River of Tuscany

River of Tuscany

by

T. Mullen

Copyright 2012 by T. Mullen. All rights reserved. No part of this book, including cover photograph, logo and maps, may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, by any means (electronic, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the author. No liability is assumed with respect to the use of the information contained within. Although every precaution has been taken, the author assumes no liability for errors or omissions. Neither is any liability assumed for damages resulting from the use of the information contained herein.

This book is a work of fiction, and except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

ISBN: 978-0-9849565-2-4

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Table of Contents

Map of Arno River

Twelve Lessons of Rivers that Apply to Life

Sculptor

Conqueror

Builder

Barbarian

Poet

Artist

Author

Patriot

Apprentice

Fact and Fiction in Chapters

Bibliography

Thanks for taking the time to read this book

Map of Arno River

Twelve Lessons of Rivers that Apply to Life

Rivers alter course

The fabric of reality is pliable

Tributaries join primary currents

Aiming for large goals fulfills smaller objectives

A river’s true power is hidden from view

Personal power is often inconspicuous

A river needs a flow path

To enter a new reality, first imagine it

Rivers meander to balance their flow

Misfortunes can swing us toward fortune

Steeper flows have fewer meanders

Challenging goals provide fewer distractions

Da Vinci’s lesson:

A River which has to be diverted from one place to another ought to be coaxed and not coerced with violence

It is better to work with the flow of times and temperament of personalities rather than to defy them

Machiavelli’s lesson:

Fortune is a river

Fortune floods into life

Great rivers grow from many small tributaries

True success comes from helping others to succeed

Faith flows like a river; fear looms like a dam

Faith floats us toward our desires; fear generates obstructions

The river of today is not that of tomorrow

Seize opportunities that may not reappear

Rivers find their own confluence

Personalities modify journeys

Sculptor

460 BC - Autumn

City of Arezzo

The boy named Mamarce ran downhill, unaware that he would soon inherit the coveted power to change the course of civilization. He was filled with hope, certainty, and joy that critical events were on the verge of entering his life. Excited to be free from his afternoon chores, he ran past fields of barley and millet, scurried next to grape vines supported on rickety wood posts, and sprinted through the arched gateway into the walled city of Arezzo. He panted and darted down one of many parallel streets, rushing past the canal linking the River Arno to the city. He dashed by a sizable boulder circled by a fence that, only months earlier, a harruspex priest had declared as sacred after it was struck by lightning. Mamarce halted within the shadow of the citadel, the place where thousands came to worship their gods each week.

Gasping, he entered the nearby tall wooden building that housed his uncle Aranthur’s workshop.

You see? Aranthur exclaimed when he saw the boy. He pointed to his completed work on the floor.

Finished!

Twelve year old Mamarce gasped. The crouching bronze sculpture embodied typical Etruscan imagery – it was lithe, curvaceous and lively. The boy spent his free hours wandering through the city workshops of goldsmiths, potters, and leather and bronze craftsmen where he inspected their rich and varied products. He was familiar with watching artists sculpt abstract horses, waterfowl with elongated necks, and humans standing on spindly legs. He had scrutinized details of sphinxes carved from ivory and winged horses forged from gold, and had recently blushed when he eyed curvaceous figurines of naked women. Before him now, Aranthur’s creation differed from all other works the boy had ever seen in Arezzo.

How long have you toiled at this? Mamarce asked.

Months, replied the artist. I first prepared the terracotta figure and mold, and then cast the bronze. Do you like it?

It’s beautiful! Mamarce exclaimed. He eyed the life size figure of a mythical lion. A ram’s head protruded from the center of its back, while its tail was a golden serpent that curled upward, biting one horn of the ram.

What have you named it?

The Chimera of Arezzo.

Strange creature, yes? asked Mamarce.

Aranthur nodded.

Mamarce paced to the bronze figure. Sunlight winked and glinted off the polished bronze. The boy touched the figure. He rubbed fingers over the lean body, feeling each rib, sliding one of his small knuckles over the bulging veins along its chest and underbelly. He smiled at the stubby snout and gaping mouth of this wild beast. He reached over and touched the stylized waves of the bronze mane that popped upward in triangular clumps.

Tell me what you think, Aranthur said.

Mamarce weighed his response with calmness that belied his age.

It is not frightening, but magical. Look. His mouth opens not with anger, but sadness. Maybe even pain. Perhaps because the ram and snake in its body fight each other?

Perhaps, said Aranthur, smiling.

Mamarce reached low. He rubbed an index finger on one of four sharp claws, part of a hind leg. He then lifted his head.

Look, he said.

What? asked Aranthur.

The serpent’s eye looks so real. And its teeth – all notched and jagged.

Deadly, Aranthur added.

Mamarce touched the goat’s gruff that pointed toward the earth in a tapering swirl.

The lion wails, he said. Does it prepare to attack? Or is it being attacked?

Perhaps attacked by inner forces, Aranthur replied. Similar to those in our own lives.

Mamarce saw that the goat’s hair sat low and smooth in contrast to the clumps of the lion’s mane. He rapped a knuckle against the bronze bone along one hind leg.

The boy did not admit aloud why he loved the sculpture. But he confessed the truth to himself. The flowing, muscled limbs represented what best embodied being an Etruscan – the respect for beauty, strength, and fluidity. The strange placement of the goat head and serpent represented the strangeness of being Etruscan – a society fused from disparate cultures.

Mamarce knew his thoughts were not typical for a boy his age. His father recently explained to him how he was unusually precocious.

Where will you place this sculpture? he asked Aranthur.

It will be sent south. To a sanctuary in Rome.

Rome! Mamarce exclaimed. Why? That city is not part of our Etruscan territory. Father told me it was Etruscans who transformed that village into a town. He said that only half a century ago an Etruscan king named Tarquinius Superbus ruled Rome. And now that city grows stronger, yes?

True, Aranthur agreed. The Romans borrowed much from us. Togas, arches, hydraulic engineering, and our facility with city planning. Yet even without our help, Rome would keep expanding. In my lifetime I have witnessed that city transform to a republic. And ever since they exiled Tarquinius, Rome keeps puffing its chest with pride, with a sense of importance.

It will never be as strong as Etruria! Mamarce exclaimed, speaking about his people’s land stretching south of the Arno River.

Not yet. Perhaps one day, however.

Mamarce stroked the chimera’s metal back.

Magical, he whispered. Your chimera mocks what other artisans produce in Arezzo, the boy said with confidence. Perhaps in all Etruria.

Thank you, Aranthur replied.

Aranthur was in his early forties. He had a lean, muscular build and a generous smile that revealed a new gold crown recently placed by an Etruscan dentist.

This is no ordinary day, Mamarce. My chimera is finished. With this work complete I can indulge in rest and conversation! Join me. Come outside into daylight. I have been cooped inside this dusky studio for too long. Let us move to where the wind blows so we can enjoy the sight of our sweet land.

The two walked outside the studio. They paced upward along a stone lined road to a grass park at the top of the city. There, they sat on a large cypress stump. Two doves and a jay flew out of a nearby tree. From this hilltop vista they looked downhill over city walls toward the Arno river floodplain. A distant yet unbroken ring of lush Apennine hills circled Arezzo, forming a topographical barrier that protected the city from any easy or undetected enemy approach. Whenever he stood there and looked outward, Mamarce felt that he stood on top of a salt cone within a bowl – looking from city hilltop out toward a ring of mountain peaks.

From forehills surrounding the city, wood smoke rose from the shacks of shepherds.

This is why we Etruscans chose to build here, said Aranthur. This site is high and steep, defensible on all sides. It is also beautiful, he said, gazing at cloud-touched peaks stacked behind each other, like feathers in a fan. The landscape folded softly in dales and valleys. Soft light gave the air a preternatural glow.

They both looked north, in the direction of the mountain named Falterona. Although it was out of sight, Mamarce knew the peak harbored the source of the Arno River, carver of valleys and source of irrigation water for crops. The evening glowed orange and smelt of lavender and the sound of musicians twinkled from fields behind. Farmers wearing circular and wide-brimmed hats marched next to ox carts, leaving fields at the end of their daily toil. Aranthur smelled fresh and acrid scents of beech and pine trees. In the distance, sentry guards beside hilltop shacks tended heaps of tinder, ready to set a warning signal alight should an enemy approach.

Mamarce looked down the hillside toward houses arranged in blocks, with pavements before them. To the side, in a field within the city, soldiers practiced a war dance intended as both training in coordination as well as to attract the fortune and pleasure of gods. As designed, all elements of life and architecture within Arezzo appeared balanced, in harmony.

Mamarce knew that much earlier the location of city walls was marked with a bronze plow before construction began. This foundation rite symbolized that the community was born from, and wed to, the earth.

Ours is a safe city, yes? asked Mamarce.

Like others in the League, Aranthur replied. Built on high terrain with strong walls that follow contours of the land. Arezzo sits above the confluence of the Arno and Chiana rivers. And see? Three valleys open up here – the Valdarno, Casentino and Val di Chiana. Our position is strategic. It allows Arezzo to control communications between southern Etruria and the Apennine passes. That is why we are one of Etruria’s largest cities.

The famed League of Twelve Cities, Mamarce said.

Your father is well? asked Aranthur.

"He joined the lucomone to attend the Concilium Etruriae. Their group now travels to the Voltumna Sanctuary near Orvieto."

The annual gathering, Aranthur stated.

Yes, replied Mamarce. Mother tells me that lucomones from each city in the League are to elect a new military commander.

Aranthur visualized the scene. He pictured the procession of moving chariots and a train of servants and slaves who carried the special insignia of a gold crown and scepter with an eagle on top. They would also carry a double edged axe as a symbol of authority. On arrival at their destination, the officials would don special purple tunics and decorated cloaks.

Mamarce looked at his uncle.

I have never traveled far from our city state. But you have seen much, Aranthur. Is Etruria as magnificent as they say? Is it true that our artistry is unsurpassed, that our navy on the western shore is bold and undefeated? That others envy us?

What you mean to ask is, are we fortunate? We sit together here, an educated boy and a free artisan, looking over safe and secure walls toward a gorgeous river valley and lush hills. Our parents have known wealth most others only dream of. Our twelve cities are dotted among beautiful hills and coasts, and our people are renowned for their ingenuity and strength. The forests of this land are laden with game; the western ocean is bloated with fish. Our trees are filled with olives, while grapes bulge on our vines. We participate in boar hunts for sport, not sustenance. The earth itself oozes iron, zinc, copper and tin, metals that we fashion and trade over land and sea. Meanwhile our navies prowl the Tyrrhenian Sea along the western coast. They patrol past the Balearic Islands, reap booty from Africa, and form alliances with Carthaginian fleets. Our large two masted ships carry goods from Chios, Sparta and Corinth. And on land, our horsemen are famed for their caprice and talent.

Tactfully, Aranthur omitted rumors that the Etruscan navy was renowned throughout the Mediterranean and as far north as today’s French Provence as a fleet of Tyrrhenian pirates, with sailors who had plundered the isle of Samos and raided the coasts of Sicily. Boys, he reasoned, could not be told everything.

"Yes, Mamarce, Etruria is rich with wealth and talent. Our lives are not so difficult, no? Slaves toil in our fields and homes to wash our clothing and pound our wheat. Together with farmers they grow olives that produce our delectable eleiva – oil – and the vines that give us sinfully good wine."

Why are we so rich? asked Mamarce.

"Because we are traders. We trade in raw and processed metals and have the richest iron deposits in the western Mediterranean. Our artisans fashion goblets, cups and bowls from bucchero pottery that we trade throughout the world. And our people are savvy. We developed a sprawling network of markets, exchanging bronze and tin for Carthaginian glassware and Athenian pottery. Or for luxuries such as ostrich eggs and silver. What determines different classes of wealth here in Etruria is economics, not aristocracy."

What do the Romans think of us?

"They copy our ways. When Romulus founded that city he dug a circular trench and threw fruits inside – following Etruscan rites. Our people have always been reputed for hydraulic ingenuity. Etruscan engineers drained the marshes of Rome and created the city’s canal and sewer systems. And what do the Romans do? They copy our engineering techniques, but not our playful ways. They are a rigid people, bereft of spirit. They think that manubia – lightning – is caused by clouds colliding, rather than being thrown by the god Tinia. Clouds knocking into each other? Where is the fun in that?"

They use the name Jupiter for our god Tinia.

Aranthur nodded.

And the Greeks? Mamarce asked, delighted at hearing about the superiority of his own people.

The Greeks envy us! They criticize us as drunks, sneering that Etruscans taught Gauls the pleasure of wine. They scoff at how we treat women, saying we are too decent to them, which emboldens females with independent and adventurous spirits. They say we descended from Odysseus and his lover Circe and that we share their traits of shamelessness and promiscuity.

Though young, Mamarce knew that Etruscan women had greater freedom than the women in other nearby lands, and that this made foreigners wary of them. For it was not unusual for Mamarce to see women in Arezzo, including his mother Thana, frolic and flirt in public and dress in clothes that barely covered their ample bosoms. Yet, he thought – why not?

They say our art is too free and colorful, Aranthur continued. "The truth? They are envious. We are famed for our playfulness, and our engineering and technical ingenuity. Creativity is the