When I questioned the Himerans about the Tyrrhenians and their customs I was told that they were a cruel and pleasure-loving people and so licentious that at banquets even high-born women lay on the couches beside the men. On the seas the Tyrrhenians were formidable opponents and as iron-makers none could surpass them. It was also said that they had invented the anchor as well as the metallic ram on warships. They called themselves the Rasenna but the other peoples on the Italian mainland called them Etruscans.
Unable to explain my own reluctance, I nevertheless decided to visit the Tyrrhenian mart. But already in the yard I felt as though I had stepped into the domain of strange gods. The sky seemed to darken before me and the ground tremble underfoot. Nevertheless I seated myself on the bench which the merchants offered and began to bargain for a beautiful censer on raised legs.
While I was doing so their employer appeared from one of the inner rooms. His oval eyes, straight nose and long face seemed strangely familiar. He asked the others to leave, then smiled and said something to me in his own language. I shook my head and explained in the Himeran jargon that I didn’t understand.
He replied in excellent Greek, “Don’t you really understand or are you merely pretending? Even if you must appear as a Greek you surely realize that if you were to comb your hair like ours, shave your curly beard and don our clothes, you would pass for an Etruscan anywhere.”
Only then did I realize why he seemed so familiar. The oval face, the eyes with a fold at the corner, the straight nose and wide mouth resembled those I had seen in a mirror.
I explained that I was an Ionian refugee from Ephesus and added playfully, “Probably his hairdress and the cut of his clothes make a man. Even the gods of the various peoples can be distinguished more readily by their clothes than by their faces. I have no reason to doubt my Ionian birth but I shall remember your remark. Tell me about the Etruscans whom I resemble and of whom so much bad is said.”
“We have twelve allied cities,” he began, “but each city has its own customs, laws and government. We have twelve smiling gods, twelve birds and twelve compartments in the liver which determine our lives. Our hands have twelve lines and our lives are divided into twelve eras. Will you hear more?”
There was sarcasm in my voice as I replied, “In lonia we also had twelve cities fighting the twelve Persian satrapies, and we defeated the Persians in twelve battles. We also have twelve celestial gods as well as twelve gods of the underworld. But I am not a Pythagorean and will not argue about figures. Instead, tell me something about your customs and conditions.”
“We Etruscans know more than is generally believed,” he replied, “but we also know how to hold our tongue. Thus, I know more about your naval battle and your expeditions than is good for you or your commander. But you have nothing to fear since you have not violated the Etruscan naval might, at least yet. We share the western sea with. our allies the Phoenicians of Carthage, and Etruscan vessels sail in Carthaginian waters as freely as the ships of Carthage in ours. But we are also friendly with the Greeks and have permitted them to settle on our shores. We 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.”