He himself leaned humbly against the wall to await our crumbs of charity. But I asked him to share the meal with us and the slaves to bring in another couch. Immediately he went to wash himself and the innkeeper brought a clean robe to protect the double cushions on the couch. As we ate the well-prepared food and drank the country wine, the old man’s face began to glow, the wrinkles on his face eased and his hands ceased trembling.
Finally he leaned back, the wine goblet in his left hand and a pomegranate in his right, while the staff lay on the couch at his left. I was overcome by a strange feeling that I had once before lived that same moment in a strange city and a strange room under a roof ornamented with painted beams.
The wine rose to my head and I said, “Old man, whoever you may be, I have seen the glances that you have exchanged with the innkeeper. I am not familiar with your customs, but why am I served from black cups when my wife has been given a silver plate and a Corinthian goblet?”
“If you don’t know and understand it makes no difference,” he said. “But it is not a sign of disrespect. They are old dishes.”
The innkeeper himself hastened to offer me a beautifully hammered silver goblet to replace the black clay cup. I did not accept it, however, but continued to hold the clay cup. Its shape was familiar to my palm.
“I am not a holy man,” I said. “You are surely mistaken. Why otherwise would you let me drink from a sacrificial cup?”
Without replying the augur tossed the pomegranate to me and I caught it in the shallow clay cup without touching it. My robe had slipped so that the upper part of my body was bare. Thus I reclined on the couch, resting on one elbow with the black clay cup in my left hand. The pomegranate which I had not touched with my hand lay in its round hollow. When he saw it the innkeeper came to me and placed a garland of autumn flowers around my neck.
The augur touched his forehead with his hand and said, “You have fire around your head, stranger.”
“It is your profession to see what does not exist,” I protested, “but I forgive you since I myself am serving you wine. Don’t you see fire also around my wife’s head?”
The old man looked at Arsinoe carefully, then shook his head. “No, there is no fire, merely fading sunshine. She is not like you.”
Suddenly I realized that I was beginning to see through the walls. Arsinoe’s face changed into that of the goddess and the old man lost his beard and seemed like a man in the prime of life. The host was no longer merely an innkeeper but rather a scholar.
I burst out laughing, “What do you mean by putting me, a stranger, to the test?”
The old man raised a finger to his lips and indicated Arsinoe who was yawning deeply. Within a moment she was asleep, and the augur rose, raised her eyelid and said, “She is sleeping soundly and nothing will happen to her. But you, stranger, must have your omens. Don’t be afraid. You have not eaten or drunk poison, you have only tasted the sacred herb. I myself have also tasted it to clear my eyes. You are not an ordinary man and an ordinary omen will not suffice. Let us leave and ascend the holy hill.”
Filled with radiance, I left Arsinoe sleeping and followed the augur. But I made the mistake of going through the wall directly to the courtyard, whereas the augur had to leave by way of the door so that I was in the courtyard to meet him. Then I saw my body obediently walking behind him and instantly returned to it since I could speak only with its aid. Never had I experienced anything so absurd and I greatly feared that I had drunk more wine than was good for me. My legs were not unsteady, however, and the augur led me to the market place, indicating with his staff the senate building, the prison opposite it and many more sights. He wanted to take me along the sacred way but after walking some distance I stepped to the side and went toward a steep cliff.
Looking around I saw a round temple with wooden pillars and reed roof, and cried, “I feel the nearness of a holy place!”
“That is the temple of Vesta,” explained the old man. “Six unmarried women guard the holy fire in it. No man can enter there.”
I listened. “I hear the murmur of water. Somewhere there is a sacred spring.”
The old man protested no longer but allowed me to lead the way, ascend the steps that had been hewn out of the rock and enter the cave. Inside was an ancient stone trough into which water trickled from a crack in the wall, and on the edge of the trough lay three wreaths, as fresh as though someone had just placed them there. The first was formed from a willow branch, the second from an olive branch while the third was of ivy.
The augur looked about in alarm. “Entering here is forbidden, for this is the home of the nymph Egeria whom we Etruscans call Begoe. The only Lucumo to have ruled Rome comes here at night to meet her.”
I dipped both hands in the cold water, sprinkled some over myself, took the ivy wreath in my hand and said, “Let us continue to the mount. I am ready.”
Just then the cave darkened and I saw at its entrance a woman enveloped in coarse cloth. It was impossible to say whether she was old or young for she had covered her head, her face and even her hands so that only the fingertips holding the brown cloth were visible. She looked at me searchingly through a slit but stepped aside and said nothing.
Nor do I know how it happened, but at that moment, as I stepped from the dimness of the ancient cave back into the daylight, I, Turms, realized my immortality for the first time with heartrending certainty. I heard the roar of immortality in my ears, I smelled the icy odor of immortality in my nostrils, I felt the metallic taste of immortality in my mouth, I saw the flame of immortality before my eyes. Experiencing that, I knew that I would one day return, climb the same stone steps, touch the same water and, in doing so, know myself again. Nor did this perception last longer than the moment it took me to place the ivy wreath on my head. Then it disappeared.
I kissed the earth, the mother of my body, foreseeing that some day the eyes of my body would see more than merely the earth. The shrouded woman moved aside without a word. Once a similarly shrouded woman had sat on the divine seat under a parasol and I had kissed the earth before her. But whether that had happened in a dream or in reality or in some previous life I did not know.
A fine mist began to descend into the valley between the hills, dimming the outline of the houses and hiding the market place from view. The augur said, “The gods are coming. Let us hasten.”
He climbed a steep path ahead of me, growing breathless as he climbed until his legs began to tremble and I had to support him. The youthful brightness induced by the wine died from his face, his cheeks became furrowed and his beard grew longer with every step. The higher we rose the older he became, until he was as ancient in my eyes as an oak.
The summit was clear, but below, on the other side of the crest, the track at the circus was veiled with mist. Unerringly my steps led me to a smooth rock.
The augur asked, “Within the walls?”
“Within the walls,” I assented. “I still am not free. I still do not know myself.”
“Do you choose the north or the south?” he asked.
“I do not choose,” I replied. “The north has chosen me.”
I sat on the rock with my face to the north, nor could I have faced the south if I had tried, so firmly was I in the grip of my power. The old man settled himself to my left with the staff in his right hand and measured and determined the four cardinal points, repeating them aloud. He said nothing about birds or how he expected them to fly.
“Will you be content with merely an affirmative or a negative reply?” he asked, as an augur must.
“I will not,” I replied. “The gods have arrived. I am not committed, but the gods are obliged to give me their signs.”