Vergil in Averno: Book Two of the Vergil Magus Series (28 page)

The wily magnates had falsified the dates on their documents in more ways than one; there had been no time for any troops, legions, to reach the black gates in the black walls; even the three men with Casca’s message had had scarce time to make scarce way through the rugged roadways, when —

The concussion of the drill’s last drop had been faintly felt, yet that far away; first felt, then heard; then one immense lance of flame and fire was seen shooting skyward; then —

Had the walling mountains round about Averno not stood where they had been standing since before forever, what would have remained of all that part of the land? As it was, the mountains flung back what had been flung against them. Those who had seen the first flash and flush of flame from afar atop the hills had not seen the second, the force of the first explosion had flung them backward (as it had flung Vergil and Casca down from their chairs and against the walls and onto the floor), off their feet. Some had had the sense to lie where they had fallen. It was said that fragments of the torn and tortured earth had fallen as far away as Rome; certainly some had fallen into the Parthenopean Bay, great Bay of Naples, between the mainland and the Isle of Goats, hissing as they sank. How fortunate for Naples and all its suburbs and exurbs that these lapides had, as it were, overshot those cities. And all other cities.

Tremors continued for a while. Presently, as Casca — bruised a bit in body, but, oddly, seemingly much more his old and pre-Avernian self in spirit — and Vergil, and the Viceroy himself, climbed the now again-firm mountains. And dared look down.

Where Averno had stood (stood? say, rather, squatted), nothing stood now. No fragment of its black walls remained to view. Down the bed of the canal, propelled by a fierce and scouring flood, still rolled one great torrent of boiling mud, though slackening as they watched, and poured into the sea, hissing as it poured; and yet a second, smaller sea of it remained . . . remained forever: Lake Averno, it came to be called, a lake of not-quite-lava, a vast bog of bubbling muck, a surrounding swamp of seething earth and slime and stinking gas, with here and there and there and now and then a spurt or jet of flame. And bubbles, like bubbles of black blood.

What “the good gods of hell” had given, and given to make the Very Rich City very rich, they had, it seemed, given ever grudgingly. And now they had claimed it all and taken back again.

They. And “Sissie and cruel Erichtho.”

• • •

“The revenues of the South will never recover,” the Viceroy had said, bleakly. Doubtless never. As for the Viceroy’s own revenues, the following year for the first time he was to decline his exemption from the pro-consular lots. Into the urn with the other names had his own name gone, as (he having been of course at least once a consul) go it otherwise must have gone long before. He had (it was said) not even bothered to see of which province he had drawn the governance — grain-great Sicily, Aspania deep with silver, Chaldea the Far with its femminate men and bearded women, or distant, misty Picti-Land — but had merely handed the summons to his secretary with the single word, “Prepare.”

Admirable.

No doubt.

But that was for the next year, and that was for the Viceroy. As for Vergil, and for now,
what?
For as for Averno: nothing.

• • •

Iohan had stood with them, so pale and drawn that Vergil would have been shocked, had not the greater, the unspeakably greater shock been spread out before them in what they had not yet learned to speak of as “Lake Averno.” Casca was long silent (Vergil, totally silent, though his mind screamed several names, and over and over again); then Casca said, “It is just as well that I find I do not remember the name of whatever philosopher it was who said that the truest happiness possible for a man was to stand safely on a cliff in a storm and, watching a ship being sunk beneath the cliff, thank his guardian genius he was not aboard. I . . . somehow . . . I do not feel such happiness. Or any happiness at all.” And at this Iohan had given a shuddering sob, then turned away his face and covered it with one hand.

• • •

On their way back to the small port city that was now, once again, home, Iohan — save for the few short questions and replies required by the performance of his usual work — had said nothing. It was not until (with no cry at all of
thalassa!)
they once again espied the sea that Iohan, having once looked back at the thin smudge of smoke which alone now marked upon the sky, murmured something else. It being too low for his master to hear, his master, after an abstracted moment, turned his face and raised his brows. “They did be canny things, them arts of fire and metal,” the boy said. Then, an instant later, in a dogged tone different from the tone of puzzled memory, remarked, “They
do
be canny things . . . them arts of fire and metal.”

“Yes,” said Vergil. And, “We are nigh safe home.”

The mare now turned again her head and gave him that characteristic, almost arch, look. He stroked her muzzle. “Thou good beast . . . served me well, well, well…. I cannot keep thee, though.” She flung her head, still looking at him. Then it seemed as though, even whilst they regarded one another, that something dulled and dimmed in her eye, her head turned round and down, and she ambled on the road. And thus reminded of the essential and essentially unexisting details of quotidian life, Vergil said, “Iohan, when we are to my lodging-place, tend the mare as best you can . . . and . . . ah! yes! see that you give her a double handful of the best white barley….” Iohan nodded, nodded; unchanged, that wan, drawn look; and why “changed,” should one expect it to be? Solely that a horse might eat, and eat, however scantly, well? “ — and then . . . Iohan . . . I intend presently to speak you, about your . . . our . . . arrangements . . . employment . . . and then — Iohan — the mare must go back, of course, to Fulgence — so bring her back. Tell him to prepare his account. I shall . . . presently …”He moved his hand. What need of words. The boy nodded, nodded. They did not, man and master, look each other in the face. There was no need.

— Later, Vergil sat, blank, exhausted, in the sole chair in his rented room, the confused memory of the return from Averno unreeling before his eyes as though some tapestry or painted cloth upon two great spools.
Charge: one penny
for the Commander of the Legions (one shrug had he given at the sight of the site where once Averno had crouched). The Commander of the Legions . . . what time the Viceroy of the South had said something close to the Commander’s ear, gesturing the while to Vergil; what had the Commander of the Legions said? — Nothing. What had he given Vergil? For that matter, what he owed Vergil? Nothing. He had given one shrug and he had given Vergil two decades of troops — they must return that way anyway — two decades of troops to company Vergil, his mare, his man, as they returned — lagging, lagging — aware of a total absence of joy. Suppose Sisyphus to have been acquitted his need of forever toiling up his hill in Hell, would he have made the last journey in joy? Or would mere fatigue have extinguished all other emotion, as a torch extinguished in a sconce? The troops were useful, very useful, the troops kept apart the hordes they met upon the roads. Hordes, hordes, some mere seekers after curiosity. “Master, Master, what happened?” — Some, so many some as to exhaust all pity. “Master, hast ‘ee heard of such a one? my son? my daughter? my sister’s son? Master, master, has thee heard?” He had not heard. And those who asked him naught, and told him naught, but did their best to avoid the soldiery, men of grom glance with many an unsaddled horse and mule and many an empty sack and cask and box, for who knows what they had hoped to find, for the tugging out and for the picking up? Nor did they dare purse lips to phrase the words their faces and their glances saith well enough: salvage . . . plunder . . . loot …

Later, then, Vergil sitting, blank, exhausted, in his chair in rented rooms, now and then some thought coming straying to his wasted mind, as
Cadmus was made king in order that the king must die, there being no greater sacrifice than the sacrifice of a king,
or . . . many times, uselessly uselessly:
Whence came Cadmus, and what his early tale?
. . . there came again Iohan, all but dead with trudging and fatigue and latent, latent shock, saying:

“Master, Fulgence gives you full quittance for the steed, and he says, says Fulgence, ‘There is no accompt, all is paid; if you are well, it is well, and he is well …’ ”

Some long while silence buzzed in Vergil’s ear. Then he arose. “Iohan, youth is your blessing and youth shall be your cure, so lie you down and rest; I shall be some small while gone.” And down he went the ladder to the level ground, and began to walk the streets, no destination in his mind, no purpose, no explanation, only some thought of the few coins still in his purse: how he would divide them with the boy, and then — But there was, really, no “… and then …” — Whom should he meet?

A woman, certainly not young, surely not yet old: the favored house-servant of the Matron Gunsedilla; what was the she’s name? He knew it not; she knew him well. Up she flung her arms, and “Ah! Master Vergil! the gods be praised for having brought you safe again, grains and incense and drops of the best wine I will be offering them, for glad I am to see you — ”

“Woman — ”

“You will sure and soon come visit, ser? An old servant and a faithful one, I has my privileges, ser, I must tell you straight, matron has missed you, master. ‘Missed you,’ what do I say? Matron has languished, master. Since you gone away, ser, to tell the truth, and it’s a funny thing of me, master, ser, that I
must
tell the truth, let them as like it not, lick — but let me mind me mouth, ser mage and master ser. Since you gone away, matron, she keeped to her room, she keeped to her room the untire time, master, and hardly scarce she eat a thing. To tell the truth, master.”

Last of all which he would hear: the tale of the Matron Gunsedilla. Her image came into his mind, he thrust it away, he confused it, he did not confuse, he was perhaps going mad, why should he not go mad, the image of the Matron Gunsedilla did not come clear into his mind at all, it was imposed upon, it lay beneath, the image of the mare….

Prima, was that the mare’s name? It made no difference. The way the matron turned her head and rolled her eyes, the way the mare rolled her eyes as she turned her head, the recollection that Matron Gunsedilla had studied magic:
how — !

As though he read it on some fresh-writ scroll, clearly it now came to him: how she, being aware of the plot to bring him to Averno, but being unable to prevent it, in order to see him safe thither and safe there and safe thence, she had not only, somehow, caused the stallion, Hermus, to be ill, but she had, by the same and by whichever art, call it metamorphosis or — no, not quite shape-shifting — call it by whatever name, she had inhabited the body of the mare. Until that last moment when he had thanked the mare.

This, she, Gunsedilla, had done for him; this was the way her seemingly mad dash had saved him, had saved Iohan; could she, have anyone, have done more for him? Why had she done it? The reasons obvious, though the means complex. What could he now, henceforth, do for her? The answers obvious, though the question complex. Walking the narrow and the broader streets, he thought of all of this, and long he thought of all of this. At length he concluded that he, if he would not do more, could certainly not do less, than he had done before.

He would continue, not often, but as often as before, stop by of an afternoon, and discuss aubenry, envoûtement, white magic so called, and this and that and that and this. He would continue, as often as before, if not often, to come now and then of an evening to attend at the readings from Homer. And, however much, however often, he might feel at least a bit impatient, however much he might wish to ignore, when those very slightly protuberant eyes would roll his way, and ask their invariable and inevitable question, he would not ignore it, nevermore could he ignore it; he would reply, as always and as before:

“Yes, madame. Indeed, Matron. It was very well done, madame.

“Indeed …”

As before.

Aurelio.

Had his, Vergil’s, feet carried him this far? To the new house he had builded for the freedman Aurelio? And such different, cleanlier, more worthy task, than that which came his way next! No. Aurelio was not sitting in his new house, Aurelio was but sitting on the barber’s bench, awaiting his turn to be trimmed and shaved. Aurelio rose and bowed and gave a cheerly friendly smile, gesturing Vergil should sit beside him; Vergil did. Vergil saw no signs in the goodly old man’s face of any toil or torment or of sorrow. Aurelio was perhaps, probably, not even aware that Vergil had left. So be it.

“Aurelio …”

“Ser. I hope I see you well, me ser.”

“Aurelio — ”

“Your new gray cap befits you well, me ser.”

What babble was this? For so soon the words were said, Vergil, though well he knew he wore no cap, brushed hand over head: no cap. Again:

“Aurelio. As to your adopted daughter.”

The old man nodded. Perhaps his blue eyes were not quite so clear. Age, with hast’ning steps — “Yes, sir, it has been done. It has been done, it has been registered, she be my daughter now as long I’ve planned, and we lives in that good house together with two good servants. And, by and by — ”

“You spoke of chosing a groom-to-be for her, from the prentices of the better trades, Aurelio.”

“I did, ser. And, ser, I shall. Fact: I’d begun already. None as I’ve found, as yet. But there be time, ser. There be time.”

Something there was in Vergil’s mind, something more than family chitter and chatter in a barber’s shop. What. Anon it came to him. “Aurelio. What think you of the arts of fire and metal?”

A serious and considering look upon the old man’s face. But not a puzzled one. “Why, ser, why, master, as for them, I’ve naught but great respect for them. It be no gewgaw, gimcrack trade, covering gingerbread with gold leaf or dipping marchpanes in honey. It be’s a manly and a steady thing, as must last forever. Ah, Messer Vergil, they be clever, canny things, them arts of fire and metal.”