Brazilian army ants, he added to himself. He had done almost no riding since his arrival in old Rome, and not a great deal in his former life. By the time they reached Spoleto he felt as if he could neither sit nor stand, but would have to spend the rest of his life in a sort of semi-squat, like a rheumatic chimpanzee.
They approached Ravenna at dusk on the fourth day. The City in the Mist sat dimly astride the thirty-mile causeway that divided the Adriatic from the vast marshy lagoons to the west. A faint sunbeam lighted the gilded church domes. The church bells bonged, and the frogs in the lagoons fell silent; then resumed their croaking. Padway thought that anyone who visited this strange city would always be haunted by the bong of the bells, the croak of the frogs, and the thin, merciless song of the mosquitoes.
Padway decided that the chief usher, like Poo-Bah, had been born sneering. "My good man," said this being, "I couldn't possibly give you an audience with our lord king for three weeks at least."
Three weeks! In that time half of Padway's assorted machines would have broken down, and his men would be running in useless circles trying to fix them. Menandrus, who was inclined to be reckless with money, especially other people's, would have run the paper into bankruptcy. This impasse required thought. Padway straightened his aching legs and started to leave.
The Italian immediately lost some of his top-loftiness. "But," he cried in honest amazement, "didn't you bring any money?"
Of course, Padway thought, he should have known that the man hadn't meant what he'd said. "What's your schedule of rates?"
The usher, quite seriously, began counting on his fingers. "Well, for twenty solidi I could give you your audience tomorrow. For the day after tomorrow, ten solidi is my usual rate; but that's Sunday, so I'm offering interviews on Monday at seven and a half. For one week in advance, two solidi. For two weeks—"
Padway interrupted to offer a five-solidus bribe for a Monday interview, and finally got it at that price plus a small bottle of brandy. The usher said: "You'll be expected to have a present for the king, too, you know."
"I know," said Padway wearily. He showed the usher a small leather case. "I'll present it personally."
Thiudahad Tharasmund's son, King of the Ostrogoths and Italians; Commander in Chief of the Armies of Italy, Illyria, and Southern Gaul; Premier Prince of the Amal Clan; Count of Tuscany; Illustrious Patrician; ex-officio President of the Circus; et cetera, et cetera, was about Padway's height, thin to gauntness, and had a small gray beard. He peered at his caller with watery gray eyes, and said in a reedy voice: "Come in, come in, my good man. What's your business? Oh, yes, Martinus Paduei. You're the publisher chap aren't you? Eh?" He spoke upper-class Latin without a trace of accent.
Padway bowed ceremoniously. "I am, my lord king. Before we discuss the business, I have—"
"Great thing, that book-making machine of yours. I've heard of it. Great thing for scholarship. You must see my man Cassiodorus. I'm sure he'd like you to publish his Gothic History, Great work. Deserves a wide circulation."
Padway waited patiently. "I have a small gift for you, my lord. A rather unusual—"
"Eh? Gift? By all means. Let's see it."
Padway took out the case and opened it.
Thiudahad piped: "Eh? What the devil is that?"
Padway explained the function of a magnifying glass. He didn't dwell on Thiudahad's notorious nearsightedness.
Thiudahad picked up a book and tried the glass on it. He squealed with delight. "Fine, my good Martinus. Shall I be able to read all I want without getting headaches?"
"I hope so, my lord. At least it should help. Now, about my business here—"
"Oh, yes, you want to see me about publishing Cassiodorus. I'll fetch him for you."
"No, my lord. It's about something else." He went on quickly before Thiudahad could interrupt again, telling him of his difficulty with Liuderis.
"Eh? I never bother my local military commanders. They know their business."
"But, my lord—" and Padway gave the king a little sales talk on the importance of the telegraph company.
"Eh? A money-making scheme, you say? If it's as good as all that, why wasn't I let in on it at the start?"
That rather jarred Padway. He said something vague about there not having been time. King Thiudahad wagged his head. "Still, that wasn't considerate of you, Martinus. It wasn't loyal. And if people aren't loyal to their king, where are we? If you deprive your king of an opportunity to make a little honest profit, I don't see why I should interfere with Liuderis on your account."
"Well, ahem, my lord, I did have an idea—"
"Not considerate at all. What were you saying? Come to the point, my good man, come to the point."
Padway resisted an impulse to strangle this exasperating little man. He beckoned Fritharik, who was standing statuesquely in the background. Fritharik produced a telescope, and Padway explained its functions. . . .
"Yes, Yes? Very interesting, I'm sure. Thank you, Martinus. I will say that you bring your king original presents."
Padway gasped; he hadn't intended giving Thiudahad his best telescope. But it was too late now. He said: "I thought that if my lord king saw fit to . . . ah . . . ease matters with your excellent Liuderis, I could insure your undying fame in the world of scholarship."
"Eh? What's that? What do you know about scholarship? Oh, I forgot; you're a publisher. Something about Cassiodorus?"
Padway repressed a sigh. "No, my lord. Not Cassiodorus. How would you like the credit for revolutionizing men's idea about the solar system?"
"I don't believe in interfering with my local commanders, Martinus. Liuderis is an excellent man. Eh? What were you saying. Something about the solar system? What's that got to do with Liuderis?"
"Nothing, my lord." Padway repeated what he had said.
"Well, maybe I'd consider it. What is this theory of yours?"
Little by little Padway wormed from Thiudahad a promise of a free hand for the telegraph company, in return for bits of information about the Copernican hypothesis, instructions for the use of the telescope to see the moons of Jupiter, and a promise to publish a treatise on astronomy in Thiudahad's name.
At the end of an hour he grinned and said, "Well, my lord, we seem to be in agreement. There's just one more thing. This telescope would be a valuable instrument of warfare. If you wanted to equip your officers with them—"
"Eh? Warfare? You'll have to see Wittigis about that. He's my head general."
"Where's he?"
"Where? Oh, dear me, I don't know. Somewhere up north, I think. There's been a little invasion by the Allemans or somebody."
"When will he be back?"
"How should I know, my good Martinus? When he's driven out these Allemans or Burgunds or whoever they are."
"But, most excellent lord, if you'll pardon me, the war with the Imperialists is definitely on. I think it's important to get these telescopes into the hands of the army as soon as possible. We'd be prepared to supply them at a reasonable—"
"Now? Martinus," snapped the king peevishly, "don't try to tell me how to run my kingdom. You're as bad as my Royal Council. Always 'Why don't you do this?', "Why don't you do that?' I trust my commanders; don't bother myself with details. I say you'll have to see Wittigis, and that settles it."
Thiudahad was obviously prepared to be mulish, so Padway said a few polite nothings, bowed, and withdrew.
CHAPTER VII
When Padway got back to Rome, his primary concern was to see how his paper was coming. The first issue that had been put out since his departure was all right. About the second, which had just been printed, Menandrus was mysteriously elated, hinting that he had a splendid surprise for his employer. He had. Padway glanced at a proof sheet, and his heart almost stopped. On the front page was a detailed account of the bribe which the new Pope, Silverius, had paid King Thiudahad to secure his election.
"Hell's bells!" cried Padway. "Haven't you any better sense than to print th
is, George?"
"Why?" asked Menandrus, crestfallen. "It's true, isn't it?"
"Of course, it's true! But you don't want us all hanged or burned at the stake, do you? The Church is already suspicious of us. Even if you find that a bishop is keeping twenty concubines, you're not to print a word of it."
Menandrus sniffled a little; he wiped away a tear and blew his nose on his tunic. "I'm sorry, excellent boss. I tried to please you; you have no idea how much trouble I went to to get the facts about that bribe. There is a bishop, too—not twenty concubines, but—"
"But we don't consider that news, for reasons of health. Thank heaven, no copies of this issue have gone out yet."
"Oh, but they have."
"What?" Padway's yell made a couple of workmen from the machine shop look in.
"Why, yes, John the Bookseller took the first hundred copies out just a minute ago."
John the Bookseller got the scare of his life when Padway, still dirty from days of travel, galloped down the street after him, dove off his horse, and grabbed his arm. Somebody set up a cry of "Thieves! Robbers! Help! Murder!" Padway found himself trying to explain to forty truculent citizens that everything was all right.
A Gothic soldier pushed through the crowd and asked what was going on here. A citizen pointed at Padway and shouted: "It's the fellow with the boots! I heard him say he'd cut the other man's throat if he didn't hand over his money!" So the Goth arrested Padway.
Padway kept his clutch on John the Bookseller, who was too frightened to speak. He went along quietly with the Goth until they were out of earshot of the crowd. Then he asked the soldier into a wineshop, treated him and John, and explained. The Goth was noncommittal, despite John's corroboration, until Padway tipped him liberally. Padway got his freedom and his precious papers. Then all he had to worry about was the fact that somebody had stolen his horse while he was in the Goth's custody.
Padway trudged back to his house with the papers under his arm. His household was properly sympathetic about the loss of the horse. Fritharik said: "There, illustrious boss, that piece of crow, bait wasn't worth much anyhow."
Padway felt much better when he learned that the first leg of the telegraph ought to be completed in a week or ten days. He poured himself a stiff drink before dinner. After his strenuous day it made his head swim a little. He got Fritharik to join him in one of the latter's barbarian warsongs:
"The black earth shakes As the heroes ride, And the ravens Mood-Red sun will hide! The lances dip In a glittering wave, And the coward turns His gore to save . . ."
When Julia was late with the food, Padway gave her a playful spank. He was a little surprised at himself.
After dinner he was sleepy. He said to hell with the accounts and went upstairs to bed, leaving Fritharik already snoring on his mattress in front of the door. Padway would not have laid any long bets on Fritharik's ability to wake up when a burglar entered.
He had just started to undress when a knock startled him. He could not imagine . . .
"Fritharik?" he called.
"No. It's me."
He frowned and opened the door. The lamplight showed Julia from Apulia. She walked in with a swaying motion.
"What do you want, Julia?" asked Padway.
The stocky, black-haired girl looked at him in some surprise. "Why—uh—my lord wouldn't want me to say right out loud? That wouldn't be nice!"
"Huh?"
She giggled.
"Sorry," said Padway. "Wrong station. Off you go."
She looked baffled. "My—my master doesn't want me?"
"That's right. Not for that anyway."
Her mouth turned down. Two large tears appeared. "You don't like me? You don't think I'm nice?"
"I think you're a fine cook and a nice girl. Now out with you. Good night."
She stood solidly and began to sniffle. Then she sobbed. Her voice rose to a shrill wail: "Just because I'm from the country—you never looked at me—you never asked for me all this time—then tonight you were nice—I thought—I thought— boo-oo-oo . . ."
"Now, now . . . for heaven's sake stop crying! Here, sit down. I'll get you a drink."
She smacked her lips over the first swallow of diluted brandy. She wiped off the remaining tears. "Nice," she said. Everything was nice—bonus, bona, or bonum, as the case might be. "You are nice. Love is nice. Every man should have some love. Love—ah!" She made a serpentine movement remarkable in a person of her build.
Padway gulped. "Give me that drink," he said. "I need some too."
After a while. "Now," she said, "we make love?"
"Well—pretty soon. Yes, I guess we do." Padway hiccupped.
Padway frowned at Julia's large bare feet. "Just—hic—just a minute, my bounding hamadryad. Let's see those feet." The soles were black. "That won't do. Oh, it absolutely won't do, my lusty Amazon. The feet present an insur—insurmountable psychological obstacle."
"Huh?"
"They interpose a psychic barrier to the—hic—appropriately devout worship of Ashtaroth. We must lave the pedal extremities—"
"I don't understand."
"Skip it; neither do I. What I mean is that we're going to wash your feet first."
"Is that a religion?"
"You might put it that way. Damn!" He knocked the ewer off its base, miraculously catching it on the way down. "Here we go, my Tritoness from the wine-dark, fish-swarming sea . . ."
She giggled. "You are the nicest man. You are a real gentleman. No man ever did that for me before . . ."
Padway blinked his eyes open. It all came back to him quickly enough. He tightened his muscles seriatim. He felt fine. He prodded his conscience experimentally. It reacted not at all.
He moved carefully, for Julia was taking up two-thirds of his none-too-wide bed. He heaved himself on one elbow and looked at her. The movement uncovered her large breasts. Between them was a bit of iron, tied around her neck. This, she had told him, was a nail from the cross of St. Andrew. And she would not put it off.
He smiled. To the list of mechanical inventions he meant to introduce he added a couple of items. But for the present, should he . . .
A small gray thing with six legs, not much larger than a pin-head, emerged from the hair under her armpit. Pale against her olive-brown skin, it crept with glacial slowness . . .
Padway shot out of bed. Face writhing with revulsion, he pulled his clothes on without taking time to wash. The room smelled. Rome must have blunted his sense of smell, or he'd have noticed it before.
Julia awoke as he was finishing. He threw a muttered good morning at her and tramped out.
He spent two hours in the public baths that day. The next night Julia's knock brought a harsh order to get away from his room and stay away. She began to wail. Padway snatched the door open. "One more squawk and you're fired!" he snapped, and slammed the door.
She was obedient but sulky. During the next few days he caught venomous glances from her; she was no actress.
The following Sunday he returned from the Ulpian Library to find a small crowd of men in front of his house. They were just standing and looking. Padway looked at the house and could see nothing out of order.
He asked a man: "What's funny about my house, stranger?"
The man looked at him silently. They all looked at him silently. They moved off in twos and threes. They began to walk fast, sometimes glancing back.
Monday morning two of the workmen failed to report. Nerva came to Padway and, after much clearing of the throat, said: "I thought you'd like to know, lordly Martinus. I went to mass at the Church of the Angel Gabriel yesterday as usual."
"Yes?" That Church was on Long Street four blocks from Padway's house.
"Father Narcissus preached a homily against sorcery. He talked about people who hired demons from Satanas and work strange devices. It was a very strong sermon. He sounded as if he might be thinking of you."
Padway worried. It might be coincidence, but he was pretty sure that Julia had go
ne to confessional and spilled the beans about fornicating with a magician. One sermon had sent the crowd to stare at the wizard's lair. A few more like that . . .
Padway feared a mob of religious enthusiasts more than anything on earth, no doubt because their mental processes were so utterly alien to his own.
He called Menandrus in and asked for information on Father Narcissus.
The information was discouraging from Padway's point of view. Father Narcissus was one of the most respected priests in Rome. He was upright, charitable, humane, and fearless, He was in deadly earnest twenty-four hours a day. And there was no breath of scandal about him, which fact by itself made him a distinguished cleric.
"George," said Padway, "didn't you once mention a bishop with concubines?"
Menandrus grinned slyly. "It's the Bishop of Bologna, sir. He's one of the Pope's cronies; spends more time at the Vatican than at his see. He has two women—at least, two that we know of. I have their names and everything. Everybody knows that a lot of bishops have one concubine, but two! I thought it would make a good story for the paper."
"It may yet. Write me up a story, George, about the Bishop of Bologna and his loves. Make it sensational, but accurate. Set it up and pull three or four galley proofs; then put the type away in a safe place."
It took Padway a week to gain an audience with the Bishop of Bologna, who was providentially in Rome. The bishop was a gorgeously dressed person with a beautiful, bloodless face. Padway suspected a highly convoluted brain behind that sweet, ascetic smile.
Padway kissed the bishop's hand, and they murmured pleasant nothings. Padway talked of the Church's wonderful work, and how he tried in his humble way to further it at every opportunity.
"For instance," he said,"—do you know of my weekly paper, reverend sir?"
"Yes, I read it with pleasure."
"Well, you know I have to keep a close watch on my boys, who are prone to err in their enthusiasm for news. I have tried to make the paper a clean sheet fit to enter any home, without scandal or libel. Though that sometimes meant I had to write most of an issue myself." He sighed. "Ah, sinful men! Would you believe it, reverend sir, that I have had to suppress stories of foul libel against members of the Holy Church? The most shocking of all came in recently." He took but one of the galley proofs. "I hardly dare show it to you, sir, lest your justified wrath at this filthy product of a disordered imagination should damn me to eternal flames."
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