The Scarlet Fig: Or, Slowly Through a Land of Stone, Book Three of the Vergil Magus Series

by Avram Davidson

  The Scarlet Fig

  The Scarlet Fig

  Avram Davidson

  a division of F+W Media, Inc.

  Introduction

  THE SCARLET FIG is the third and last Vergil Magus novel to come from Avram Davidson’s pen. It is steeped in the millieu of its predecessor works, The Phoenix And The Mirror and Vergil In Averno, and — perhaps more comprehensively than any other of his works — in the knowledge, lore, mysteries and other enquiries that engaged Avram’s mind in the production of his magnum opus.

  As Avram explained in his introduction to The Phoenix and the Mirror: “From the Dark Ages to the Renascence the popular view of the ancient world as reflected in the Vergilean Legends was far from the historical and actual one in more than the acceptance of legend and magic and myth. It is a world of never-never, and yet it is a world true to its own curious lights — a backward projection of medievalism, an awed and confused transmogrification of quasi-forgotten ancient science.”

  This process of transmogrification takes place in THE SCARLET FIG in endlessly inventive ways; in the substitution of SQPR for SPQR, in the conflation of the two Diomedes (of Argos and of Thrace) into a single figure, in the delightful neologism of Byzantinople.

  The ancients held the world to be immersed in a “universal aether”, a sea of knowledge. Avram too existed in just such an aether: into this sea he would dip his nets and draw up the strangest of fish, and set them gently before his readers. One manifestation of this was the vast card files that Avram established to support his Vergil sequence (and for which Avram employed the working title The Encyclopaedia of the World of Vergil Magus), copiously cross-referenced, full of tangential connections and cryptic references across a huge array of source texts. A selection of these cards are reproduced in an appendix to this volume and they demonstrate the scale of Avram’s ambition for the Vergil sequence.

  Drawing from this unique resource, THE SCARLET FIG teems with all manner of wonders and strange notions, all vividly rendered: Castor and Pollux, harpies, basilisks, the satyr-infested Isle of the Lotophages, Sindibaldo, the origins of perspective, Phoenician dyes, the derivation of that most Dutch of birds — the Flemingoe, the magical powers of wand and twig (also known as virga, a play on Virgil in Latin).

  THE SCARLET FIG is in many ways a paean to the love of knowledge, of pure knowledge, the knowledge which gives meaning and context to our world. Vergil’s world is experienced as much through the gaining and giving — the interchange — of knowledge as it is experienced through Vergil’s physical journeying, adventures and sensations. This happy marriage of the intellect and the senses, viewed through the looking glass of “unhistory”, makes the THE SCARLET FIG one of the finest expressions of Avram Davidson’s art.

  Phillip Rose

  London, England.

  Contents

  I - Yellow Rome; or, Vergil and the Vestal Virgin

  II - The Port of Naples

  III - Isle Corsica

  IV- Young Vergil

  V - Interlude at Sea

  VI - The Region Called Huldah

  VII - A Pitcher of Silver and a Golden Bowl

  VIII - The Teeth of the Oliphaunt

  IX - The Scarlet Fig

  X - Isle Mazequa

  XI - Sea-Scene; or, Vergil and the Ox-Thrall

  XII - Tingitayne

  XIII - The Terrapetra

  XIV - The Soldier in the Desert

  XV - Alexandria

  Afterword by Grania Davis

  Appendices

  I - Quint’s Eye Ointments

  II - The Nine Roses of Rome

  III - In the Region Called Azania

  IV- The Great Globe

  V - The Encyclopaedia of the World of Vergil Magus

  Also Available

  Copyright

  I

  Yellow Rome; or, Vergil and the Vestal Virgin

  In Rome Yellow Rome! Yellow Rome! — a man was being led to public execution. Aristocrats might be quietly and secretly slain, but this was no aristocrat. Some common thug, a street-robber by night, or a house-breaker, thick and shambling, ill-made and ill-looking, he had killed a cobbler’s apprentice for a stiver — the smallest coin. The lictor went first, carrying the bundle of rods which might be used to flog the criminal (but wouldn’t) wrapped around the single-edged axe which might be used to cut off his head (but wouldn’t). It was a symbol only, and the lictor looked bored and disdainful. Next, arms bound behind him at the elbows, legs hobbled with ropes, the felon stumbled, followed, between two files of soldiers. Grasping him fast by a noose round his neck came the common hangman: one might have had them change clothes and places and scarcely told them apart.

  “Well, ‘one Vergil, a natural of Rome, and no mere denizen,’ do they have anything to do with this in Naples … I say nothing of the Bail of Brundisy …?” The wauling was Quint’s, to be heard above the clamor of the throng. There was in his voice some light and affectionate taunt that Vergil had not been born in the City itself but nearer to where he now lived by the great Voe of Naples than to Yellow Rome itself. The so-well-paved Appian Way went straight and strait between Yellow Rome and Brundisy, but there branched off a branch of it for Naples. A young mage, not yet very well-established in his profession (or in public fame) did well to travel now and then to the Imperial capital, and gently press the thought that there was one (himself) useful to be friend of a friend (Quint) with a friend (the rich Etruscan) to the court Imperial, to the Oliphaunt Throne … not to be lightly named: whomsoever sate upon it.

  Vergil pressed his bearded lips to Quint’s smooth ear-hole, said loud and sharp, throngs and thugs, all right: but neither one was anything to this particular display.

  The throng howled, as the throng always would.

  “Chin up, cock! Brave it out!”

  “They’ll stretch that short neck!”

  “Hang the hangman! A louse for the hangman!”

  “You’ll scrag no more widdies nor prentices!”

  “Up tails all!”

  “Die! For a lousy stiver? Die! Die with a hard club, die!”

  The wretch’s face changed expression, but it changed slowly: now he had the sly look of a pig who had broken into a pea-patch, now he was pleased at the attention, now he scowled as some thick and gross insult struck home, now he looked desperately from side to side; always the hangy forced him on, as close to him as the butcher to the ox. All this passed before Vergil and before Quint, and they stood and looked on; Vergil was Quint’s guest, and Quint was the guest of Someone Important in Yellow Rome. Even a wizard, even if he did not want wealth, was willing to draw near to wealth, if he were young and new and scarcely known. And near to power, even if that sort of power he did not much want. Soon enough this procession would pass by, and then they would cross, cross safely on foot, for in Rome (and in Rome alone) no wheeled vehicle might pass through the streets in the day time.

  In that case, in a sudden silence, what hooves were those, and what wheels? Quint, that Roman of Romans, knew at once: and would tell Vergil soon enough … if he did not ask. The mob broke into noise again, its inalienable right, and though it was still shouting, it seemed to be shouting the same something, though not all at the same time. Half the yammering throng faced the nice little wagonette and its nice little mule, and the woman, half-veiled, who was in it. Her small slave-girl holding the sea-silk sunshade or ombello was beginning to be inattentive a bit and a bit the sunshade slipped.

  And half the vulgus faced
the procession and shouted and gestured, pointing, pointing —

  The lictor had strode on, eyes down; and in fact by then he had gotten ahead of the procession and seemed rather to have forgotten it: lictors, too, have their secret private thoughts.

  The soldiery slogged along in its fixed rhythms, paying no attention at all to the thing its ranks confined; probably thinking of the evening’s rations: bread, salt, garlic, parsley (growing in ruins and waste places, rank as weeds), wine, perhaps a bit of dried meat or a bit of dried fish — tunny harpooned in the bloody trapping pens, for instance, “from the rise of the rainy Pleiades* to the setting of bright Arcturus” — and the anticipated meal with its perhaps, treat, meant far more to them than any execution of a sentence of death. Death, to an old soldier, was more boring than exciting.

  The hangman, whose attention was so suddenly besought by many cries and movements, pressed on. Vergil noticed that the hangman pressed on.

  What Quint, with his blood shot eyes, pale thin face and dark thin hair, noticed, was not known to Vergil.

  Who made up the mob rabbling and howling? The meanest class of citizenry, whose leather badges and SQPR** stamped in gilt served to prove citizenship, made up the largest part. They had no money to buy anything and no mind to read anything, so a procession to the gibbet was an absolute gift for them.

  Men, too, from all the peoples of the Empery were there: fair Franks with long hair and Celts with short and Egyptians with none; pale Berbars from the Solitudes of Syrtica and of As’hara, sand as high as mountains and hills of solid stone pierced with holes where the Troglodytes live; dark Numidians who had seen the Sphynges flying in their thousands to drink of the waters at the sources of the Nile — of all other waters drink they not, of all the waters of Ægypt drink they not — and Gauls with bearded chops, the wailing of whose dead fills the islands and the highlands of the misty great green darkling Sea of Atlantis between shore to shore of whose vasty waters might no bird fly; and Æthiops with emeraulds in their ears. Many indeed could be seen (though not so many) to be aliens from outside the Empery, and even the Œconomium.

  Vergil was indifferent at seeing or smelling the so-called Foul or Infamous Crafts such as the knackers and the carriers of dogs’ dung for the tanneries, for he still had the muck of the farmyards and the fernbrooks on his legs and feet, and the odors of dead beasts and dung-heaps were fresher to his nose-holes than those of ambergrise and nard.

  And here and there, as so often of late (and some said, more and more often, and they darkly mumbled their gums about laws graven on the twelve Iron Tablets about the artificial production of monsters and other omens … no one of course was ever able to find such laws) here and there through the mass went wandering a satyr or a centaur of, say, the size of a goat-kid. There were no weanling Lapiths to be seen, however; and who would know one, had there been? memory of one Ciuco, a night-soil-man little wittier than a wittold, in Vergil’s home-hamlet in the Bail of Brundusy, who used to stop any one too purblind to avoid him, and confide, “My granddam, now, she seen a Laypith, she seen ‘un ‘ith a horn in the muddle o’ his forrid: which be the reason, she bein’ then six months gorn wi’ child, that I has six finger on my left ‘and.” What the logical, or even the illogical connection between the two things was, no one was ever able to conjecture; certainly all local priests denied that ever there had been stories — “myths”, you might call them — of monoceroid Lapiths; and neither was anyone, lay or cleric, able to credit Cluco’s being able to invent such a story. But, however invented, tell it he did, lustrum after lustrum, decade after decade, to whomever could not trot faster than he could, and who — usually was glad or let us say willing enough to avoid the presence of Ciuco, polydactylous or not (for rhododactylos assuredly he wasn’t, and neither was he rosy-scented) by the dole of a very small coin or a not-quite-so-small chunk of bread: at which see Ciuco become unseen; this may or may not have been more profitable than the night-soil business, but was certainly much easier.

  When one mentions the size of a goat-kid one refers to the centaurs, for the satyrs were man-sized, and very near each creature was someone (invariably a shill) mentioning confidentially the name of the thaumaturge who’d made it, in some such words as, “That ‘un’s the work of that same Septimus as keeps his crib atween Apollo’s Court and the Steps of Woe.” — why would anyone want a confected satyr or centaur? perhaps one of those newly-rich who kept a baby oliphaunt in his atrium might want one, and for the same reason: show.

  Thieves were there in the vulgus; as they could not steal the golden spikes from the ridge-poles of the temples and the other public buildings, they cut the thongs of purses with their knives so much sharper than mere razors; sellers of snacks were there, for many a man had neither cook nor kitchen to dress a meal of victuals, and if he turned aside into a cheap eating-place he might miss something: but whether a rabbleman stewed hog-palates in vinegar or cut the thongs of purses or did, as was the right of citizens, nothing at all, something there had now changed and perhaps everything had changed. But the hangman wished to behave as though nothing had happened. The lictor, whose attention was now besought by many cries and movements, strode on, eyes down, and in fact by now he had gotten away ahead of the procession. The hangman pressed on. A bit the woman’s sunshade slipped and a bit the veil, revealing to Vergil a face of such extraordinary loveliness and purity that his breath was stopped.

  The word coming up from the populus now was pardon: the hangman would not stop for it; why should he? He received the deadman’s clothes as a perquisite even if they were rags (and they were not always rags) they had their value and their price as ingredients of the Black Rite; he got to receive everything which was, or at the time of imprisonment had been, on the body of the dead-man-to-be; and he also received his fee for making the liveman’s body dead by pushing it off the ladder at the gibbet and at once leaping onto his shoulders and jumping up and down on them — thus assuring that the caitiff’s neck must break if it had not already broken by the drop. Of these benefits the hangman would receive none at all in case of pardon, so why should he stop for it? and lastly, it would deprive him of all the pleasure of the death scene: the hangman, howl the mob as it would, would not stop. And who might stop him?

  (The lictor, fasces bundled into his arms, was by now very far ahead, stooped, aloof, deep in thought: of what, who could say, perhaps that time there was, ere Roma’s woes began … perhaps not.)

  Who else? Himself, the August Caesar? where was he? not here. From what other place, then, did the musty multitude seem to think that help might arrive. The woman in the wagonette commenced to rise, in a slow and flowing motion like an hieratical dancer: though, perhaps actually not: only … somehow … it seemed so. The brute would not see her. Vergil caught her eye, and, again, that ambiguous impression, that impression deep yet perhaps false. Had he caught her eye at all? Erect, like a statue of the golden age, she seemed.

  The lictor, perhaps grown somewhat aware of the hideous shriek and hum from that mass of men — here and there some women: not trulls alone: vendors of fragrant citrons, of pickled samphire for relish, of sieves and baskets in many sizes, fishwives going down to the river to renew supplies of mullet and sardines and dogfish with double-lobed livers; others — the lictor turned: at once saw all. Quint, keenly enjoying everything, was telling Vergil nothing; scarcely he raised a thin and hairy hand to brush the ever-deliquescent ointment from his bleary eyes — his physicians were generally agreed twas from an excess of some humor, but they never yet agreed on which humor, though there were not many, but prescribed this salve or that; they might as well, Vergil thought, have told him to graze grass like an ox … whoever saw a blear-eyes ox? And, Ow! shouted the throng, and Yow! shouted the throng. “Pardon! Pardon!” it howled. And, ever and again, “Up-tails, all!” and “A louse for the hangman!”

  The hangman may or may not have gotten a louse (close-pressed in that stinking swarm, it would have been no surprise if he h
ad) but what he very quickly got was the lictor at his side; and the lictor said to him, more in astonishment than anger, “where are you going, turd of a toad? Don’t you see the high-born Virgin lady? Stop! — Or I’ll let the populus have you, and may they eat your arse sans salt.”

  The Vestal meanwhile remained standing in her wagon all but motionless, the very image of aristocratic calm and grace. Silence took a while. When things were almost silent, the felon seemed to emerge from his daze. One could almost read — no, one could read — the play of thoughts coursing over across his sword-slashed and much-confused face. Where was he? What was happening? Why had they stopped? Why was everything quiet? Answer: they were arrived and halted at the killing place; any minute now he might have a small and ill-tasting coin thrust into his mouth and feel nothing beneath his feet, and a sharp brief pain in his neck. With a sound like the lowing of a yearling ox he spread his hobbled legs, and pissed.

  The swarm went wild with laughter. Only the lictor’s leather and legal face, the vestal’s marmoreal countenance, did not change, for all that her little maid, hand hiding mouth, seemed to whisper in her ear. At length silence was again achieved, and in that silence — though the punks and pogues still rolled their painted eyes and smirked at potential clients — the Vestal rose completely to attention, put out her white arm and hand and in a lovely ringing tone declared, “I pardon that man.” No one word more. And sat down. It had been a completely legal formula, sans emotion. “I divorce you; herewith your dower-fund.” “Slave, thou art henceforth free.” “Bear witness: I sell this horse-stud to Lucas for six solids.” I pardon that man. Not one word more. And sat down.

  The crowd went wild again. A soldier in a swift second slashed the bonds about the elbows; another slightly stooped and severed those around the ankles, For a second more the thug gaped. Then he started to run at a stumbling trot. Many hands caught at him: he fought against them. Many cries of, “Not yet, man!”