Suddenly, I wake up. A soft rustling above me, the faint scent of blossoms and earth and moss, and a kind of warmth that I haven’t been able to feel for a very long time. I hear a voice calling my name.
‘Velia, Velia, wake up, it’s time.
’
I try to remember who that voice belongs to, what the words mean, but it’s been too long. I strain my memory to the utmost and gradually, in slow fragments, pieces of the past come back to me. Fragments from my life, my death, the familiar darkness of my sarcophagus that has been my refuge for two thousand three hundred years, the many lives I have led in between. But they remain snippets; the voice will have to help me on my way. So I ask with my voiceless voice. ‘Who is calling me, and what is it time for?’ There is a moment of silence. Then the answer: ‘Don’t you recognise me, Velia? Vanth, your guide from the other side?’
Other fragments fall into place. What was once my life, the friendly existence in Curtun, now called Cortona, where my husband Ruma and I had our home at the foot of the hills. How often did we offer a warm welcome to travellers and merchants who brought iron and bronze objects from the coast to inland cities such as Arezzo and Perugia? The many feasts we prepared in our house…
With a bodiless smile, I think back to the beautiful bronze mirror that a merchant wanted to give me. When I asked him what he wanted in exchange, he said: ‘You are an Etruscan woman, aren’t you? Can you not guess what I would want in exchange for giving you this beautiful mirror?’ And when I told him that I wanted the mirror but did not want him, he asked me why I would refuse to spend a night with him. I replied that he would simply have to look in his own mirror, and he stormed out of the house, leaving the mirror behind. When I showed Ruma the mirror and told him the story, he laughed for a good quarter of an hour, then said, ‘This mirror must remain yours even after your death, so that they will know for eternity who my wife Velia was.’
And the mirror was indeed one of my funeral gifts.
Once more a piece of reality falls into place. A dark voice says: I’m sorry, Velia, this feast is for you, but without you. Your husband Ruma has sacrificed a bull, a sheep and a goat to the triad of gods Tinia, Thalna and Menrva to beg for a safe journey to eternity for you. It is my job to take you there, one way or another.”
When I want to protest, to say that I am not yet ready for eternity, a figure suddenly appears before me with a coarse face, a large nose and a hammer in his claw-like hands. ‘Look at me, I am Charùn and this is the hammer with which I nail souls to their next life if necessary. That is one way. You can also make the transition voluntarily. Think of your meeting with Aristarchus the Greek.’
I remember that too. During one of our banquets, I spoke to him about the ideas of Pythagoras and Plato, that after death the soul does not end up in the Underworld, but finds another body. Instead of responding to this, Aristarchus replied that he was surprised that I, as a woman, brought up such topics. Such matters were not discussed with a hostess during a banquet, but during a private meal with public women or friends, with whom you shared such intimate matters and possibly your bed.
And later, during another banquet, I had a conversation with the slave of a Roman merchant. I told him about Aristarchus’s rude reaction and he said: “Do you think that’s strange? When you spend your whole life acquiring power and influence, you’d rather not be reminded that soon there will be nothing left of everything you’ve worked so hard for. Consider this: a ruler may be in charge for thirty years, a rich man can only enjoy his wealth and accumulate more of it during his lifetime. After that, the ruler lives on only in the stories told about him, and the rich man’s possessions become disputed or squandered. As long as the rich and powerful can believe that they can take their fame and influence with them to the other side, there is no problem. But woe unto you if you start suggesting that life after death might be very different from what the priests, teachers and artists would have us believe. Than such an important person is all of a sudden exposed – and is just as small and naked as everyone else he rules over. He does not want that: you should only be exposed to your loved ones and those you have paid for it.”
My thoughts drift back to Ruma. We had rarely talked about death – life had taken up too much of our time. He may have made sacrifices to the gods for me, but we both knew that was more out of custom. Death would reveal to us what life after life meant. I had said the same thing to the slave, and he had found it obvious because we were Etruscans, not Romans. “Among the Greeks, the Romans and many other peoples, men model themselves on the kings and warriors of the past,” he had said. “They strive to acquire power and possessions – and these they measure themselves by the amount of money, houses and slaves they have. There is no place for women in their world: any woman with as many rights and possessions as a man could easily be a competitor.”
’‘Priests and others who have an interest in keeping things as they are tell people that this is how the gods have ordained it,’ the slave had concluded. “They make people believe that immortal fame is the only way to live on in the Underworld after death. Underworld has no place for ordinary humans: women, slaves, and all those others who do not participate in the pursuit of wealth and power. They are of no interest to these people because they have no money, favours, or positions to bestow. Ordinary people are allowed to die and be forgotten forever. But the death of a powerful person is a tragedy – literally a loss, because his money, faith and influence are lost. Thus priests, teachers and artists ensure that the underworld maintains the upper world.”
I asked him where he, as a slave to a Roman merchant, got these ideas. He said that he had ended up in slavery because the merchant, whose serf he now was, had claimed him as a slave after the death of his parents, because they supposedly owed him money.
“But I owe my parents for the education I received from philosophers who followed the teachings of Pythagoras,” he said. “They taught me to judge the world by what you see, not by what you are told. They made me realise that the underworld might not exist, and that the end of one life could be followed by a new beginning in another life.”
As these fragments of memory float by in my little sarcophagus, I hear again the voice that woke me from my long slumber. I now remember who Vanth is, the underworld guide demon with the torch, who has led me to another life several times. After one of my many deaths, she made it clear to me that my sarcophagus is so much not a resting place but rather a kind of soul station, where I may dwell between my soul migrations.
‘Listen, Velia,’ I hear her say now. “It is the will of the gods that your headstrong and inquiring soul find another body to continue the journey. For a while, there was hope that you might be allowed to rest, but the demons of stupidity and superstition are stirring ever more strongly. That is why Mnerva, whom the Romans called Minerva, asks you to inspire another human being. Come with me, I will lead you to your new existence.‘
’Why me? And for how long?‘ is my silent question. And Vanth replies, “Do not believe that you are the only one. Humanity increasingly needs souls who can think for themselves and do not blindly accept what is spoon-fed to them. More than two thousand years ago, you set an example for Ruma, Aristarchus, a Roman merchant, and many others, and you have done so again and again throughout many lives. How much longer? Perhaps there will come a time when people can think and decide for themselves, but until then, the gods need the wisdom and stubbornness of your soul.“
I remain silent, knowing that I will receive no other answer. ‘Until people can think and decide for themselves’. That could well take eternity.
And for the umpteenth time, I decide to leave the friendly and safe darkness of my sarcophagus and voluntarily make the journey to another body.