It would be possible, of course, for one side to cheat the other, simply to take all, and speed away.
But if so, then there is never again that trade on that beach. Only the waiting arrow, the poised spear, and the silent, poisoned point.
Was it the incessant thumping of hammer on forge that brought Vergil to a full stop? Why now? The beat of the pounding mingled in his mind with the, imagined but a moment ago, beat of drums on a distant shore. What? Which? He shook his head impatiently, the image would not come; deep it lay, and it would not rise. With one short sigh he walked on. And up a rough ramp. And up a few rough steps. And up a short, very short wooden ladder. And then in, or on, the platform before the room that was the countinghouse of Rano. Even as he came up he heard the professional mumble from within, such as, with copious variation according to circumstance and situation, he might hear in any countinghouse:
“… fifth day of the month . . . of the year of the Reign . . . second indiction …”
“… such-and-such a quantity of packing-straw and so many and so many canvas packing-cases …”
“… to hire of six mules for two days at thus-and-so a rate per mule per day, and thus much more for fodder per mule …”
“… and three score plus one-half one score of lance-head blanks made after the fashion of Florence, per accompt of a Saracen merchant of Málaga …”
“… this ink is too thick, my ser …”
“… piss in it, then …”
“… ten sheets of tin from Beritinia, alike beknownst as Tinland, of the quality costing 12 florins per quintal …”
“Where is the bill for the accompt of Mahound? Not yet ready? Why always tell they me, ‘Not yet ready?’ A score I have me, clerks, yet, always, always, ‘Not yet ready: Ready? Not.’ Me Herc! Me Herd!”
“If you would listen, Frog. To me, Frog, if you would listen. The system of numbers and of algorithm, new, new, new! A tithe of the time ‘twould take, O Frog Thy Herd! Thy Herd!”
“Clerks can no learn your new numbers. Talk me not of such. — Who? Is coming, who?”
And there within was Rano.
Vergil entered. “Get out,” Rano said at once. The command was not meant for the visitor, for at once the clerks arose, and left tablet and stylus, abacus and record-rolls, talley-sticks and ledger-books; thus, three men left in that space, not closed but closable. The third remained with pen poised over papyrus as though he had not heard his master speak; any moment Vergil expected the command to be repeated; it did not come. But when this sole servant raised his head and looked, all was clear. All was clear from the deep-seamed skin and hairless cheeks and chin and indeed from the very folds about the very eyes. It was death to make eunuchs in the Empire. But it was not death to buy and own those already made. As such had no families and could have none, they were deemed safest of servants, not alone in regard to women, but in regard to money as well . . . and did not both temptations go so often together? This one looked a moment at Vergil and for that moment in that look Vergil had some strong intimation that he was seeing and being seen by something not entirely human; the face and gaze, perhaps, of some ancient and immensely sapient being, but one whose sapience was of a clean different order than those of men and women. Then the eunuch’s look went back to his book, and the pen descended and the voice began again to mutter, voice as high as a woman’s yet as strong as a man’s.
One thousand florins per annum per physician Adserovio, payable quarterly and due the third day instant, videlicet 250 florins plus monies laid out for medications by said physician as follows: for zedoary . . . aloes . . . liquid of myrrh…. And the voice became as low as the buzzing of bees and perhaps no longer represented so much individual words as a mere sound ancillary to the process of calculation and thought.
Rano was on his feet, facing Vergil, facing him close, “Master Mage,” said Rano, “if you will do something for me that you will don’t do for any other, then I will give you golds.” He made an odd, abrupt gesture. Vergil followed its direction. And indeed he did see “golds,” scores and scores he saw of them; they lay upon the worn and checkered cloth surface of the table where the eunuch sat and wrote, and now and then, with his humming rising to an odd and singular singsong mutter, the eunuch swept some into one column and some into another, swept to one side, one, and to another side, another; he paid them no more especial attention than had they been counters in a game. And why should he? Perhaps they were. What else were they to him? What, for that, was anything? Eunuchs were said to love arithmetic, and it was well they did and could: for what else could they love which asked no more of them than that it be put and kept in order?
“What one thing had you in mind to have done, Magnate — ”
This far had Vergil gotten, and time had had to savor some different scent and odor (fainter, though) than the smoke and stench and the sweet airs, to realize, if only half-realize, it was the papyrus and the parchment and the ink (not, certainly, the golds anymore than the silvers and the coppers; suddenly he understood that pecunia non olet, “money’s got no smell,” was not merely an expression of an economic attitude, it was a statement of physical fact). Thus far had he gotten with question and with thought, when the magnate broke in on both. Rano grimaced, but it was not with anger, not even so much as impatience, as of simple earnestness. “It is not some one thing I have in mind, in my mind, no! Master Mage! Wizard! You see, seen, will see …” Was the man reciting some paradigm or declension? No, he was trying, striving, he was struggling, to bring his own thoughts into order, and an order that would cover all possibilities. “… things I don’t. Can’t. See. I cannot know. You can. Know. And when you will be knowing, if you don’t tell some others, if you tell only me, if you will do this for me, for me: I will, I will give you golds. Not a coin and a robe. Not two coins, two robes. But many, master. Man-y. Many golds — ”
And the eunuch said, sans even looking up, in his strange and rich and, yes, even so: his sweet voice (now one had time and chance to think on it, strong and sweet): “There are many. Oh yes. There are many. Frog has many. Many many. Many manies of manies. Many golds, has Frog.” And his pen dipped and scratched.
“You see,” said Rano. Toad or frog, there was certainly something batrachian about him; were there a family Rano, what a chorus they might croak, creek, crack; but he had no children, only the one wife. Suddenly thinking of Rano’s wife, a rictus took hold of Vergil’s mouth; he swallowed, felt his throat dry, could not stop the movement. Visible, audible. Rano saw and heard.
“Eh? Sir?” The magnate moved, ugly face eager. “Agreed? On account? A purse of twenty? A purse of sixty? Make up a purse!” He turned to . . . turned upon, almost . . . the eunuch. Who did so with not so much as a struggle or a shrug, merely a gesture, neither whose beginning nor end did Vergil clearly follow; somewhere the man’s hand had moved, suddenly it was not moving: The palm sat open on the table with its checkered cloth on which gold coins moved from square to square, and in the palm sat one of those purses (contents already arranged) used in high commerce, long and narrow and sealed with sundry seals, one of them surely Imperial. “Weigh,” urged Rano. “Put it in your hand. Or — trust me not, break seals and count and then weigh — ” If this was not passion, it was something so very close to it that it would serve its place.
Vergil stepped back one step and one step away, held up his own hand, palm facing out and up, and one hand he thrust behind his back: without thought his fingers writhed, making, first, the fig; and then: the horns. Could Rano see either? Rano saw something, for Rano stopped.
“Magnate, Magnate.” Vergil ceased. Why was he so affected? He could hear his pulses beating in his ears, he had been offered bribes before, though not here — was this a bribe? “The Very Rich City of Averno has engaged me to give an answer to a certain problem. The answer to this problem would be the best thing I could do for all of you, and so, for any of you. Details await further discovery, and application requires much work. But ev
ery thing which I see, have seen, if not indeed all that I may yet see, either I have presented to all of you of the Magnatery, or, having in the future come to see it, must present to the Magnatery. To all of you. You offer me much gold, and I hope to receive much gold. I have already deserved that. But whatever I may find and see about how best to cap and to pipe and to conduct the fires and heats and fireable gasses, the hot spring waters, from wherever they may be or may come to be, to every magnate’s works . . . why . . . ser . . . Magnate Rano . . . there is no way that this, or any of this, could be told to you alone. And not to others.”
If there had been some thought, had there been some thought, very likely there had been some thought in Rano’s mind at first that Vergil was willing to bargain: that Vergil would not accept the first set of iron bangles, knives and hatchets, ruddy cloth, set down upon the sand. But as Vergil went on speaking, he saw that Rano realized this was not the case. Rano had not understood Vergil. Vergil had not understood Rano. “Ah, that. That. No.” His warty, webby hand swept it away behind him. “Some other thing. Some thing, other. Some new. Different, a different thing. A thing, else. You, Wizard, but not one thing only, to see. You will, you will.” He struggled with his wide mouth, his eyes bulged more, he paddled his hands; he looked for help; he looked at the eunuch.
“ — discover — ” the eunuch said.
Not even looking up, nor stopping the scritch-scrotch of his pen (what was the pen writing? — what odd signs?), the moving of the golden coins across the checkered table.
The word was accepted without further examination; Rano swept on, “And this when you discover, you will not tell an, you will tell not others. Only me you will tell, you will tell me . . . me . . . me …”
Thoughts moved dimly at that moment in Vergil’s mind, but they moved swiftly. It was far from impossible that he might indeed make some discovery aside and apart from the one central thrust of his intent so far. Something not covered by his engagement to the Very Rich City. Something else. In which case — What came to his mind, in which case, was something that almost swept him off his feet; literally, off his feet — almost. For a thought moved him, and as he moved he set a foot forward and the foot somehow stumbled and he stumbled. Rano at once moved forward and reached and took hold of him; they came together in an instant, hand in hand and body against body. Rano’s face moved, too, something glittered in his eyes, his mouth changed, something was moving the outlines of the mouth and reshaping the outlines of the eyes; Rano was about to move mouth closer to ear, and to offer. What, to offer?
The eunuch began to rise. He rose and rose and still he was rising, he was on his feet, hands pushing away from desk as he began to straighten up, and still it was not over. The eunuch was not eunuch-fat, that was mostly myth; the man was eunuch-tall, it was no myth, he was far closer to seven feet tall than to merely six. And as he stretched to his full height he said, in a rich and ringing voice, “The King!” All about, the tambours beat, and Cadmus entered with a train of state. The gaze was steady and the color clear. He was not mad today. He was not mad at all.
• • •
The robes and the chains of linked medallions worn by some of those who had come in with Cadmus would have led Vergil at once to assume, had this all been elsewhere, that such men were members of a greater or a lesser Grand Council of some municipium, or leaders of guilds, if not both. But in Averno there was no Grand Council, lesser or greater, there were only the magnates; there were not even any guilds. The power of the magnates covered the ground, and they and it allowed no room for anything else . . . not even for the Lousepickers’ Guild as mentioned in the graffito at the tiny tavern in the port town where Vergil had first met Armin. Thought before thinking caused Vergil’s eyes to scan the group: yes. Armin was there. And very grave and dignified he looked, too. And he too wore a robe and chain . . . as though holding office, though there was, in Averno, no such office he could hold. And then, Vergil and Rano standing side by side, still, though no longer face to face, Cadmus came close up to them. His clear eyes considered Vergil, but he did not change expression. What he had to say was to be said to another.
“Rano. Magnate. Man Hear Our Royal will. We have consulted. We have advised and been advised. Very soon We intend to speak with Our Liege, the Emperor; meanwhile, thus it is: All born here, and all held to service or labor here for the space of twenty year, are to be citizens of here. The benefits, and all the benefits, of Citizens of Rome, Rano, are to be holden . . . here . . . by such citizens of Averno. And all those thus worn by labor are to receive bread, Rano, for they are men, Rano. And when you and all your fellow-magnates have assented, Rano . . . magnate . . . man . . . then we shall speak again and further, Rano. Meanwhile, and at once, Rano: Let it be done.”
He turned and he went down the ladder, the steps, and the ramp, and along the long passageway that led to the warehouse’s outer door.
Meanwhile all the trumpets sounded and all the tambours beat.
Rano looked, after some long bemusement, once again at Vergil. Whatever had been in his eyes and in his mouth before was not there. His face moved, though. His mouth moved. His manner showed neither secret confidence nor anger, not even scorn. It did not even show amazement. “You see?” he said. “You hear? You …” Words failed him. One word, next, did not. “Mad,” he said, shaking his head. “Mad, mad, mad, mad, mad …”
• • •
Although it might seem that Averno was inhabited chiefly by masters and slaves, with many of the masters themselves once-slaves; as well as a surly rabble depending perhaps less on their daily dole of rather bad bread (with SPQR roughly indented on it just before baking) . . . and this only if, rabble or not, they were Roman citizens . . . than on either employment of a sort small different from outright theft, or on outright theft itself. — Still, in Averno, there were other sorts of people, of the sorts found elsewhere, almost every elsewhere. There were merchants, physicians, astrologers, superior craftsmen who produced detailed work (jewelers, blind or sighted, for example) such as the workshops of Averno’s magnates did not know. If there were no architects, if there were but a few who might be termed engineers in that they worked in such crude engines as the regular work of Averno need must have: presses, stamps, drills, looms, or what; if there were no painters, hardly, not counting those who spread white lime on walls with vast brushes or, often, merely mops; still, still, from the world outside Averno — how! was there still a world outside Averno? more than once, thus, Vergil bethought himself — came some small and unsteady influx of such arts as, principally, aliens denizened in Averno might desire.
So one day, he having chosen to go alone some short way on what proved to be a bootless errand, strolling idly (idle was his stroll, but not his mind) back to his apartments, he heard the familiar sounds of a trio of music sounding the sort of strains which advertise that a troop of traveling players is about to begin its show; to listen was to look, and so, rounding a corner — a process that occupied all his attentions, lest he slip on the stepping-stones and bemire himself in the filth and sludge — at last he lifted his eyes. Flute and lute and cymbals ceased almost at that moment, and prepared to go within whatever rented room was to be their theater . . . and where, no doubt, they would also play . . . one of them sounding a last call to the “citizens and residents and visitors in the Very Rich City who are very welcome to pay the most modest of prices and enter here to attend at The Great Play of Troy. …” A woman, one of two, cast an eye at him ere she and her companion and the musics, all, turned and went in. He followed.
Such cheap and popular theater, if it did not take too long, often amused him, if (as often) for no other reason than the immense difference between the classical readings from Homer and the bawdy buffoonery, half-improvised at the best, usually interlarded with such popular allusions as had most lately been thrust into the script. Several considerations worked at his mind; one was that his mind might well be the better for some little rest from the restless
chores with which he had been so deeply engaged; other considerations? For some reason, and he could just then say no more than some, the woman who had looked at him reminded him of a very curious story being told about Simon Magus and the woman whom he called (was said to call) Helen of Tyre . . . or of Troy. Third and last of the considerations was that there had been that something in this one’s look at him, before she turned and went inside, which had more in it than the mere automatic look at any man as any man has had more than once from any such a woman, half a strolling player and half a whore. Or did he flatter himself? Did he or did he not, in he went, the price was indeed very modest and he paid for three seats in order that he might be free of perhaps unwanted, say unpleasant, company in the seats to right or left.
The play itself was nothing. Mingled with lines from Homer such as not alone every schoolboy knew but many who had never been inside a schoolroom, and lines introduced now and then rather less because the play required them as to allow those who knew them to show they knew by reciting them half-aloud along with the actors; mingled with those were abridgments of entire scenes compressed into a paragraph; now and then touches for the popular taste, if “taste” was quite the word, such as an obsequious actor, if actor was quite the word, declaiming, “O Hail Great King Priam! Great and glorious art thou, O King! I tell that thou art indeed a god!” At which time see “King Priam” make his eyes grow large, rise from his throne, extract from beneath it a vessel of an obvious utility, scan it closely, and respond, “That’s not what me night-pot tells me!”
Raucous laughter from the cheapest seats, chuckles from the others, though ancient (and, indeed, rather honorable) the jest . . . jest now repeated with appreciation . . . many people could not at all appreciate a jest in silence (most, Vergil recalled, with an inner sigh, could not even read in silence; his own, to some, arcane, ability to do so had more than once been remarked upon).
Vergil in Averno: Book Two of the Vergil Magus Series Page 15
