The Etruscan by Mika Waltari Read Free Book Online Page A

strain some of their wounds reopened, their blood bubbled forth onto the planks, their hold slackened and they fell back into the darkness.
    Seeing this, I said harshly, “You are merciless, Dionysius.”
    He shook his head. “On the contrary, I am merciful. Who are you to talk, Turms? These wounded are my people. I have risen to be their leader, I have shared my bread and salt with them and have thrashed seamanship into them with my rope. But a man gets by in life only with his own strength. The immortals will not drag me by the hair onto the deck if I lie helpless in the dark of the ship. I am the one who must make the effort even if it means dragging myself onto the deck by my teeth. I demand no more of them than I do of myself.”
    Still he did not consent to say what his plans were. With the temple of Aesculapius as landmark, we rowed into the harbor of Cos. Only fishing and diving boats remained, for the Persians had seized all the larger vessels. They had not, however, destroyed the city.
    Priests and physicians came to meet us at the shore and Dionysius had the badly wounded men carried off the ships. Many were unconscious, others delirious, and the priests consented to give these asylum in the temple so that they might fall into a healing slumber.
    “We are not afraid of the Persians,” said the priests. “A healer is not concerned with the nationality or language of the sick, or with their beard or the cut of their clothes. The Persians likewise left their wounded at the temple.”
    Dionysius laughed. “I respect the temple and fortunately my men are either delirious or unconscious. Otherwise they would crawl over the temple floor and with their bare hands throttle the Persians lying beside them. But even if a healer is not concerned with the language of the sick, I have always thought that he looks carefully at their purse.”
    The priests met his eyes frankly. “Many who have returned from the threshold of death have dedicated votive offerings to the temple. But the clay bowl of the poor is as cherished as the silver figure or the tripod sent by the wealthy. We do not heal for money but to develop the divine skill which Aesculapius has given us, his heirs. This we swear in the name of the eye, the hand and the nose, the flame, the needle and the knife.”
    The residents of the city hastily prepared a feast for us, but diluted the wine with five parts of water, for they had had experience with drunken sailors in the past. The day ended, the mountain peaks flamed, and splashes of purple swam in the sea, but still Dionysius delayed our departure. The priests began to glower and hint that it had not been their intention to provide asylum for warships but only for the wounded.
    “I understand,” said Dionysius. “lonia’s freedom has ended on sea and land and from now on you must welcome the Persians in preference to your own people. I shall leave as soon as I receive a favorable omen.”
    As dusk settled over the island and the fragrance of spices rose from the temple gardens, Dionysius drew me aside.
    “Advise me, Turms, you who are an educated man, for I am in worse than a fix. I wouldn’t for anything insult these elders and their god, but we are about to leave for dangerous waters and I can’t afford to lose a single sailor. That’s why I intend to carry off one of Aesculapius’ heirs. He must not be too old, otherwise he won’t be able to withstand the rigors of the sea, and he must be able to heal wounds, fevers and stomach complaints. In addition, it would be good if he also spoke Phoenician, as many of the priests do.”
    “What are you planning to do?” I asked.
    He glanced at me guiltily and finally confessed. “Don’t you understand, Turms? The Persians have enlisted in their service all the warships of Cyprus and Phoenicia as far as Egypt, leaving the sea open and defenseless as a cow’s belly. Kairos help me, I intend to serve the god of the opportune moment.”
    “In the name of the