“Why, on the sign, of course.”
“That’s English.”
“I beg your pardon. I’m English, and I like to fancy I’d recognize a compatriot if I chanced on one. No, that’s Latin, or I’m not a member of the Gliridae.”
Stretching its string, I lifted the party hat without removing it.
The sign was Latin.
I snapped the hat back.
The sign was English.
“Well, I’ll be damned—”
Suddenly, my awful fate dawned on me in its full magnitude. Any lingering drunkenness in my veins burned off faster than gunpowder, and I felt an immense weight bow me down.
I was damned.
Never would I see my home era again, except perhaps in passing. The random path through time and space of my horn-assisted materializations insured that. And the temporary nature of the parties I was now forced to inhabit demanded that I perform frequent disorienting transitions. How long did the average revel last? Eight hours? A day, tops? I suspected that for me to linger beyond a party’s natural end would be as fatal as attempting to step outside it while it was in progress. No, at the first hint of a party’s imminent breakup, the first “It’s getting late, we must be going, thanks, it’s been great fun,” I’d have to sound my trump and disappear.
I hated parties! And now I was doomed to spend the rest of my unnatural existence attending them, a Flying Dutchman of the social circuit. I had traded a quick and relatively painless—albeit messy—death for a lifetime of canapes and cocktails, tiny toothpick-pierced hotdogs and mindless chatter, loutish frat brawls and stuffy White House dinners, gallery openings and bar mitzvahs.
Almost, I turned and ran. How painful could it be to become an instant nova?
Voices approaching down the street stopped me. I had forgotten the existence of other people. My fiery demise would surely wipe out thousands of innocents. While I was quite content to go, I had no desire to exit as a mass murderer.
Damn that Bacchus!
“Oh,” yawned the Dormouse, “all this Latin is good as a rum toddy for scattering sand in ones eyes.”
Somehow, the Dormouse suddenly seemed like a familiar comforting presence in the face of these unknown people arriving, and I wanted him awake.
“No, don’t go to sleep now!”
“I’m—afraid—I can’t—help—”
Curling into a ball, the Dormouse filled the air with rodential snores.
Hastily, I picked him up and stepped back into the shadows, praying I wouldn’t move beyond the party’s invisible sphere.
For good or ill, I didn’t explode.
The noisy visitors stepped onto the mansion’s wide columned porch.
They were all dressed in splendid colored belted togas, save the slaves, whose clothing was drabber and more uniform. The citizens among them had obviously been drinking for some time, and were plainly several trireme-sheets to the wind.
A large man resembling Zero Mostel said loudly, “Ah, Trimalchio! You’re a rich and ignorant ex-slave with no more grace than a camelopard, but we’ll drink your Falernian anyway!”
“Hush, Glyco, our host will hear you!” advised an elderly woman wearing too much makeup for any era.
“What do I care! I’d say it right to his poxed face!”
“Still, for my sake.…”
“All right, all right!”
Now a young woman, seemingly unaccompanied, spoke.
“The rest of you may as well go inside. I have a last detail to attend to.”
Glyco laughed. “Fitting a new pessary up your lovely quim, I daresay! The work of one of Priapus’s priestesses is never done!”
Even the object of Glyco’s crude jest joined in the raucous laughter, though there was an undertone of distaste in her chuckles. She swatted him with a bundle of herbs she carried and said, “Quartilla excuses your impious jest, Glyco. But I cannot swear that my god is as forgiving. Priapus does not take kindly such insults.”
Glyco immediately paled. “Please, Quartilla, I meant no offense! Would—would a small donation of one hundred sesterces to the temple perhaps serve to amend…?”
“Two hundred is more likely to soothe Olympian ire.”
“Very well,” grumbled Glyco, “I’ll send a slave by in the morning.”
A hulking man wearing a sword began to bang on the door. He was as ugly as ditchwater and as scarred as the carving tree at your local lover’s lane. Drink had transformed what I could sense was innate belligerence into eager malevolence.
“Open up, for Achilles’ sake! Hermeros, the life of the party is here!”
The door swung open, and a wizened porter in green livery was framed. “No need to shout, citizens, the meal’s only just commenced. Come in, quickly now, before the night air gives me my death. Right foot first, mind!”
The partygoers entered, all carefully stepping over the threshold on the proper foot.
Left alone on the stoop, Quartilla looked carefully about, as if cautious of being observed. Muffling the Dormouse’s snores against my chest, I held my breath, fearful that she would spot me. Lit by the torches, she seemed to have stepped fresh from an Alma-Tadema canvas, a pre-Raphaelite goddess, raven-haired, samite-gowned.
As I savored her delicate beauty, she lit her posy from one of the torches, filling the air with fragrant smoke. Tossing the burning herbs to the stones, she lifted her skirts and squatted over the small bonfire. The sound of her piss quenching the little fire filled the air.
“By Priapus and Hecate, Mithra and Eileithyia, I command the demon to appear now!”
A queer impulse urged me to step forward, and I did.
Quartilla shrieked and lost her balance, tumbling over backwards, her skirts billowing around her waist.
Cradling the Dormouse in one arm, I extended a hand to help her up. Somewhat fearfully, she took it. When she was standing, I said, “Here I am. What do you want?”
The priestess’s eyes were large with awe. “I can’t believe this, it’s like a dream come true! I should have known it would happen on the night before my final exam! Though I have been trying to summon up a demon for ages.… But anyway, here you are, just like that, familiar and all. Why, there wasn’t even any smoke or thunder.…”
“Smoke and thunder are out of fashion where I come from, except in balancing the imperial debt, in which case we also employ mirrors.”
“Well, it’s not as if I’m complaining, you understand. You’re quite impressive as you are, what with your strange attire and all. Is that a gallows rope round your neck? Never mind, you needn’t say, if it embarrasses you. One thing, though—I wasn’t aware demons needed to shave as mortal men do.”
“You caught me on an off week. My wife left me.”
A gleam appeared in Quartilla’s eyes. “Ah, naturally. Every incubus must be mated with a succubus.…”
“That she was,” I agreed.
Quartilla grabbed my hand again. “You must come back to temple with me! Once Albucia, the head priestess, sees you, I’ll surely be promoted! Mom and Dad will be so proud!”
She tried to tug me off the porch, and I quickly disengaged. “’Fraid not, priestess. I have to attend this party. Or some other.”
Quartilla placed her thumb beneath her pert chin and her forefinger at the corner of her mouth. She looked absolutely charming. “You’re under a geas, I take it.”
“Yes. One of Bacchus’s, curse him.”
“Oh, him! It’s not wise to flout the wishes of Enorches, the Betesticled One. I advise you to comply with whatever compulsion he has put on you.”
“As if I have a choice.”
“Well, what about after the party? Could you come then?”
I hated to disappoint her. “We’ll see.”
She lit up like Greek Fire. “Wonderful! I’ll stay right by your side all night! And so as not to divulge your true identity, I’ll claim you as one of my umbrae, an uninvited tagalong guest.”
Squiring Quartilla for t
he evening did not seem like such an awful prospect, so I nodded my consent.
“How shall I call you? ‘Demon’ will certainly not do.…”
“Loren.”
“An uncouth name. How about ‘Laurentius’?”
“Good enough.”
Satisified with my new nomenclature, Quartilla adjusted the lines of her skirt with a deft tug and knocked on the door of Trimalchio’s big house. The same wrinkled servant appeared in no time and let us in.
A magpie in a golden cage hanging near the entrance shrieked hello. Ahead of us stretched a long colonnade painted with colorful frescoes.
“Do you note the bald and querulous old man who recurs in each scene? That’s the image of our host.”
“Did he really fight in the Trojan War and visit paradise with Mercury?”
Quartilla shrugged charmingly. “When you’re rich enough, you may have painted whatever flattering fancy you wish.”
The porter had retreated to a cubbyhole near the door and was busy shelling peas into a silver basin. Meanwhile, an epicene figure had stepped forward.
“The eunuch will show you to the feast,” said the porter. “By the way, is that beast trained not to befoul my master’s fine carpets?”
I had almost forgotten I was carrying the snoozing Dormouse. “He’s quite intelligent, although he does drip tea now and then.”
“Well, don’t let him drip on the brocades.”
We followed the eunuch down the hall, and soon entered—right foot first—an expansive dining-room.
The large crowded room was well lit by several oil fixtures depending from the ceiling. Three large couches were arranged in a U-shape around a central table, and dozens of other smaller lounges and chairs were scattered about. People milled around, laughing, chattering, drinking and eating small elegant snacks.
As soon as we stepped in, we were besieged by servants.
Lissome boys poured ice water over our hands; the runoff was captured in golden bowls upheld by others. Then our hands were gently dried for us. (I was forced to drape the Dormouse over one shoulder.)
I felt my shoes being tugged off. “Hey—!”
Attendants were removing Quartilla’s sandals also. “It’s only the pedicure, Laurentius. Don’t they have pedicures in Hades?”
“Not at parties.”
Like a starved alley cat adopted by Rockefellers, Quartilla was luxuriating under the attention. “It’s one of the essentials of civilization. Ah, it seems like a lustrum since I last attended a good party!”
I cut the embarrassing procedure short. “Come on, let’s meet our host.”
Both of us now barefoot, we advanced across the carpeted room. I could see Quartilla was irked at having her pedicure interrupted. “Are all demons so impetuous and impatient?”
“Only those who have lost their wives, their jobs and their homes, and been thwarted in their suicide attempts.”
“Oh.”
We arrived at what Quartilla whispered to me was “the Upper Couch.” Recumbent at one end, wrapped in a red felt scarf against a visible case of sniffles, was Trimalchio. The murals had exaggerated any of his minor graces. Lying next to the millionaire was Hermeros: the breast of his toga was adorned with the tissuey shells of a dozen shrimps he had consumed, and he gripped a giant flagon of wine in one meaty paw. As we stood there, he emitted an enormous belch, followed by a 100-watt leer at Quartilla.
“Ah, my favorite priestess,” lisped Trimalchio, “how nice of you to come. I trust your mistress, Albucia, is well…?”
“Thank you for inviting me, honorable sir. Yes, my mistress fares well, although she is somewhat weary from servicing so many soldiers of late, as are all we maidens of Priapus. You know what the average Legionary freshly returned from the provinces is like.…”
At this point, Hermeros made a grab at Quartilla’s haunch, which she deftly sidestepped.
“Come here, you wench! I’ll show you what kind of bronze balls swing under a real soldier’s staff!”
“Then again,” said Quartilla dryly, “it does not always require service in the deserts of Syria to render one witless. Sometimes, simple inbreeding will suffice.”
There was a bustle behind us which caused Trimalchio to quickly lose interest in us. Before I could be introduced, he picked up a purple-striped tasselled napkin and, tucking it beneath his scarf, said, “Glad to hear it. Sit now, and take your pleasures.”
We moved to empty spaces at the Middle Couch, and I gratefully set the snoozing Dormous down. He had been getting quite heavy.
The dish which had diverted Trimalchio’s salivating attention from us was being lowered to the central table by four waiters. The door-sized platter was framed with the inlaid signs of the Zodiac, each of which held its symbolically appropriate food. A metal dome in the middle of the platter was soon lifted to reveal several plump fowls, fish arranged in a trough of sauce as if swimming, and a hare with pigeon wings affixed to its shoulders to resemble Pegasus. Also occupying the board were two or three amorphous objects which I did not recognize.
Quartilla gripped my arm and shrieked gleefully. “Oh, Laurentius! My favorite dish! Fresh sow’s udder!”
All the fear, excitement, tension and despair of the crazy night and the past week congealed into one greasy knot in my throat. I felt my gorge rising unstoppably, like an express train in my throat. I tried to get to my feet, but couldn’t make it. I averted my head—and found a servant waiting with a copper receptacle ready.
Then I heaved for what seemed like a day.
As I sagged back onto the couch, drained and weak, a round of applause filled the room.
Trimalchio’s voice carried above the diminishing clapping. “Quartilla’s foreign guest takes first honors! Bestow the laurels upon him!”
A slave advanced and dropped a floral wreath over my head and around my neck.
Quartilla bestowed a peck on my cheek. “Well done, Laurentius. That was truly a demonic regurgitation for so early in the feast.”
I accepted a damp scented cloth from yet another slave and wiped my mouth. “Thank you. I haven’t done anything like that since college.”
“Are you ready for some udder now?”
Suppressing a mild gagging, I replied, “No, please, you indulge yourself. I believe I’ll just have something to drink.…”
“Mead for our champion, Laurentius!” commanded Quartilla, before spearing and slicing a teat.
I rinsed my mouth with the mead, and then lay back as a spectator to the party.
After all, how often did one get to attend a real Roman orgy?
My expectations, however, were greater than the reality. If this was the height of the legendary decadence of Rome, than the twentieth century had them beat hollow. All anybody seemed interested in doing was gorging themselves on the various exotic dishes and gossiping. (Quartilla kept up with the best of the diners, in a somewhat appalling display of bone-stripping, lip-smacking, finger-licking avidity.) On the whole, I had been to wilder Rotary Club dinners. The height of excitement came when an argument flared between a husband and wife. She threw a plate at him, he ducked, and it narrowly missed Trimalchio.
“You bitch!”
“Bastard!”
Trimalchio intervened. “Julius and Melissa, I’m so hurt! That was a piece of original Corinthian!”
“I’m sorry, Trimalchio. But he deserved it. I caught him with that slut Oenothea in the privy!”
Singers sang (“’Tis a ditty from The Asafoetida Man,” Quartilla informed me), dancers danced and jugglers juggled. After the course which consisted of a roasted whole boar stuffed with live thrushes, a pair of rowdy disheveled jesters took the stage.
“My name is Haiga, and my comrade here is called Hatta.”
“He’s a lying Thracian!”
“Now, what makes you say such a cruel thing, Hatta?”
“You said I was called Hatta.”
“Is that not your name?”
“Of course it’s
my name!”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“My name is not what I’m called.”
“Oh, I see. What are you called, then?”
“Mad!”
The audience cracked up. “A paradox worthy of Zeno!” complimented Trimalchio, tossing some coins at the performers.
Throughout the evening, I had sustained a virtually unrelenting barrage of glares and growls from Hermeros, who plainly resented my proximity to Quartilla. Whenever she leaned toward me, it provoked him to near-madness. Several times I braced myself for a lunge that he fortunately never quite carried through, restrained perhaps by the setting.
The night wore on in a blizzard of food and drink. Every dish seemed more elaborate than the last, announced by Trimalchio with boorish delight. I drank cup after cup of mead, until my vision and hearing grew fuzzy as the logic of the neural network that had stolen—would steal—my job two thousand years from now.
Somehow, it seemed like a good idea to lay my head in Quartilla’s lap and go to sleep, whatever Hermeros might do. But that stupid hat of mine—I removed it and put it on the head of the Dormouse, where it wouldn’t get lost.
All the chatter became a senseless babble, which lulled me to a hazy sleep.…
I came to a start when the Dormouse screamed.
On the table was the latest offering from Trimalchios kitchens: nestled in a candied glaze were little rodents one tenth the size of—but otherwise identical to—my personal Dormouse.
The Dormouse was jabbering in Latin. I snatched the hat off his head and put it on. Now I could understand both his English and the Latin of the others.
“What month is it? What month is it?” the Dormouse was demanding.
“Why, ’tis the month of Quintilus,” answered Quartilla hesitantly when I asked.
I told the Dormouse.
“But that doesn’t end in an ‘O!’” he wailed. “Oh, how could they do such a cruel thing to my cousins, without even waiting till October!”
“October doesn’t end with an ‘O’ either.”
“But at least it begins with one!”
The whole room had gone quiet while the Dormouse and I conversed. Several people were making horned-finger gestures at me, against the evil eye. Then Hermeros, standing somewhat unsteadily, broke the silence.
Fractal Paisleys Page 12
