Vergil felt no need to wonder which the man did most.
An inn, almost by definition, is mostly for the convenience of travelers, which is to say . . . usually . . . people from elsewhere. Avernians, having doubtless their own taverns and wineshops, evidently did not much patronize this particular inn; and although the man sitting across the table spoke with distinct traces of the thick local accent, he did not in any other way resemble the mass of local people whom Vergil had seen about in the streets, or, for that matter, elsewhere. Perhaps the man had read this in his mind or perhaps Vergil’s thoughts had been as clearly written on his face as by a style upon wax. Or even perhaps all this had happened to the man before, and he was thus able to anticipate questions unasked simply because they had been asked so often before that he knew they would be asked again. And when.
“There is little old blood in Averno,” he said; “but to the extent there is, I am of it. My father thought me puny, and yet I lived.” Saying this, he shrugged. “More than one warlock or practitioner of divination in its various forms has offered to discern how long I shall continue to, but I have declined. I have been afraid. Of what?” He shrugged. “Of being perhaps told that my life will be long. To live in Averno, old? Horrible!” He shuddered, and he shook his head.
“Old people seem rather scarce here,” Vergil murmured.
“Children are scarcer. Well! But we are very rich. And rich men may buy that which is beautiful even if they themselves are ugly, and among that which is beautiful which such men sometimes buy are beautiful women. They do not particularly buy beautiful men, even those some who favor men for partners in that act which has been called love. No, slaves fetched here are fetched for brawn. Endurance. Do you know what the foreman in any workplace here is called? Not the overseer or the manager or the captain, as in other places. No, he is called the Big Slave, even if he is not particular big or even if he is not a slave. Usually, though, he is both. Sometimes he is ugly, sometimes not, this is of no importance, it is important that he have a broad back and large arms and know well the work and be indefatigable in carrying it out. Well, it fairly frequently happens that such a man is freed by his master and adopted by his master (who, recall, will usually be childless). Though now and then one knows of a master, magnate or not, who has bothered both to take a wife and maintain her elsewhere. So he will have had his children there, if he has children, and sometimes they come back when they are grown, and — ”
There was an interruption. Men drinking and talking at another table raised their voices. “Cadmus is king!” said one.
“King of fools …”
“King. He is king.”
“King of mud.”
“King of mud or king of gold: king.”
“King of shit — ”
I have heard those words before; where? —
Before Vergil could recollect where, the first man, half-rising, struck the other down. And down he stayed. In a moment the talk and babble resumed, no one paying the matter any further attention. If the fallen one was living or dead, dead drunk, or only stunned, Vergil did not observe, as he had fallen into the shadows cast by the small and flickering lamps.
“ — and take up the trade, whichever trade it be. And sometimes they put it into the hands of the Big Slave. And sometimes, of course, they find it simpler to sell the works. And who buys it, generally? Another Big Slave, past or present. White or Black. So most of the magnates who govern this colony of hell have themselves been slaves. And of those who have spent a generation, at least, toiling at the stinking forge or the stinking dye-pots or the stinking tan-vats, one need not, must not, expect a great measure of delicacy. You will take this into account when you make your calls.”
Vergil said, “I have already made one call. One whom you mentioned — the only one whom you mentioned, the dyer Haddadius — says he has no need for such things wherein lie my skills.”
Two tables over someone, by his looks an Avernian, grunted and spread his legs and lifted his tunic and made water on the floor. No one gave it any notice. No one attempted to remedy the matter by emptying bucket or jug.
“So said Haddadius? So. No doubt he had his reasons, he — ”
Things were being pounded on the surface of another table: fists, mugs, dice-boxes, providing some arrhythmic accompaniment to the constant thuddings from the fire-fields. Vergil waited till the noise had somewhat abated. “And you, sir, no doubt have yours.” He perceived a degree of glaze upon the other’s eyes, was it drink alone? He had seen a one rather alike it on the eyes of bridegrooms; others, still akin, on the eyes of those who have been to uncheerful physicians. He spoke on. “What may your reasons have been, to send . . . or bring . . . me here by the methods which you have used . . . you alone? others? you and others? . . . methods, which, by the way, imply a measure of the same skills…. Eh? Why?”
A woman then passed by, stopped, stroked Vergil’s head once, twice, said, “How pale your face. How black your hair and beard.” He had begun, slowly, to look up, to extend his hand — too slowly. Some rough voice from another table hailed her, Vergil felt no more than his hand touch the edge of her sleeve as she moved away. He looked back to his host, who shrugged without ceasing to drink, then said, “Why? Well, in part to pique your interest. Was it piqued? Oh, so. And in part . . . well, had it been simply suggested that you come here because a contract might be obtainable, would you, considering the place and its repute? Probably not, I think. So — ”
Of a sudden the heavy doors were flung open and a man, a young man, who seemed far too slight to have done this, came in. He came in dancing, dancing he came in, and singing and clapping his hands, and he had small bells upon his hands and he had a crown upon his head. All rose and bowed. Despite the shock of the novel scene Vergil was able to concentrate attention upon the singing — it could not really have been called a song — but though now and then he made out words, and even, less often, sentences, the words together, even such of them as were not gibberish, made no sense. There was no coherency to them. There —
Vergil put his mouth close to the ear of the other man at his table. “Who?”
“That is Cadmus.”
“Who is he?”
“He is king.”
“King of Averno. King of here.”
The King of Averno, whoever he might really be, he so called, suddenly took hold of one of the posts that supported the roof of the taphouse and began to swing about it as he sang; he slipped, staggered, ceased not to sing, but the crown had been jarred from his head and fell, and Vergil caught it. In a moment it was taken from his hands, and, still singing and dancing, jinging and ringing, Cadmus went away. Leaving some thoughts ringing, at least, in Vergil’s mind. King. Well. They were indeed in the Very Great Empire of Rome, and an emperor is by definition a king over kings; indeed, the Greeks had yet not formed a word for “emperor” and called the supreme ruler, still, basil, king, prefaced and followed of course by very many appellations. There were, it went for granted, kings with the Empery; some by treaty of annexation (a politer name for surrender), some by Imperial creation; seven kings elected the Emperor himself. And there were, going to the other extreme and passing by such as titular kings who, whilst living within the Empire, bore the titles of kingdoms outside of it, and passing over such as (not often) bore the curious and singular title of King Without Country, the traveling tribes of tinkers who had their kings. In more than one place was here one and there one who was called King of the Woods and taught by night beneath the great oaks such things as were never taught by light beneath the colonnade of the stoa. And there was of course in almost every city and town and at least once a year one who was acclaimed and called the King of Fools at the Feast of Fools (or, alternately, at the Feast of Unreason, the King of Unreason; in one or two, the Mad Feast and the Mad King), when much license was allowed — slaves free from fixed task, students wearing proctors’ gowns, prentice-boys a-playing the master . . . so on. If such feast, however named,
was in season here, it might well be named the Mad Feast, for certainly if Cadmus was not mad; it was a most effective pretense, that.
The mood in the tavern, which had been lighter by far than before the Fool King’s coming, lapsed now again into the previous one of either raucous noise or sullen stupor. Gazing now into his own drink, Vergil said, “Those were not real jewels.”
“What, not? Assuredly they were real jewels. It is a real crown. He is a real king. He visited the Sicilian Sibyl and she told his fate. He was proclaimed and he was crowned.” So said the young Avernian. Vergil began to feel a slight bit in liquor. He gazed into his cup, and there he saw the face of Cadmus. The face of Cadmus was dark, but his eyes were light . . . so light, in fact, that almost one might have thought him blind, which he was not. But Vergil had for one full moment, as Cadmus took swiftly back his crown, gazed into those eyes: and although the eyes were light, the eyes had no light in them. “But,” said Vergil, “surely he is mad.”
“Assuredly he is mad,” said the other. “A man may be mad and may be king.” He drank again.
And drank again.
• • •
Later. Lurching slightly, into each other, as they walked the stinking streets preceded by a surly link-bearer — for not every sullen alley was graced by street-torches in fixtures — provided by the tavern for a fee, which, however small, was yet not so small as the fee he himself would get; and who much preferred, and let this be well known, to have sat in his kennel tossing down the heel-taps which the tapster collected for him on the dog-lick-dog principle. “This is not the night of the night market,” said Vergil’s companion. “And, truly, it is not a very interesting night market, anyway. No wonderful things are sold there, though often one wonders, next day, how one could have bought them…. Stop!” He stopped Vergil easily enough, but the troll with the torch affected not to hear, and stumped on. “Stop, you turd!” — this, high-pitched in a sudden drunken rage — ”Shall I have you flogged, you sow-sucking son of a serf?”
The question, rhetorical or not, brought the link-man not merely to a halt, but, in a moment, brought him, slowly, back. He hadn’t heard master clearly. Them forges had fair foxed his ears this lustrum past. He hoped master wouldn’t — “Stop right there,” said master. “Don’t move, even if the fire burns your filthy fingers. Till I say so.” Then he turned to Vergil. Gestured. “Behind those doors there is the shop of our famous blind jeweler. Have you heard of our famous blind jeweler? Have not heard. I’ll tell. He comes from Agysimba or Golconda or some such damnably distant place with a-g in its name. And he can tell by smell what jewels are what. Which. Tomorrow, if you like, we will call upon him. Make him show. — But some say he tells by touch, really, and his talk of scent is but a play. Morrow?”
A thought struck Vergil like a soft, swift blow. “But let us pause a moment now and see this marvel . . . if we may.”
The Avernian teetered back and forth as though either he had not heard, or was considering the matter. Suddenly started, said at once, “ ‘May.’ To be sure. If you wish it, it is not may but must.” So saying, he began to beat upon the door; at once to see the (momentarily) servile-stooping thrall commence to kick it and to hullow.
Vergil, in wine, and deeper in than he fully realized, burst forth of a sudden, “Am I to continue thus civil and elliptical and all but uninformed? You who first moved to move me here? Can you say nothing? Am I forever to go on creeping from door to door, like a beggar seeking boon and dole?”
At the exact moment his outburst ceased, one half of the upper half of the door (they were not notably trusting in Averno) was opened; there stood a man with a lamp in his hand and in the other he held a polished plate to magnify and reflect the light. “Come now, Messer Armin,” said this one, “is all this clamor and commotion needed? Will not morning — ”
Armin (at last! the man’s name! Vergil had had a sort of shyness in asking to begin with, and then the longer the time had passed without his being told it . . . ah well: “Armin.” So.), if he did not at once become sober, at once became the image of sobriety. “We are honored by a learned visitor,” he began. Hardly had he begun when the man at the door, giving the learned and distinguished visitor one keen look, made a certain sign; Vergil returned it; the door at once was unbolted even whilst Armin went on saying, “… who wishes to see your famous uncle at his mysterious work …” Armin suddenly stopped, said quite soberly, “If he is at work now, that is. I wouldn’t wish to disturb — ”
Nephew, dark and wrapped in white, replied, “He is at work. Day or dark or dim, it is all the same to him. Come.” The door bolted behind them. A several few more doors were unlocked and locked before they came at last to a chamber, unlighted till they entered it, wherein an old, very old man, also wrapped in white, with sunken sightless eyes, sat upon a stool, fingers moving from one to another of a series of boxes…. The light and reflector coming a bit nearer, the contents of the boxes began to sparkle and to glow. Some rainbow had emptied itself.
Without much moving his head, the old man said, “These are none of them of quite first-chop quality.” An odd and singsong style of speech had he. Continually he moved his fingers to his nose. And while the nephew was saying “They were not paid for at first-chop prices, Uncle,” Vergil moved forward and placed his hands, open-palmed, before the blind man’s face. Who, ceasing the movements of his fingers a moment, murmured, “Beryls, emeralds, a star ruby large . . . and . . . three diamonds, small ones, I should say, though good, quite good….”
Armin, all eyes at the work of sorting the jewel-stones, and at the show of the sparkles themselves, seemed to have heard nor seen nothing of this brief scene. Visitor learned and distinguished, and nephew, exchanged glances. Nephew gestured a diadem round about his head. Visitor gestured yes. Nephew gestured silence. Visitor gestured assent.
After a moment more, visitor said, “I am quite convinced.”
Armin blinked, tugged his glance away and over. “You see. Wonderful. Well. Thank you, merchants, we would stay longer, save it is quite late.”
“How regrettable; still, I must yield,” the nephew murmured. In a few moments the doors and their lockings and unlockings lay behind them; and before, the street.
Often Vergil was to ponder, does a true king of fools wear a crown of true jewels? He could find not one reason to say yes; when he said no, upon the heels of that answer came yet another question, equally brief: why?
It was long and long till answer came to him.
• • •
Vergil paced up and down his private room, charts here and lists there. He had no need of globes, and had he, there were (back in his place in the port) only small ones. Automatically, as this thought recurred, came the dream. Someday I shall have one as large, quite as large, as that of Crates of Miletus . . . if not larger! . . . But this, as other dreams, went fading away. It was preposterous — was it not? Was it not absurd? — it was! It had been so simple, though he had not then considered it so simple: Aurelio had come to him and said, “Master Vergil, if so be your rules and practice don’t forbid you should work for a freedman, I should like to ask you, Master Vergil: Will you build me a house?”
Here he seemed under the control of a severalty of freedmen. Nothing was simple, no one condescended to him, few were even barely civil, he scarcely knew what it was that was wanted, or what the chances were of accomplishing even what he thought might be wanted . . . or, at any rate, what might be done. Could be done. Might be. Might. If …
He might build for them an aqueduct, an eighth wonder of the world, through which might run hot water instead of cold. Might. Did, really, the magnates want him to study such things as the flow, the times, the force, of the up-gush of the steamy jets and gusts? Or did they want, and only want, some way to bribe . . . or did they, even, think: trick? . . . “The good gods of hell” . . . Were they as scholars who truly wanted to learn how a thing be done, that they might do it (might)? or were they as those who desired only th
at others do a thing, that they themselves receive a benefit? Regardless of how . . . could . . . would . . . might. Might.
• • •
That night the king could not sleep. These words Vergil clearly recalled having read somewhere, in a text whose Greek was a bit different from the usual; he recalled, too, having had reason to believe it to have been a translation, but no more did he remember.
That night the madman whom populace and magnates alike together had declared to be their king danced and chanted as he danced in the mud and muck of the mule market, and danced with golden armils; and danced as never had Vergil seen man dance before. And the harlots of the place and the (supposedly) chastest matrons did not hold back from dancing with him when he mimed and beckoned them to do so.
“This is life, Master Vergil!” A voice, Armin’s voice, spoke, so near his neck he could feel the warmth of the breath. White slaves and black held links and torches to enlighten the scene, magnates black and magnates white shook the sistrum, and the shrill chittering of the instrument, elsewhere sounded only for some sacred ceremony, and the shriller piping of the rude reed flutes seemed to send shocks through Vergil’s limbs and joints, urging him on to join the insane dance. But he felt he somehow must not, he thought of Ulysses bound to the mast whilst the sirens sang (and what song had the sirens sung? was it beyond conjecture? was it not, must it not have been, much like this? who knew but what the sirens might have danced as well . . . as well as sung …): no, no: he must not dance.
Shut his eyes, he might, shut his ears he could not do; he did what he might and therefore shut his eyes, conjectured vision of things other. Clouds floated past mountains, and the dark trees raked them as the spikes of teasels combing fleeces of white wool, and —
“Life! Life!” the voice in his ear. “The Emperor may tax, and build ships and roads and wage war and make peace and mint coins and be carried in a litter from one palace or one temple to another; can he dance like this? Eh?”
Vergil in Averno: Book Two of the Vergil Magus Series Page 5