Vergil in Averno: Book Two of the Vergil Magus Series (6 page)

Though this time he wore no striped robe, but tunic and hose of solid hue.

— And all this while and, he, Vergil, now stopped his thoughts full stop and harked him back a ways, and yet a ways, and yet a ways beyond that, and all this while and he could not say for how long a while, save that it was and had been long. He now bethought him that he had heard at all times, now near, now far, not alone the incessant poundings of the forge-hammers and the fulling-mallets; he had heard in addition the endless cries of this as of all cities; but gradually now and at last swiftly it seemed to him that all the while he had heard also music, and not the formal strains of some solemn hymn processional nor the like of shrine or temple — gay, brash, Dionysic, now dim, now clear; he had declined to think on it.

Now, for one long moment (he could not say how long a moment), he had thought on nothing else.

His mind, stopped short, like the passage of a dog on a chain, was caught off-balance; soon enough it recovered. Where was the oddly knowing fellow who — ? He was nowhere to be seen, was where? What was to be seen were the Civic Orator and assistant-boy, the small crowd that had collected, and on every face a meaning that Vergil required no divination to grasp. The small crowd, sensing it was time, set up a rusty growl of
“Boons! Boons! Boons!”
such as he had heard before, but now and here they were accompanied by no pretenses, no mention of
Lord
, “great,” or otherwise: nothing. A demand it was, no more. So Vergil slipped a piece of silver swiftly into one of the Orator’s hands (who, doubtless desiring to have both hands free, had already slipped his scroll into the presently free hand of his boy, who was now unable to scratch at all), and into the other a handful of birdies. Orator, with a few feints indicating in which direction he intended the distribution to be thrown, the crowd gathered thither — the Orator threw and, with a nod and a word of thanks, got him thence at no slow crawl. The crowd uglied each other as they sprawled and grappled for the small coins, and the few who muttered anything to Vergil muttered nothing kind. Had he given more, more they had demanded; had he given much, they had rabbled him for all.

He mounted the mare. The sight of him on horseback seemed to end the matter for the crowd, which at once ceased to be a crowd at all. “And I had to kick one away,” said Iohan, “for that he’d growed some extra little hands and was groping by the saddlebags, and a other I believe Prima woulda trod upon, but fall away so fast he did.”

Vergil nodded. He had been about to say something, some while back. No. He had said it. What was it? He knew only when he heard himself saying it again.

“We must find an inn.”

And, whilst the boy was in the stable attending to the mare, there in the taproom, someone else was found. “Ah,” said Vergil softly. “So here you are.”

“Yes, Master Vergil. The wine is better here.”

• • •

The wine is better here
. Of what did this at once remind him, other than that the wine had been the common wine of poor folk’s daily diet? . . . Where last (and first) they’d sipped . . . for remind him of something else at once, most certainly it did. As though a pole were thrust into a murky pool and touched some . . . something . . . which had by the mere touch been shifted; little would one’s sense of what it might be be conveyed through the gross medium of the pole; and yet . . . and yet . . .
The wine is better here.
That is, better than
there
. What was there about the wine there which . . .
No
. Here
or
there. The wine. Warmed in a crude hot-water bath, over a small charcoal brazier. Bath.
Bath.
A voice in his ear said,
Wash.

Wash!
the voice had said.

But there was no one at his ear.

There had
been
no one at his ear.

Here.

Or there.

So it had not happened. So it was yet to happen.

As Iohan would have put it:
Therefore
— one could only wait for it to happen.

• • •

“The wine is better here,” the man said, but said it with no hint that it was much better, here. “It would have to be.
There
, one may at least now and then stroll a few paces and look at the Bay. No matter how wretched one’s life, how hard one’s work,
there
, surely one may steal a moment now and then and see the Bay. Here one may only drink.” He drank. “And work.”

Vergil felt no need to wonder which the man did most.

An inn, almost by definition, is mostly for the convenience of travelers, which is to say . . . usually . . . people from elsewhere. Avernians, having doubtless their own taverns and wineshops, evidently did not much patronize this particular inn; and although the man sitting across the table spoke with distinct traces of the thick local accent, he did not in any other way resemble the mass of local people whom Vergil had seen about in the streets, or, for that matter, elsewhere. Perhaps the man had read this in his mind or perhaps Vergil’s thoughts had been as clearly written on his face as by a style upon wax. Or even perhaps all this had happened to the man before, and he was thus able to anticipate questions unasked simply because they had been asked so often before that he knew they would be asked again. And when.

“There is little old blood in Averno,” he said; “but to the extent there is, I am of it. My father thought me puny, and yet I lived.” Saying this, he shrugged. “More than one warlock or practitioner of divination in its various forms has offered to discern how long I shall continue to, but I have declined. I have been afraid. Of what?” He shrugged. “Of being perhaps told that my life will be long. To live in Averno,
old?
Horrible!” He shuddered, and he shook his head.

“Old people seem rather scarce here,” Vergil murmured.

“Children are scarcer. Well! But we are very rich. And rich men may buy that which is beautiful even if they themselves are ugly, and among that which is beautiful which such men sometimes buy are beautiful women. They do not particularly buy beautiful men, even those some who favor men for partners in that act which has been called
love
. No, slaves fetched here are fetched for brawn. Endurance. Do you know what the foreman in any workplace here is called? Not the overseer or the manager or the captain, as in other places. No, he is called the Big Slave, even if he is not particular big or even if he is not a slave. Usually, though, he is both. Sometimes he is ugly, sometimes not, this is of no importance, it is important that he have a broad back and large arms and know well the work and be indefatigable in carrying it out. Well, it fairly frequently happens that such a man is freed by his master and adopted by his master (who, recall, will usually be childless). Though now and then one knows of a master, magnate or not, who has bothered both to take a wife and maintain her elsewhere. So he will have had his children there, if he has children, and sometimes they come back when they are grown, and — ”

There was an interruption. Men drinking and talking at another table raised their voices. “Cadmus is king!” said one.

“King of fools …”

“King. He is king.”

“King of mud.”

“King of mud or king of gold: king.”

“King of shit — ”

I have heard those words before; where? —

Before Vergil could recollect where, the first man, half-rising, struck the other down. And down he stayed. In a moment the talk and babble resumed, no one paying the matter any further attention. If the fallen one was living or dead, dead drunk, or only stunned, Vergil did not observe, as he had fallen into the shadows cast by the small and flickering lamps.

“ — and take up the trade, whichever trade it be. And sometimes they put it into the hands of the Big Slave. And sometimes, of course, they find it simpler to sell the works. And who buys it, generally? Another Big Slave, past or present. White or Black. So most of the magnates who govern this colony of hell have themselves been slaves. And of those who have spent a generation, at least, toiling at the stinking forge or the stinking dye-pots or the stinking tan-vats, one need not, must not, expect a great measure of delicacy. You will take this into account when you make your calls.”

Vergil said, “I have already made one call. One whom you mentioned — the only one whom you mentioned, the dyer Haddadius — says he has no need for such things wherein lie my skills.”

Two tables over someone, by his looks an Avernian, grunted and spread his legs and lifted his tunic and made water on the floor. No one gave it any notice. No one attempted to remedy the matter by emptying bucket or jug.

“So said Haddadius? So. No doubt he had his reasons, he — ”

Things were being pounded on the surface of another table: fists, mugs, dice-boxes, providing some arrhythmic accompaniment to the constant thuddings from the fire-fields. Vergil waited till the noise had somewhat abated. “And you, sir, no doubt have yours.” He perceived a degree of glaze upon the other’s eyes, was it drink alone? He had seen a one rather alike it on the eyes of bridegrooms; others, still akin, on the eyes of those who have been to uncheerful physicians. He spoke on. “What may your reasons have been, to send . . . or bring . . . me here by the methods which you have used . . . you alone? others? you and others? . . . methods, which, by the way, imply a measure of the same skills…. Eh? Why?”

A woman then passed by, stopped, stroked Vergil’s head once, twice, said, “How pale your face. How black your hair and beard.” He had begun, slowly, to look up, to extend his hand — too slowly. Some rough voice from another table hailed her, Vergil felt no more than his hand touch the edge of her sleeve as she moved away. He looked back to his host, who shrugged without ceasing to drink, then said, “Why? Well, in part to pique your interest. Was it piqued? Oh, so. And in part . . . well, had it been simply suggested that you come here because a contract might be obtainable, would you, considering the place and its repute? Probably not, I think. So — ”

Of a sudden the heavy doors were flung open and a man, a young man, who seemed far too slight to have done this, came in. He came in dancing, dancing he came in, and singing and clapping his hands, and he had small bells upon his hands and he had a crown upon his head. All rose and bowed. Despite the shock of the novel scene Vergil was able to concentrate attention upon the singing — it could not really have been called a song — but though now and then he made out words, and even, less often, sentences, the words together, even such of them as were not gibberish, made no sense. There was no coherency to them. There —

Vergil put his mouth close to the ear of the other man at his table.
“Who?”

“That is Cadmus.”

“Who is he?”

“He is king.”

“King of Averno. King of here.”

The King of Averno, whoever he might really be, he so called, suddenly took hold of one of the posts that supported the roof of the taphouse and began to swing about it as he sang; he slipped, staggered, ceased not to sing, but the crown had been jarred from his head and fell, and Vergil caught it. In a moment it was taken from his hands, and, still singing and dancing, jinging and ringing, Cadmus went away. Leaving some thoughts ringing, at least, in Vergil’s mind. King. Well. They were indeed in the Very Great Empire of Rome, and an emperor is by definition a king over kings; indeed, the Greeks had yet not formed a word for “emperor” and called the supreme ruler, still,
basil,
king, prefaced and followed of course by very many appellations. There were, it went for granted, kings with the Empery; some by treaty of annexation (a politer name for surrender), some by Imperial creation; seven kings elected the Emperor himself. And there were, going to the other extreme and passing by such as titular kings who, whilst living within the Empire, bore the titles of kingdoms outside of it, and passing over such as (not often) bore the curious and singular title of King Without Country, the traveling tribes of tinkers who had their kings. In more than one place was here one and there one who was called King of the Woods and taught by night beneath the great oaks such things as were never taught by light beneath the colonnade of the stoa. And there was of course in almost every city and town and at least once a year one who was acclaimed and called the King of Fools at the Feast of Fools (or, alternately, at the Feast of Unreason, the King of Unreason; in one or two, the Mad Feast and the Mad King), when much license was allowed — slaves free from fixed task, students wearing proctors’ gowns, prentice-boys a-playing the master . . . so on. If such feast, however named, was in season here, it might well be named the Mad Feast, for certainly if Cadmus was not mad; it was a most effective pretense, that.

The mood in the tavern, which had been lighter by far than before the Fool King’s coming, lapsed now again into the previous one of either raucous noise or sullen stupor. Gazing now into his own drink, Vergil said, “Those were not real jewels.”

“What, not? Assuredly they were real jewels. It is a real crown. He is a real king. He visited the Sicilian Sibyl and she told his fate. He was proclaimed and he was crowned.” So said the young Avernian. Vergil began to feel a slight bit in liquor. He gazed into his cup, and there he saw the face of Cadmus. The face of Cadmus was dark, but his eyes were light . . . so light, in fact, that almost one might have thought him blind, which he was not. But Vergil had for one full moment, as Cadmus took swiftly back his crown, gazed into those eyes: and although the eyes were light, the eyes had no light in them. “But,” said Vergil, “surely he is mad.”

“Assuredly he is mad,” said the other. “A man may be mad and may be king.” He drank again.

And drank again.

• • •

Later. Lurching slightly, into each other, as they walked the stinking streets preceded by a surly link-bearer — for not every sullen alley was graced by street-torches in fixtures — provided by the tavern for a fee, which, however small, was yet not so small as the fee he himself would get; and who much preferred, and let this be well known, to have sat in his kennel tossing down the heel-taps which the tapster collected for him on the dog-lick-dog principle. “This is not the night of the night market,” said Vergil’s companion. “And, truly, it is not a very interesting night market, anyway. No wonderful things are sold there, though often one wonders, next day, how one could have bought them…. Stop!” He stopped Vergil easily enough, but the troll with the torch affected not to hear, and stumped on. “Stop, you turd!” — this, high-pitched in a sudden drunken rage — ”Shall I have you
flogged
, you sow-sucking son of a serf?”