Chapter 3: Past Life Regression, Etruscan

Etruria,  529 B.C.

     I think I have always loved him. His lofty figure is finely muscled, and his dark hair undulates in alarmingly captivating waves. I see other women looking at him with faint indulgence, but he doesn't return their glances and instead looks solely at me.

 He stands a full head taller than myself, and as I rest against his chest I nearly burst with the love between us. I do not feel dominated by him but rather am strengthened by his protective feeling toward me. I know that I am his, and that he, despite his pressing duties as a chief magistrate in our seaside city of Vetluna, is solely, and utterly mine.

     Yet it is not his figure, nor the rich hair that I love to run my fingers through that draw me to him. Rather, it is the look in Artrurus' eyes. Though we have been husband and wife for many years, I am always taken by the intensity of his gaze. It is as  fathomless as the Tyrrhenian Sea which abuts our dominion, and through his eyes I travel to worlds beyond our own, into universes that are completely unknown to anyone but us. In these transported places and times, he is mine and I am his, and in these existences we are never apart.

     We are quite advanced here, in our fair Vetluna, which is one of Etruria's twelve ruling cities. Vetluna is legislated by a series of magistrates, and Artrurus, as a high member of the gentes, is one of these. His father and mother were ruling nobles before him, as were their fathers and mothers through at least six generations, and because of this bloodline Artrurus has become a ruler of our city. I, also of noble birth, am Artrurus' equal. I am known as Acacia, wife of Artrurus, and beautiful queen.

     In the privacy of our courtyard home, however, sheltered within the stone walls that protect us from invaders, Artrurus is not king and I not queen. For months now, we have been hard at work setting down the cultural legacy which we will bequeath to future society. For despite the prevailing levity of our populace, we, among a few others, know that our world is spiraling toward its end.  Engaged as Artrurus and I are, fervently joined in our love and work, we are equally connected in sadness. For all-powerful forces mount around us, especially in fearsome Roma, which is amassing mighty forces to aim against us. To them, our Etruria, with its thriving populi and advanced culture, is a threat, while it is, ironically, to us whom Roma owes its very existence.

     The oracles have foretold this demise of our kingdom, yet we can tell no one, lest we instill the wrath of our gods.  We can only hope that the day that we are conquered by others does not occur in this lifetime.

     So, we have embarked on this process of setting down as much as we can for posterity. It is a laborious duty, but because of the shared passion, we bloom, and labor turns to joy in each other's presence. We inspire each other to delve hard into the origins of our people. In the fervent distilling of information we are much alike, and we spend hours side by side, feasting on love and work, until he is pulled away for official duties, during which time I continue alone.

    All too often now, Artrurus is called to meet with the heads of the Twelve Cities. One evening upon his return, Artrurus tells me that he will soon be called to battle. He is going  to lead an army of soldiers that is being recruited from our city and surrounding villages.

     Hours were now spent in strategy for the coming fight. I bent to my work alone, not knowing what hour of the day or night he might return. When he did, Artrurus would tell  me as much as he could without burdening me unduly. Trained in battle from a young age, Artrurus was able. He was going to lead Vetluna's company of slaves, freemen, and hoplites, and join with that of King Parsena's in the southeast, who, because he hailed from the larger city of Vdlch, would be Artrurus' senior in command. They would lead the charge to the south along the coast, while the other ten cities would cover north, east and western points of entry. For vengeful Roma, when they came, would attack from all sides.

     Whenever Artrurus returns to me I hold him tightly, believing that if I were to let go he might be gone from me forever. As he perceives my dread he smiles and in his easy way tells me that I have no cause for fear. We will always be together. I try to believe this, but I know our tie to one another in this existence is tenuous. As much as I attempt to bury my feelings, I feel in my heart that the end of Vetluna, and of us, would come in our lifetime.

     Today I am working hard as I can on my writing tablet and I sense him looking at me instead of resting, as he is supposed to. As usual he knows what I am is thinking without having to ask.

"Cacia," Artrurus murmurs as he holds my gaze, "There is no reason to be fearful, no matter what the oracles foretell."

     I hoped  that Artrurus was correct. But I did not really, in the day to day moments of our existence, believe the sentiment to be true. Instead I felt that the worlds I had once perceived in his eyes, the existences in which we were always together, were going to disappear along with our hopes.  I smiled and nodded with a reassurance I did not feel.

     Suddenly I can feel his tension surmount my own.

     "What is it, Love?" I ask.

     "Would it possible that Divine Will was not immutable," he mused with a downcast look.

     "Not immutable? It is disrespectful to the gods to question what is foretold." I ventured, "What do you mean by this?"

     "Sadly, I am questioning everything of late. "Don't bother with my ranting." Suddenly, his eyes radiated joviality, and he suggested, "let's go to the theater tonight. Then afterwards we will make love all night."

     The crowd of spectators entering the arena seating areas surged forward to watch the gentes alight from their chariots.

     Acacia and Artrurus were the perfect nobles. He, tall, stately and handsome, was also magnanimous enough to encourage slaves and villagers alike to seek his counsel when the need arose. As Artrurus stepped down, he liberally sprinkled coins into the phalanx of  waiting hands.

     As for the lady, Acacia, she was a beauty. Her fine features were unspoiled, and her hair, clasped at her nape, cascaded downward in long, ebony waves.  In concert with this were her white gown and gold scepter, creating a sight to behold. For his part, Artrurus treated his lady as if she were made of alabaster, and indeed it seemed as if they were to be immortalized in such works.

     The  performance they were attending consisted of a musical pantomime involving lute-playing musicians and masked actors. High above the spectator stands, in the boxes reserved for nobles, Acacia and Artrurus let themselves relax. Their enjoyment in each other was evident to the their companions in the box, Thresu Matuna, a leading magistrate, and Artrurus' chief rival.  Accompanying Matuna was his wife, Pinaria,  who jealously noted how Acacia and Artrurus' hands rested upon one another, suggesting a bond far deeper than she cared to understand.

     As soon as he could, Matuna attempted to engage Acacia in flirtation, while Pinaria attempted to divert Artrurus.

     "Why don't we attend the flogging dens tonight?" Pinaria offered to Artrurus, while Acacia's attention was engaged in warding off Matuna's advances. Pinaria enjoyed the suggestion's effect on Artrurus.

     "What harm is there in this? Everyone does it." Pinaria urged.

      Artrurus gently removed Pinaria's hand from his arm. "I think you will find there are many other men who would like to spend their evening with you, Pinaria."

      Pinaria  liked the promiscuous activities engaged in by the other side of nobility and resented that they were avoided by Artrurus. Unlike other gentes, he and Acacia acted like they were above the rest of them. Pinaria said hotly, afterward, that her suggestion had only been in jest.

     After the performance, Artrurus and Acacia were accompanied home by Matuna, and a handful of other quests, including Cutru, and Felce, two members of the gentes. Whatever was to become of their night was pushed to the background as all talk centered on that of war.

      Pinaria and the other wives accompanied them, unhappy for the lack of more licentious enjoyment.

     Artrurus welcomed the company into their courtyard, where a feast was duly lain out by servants. Wishing to spare Acacia, Artrurus attempted  to direct discussion from war towards the idea he had brought up before, that of the nature of destiny.

     "Could a human being determine his own fate by his actions?" Cutru laughed uproariously at Artrurus' question.

      Felce used two greasy fibers to stuff figs into his mouth. "You mean not suffer the capriciousness of the gods?  Is that your question, Artrurus?

      Artrurus elaborated. "The question is, do our actions determine fate, or does fate determine our actions?"

    "The behavior of the gods is not whimsical," Matuna pronounced with an affronted glare.

     "No, they are wise," Felce added, "and have determined our fates long before we ever got here. How else would the oracles be able to see into the future?"

     "Maybe destiny can be changed if we know it beforehand," Artrurus objected.

     "That is a ridiculous assumption. We know fate beforehand, because it is ordained to happen." Matuna appeared to be flummoxed by Artrurus' suggestion.

     "But what if--"

     Everyone turned to look at the speaker, and feeling the eyes upon her, Acacia blushed.

     "Go ahead, wife," Artrurus urged.

     Acacia continued despite the unfriendly attention aimed in her direction. "What if,"  she offered slowly, "the oracles have been given a glimpse of what might happen, and because of us knowing it, we might therefore be able to change it?"

     "But how?" someone offered in reply.

     "By our good intent, and actions," Acacia answered bluntly.

     The courtyard filled with laughter.

      "Why, Cacia--" Artrurus began.

     Matuna arose with a stomp. "Your notions demean the entire hierarchal system." He added darkly, "It would be destructive to anyone's career, especially yours, Artrurus, if such ideas got out." He motioned to Pinaria with an effected turn, and hastened out of the courtyard.   

      No one seemed to regret their absence. 

      Cutru wiped his fingers on his robe. "Fufluns makes sure we are provided with enough food and wine. Laran protects us in battle." He added, "Why risk their anger with  a mockery of their powers?"

     "You, most of all, are blessed by Turan, goddess of love, Acacia," Felce pointed out. He added, "I wouldn't be surprised, Artrurus, if you had a personal god who protects you, as well."

     "It is an engaging idea," laughed one of the courtyard scholars. "But at the end of the day, man is still man, and the gods are still gods."

      Before the group departed for the night, Cutru offered Artrurus a final word.  "See that you don't disturb your gods' favor, or you may pay heavily for it."

     Afterwards, Artrurus turned to Acacia excitedly. "Cacia," he said, "If what you said is correct we might determine the future of our kingdom, and not be prey to what the oracles foretell."

     "It should not be just our action we guard over, Artrurus," Acacia urged while moving into  his arms, "but our very thoughts as well."

     Several weeks later, Acacia stood on the cold stone steps leading from their house, shielded by the limestone abutment alongside.

     Dressed in armor while his horse awaits, Artrurus tells Acacia that he is going to do all he can to see that Roma is stopped, and no more. His thoughts will burn with good will, with his only intention the defense of their way of life.

     "Artrurus, I know that if pleasing whatever powerful force affects us can be accomplished, it will certainly be done  by you."

Then, he kisses her as if it is their first time together. She watches as, tall, stately and confident,  he mounts his shielded horse, raising his arm to tilt his helmet in a singular intimation of farewell. She rushes forward and grabs his legs. He leans down and brushes the hair from her eyes, assuring, "we will be together again soon, Cacia, I know it."

     She watches him depart, wild pain stabbing her insides. Then, a dread coldness steals over her. It is a coldness that stays with her for a long, long time.

     What seems to be an era passes. It is unforgiving, these days spent in routine pursuits marked by the rise and fall of the sun. Her visits to the oracle grow increasingly infrequent, then stop all together. She preferred instead, to dwell in her solitude. The wives of the other nobles have long since shunned her.

     In the gardens Acacia sees her reflection in the black water. The pool looks dark like oil, but when she touches its surface she notes that it is clear, like youth. She perches on the stone ledge and stares into the liquid until it transmits his image, then watches it meld and swirl back into the black liquid.

     Geometric pools dot the sweep of land before her, pointing the way to the outline of their hilltop city. Its gables intersect the cosmos' breadth.

     She leaves it behind with purpose.

    

     There are pebbles on the path as it slopes downward, and she grabs hold of the tangle of limbs alongside so as not to fall. Her white, flowing dress turns brown with muddied tears. She has lost her sandals and as her feet are sliced open her blood merges with the clay earth. She angles her body to maintain balance against the steep trail, and then, loosing her footing, crashes to the ground.

     She rises from where she has fallen, and sees what she has been looking for. The gate. Golden and glowing, it is steps before her. It is beautiful.

     As she moves closer, she can see how to open it. She feels the latch and texture: it's smooth and cool to the touch.

     She is aware of every movement as she lifts the latch and swings the gate open. As she steps through a luminescence arises from the ground upward, traveling all the way up her body, and seeming to light her from within.

     She is alive, but just barely so. Her hair is swept upward, and though she is still beautiful, creases have formed at the corners of her eyes and at the base of her neck. She has taken minor pains to uphold her appearance but her despair is getting the better of her. Her white dress is shorter now, shorn off, but still flowing. She is thirty-five as she reaches this juncture of her journey, seven years from when Artrurus left. Her fair skin is paler now, and her glow shadowed by perpetual sadness.

    At last the trail gives way to weathered wood beneath her feet, and before her,  a planked pathway escalates downward in the form of  a rustic, archaic stairway. Suddenly, there are men in front of her, soldiers in a uniform she doesn't recognize. Their voices intone in a low chant that she can't understand. Their helmets look like overturned bowls, minus a crest, with short, upward rims and ear flaps. Their adornments are dirty: are they returning from same battle, perhaps the same as her beloved?  She comes up behind them, then pushes through them as they traverse the stairway. They don't see her! They don't hear her. They leave her, distraught.

     They don't see her.

     The trail of soldiers continues onward and disappears, leaving her utterly alone.

     She stands on the empty staircase. Before her, the steps encircle the broad sweep of mountain. Below, the steps descend into a dark abyss. Overhead, the mountain's sheer planes shoot up endlessly. The emptiness fills her with desolation.  She feels as though she is pinned there, consigned to this place forever.

     She stumbles on until arriving at a plateau. Her sorrow engulfs her;  it defines who she is. Grief is her only companion now, for she knows that Artrurus is never coming back to her.

     She lets go of a wail that reverberates along the mountain's sheer sides.  "Artrurus," she pines, " Artrurus..."

      In that moment, a shock of nearly a hundred blue doves, descend around her. They are the color of bright blue sky, and one of them alights on her arm. The look of him touches her heart.

She kneels down and lets the birds engulf her. She is not alone, their presence says. She is not alone.     No, she is not alone.