Lest Darkness Fall

by L. Sprague Camp

  "Go ahead and order. You'll have to take him by force, and I've got more force than you have." The chief beamed Billiken—like and twiddled his thumbs. "Clodianus, go fetch our illustrious city governor, if he's not too busy. We'll see whether we have authority over our own jail." The clerk departed. "Of course," the chief continued, "we might use Solomon's method."

  "You mean cut him in two?" asked the adjutant prefect.

  "That's it. Lord Jesus, that would be funny, wouldn't it? Ho, ho, ho, ho, ho!" The chief laughed shrilly until the tears ran down his face. "Would you prefer the head end or the legs end? Ho, ho, ho, ho, ho!" He rocked on his seat.

  The other municipal officers dutifully laughed, also; the adjutant prefect permitted himself a wan, bored smile. Padway thought the chief's humor in questionable taste.

  Eventually the clerk returned with the city governor. Count Honorius wore a tunic with the two purple stripes of a Roman senator, and walked with such a carefully measured tread that Padway wondered if his footsteps hadn't been laid out ahead of time with chalk marks. He had a square jaw and all the warmth of expression of a snapping turtle.

  "What," he asked in a voice like a steel file, "is this all about? Quick, now, I'm a busy man." And he spoke, the little wattle under his jaw wobbling in a way that reminded Padway more than ever of a snapper.

  The chief and the adjutant prefect gave their versions. The clerk dragged out a couple of law books; the three executive officers put their heads together and talked in low tones, turning pages rapidly and pointing to passages.

  Finally the adjutant prefect gave in. He yawned elaborately. "Oh, well, it would be a dreadful bore to have to drag him up to Ravenna, anyway. Especially as the mosquito season will be starting there shortly. Glad to have seen you, my lord count." He bowed to Honorius, nodded casually to the chief, and departed.

  Honorius said: "Now that we have him, what's to be done with him? Let's see that complaint."

  The clerk dug out a paper and gave it to the count.

  "Hm-m-m,"—and furthermore, that the said Martinus Paduei did most wickedly and feloniously consort with the Evil One, who taught him the diabolical arts of magic wherewith he has been jeopardizing the welfare of the citizens of the city of Rome-signed, Hannibal Scipio of Palermo.' Wasn't this Hannibal Scipio a former associate of yours or something?"

  "Yes, my lord count," said Padway, and explaining the circumstances of his parting with his foreman. "If it's my printing press that he's referring to, I can easily show that it's a simple mechanical device, no more magical than one of your water clocks."

  "Hm-m-m," said Honorius, "that may or may not be true." He looked through narrowed eyes at Padway. "These new enterprises of yours have prospered pretty well, haven't they?" His faint smile reminded Padway of a fox dreaming of unguarded henroosts.

  "Yes and no, my lord. I have made a little money, but I've put most of it back in the business. So I haven't more cash than I need for day-to-day expenses."

  "Too bad," said Honorius. "It looks as though we'd have to let the case go through."

  Padway was getting more and more nervous under that penetrating scrutiny, but he put up a bold front. "Oh, my lord, I don't think you have a case. If I may say so, it would be most unfortunate for your dignity to let the case come to trial."

  "So? I'm afraid my good man, that you don't know what expert interrogators we have. You'll have admitted all sorts of things by the time they finish . . . ah . . . questioning you."

  "Um-m-m. My lord, I said I didn't have much cash. But I have an idea that might interest you."

  "That's better. Lutetius, may I use your private office?" Without waiting for an answer, Honorius marched to the office, jerking his head to Padway to follow. The chief looked after them sourly, obviously resenting the loss of his share of the swag.

  In the chief's office, Honorius turned to Padway. "You weren't proposing to bribe your governor by chance, were you?" he asked coldly.

  "Well . . . uh . . . not exactly—"

  The count shot his head forward. "How much?" he snapped. "And what's it in—jewels?"

  Padway sighed with relief. "Please, my lord, not so fast. It'll take a bit of explaining."

  "Your explanation had better be good."

  "It's this way, my lord: I'm just a poor stranger in Rome, and naturally I have to depend on my wits for a living. The only really valuable thing I have is those wits. But, with reasonable kind treatment, they can be made to pay a handsome return."

  "Get to the point, young man."

  "You have a law against limited-liability corporations in other than public enterprises, haven't you?"

  Honorius rubbed his chin. "We did have once. I don't know what its status is, now that the senate's authority is limited to the city. I don't think the Goths have made any regulations on that subject. Why?"

  "Well if you can get the senate to pass an amendment to the old law—I don't think it would be necessary, but it would look better—I could show you how you and a few other deserving senators could benefit handsomely from the organization and operation of such a company."

  Honorius stiffened. "Young man, that's a miserable sort of offer. You ought to know that the dignity of a patrician forbids him to engage in trade."

  "You wouldn't engage in it, my lord. You'd be the stockholders."

  "We'd be the what?"

  Padway explained the operation of a stock corporation.

  Honorius rubbed his chin again. "Yes, I see where something might be made of that plan. What sort of company did you have in mind?"

  "A company for the transmission of information over long distances much more rapidly than a messenger can travel. In my country they'd call it a semaphore telegraph. The company gets its revenue from tolls on private messages. Of course, it wouldn't hurt if you could get a subsidy from the royal treasury, on the ground that the institution was valuable for national defense."

  Honorius thought awhile. Then he said: "I won't commit myself now; I shall have to think about the matter and sound out my friends. In the meantime, you will, of course, remain in Lutetius' custody here."

  Padway grinned. "My lord count, your daughter is getting married next week, isn't she?"

  "What of it?"

  "You want a nice write-up of the wedding in my paper, don't you? A list of distinguished guests, a wood-cut picture of the bride, and so forth."

  "Hm-m-m. I shouldn't mind that; no."

  "Well, then, you better not hold me, or I shan't be able to get the paper out. It would be a pity if such a gala event missed the news because the publisher was in jail at the time."

  Honorius rubbed his chin and smiled thinly. "For a barbarian, you're not as stupid as one would expect. I'll have you released."

  "Many thanks, my lord. I might add that I shall be able to write much more glowing paragraphs after that complaint has been dismissed. We creative workers, you know—"

  When Padway was out of earshot of the jail, he indulged in a long "Whew!" He was swearing, and not with the heat, either. It was a good thing that none of the officials noticed how near he had been to collapse from sheer terror. The prospect of a stand-up fight wouldn't have bothered him more than most young men. But torture . . .

  As soon as he had put his establishment in order, he went into a huddle with Thomasus. He was properly prepared when the procession of five sedan chairs, bearing Honorius and four other senators, crawled up Long Street to his place. The senators seemed not only willing but eager to lay their money on the line, especially after they saw the beautiful stock certificates that Padway had printed. But they didn't seem to have quite Padway's idea of how to run a corporation.

  One of them poked him in the ribs and grinned. "My dear Martinus, you're not really going to put up those silly signal towers and things?"

  "Well," said Padway cautiously, "that was the idea."

  The senator winked. "Oh, I understand that you'll have to put up a couple to fool the middle class, so we can sell our stock at a
profit. But we know it's all a fake, don't we? You couldn't make anything with your signaling scheme in a thousand years."

  Padway didn't bother to argue with him. He also didn't bother to explain the true object of having Thomasus the Syrian, Ebenezer the Jew, and Vardan the Armenian each take eighteen per cent of the stock. The senators might have been interested in knowing that these three bankers had agreed ahead of time to hold their stock and vote as Padway instructed, thereby giving him, with fifty-four per cent of the stock, complete control of the corporation.

  Padway had every intention of making his telegraph company a success, starting with a line of towers from Naples to Rome to Ravenna, and tying its operation in with that of his paper. He soon ran into an elementary difficulty: If he wanted to keep his expenses down to somewhere within sight of income, he needed telescopes, to make possible a wide spacing of the towers. Telescopes meant lenses. Where in the world was there a lens or a man who could make one? True, there was a story about Nero's emerald lorgnette . . .

  Padway went to see Sextus Dentatus, the froglike goldsmith who had changed his lire to sesterces. Dentatus croaked directions to the establishment of one Florianus the Glazier.

  Florianus was a light-haired man with a drooping mustache and a nasal accent. He came to the front of his dark little shop smelling strongly of wine. Yes, he had owned his own glass factory once, at Cologne. But business was bad for the Rhineland glass industry; the uncertainties of life under the Franks, you know, my sir. He had gone broke. Now he made a precarious living mending windows and such.

  Padway explained what he wanted, paid a little on account, and left him. When he went back on the promised day, Florianus flapped his hands as if he were trying to take off. "A thousand pardons, my sir! It has been hard to buy up the necessary cullet. But a few days more, I pray you. And if I could have a little more money on account—times are hard—I am poor—"

  On Padway's third visit he found Florianus drunk. When Padway shook him, all the man could do was mumble Gallo-romance at him, which Padway did not understand. Padway went to the back of the shop. There was no sign of tools or materials for making lenses.

  Padway left in disgust. The nearest real glass industry was at Puteoli, near Naples. It would take forever to get anything done by correspondence.

  Padway called in George Menandrus and hired him as editor of the paper. For several days he talked himself hoarse and Menandrus deaf on How to Be an Editor. Then, with a sinking heart, he left for Naples. He experienced the famous canal-boat ride celebrated by Horace, and found it quite as bad as alleged.

  Vesuvius was not smoking. But Puteoli, on the little strip of level ground between the extinct crater of Solfatara and the sea, was. Padway and Fritharik sought out the place recommended by Dentatus. This was one of the largest and smokiest of the glass factories.

  Padway asked the doorman for Andronicus, the proprietor. Andronicus was a short, brawny man covered with soot. When Padway told who he was, Andronicus cried: "Ah! Fine! Come, gentlemen, I have just the thing."

  They followed him into his private inferno. The vestibule, which was also the office, was lined with shelves. The shelves were covered with glassware. Andronicus picked up a vase. "Ah! Look! Such clearness! You couldn't get whiter glass from Alexandria! Only two solidi!"

  Padway said: "I didn't come for a vase, my dear sir. I want—"

  "No vase? No vase? Ah! Here is the thing." He picked up another vase. "Look! The shape! Such purity of line! It reminds you—"

  "I said I didn't want to buy a vase! I want—"

  "It reminds you of a beautiful woman! Of love!" Andronicus kissed his fingertips.

  "I want some small pieces of glass, made specially—"

  "Beads? Of course, gentlemen. Look." The glass manufacturer scooped up a handful of beads. "Look at the color! Emerald, turquoise, everything!" He picked up another bunch. "See here, the faces of the twelve apostles, one on each bead—"

  "Not beads—"

  "A beaker, then! Here is one. Look, it has the Holy Family in high relief—"

  "Jesus!" yelled Padway. "Will you listen?"

  When Andronicus let Padway explain what he wanted, the Neapolitan said: "Of course! Fine! I've seen ornaments shaped like that. I'll rough them out tonight, and have them ready day after tomorrow—"

  "That won't quite do," said Padway. "These have to have an exactly spherical surface. You grind a concave against a convex with—what's your word for emery? The stuff you use in rough grinding? Some naxium to true them off . . ."

  Padway and Fritharik went on to Naples and put up at the house of Thomasus' cousin, Antiochus the Shipper. Their welcome was less than cordial. It transpired that Antiochus was fanatically Orthodox. He loathed his cousin's Nestorianism. His pointed remarks about heretics made his guests so uncomfortable that they moved out on the third day. They took lodgings at an inn whose lack of sanitation distressed Padway's cleanly soul.

  Each morning they rode out to Puteoli to see how the lenses were coming. Andronicus invariably tried to sell them a ton of glass junk.

  When they left for Rome, Padway had a dozen lenses, half plano-convex and half plano-concave. He was skeptical about the possibility of making a telescope by holding a pair of lenses in fine with his eye and judging the distances. It worked, though.

  The most practical combination proved to be a concave lens for the eyepiece with a convex one about thirty inches in front of it. The glass had bubbles, and the image was somewhat distorted. But Padway's telescope, crude as it was, would make a two-to-one difference in the number of signal towers required.

  About then, the paper ran its first advertisement. Thomasus had had to turn the screw on one of his debtors to make him buy space. The ad read:

  DO YOU WANT A GLAMOROUS FUNERAL?

  Go to meet your Maker in style! With one of our funerals to look forward to, you will hardly mind dying! Don't imperil your chances of salvation with a bungled burial! Our experts have handled some of the noblest corpses in Rome. Arrangements made with the priesthood of any sect.

  Special rates for heretics. Appropriately doleful music furnished at slight extra cost.

  John the Egyptian, Genteel Undertaker Near the Viminal Gate

  CHAPTER VI

  Junianus, construction manager of the Roman Telegraph Co., panted into Padway's office. He said: "Work"—stopped to get his breath, and started again—"work on the third tower on the Naples line was stopped this morning by a squad of soldiers from the Rome garrison. I asked them what the devil was up, and they said they didn't know; they just had orders to stop construction. What, most excellent boss, are you going to do about it?"

  So the Goths objected? That meant seeing their higher-ups.

  Padway winced at the idea of getting involved any further in politics. He sighed. "I'll see Liuderis, I suppose."

  The commander of the Rome garrison was a big, portly Goth with the bushiest white whiskers Padway had ever seen. His Latin was fair. But now and then he cocked a blue eye at the ceiling and moved his lips silently, as if praying; actually he was running through a declension or a conjugation for the right ending.

  He said: "My good Martinus, there is a war on. You start erecting these . . . ah . . . mysterious towers without asking our permission. Some of your backers are patricians . . . ah . . . notorious for their pro-Greek sentiments. What are we to think? You should consider yourself lucky to have escaped arrest."

  Padway protested: "I was hoping the army would find them useful for transmitting military information."

  Liuderis shrugged. "I am merely a simple soldier doing my duty. I do not understand these . . . ah . . . devices. Perhaps they will work as you say. But I could not take the . . . ah . . . responsibility for permitting them."

  "Then you won't withdraw your order?"

  "No. If you want permission, you will have to see the king."

  "But, my dear sir, I can't spare the time to go running up to Ravenna—"

  Another shrug. "A
ll one to me, my good Martinus. I know my duty."

  Padway tried guile. "You certainly do, it seems. If I were the king, I couldn't ask for a more faithful soldier."

  "You flatterer!" But Liuderis grinned, pleased. "I regret that I cannot grant your little request."

  "What's the latest war news?"

  Liuderis frowned. "Not very—But then I should be careful what I say. You are a more dangerous person than you look, I am sure."

  "You can trust me. I'm pro-Gothic."

  "Yes?" Liuderis was silent while the wheels turned. Then: "What is your religion?"

  Padway was expecting that. "Congregationalist. That's the nearest thing to Arianism we have in my country."

  "Ah, then perhaps you are as you say. The news is not good, what little there is. There is nobody in Bruttium but a small force under the king's son-in-law, Evermuth. And our good king—" He shrugged again, this time hopelessly.

  "Now look here, most excellent Liuderis, won't you withdraw that order? I'll write Thiudahad at once asking his permission."

  "No, my good Martinus, I cannot. You get the permission first. And you had better go in person, if you want action."

  Thus it came about that Padway found himself, quite against his wishes, trotting an elderly saddle horse across the Apennines toward the Adriatic. Fritharik had been delighted at first to get any kind of a horse between his knees. Before they had gone very far his tone changed.

  "Boss," he grumbled, "I'm not an educated man. But I know horseflesh. I always claimed that a, good horse was a good investment." He added darkly: "If we are attacked by brigands, we'll have no chance with those poor old wrecks. Not that I fear death, or brigands either. But it would be sad for a Vandal knight to end in a nameless grave in one of these lonely valleys. When I was a noble in Africa—"

  "We aren't running a racing stable," snapped Padway. At Fritharik's hurt look he was sorry he had spoken sharply. "Never mind, old man, we'll be able to afford good horses some day. Only right now I feel as if I had a pantsful of ants."