Etruscans Read online

  Drawing her long-bladed knife from its tooled leather sheath, Vesi glided silently forward. Since earliest childhood she had loved to play at hunting, like a boy—to the despair of her mother, who wanted her daughter to be feminine and delicate. Rasne women were works of art.

  But Vesi had no desire to be a work of art. Such a static image bored her. Life was to be lived. She thrilled to the prospect of adventures. Now her callused bare feet slid through the long grass, testing every step before trusting her weight. One could never be too cautious. A patch of quicksand might be anywhere. Spurae were sometimes sited to take advantage of such natural defenses.

  She drew another questing breath. The blood-smell was stronger now, identifiably human but disgustingly tainted with something foul.

  Another groan sounded. There was no mistaking the voice of a man in pain. Abandoning caution, the girl started forward just as a rising wind whipped her hair into her eyes. It might have been an omen; the Rasne believed the gods spoke to them in such signs and portents. The girl paused long enough to take a gleaming silver fillet from the leather purse she wore at her waist She settled the band firmly on her brow to hold her hair in place.

  Then she began to run.

  Since none of her people would have ventured on their own into the unfinished spura, she assumed the groaning man must belong to one of the native tribes. Or, more dangerously, be a hawk-faced Roman from Latium, an advance scout for an army hoping to extend Rome’s territory. Such raiders had become a constant threat. Once the Etruscans had feared no one, dominating not only Etruria but much of Latium. With increasing prosperity their aggressive impulses had diminished however. The Rasne had become tired of war, tired of the casual butchery, the stink of the dead and the dying. They had taken their martial arts and turned them inward, using them to create rather than destroy, to build rather than pull down.

  And now the jackals were gathering.

  Vesi hefted the knife in her hand, her thumb caressing the hilt with its encrusted carnelians. But she did not hesitate. At the back of her mind was some romantic, childish notion of taking an injured Roman warrior prisoner at knife point and leading him home in triumph. No Rasne woman had ever done such a thing before.

  She sprinted up a hill, then dropped flat at the crest so she would not be silhouetted against the sky. From this vantage point she could look down upon the spura spread out below like some child’s toy.

  The area had been cleared, foundations dug, drains installed, streets laid out. Each house, shop, and public building was already allocated a site that would contribute to the symmetry of the whole. Squares and rectangles were pegged with fluttering strips of pale cloth. Stone footings would be placed to support walls of sunbaked brick covered with tinted plaster. Courtyards and roofs would be tiled; murals would be painted on every available surface. Terra-cotta piping was stacked to one side, waiting to serve the fountains that would sparkle throughout the city.

  The choicest site of all was reserved for the great templum at the center of the spura. Plinths would be placed at intervals along the approaching avenue; statues of the Ais would stand there, gazing down with blind eyes upon their people. But before this could happen, the entire area must be consecrated with blood and flesh and smoke. Then a city wall would be raised to protect Sacred Space and construction could begin in earnest.

  The result would be the finest spura ever built, even more elegant than Veii, which was celebrated as the most beautiful city in Etruria. And as everyone knew, Etruria was the most beautiful land in the world. Its inhabitants were the special favorites of the Ais.

  “Great are the gods and precious their love,” Vesi murmured automatically.

  She shaded her eyes with one hand so she could make out details of the scene below.

  There!

  In the center of the site designated for the templum lay a huddled body. Desecration! When Vesi leaped to her feet with a yelp of outrage she accidentally dropped her dagger. It struck the soft earth point first and stood there quivering.

  She was quivering herself, with indignation. Injured or not, the man had gone beyond all bounds of decency! The most Sacred Space of all had been defiled. The priests would not use it now; the lengthy process of selecting another site for the city would have to be undertaken. It might be many seasons before an equally propitious location was determined.

  To add to Vesi’s dismay, she glanced down to discover that her knife was stabbing the earth. With a soft moan the girl stooped and withdrew the blade. She removed the clinging soil with reverent fingertips, then tenderly pressed the tiny particles back into the ground as she murmured a prayer to the goddess Ops. “May the earth spirits forgive my carelessness; I meant them no harm.”

  Straightening, she drew a deep breath.

  The blood-smell was stronger than ever. The figures lying in the center of the templum space was not moving.

  Keeping a firm hold on her knife, Vesi trotted down the hill toward the spura. When she reached the edge of the first marked foundation she stopped, reluctant to cross the invisible line that bordered the most dangerous of Sacred Space: unhallowed ground, designated but not protected from the more inimical inhabitants of the Otherworld.

  Pacing along the line, she stared at the man lying on what should have become the floor of the templum. From a distance she had thought he wore a tattered cloak; now she saw it was the flesh of his naked back, torn in bizarre strips. Vesi wondered what animal could have inflicted such wounds. Neither bear nor boar nor aurochs, whose marks she recognized. Could it be one of the legendary monsters said to inhabit the mountains of Latium? Would such a creature have come this far into Etruria in search of prey? Surely not.

  Yet obviously some predator had been at work. The injured man must have been caught and mauled and then dragged here, suffering terribly.

  Vesi caught her lower lip between her teeth as she pondered a new mystery.

  Where was the trail of blood?

  Crimson had seeped from the man’s body to puddle beneath him, yet there was no gory pathway across flattened grass to the place where he now lay. An animal dragging him would have left one. Instead there were only spattered droplets, indicating he had walked there by himself. Furthermore he looked wet, as if he had recently emerged from the nearby Tiber. Swimming? So wounded?

  Suddenly the fallen man gave an appalling shriek and convulsed like a fish on a hook. Fresh blood began oozing from his wounds.

  His anguish was so acute Vesi could almost feel it herself. She could go for help, but by the time she returned he would surely be dead. Fortunately she was not afraid of blood. Had she not watched from hiding as the purtani set the silver plate into her father’s crushed skull after the hunting accident that eventually claimed his life? She could help this man if he was not too far gone, if he had not lost too much blood.

  Vesi looked over her shoulder. The rolling hills were tapestried with flowers, many of them possessing healing properties. She could cleanse the wounds and apply a poultice to staunch the bleeding. The purtani would criticize her for usurping their healing functions and probably punish her for entering unhallowed Sacred Space. But if she were to allow a man to die needlessly when she might have saved him … was that not the greater crime?

  Vesi pressed her forefinger and middle finger to her lips, kissed them, and bowed her head in reverence. “Culsan, the god of destiny; Tuflas, goddess of healing, guide me. What I do now, I do through you.”

  Then she stepped over the line.

  Walking through the unmade city was terrifying. In unhallowed Sacred Space the fabric between the worlds was very thin. Vesi was certain she could hear hia and siu whispering in the Otherworld.

  She could even catch the faintest scent of the Netherworld where Satres ruled and Veno protected the dead. As long as she was alive its mysteries were denied her. But the perfumes that wafted from that dark kingdom were spiced with myrrh and cinnamon and subtler, more alluring fragrances that promised and beguiled. She fel
t their temptation, potent as a stirring in the loins.

  Death, the Aegyptians claimed, was a jewel of incomparable brilliance.

  On every side shadows twisted and dissolved, hinting at wonders, each one attempting to draw her into the darkness from which she knew she would never return.

  Fragments of songs, ghosts of winds, the distant trilling of unknown birds called to her, and behind them the faintest whispers that might have been prayers, incantations, secrets … .

  With an effort Vesi forced herself to concentrate on the injured man. To allow her spirit to be distracted would leave her vulnerable to vengeful spirits lurking in wait for the unwary. The young woman was trembling with tension as finally she stepped into the rectangle of the templum.

  It was as if she had walked into a maelstrom.

  Dark hair tore free of her silver fillet; saffron peplos molded itself to her body. The air within the area was so thick she had to force herself through invisible density. The beings lurking beyond human sight in the Otherworld were frenzied as she had never known them to be … but then she had never walked through unhallowed Sacred Space before. They clustered and gibbered at the very edges of her vision, vanishing when she turned to look at them, reappearing as writhing shadows when she looked away.

  The absence of a bloody trail was more puzzling now, but only because there was so much blood around the man’s body. Vesi forced herself to kneel beside him, drawing her linen skirt up onto her thighs to keep from staining it any more than necessary. She gently examined the wounds on his back—deep punctures and long, raking claw marks that flayed the flesh. Then, sliding her hands under the man’s body, she turned him over.

  She was startled to find the broken body of a huge white owl underneath him, downy feathers plastered to his bloody chest. Then when she looked upon his face, she realized this was no ordinary man.

  Vesi was about to scream when he opened his eyes.

  THREE

  Though he was half a mile from the river, Artile caught a whiff of the tainted breeze. Instinctively he dropped to the ground and rolled a short distance down the terraced slope. Yet even as he rolled, the stench followed him.

  Twice before he had encountered a similar putrid chill. The first time had been when a Babylonian magus loosed a minor utukki, an ummu demon, on a caravan Artile was leading across the Great Sand Waste. The utukki’s presence had been heralded by a foul, icy breeze. Artile had smelled the odor again many seasons later on the day he came upon the remains of a human sacrifice high in the Black Mountains. Although the day had been warm, the telltale chill had lingered around the butchered corpses.

  The purtani said the foul wind slipped through whenever the fabric between the worlds was torn.

  Lying flat on the ground, Artile raised his head cautiously and sniffed. The air around him smelt only of loamy earth and healthy grapevines. The noxious odor had vanished.

  And yet …

  Artile fumbled for his pruning knife and got to his feet with the inadequate weapon clutched in his hand. He crouched like a man ready to run; there was no shame in running. In his youth he had been a mariner, a guide, and a mercenary warrior, surviving all three dangerous occupations because he had learned to trust his instincts … and run when the occasion warranted.

  His instincts were telling him now that something was wrong, terribly wrong.

  Shading his eyes with one hand, he turned full circle. His vineyard spread out before him, vines laden with grapes just beginning to ripen. In the distance he could see some of the workers moving slowly along the rows and filling their baskets. None of them appeared uneasy.

  Beyond his land a fold of hills sloped to meet the forest and the river. Nothing disturbed the scene. No spiral of smoke warned of fire among the trees. The Tiber was as placid as a snake basking in the sun.

  Artile looked up. The birds that circled in the sky above, always hopeful of snatching some fruit, seemed equally untroubled.

  Perhaps he was imagining things; were his aging senses at last beginning to betray him?

  Tightening his lips, Artile gave a firm shake of his head. He could not accept the possibility; he had not imagined that odor. His nose was still sensitive enough to detect the first hint of rot upon the vine or the telltale sliminess of diseased soil. His other senses might fail, but that of smell would be reliable until the end.

  Limping slightly, he walked the width of the vineyard terrace and climbed the hill beyond. His left thigh muscle had been torn by a Nubian spear eight seasons past. The purtani had healed the injury, but the residual awkwardness finally convinced him he was getting too old to be a mercenary. So using the small fortune he had secreted away over the years, he purchased a vineyard with a modest but comfortable villa. There he had settled down to spend the rest of his life getting acquainted with peace.

  The gods, Artile told everyone, had been good to him.

  But the Ais were fickle; they could rescind their kindness at any time, as he knew.

  At the top of the hill he paused to catch his breath. Automatically he glanced northward, in the direction where the new spura soon would rise almost on the boundary of his vineyards. Another gift of the gods, the opportunity to sell his wines so close to home. He would …

  The man grunted in surprise. There was a moving splash of color—gold and green and red—against the cleared earth. He rubbed his eyes, then looked again.

  Someone was crossing unhallowed Sacred Space.

  Keeping his eyes fixed on the distant spura, Artile hurried forward as swiftly as his game leg would allow. Those colors indicated a woman; the female costumes of the Rasne were famous for their exuberant hues.

  Surely none of the Silver People would knowingly enter unhallowed Sacred Space!

  Yet he was seeing a woman there, of that Artile was certain. His mobility was impaired, but the keen sight that had stood him in good stead for so many years was undiminished. Once it had been his proud boast that he could tell if the eyes of an eagle flying overhead were yellow or gray.

  The woman seemed to be moving toward a dark form in the very center of the spura. The old man frowned, trying to make sense of the vaguely human shadow. Artile saw the woman pause, bend over … then the path dipped and the scene was hidden from him by the next hill. Cursing under his breath, he hastened forward.

  Before he reached the summit of the hill he heard her scream. The sound was high-pitched, terrified … and abruptly cut off.

  Without hesitation, Artile tried to run.

  When he could see the spura again, only the figure in bright clothing lay on the cleared earth. The dark form she had been examining had vanished.

  Artile’s heart was pounding fearfully in his chest by the time he reached the margins of the spura. He hesitated, unwilling to enter until he realized that Sacred Space had already been compromised. No city would be built here now, he thought with a pang of disappointment. No market on his doorstep. Then he berated himself for his petty and selfish thoughts. Limping, he hurried across the foundations toward the area designated for the templum.

  The still figure within was lying on her stomach with her head twisted to one side. What he could see of her face was puffed and bruised; dark hair was matted to her skull by blood. Torn from her body and strewn on the ground beside her were the tatters of her bright clothing.

  Artile’s fist closed with the index and little fingers extended. He brought his hand to his mouth and breathed an ancient prayer into the fingers, warding off evil.

  Kneeling beside the woman, he gently turned her over. The breath caught in his throat. He knew her. She was Vesi, a maiden, a daring girl who played games and ran races like a boy, a girl filled with spirit and courage. Of all the children of the Rasne, Vesi was among the brightest. Watching her had made him long for a daughter of his own, though Fate and old war wounds had decreed he had none. Now to see her like this … !

  Artile had traveled far and fought in many battles, and more than once had observed what men infl
amed by blood lust could do to a woman. Yet never had he seen a woman so peculiarly mutilated.

  Deep parallel gouges ran the length of the girl’s body, slicing open her breasts and cutting deeply into the soft flesh of her belly. On closer inspection, they looked as if they had begun low on her abdomen and ripped upward. He measured them with his broad hands. There were four cuts spaced wider than the span of human fingers. More blood stained her thighs.

  Making sympathetic noises deep in his throat, Artile removed his cloak. She was a strong girl and well-nourished; with his bad leg he would not be able to carry her all the way back to his villa. He must go for help. But he could not leave her naked amid the gaudy ruins of her dress.

  As he was tucking his cloak around her, the crushed remains of a bird fluttered from her hands. From the feathers Artile identified the corpse as that of an owl.

  The old man picked up a feather and turned it in his gnarled fingers. A white owl, in a land without white owls.

  FOUR

  Long before consciousness returned, Vesi could hear voices. Dream voices circled and spun around her, some murmuring almost inaudibly in a misty distance, others loud and immediate. A few she recognized. Her mother’s was suffused with anger. The purtan was soft-spoken in counterpoint, conciliatory.

  There was another whose words were like the crack of a whip, Pepan, Lord of the Rasne.

  Vesi grew dimly aware of the hiss of candle flame somewhere nearby, of water tinkling from a fountain a little farther away, of the particular ambient sound of space embraced by stuccoed walls. From beyond those walls came a low buzz, as of a distant crowd.

  Through ears that never slept, such details informed that level of Vesi’s mind that also never slept. The sounds created a pattern she recognized. She knew this place by heart, was familiar with each crack in the plaster and every tile on the floor.

  As with most Etruscan houses, the structure was a hollow square with stone foundations and walls of unfired brick, built around a roofless courtyard that provided both light and air to the interior. The rooms that comprised three sides of the house gave onto this space. At the rear a solid wall formed the fourth side of the square. A fountain in the courtyard kept the house filled with the delicate tinkle of water music, and the air was perfumed by flowering plants growing in terra-cotta tubs. Beyond the entrance door at the front of the dwelling lay the spura of Vesi’s birth. She was in the main room of the house she had lived in for all of her fourteen years. She was … home.