To sum up: he, Vergil, once with brief (an advocate: ‘twas very brief: eh?) … if the Vestal Virgin in this probably vatic dream — and every dream in one way or another must be vatic, must be prophetic, else why is a dream dreamed? if he, Vergil, is the one whom the Vestal pardons, she can be pardoning him only from sentence of death. Not from charge of a crime meriting death, no, from sentence of death. And what can he, Vergil, have done or what would he do, to merit?
Dared he, would Vergil dare? to love her? —
And as for the other dream, and her cry of “Thou art the man!” if this was not accusative, then what was it? Could it be exculpatory? all things were, some barely, possible: but … he would believe that this Virgin’s exclamation was exculpatory? then he would believe anything … let him, if he would, believe —
But let him first flee. And if not to the end of the Empery, then at least from Yellow Rome. To be, at least, a while more safe.
Where would he safest be? from the accusations of the vatic voice in a state of dream —? whither flees the frightened child? he flees to home.
And now and for a long time: Naples was home.
… whence he might, if he would, if he need, having taken stock, flee again…
But why at once …? Why, because there was no set time indicated in these dreams. Who knows but what even now delators and informants were bespeaking those who bespoke the soldiery, He laid his hands upon the Virgin’s naked flesh, and, Act quickly, he may soon escape and flee …
Also, did he wait, tarry … opportunity … temptation … lust …
Thus: at once.
It is tiresome to say what everyone knows, in this case that some things are more easily said than done. There was no ship at a wharf behind a signboard reading Home, At Once. They had to wait until Quint’s friend, their host, was readily willing to see them, then it was needful (Quint thought) that Vergil should leave the City by a round-about way and not by means of the broader streets, and essential (Vergil thought) that Quint should not be seen with him; and was a long time persuading him of this, and even Vergil had a chore preventing him that he might not even, as he put it, “put bread in your wallet” for the journey, in Vergil’s old doe-skin budget, bread: had Vergil yielded at all, they would likely have wandered half over Rome to find some particular bake-shop. With or without opium-seed. Even, yes indeed! Quint might bethink him, bread is not enough! and insist they obtain cheese and salame-sausage! — at which, by sod and staff! might Vergil give himself up for lost —
Vergil was therefore long in leaving, and he neither drew reign of his borrowed horse, a gentle stalwart grey with dappled haunches (the Etruscan … a bit mysterious, like most his kind; and like most his kind: rich … had many horses, asked no questions) nor looked back till he had reached the rise by the third mile-stone. Then he halted, and turned. No pursuit? None … though he was uneasy in recalling that a dream, like a curse, might sometimes wait as much as seven years for fulfillment. No sign of pursuit, nor yet he was not easy. Ease is not always to the wise; was he wise? Some knowledge had he gained, but had he gained wisdom?
And lifting his eyes from the Appian Road he saw in the setting sun the cloud of dust raised by the hooves of the beasts being driven into the city to be slaughtered early next morning for sale in the markets, and the dust was faintly yellow. He saw in the suddenly visible middle distance the gold-spiked roofs, and stonework in marble the color of the hair of a fair-haired woman, brickwork the shade of straw, tiles a tint between that of the lemon of Sicily and a bright marigold blowing in the wind. He saw the glittering roofs and glowing golden buildings of Rome by the Tawny Tiber. In the yellow dust of the yellow dusk he saw the city of Yellow Rome … of Yellow Rome …
Yellow Rome.
He turned and urged on his horse. It was a long way to Naples.
*Some say “the rainy Hyades,” by Pleiades, sayeth The Matter: and further The Matter sayeth not.
** SQPR: Senatusque Populusque Romanus. Numa would have it so. And agains Numa durst no pedagogue pout his tongue. So The Matter sayeth.
II
The Port of Naples
Back in Naples, he first turned the horse over to the stableman, with instructions to care for it after the journey and then return it with the next string of mounts going to the capital. The man would not take money from him, saying, “There’s no one that doesn’t know of his name, ser. That rich Etruscan? Fufluns Cato? He could buy and sell Yellow Rome, several times over … and a generous payer, we hear, as well.”
Vergil had wanted only to return to his house for a moment, pause, pack, and flee. To what point of peril had his involvement with the mantic arts brought him: Mantova, daughter of Tiresias, had established those arts and thereby and therewith founded Mantua … Mantua … the name seemed to speak to him with the vatic voice. But what was Mantua to him? at all? the Dame Mantova, her arms three black goats on a field of golden asphodel … He hastened him to his house, all thought of Mantova and Mantua gone a-glim; Cosmo Nungo would be there … one hoped … the man was an artisan, an artificer, an alchymist … the man was not what one more rigid than Vergil could call dependable. The talk of the Art in Naples was that Cosmo Nungo had (some said) three times (some said, seven) achieved projection — and each time, in his haste to sell the gold to gamble and to drink (“Let the mourner bury his dead, and the reveler hasten to his wine,” was Cosmo Nungo’s favorite proverb; hint enough to the wise: who or rather what had “died” in order for projection to succeed?) each time had in his haste forgotten the steps. Naples slurred over the small detail: “Cosmo could make,” and that was all. “Why that damned old rotten robe, Cosmo Nungo, man, when thee can make?” The man merely showed his mouthful of yellow broken teeth, and shrugged.
Sometimes Cosmo Nungo the artisan felt close enough to his origins (for he came of citizen stock) to wear his toga — grimy, nearer grey than white: but ah! the prestige! Sometimes he wore the remnants of tabard and trews. But generally he wore his work-robe and this was basically a mass of patches: squares which had once been madder, rectangles of dyers’ green, triangles of indigo, and shapeless pieces steeped in woad: whatever he had been able to pick up as he passed between one workshop and another, all sewed into his loose ragged cloak of (originally) grey or brown: and all of them and it: very, very dirty.
The rough robe of Cosmo Nungo the artificer had missed its annual washing for more years than one or two — glue, sawdust, paint, plaster, gesso, even here and there a glistening fleck of gold which he had probably stolen, the gold dust pinch by pinch, the gold leaf, leaf by leaf, grease, gypsum, here a smear of color and there a smear of oil. Vergil encountered Cosmo Nungo the alchymist fairly often, and sometimes employed him in one task or another: too poor, Cosmo Nungo, too inconsistent, too irresponsible, ever to have gained (or, if he had gained, not kept) the status of a master craftsman; always able to get employment and never able to keep it. Cosmo Nungo would steal the gold leaf from under the master’s nose and sell it to buy wine — the gold leaf, not the nose: though, had he been able to sell the nose for wine, be sure he would have stolen it, too — going without pay, often, when the employer was himself poor but the work went well; stealer of bread, lover of music, playing on the rebec with stained fingers, foul of mouth but in his love of arts very sweet…. “Solitary, mad, and indolant; shockingly eccentric, and unreliable” — Cosmo Nungo.
He had, Cosmo Nungo, a half-way face — that is, his face was half-way between crimson and scarlet — with a turned-up nose, a mouthful of yellow crooked teeth, and a small twist of white beard. Seeing him with his red, red face bent so near his work that the nose, had it not been fixed by nature at such an angle, would have touched said work, one might have assumed that his sight was bad; but Cosmo Nungo could recognize a drink of wine the length of a street away. Some other occasion, then, must be found to explain such close attention: and the explanation was — his work? He loved it. He loved something else, too, besides work and wine. He loved
to gamble.
The story was well-known how, playing at the die and dice one lowering Winter day with a less tender toss-pot, the carver Valerian, luck fell, cast after cast, to Cosmo Nungo. How he mocked at Valerian! cast after cast, coin after coin, win after win, joke after joke, jibe after jibe. Ah — sweet little Hercules with the parasol? ah? ah? there goes the cabbage-money, Val! Will the old ‘oman sleep with thee, Val? You’ll have to play with it, Val! no foining or futtering this week, Val! it’s mine, all of it’s mine!
He raked in the heap of mean coins, he was not gracious in victory. Cosmo crowed. Valerian said nothing, produced a two-obol piece from his toothless gob, cast … won … cast … won. The luck was turned, clean turned. Cosmo Nungo lost coin after coin, cursed — cast — lost — tossed — lost again — Coin after mean coin moved from the one pile to the other. The vile wine with vile water was all drunk, even the water itself was all drunk, the stinking cheap oil failed in the little lamp, outside it began to snow: the two old villains played on in the dimness and the cold.
Val gave a great hoot of triumph — started to rake in the pile of scanty stivers — a cry from old Cosmo Nungo: Wait! Another throw!
Val paused. “Have thee another oboi, son of a sow?” No, Cosmo Nungo conceded that he had not, rapidly unlaced his right shoe (the left had long ago lost its lachet: the god knows how). “Shoes ain’t shiners!” was old Val’s sneer. And Nungo: “Call ‘em a oboi each! Valley them sandles at a stiver, one by one! Don’t be mean! Don’t ‘ee be no Longobard! Call the twin shoe a twain obol!”
In the face of the taunt that he might be as mean as a Longobard, Val grunted, agreed by gesture; see the shoes join the coins, see Cosmo Nungo cast — see him lose! Hear him curse! Val assumed a careless air. “Lamp’s gone out? So’s the game! What! Be it snowing? First time this year. Hands off!” Val smacked Cosmo Nungo across the paws. “Them is mine, now!”
See Cosmo Nungo’s yellow broken crooked grin. “I’ll pay thee the pair stivers tomorrow, lea’ me have me shoes!”
“Leave thee nothing! Thee’ll shit tomorrow … do thee eat tonight … the which I doubt: no cabbage-money? no cabbage!”
Cosmo Nungo was incredulous. What! surely his old ally Valerian was no Longobard, and — But the taunt, worked once, did not work twice. Cosmo, cursing, wished the parasol of Hercules — never mind where. Then he walked home. Cursing, barefoot, in the snow.
Barefoot in the snow!
Next day he got a small advance from an unusually tolerant guild-master, bought a pair of shoes. Not a new pair, you may be sure.
Much did Vergil wish to pause, then flee. But to Vergil, pause, by definition meant brief. Whereas to Cosmo Nungo, pause meant talk. And this day he wanted to talk of Vergil’s lesser loadstone, Great Adamanth, and, perhaps of even greater loadstones, Negedbarzel, it might be, and the legendary lapis ferrum attrahens, Exhaurio Antepotentis.
To Vergil, now, entering in haste, the older man said, “Ars requiret totum hominem, Master, and so we term —” His master said, hurriedly, casting a swift sad look round the lower elaboratory with its ranks of instruments, “Yes, I know that art requires the presence of the entire man, but I must now —” useless. Cosmo Nungo had the bit between his broken teeth, and was galloping down the track.
“The loadstone, ser, we term the heraclion, that is to say, the Lion of Hercules. And it is our function, ser, as alchymists, to slay that lion. To annul the adamanth, ser, and make naught the magnet. ‘Transmutation,’ ser? To be sure. There is more than one transmutation. For ensample,” he took hold of the border of Vergil’s robe, not yet was his master to be awarded the right to wear the Golden Garment; this was a shabby raveling travel robe, tucked in at the waist, with not a shred of gold about it. “For ensample, to transmute orpiment,” continued the inexorable Nungo; “orpiment — that is, auripigmentum — to make from it what we calls realgar, King’s Yellow, that is, or sand-áraca, sand-áraca, sanddraco, ‘the dragon in the sand,’ we call it, too. And this transmutation is one of your basic excersizes in occamy —”
Thoughts of haste, even fear, diminished; “Five hours’ fire in the sealed crucible should do it, I think. Eh?”
“Yes, sir. It should, But sometimes the perentice doesn’t know how to find the fire, or how to fix it, nor even how to set his crucible, let alone how to make the proper lute to seal it. Nor sometimes he doesn’t even know about the five hours …” Vergil suddenly considered that he might have to break the man’s fingers, but Cosmo loosed the robe of his own motion. Vergil strode on. Adamanths! Realgar! Anon!
The Nungo trotted after him, still babbling. “Though some say, ser, that sandáraca is a resin, ser, and not a mineral. Sandrake, sand-dragon,” he intoned, “dragon-sand … as it sopped up the shed.”
Vergil, about to call aloud the name of Polydore, his house-servant; at this last word from the Nungo he had to repeat, “The, ah, shed?”
“Ser. Yes. The blood that was shed by the dragon in the combat, ser. In the great combat. The Combat on the Sand.” For one sole moment Vergil had a vision, quick and filled with red: a typical scene in the Arena, its floor all sand; the usual scene in the Arena: a gladiator had received his death-wounds, and the lepers licensed to do so rushed forward to drink his life’s blood in hopes of a cure. May it do them much good, he thought. One wound was nigh the navel and one between the collar-bone and the left pap. For the sake of decency, wounds in either groin were not licensed; nor were those above the torc; one does not know why not. It was sometimes very sad to see the lepers, who had run so fast, walk off with hanging hands and lagging legs, for the blood of a dead gladiator was, of course, not licensed to be drunk at all. Though only necrophiles would want to. But … hold! a dragon had no pap, no navel! and who had ever seen a dragon in the Arena? Nungo must have been speaking an alchemical metaphor, like The lion of Hercules or The shining golden vessels and the sullen bronze or — Enough! “Polydore!” he cried. The house-servant’s deep and drawling voice answered him from aloft.
“Your portfolio’s freshly packed, my Ser,” he called.
So that was done … Next: to his work, left aside for the trip north. He wanted to essay the fabrication of a salamander; first he checked the athenor to see it was in order: no controlled heat? — no salamander. It checked well. After that there were supplies to be gotten, for example naphtha, charcoal and sulfur. At no distant date he meant to make a grand trial of all types of charcoal and to see how they compared; perhaps he should do that now? No … he was suddenly too eager to wait for that. He would see what the suppliers’ had on hand now. Tests of the wood of all charable trees was far too slow a task; he would for now content himself with considering holm-oak; many decried its wood as being afflicted always with a hostile dryad, so that its fire was too hot, greasy, smoky, sappy. What would this mean in terms of charcoal? Well, one would see … Wouldn’t one?
Sulfur, too. And napth.
“Oliver is a well-tried wood for charcoal,” said Arland, his regular supplier. “Your olive gives a slow, true fire, me ser. Nothing so steady as oliver, me think.” To be sure that the appearance of olive-wood in commerce was almost a guarantee of its being old wood; the Jews, it was said, would neither eat nor tithe the fruit of a tree less than three years old, considering it too young: but many times three years must pass before the olive would bear, indeed, a generation must pass before the olive would bear. No one would cut down an olive tree for its wood, it taking so long to replace. Time alone should assure that its gross and fatty humors would have been outgrown … the common faith agreed that if one paused by a grove of silver-leaved olive trees at noon and paused in the heat and silence, one would hear the softly hissing sound of the trees “drying out” … to say nothing of the results of the charring process, the ricks of wood burning in the carefully-stacked kilns almost without air.
“A sack of olive, then,” Vergil said. “And a sack of holm-oak. To be —”
“To be delivered. Yes, me ser.” The man was
almost as black as a charcoal burner in the hills himself, but just as pecunia non olet — money does not stink — said of the public sale to the wool-fullers, of the stale and rotting contents of the public urinals — so perhaps it might be said that money does not smudge. Might.
Now for sulphur, punk, and all the other ingredients.
There was no trade, likely, that lacked premises which attracted a number of loafers. A charcoal warehouse, though, would not, of course shelter as many as a vintner’s. A vintner might sometimes turn to an experienced old nose and gorgel and say, “See what you think of this” — this being usually a taste from either a very new barrel or a very old one — and the experienced old nose or gorgel would sample it, rolling it round on his tongue after sniffing, swallow; and say, judiciously, something like, lacks body … too thick … smells faint, doctor it up … too thin … too raw … too old: make tolerable vinegar, though…. Now and then the old nose (advertizing its age and experience with assorted red swellings and pumples and streaks of pseudo-Tyrian purple) would put on a performance which a veteran thespian might relish, before pronouncing the test-liquor to be first rate: champion! But although a master charcoal dealer might indeed sometimes turn to an old dustbag retired from the trade and having never washed since, might hand over a black nugget with a “See what you think of this,” what could the old veteran do? crack the black bit, smell of it, taste of it, smear it on his grimey paw; and mutter that it was too dry … to moist … to old … fit to shoe an ass … or perhaps sometime, Not up to thy reg’lar standard but the cheap trade will take it … one would be moved only by respect for the standards of the trade, not a stimulus equal to bibbing wine; therefore loafers in this particular warehouse were thin upon the ground; nevertheless there were a few: just before turning away Vergil heard one saying to another something which made him suddenly pause and feign an adjustment of tunic and hose and belt-band.
The Scarlet Fig: Or, Slowly Through a Land of Stone, Book Three of the Vergil Magus Series Page 3