crevice and that slowed his fall. Then he was hurled into a pine tree and fell from branch to branch, his bones snapping together with the branches. If he were not a Lucumo, he would hardly be able to walk. Even so his back is stiff although he cannot be called a cripple. A Lucumo is never so seriously injured as to remain maimed, but he is occasionally reminded of mortality lest he forget that he was born into a human body.”
That also was true. I had experienced the dangers of war and the terrors of the sea, but at no time had I been seriously wounded or injured. It was as though unseen wings had protected me.
The Volterran Lucumo lowered his glance and confessed in shame, “I felt not the slightest pain as I fell. Only when the people lifted me from the ground and I regained consciousness did the pain begin. Truly I have tasted bitterly of human mortality, but it served me right and was a good lesson.”
His tale brought me so near the point of collapse that I felt my weakness as though the bones in my body had melted.
“Release me from this burden,” I begged. “I am only Turms. Must I acknowledge myself as a Lucumo and believe in myself if I would not?”
They said, “You are Turms, an immortal and a true Lucumo. You must admit it to yourself for you can no longer deny yourself.” But they added consolingly, “We understand you, for we ourselves have experienced man’s most dreadful suffering-doubt and the pangs of one’s own imperfection. But on the night of the twelfth day you may share with us the feast of the gods just as we shared it upon finding and acknowledging ourselves. There are still three of us to share it, but on the day of your earthly death, Turms, you must meet the gods alone.”
2.
On the twelfth day occurred the traditional sacred combat that determined the leader among the cities. It was a bright autumn day and the sun shone with warm rays upon the holy lake and the blue mountains. The Lucumones and delegates from the twelve cities sat on the twelve sacred stones of the ring. I myself stood among the others in the crowd behind the delegate from Clusium, for I had not yet been publicly acknowledged as a Lucumo nor had the holy mantle been placed on my shoulders. For that reason everyone pretended not to pay any attention to me although space had been left around me and no one touched or brushed past me.
First to enter was the eldest of the augurs, a worn staff in his hand. He was followed by the twelve youths representing the different cities.
They were naked save for the purple band around their heads, and each carried his city’s round shield and sacred sword. Their order had been determined by lot, for no Etruscan city was better than the next, but once within the circle of stones each placed himself before his city’s delegate.
The augur fetched a maiden from a curtained litter and led her to a sacred bed of stones in the center of the ring. She, too, was naked, but tightly wound around her eyes was a sacred woolen band. She was a well-formed untouched young girl, and as the augur opened the knot at her neck and revealed her face, she looked around with a flushed, startled face and instinctively attempted to shield her nakedness with her hands. The youths straightened themselves as they looked at her and their eyes began to glow with eagerness for combat. But with a shock that touched the roots of my heart I recognized the girl as Misme.
True, I knew that the Etruscans’ most beautiful and noble maiden was chosen each year as an offering and that selection was considered to be the greatest honor that could befall a girl. Where they had found Misme, and why she in particular had been chosen, I could not understand. But the alarmed expression on her face made me suspect that she had not voluntarily submitted to the sacrifice.
Deep silence prevailed, as custom decreed, and I watched the rapid rise and fall of the youths’ chests. But a reluctant offering is worthless. Hence the augur reassured Misme until she lifted her head proudly, acknowledged her own youth and the beauty of her body, suffered the glances of the youths and permitted the augur to bind her hands with a woolen band.
I could endure no more. Despair came over me and I waved my arms violently. Both Lucumones looked at me searchingly and I saw that the other delegates were watching me as curiously as they were Misme. Abruptly I realized that this was also my test. They believed Misme to be my daughter and wished to see whether I was ready to sacrifice her in accordance with the sacred Etruscan customs to prove that I was a true Lucumo.
I was not certain what would happen but I knew that the bed of stones in the center of the ring was a sacrificial altar before which the youths had to fight one another with sword and shield. Only he who, wounded, stepped outside the ring, saved his life, although the augur might spare a badly wounded combatant from the mortal thrust if the youth, collapsed without relinquishing his sword.
I remained silent and suddenly I met Mismc’s glance. She smiled at me and there was something so irresistibly impudent and enchanting in her glance that I recognized a flash of Arsinoe in her. She was not so beautiful as Arsinoe and her body was still girlish and undeveloped. But her breasts were like little wild pears, her legs slender, her hips well rounded, and she was no longer at all shy. On the contrary, I could see by the provocative glint of her eye that she was well aware of the feelings which the sight of her aroused in those twelve youths.
No, I need not fear for Misme. She was her mother’s daughter and knew into what game she had entered. I calmed myself with the knowledge that no matter how the Etruscans had got hold of her, she had voluntarily consented to be the sacrifice. Seeing how beautiful she had grown, I knew that I was proud of her. Then as I looked around, I suddenly met the glance of Lars Arnth as he sat on the holy rock of Tarquinia. He had been staring at Misme with as great fascination as the youths. Now he looked at me and narrowed his eyes questioningly.
