Vergil in Averno: Book Two of the Vergil Magus Series

by Avram Davidson

  Vergil said, with a smile that slightly acknowledged the antic quality of the idea, “There is a connection, and a fearful one, between them and certain birds — or bird — but it need not concern us now.” And he looked down at the small, small, very small young salamanders, creatures rather resembling lizards in appearance, yet not lizards at all.

  Iohan let him look a moment before asking, “Be they of the right sort, ser?”

  Vergil assured him that the salamanders were of the right sort. “And of the right size, too. ‘Chicks,’ just so. Of the first year. If they were older and larger, they would not suit. No!” Dim in the daylight, the creatures moved but slowly in the comparative cool of the shadowed yard. “You’ve done well, Iohan. And here’s a silver piece of money for you, too.”

  The curly head dipped a bit. “I thank you, ser, you’re very kind. Nor has I forgot a special something for you, neither — I coulda worked a lustrum, full, for Fulgence, nor he’d of give me no present, such — ser. Not but what laboring for him hadn’t had its comic side. But hark!” He drew out a small bell of rustic craftsmanship and rang. Sweet, no one could have called it. An odd gift, still —

  “Iohan, I thank you.”

  “For when you might want me, ser, as I ben’t near to call: but ring, ser.”

  Vergil gravely told him that he would.

  And so, night following night, the stench no less than by day, the forges resounding to the hammers’ blows at midnight as at noon, for sundry nights the two went, master and man, from blasted waste to blasted waste; Iohan carrying the baskets, Vergil the rolls and scrolls and a few other items to be used with them. Each part of each waste he had already marked upon a grid-worked chart, and given a number; some were entire squares, others were mere parts thereof, the wastelands not always accommodating themselves to clean geometrical division, but shaped as each section might be, it had its coded equivalent upon the chart. And as they passed along in the semi-lurid gloom, Iohan carefully set down, at Vergil’s word, a single small salamander in each “square”, Vergil marked off each place so “planted” with but a touch of lead upon the gridded chart, and on they went, to do it again . . . and again . . . and again . . . and on and on . . . and on…. Sometimes they required the aid of Vergil’s special lamp within its box windowed with lumps of glass like burls (though he had a better way of enhancing light, he chose not, for sundry reasons, to use it, lest, for one, he attract attentions not desired); and sometimes they did not, the light of the natural fires spurting up from far and near often being quite enough.

  The wasteland was far from often smooth beneath their feet. At times it was merely uneven, at times there were small holes, other times far from small, gaping and sunken; now and then was encountered such rubble as was left when one works was abandoned, its fire having “gone sick,” died down: timbers too tired or rotten to be moved, iron too rusted for salvage, shreds of rags worn beyond reuse even to test a dye upon . . . and other stuff serving only to stumble over, had they not moved cautiously. Nowhere, indeed, did he see any such line as that one said to have been engraved upon a galley slave’s oar washed ashore somewhere in Ultima Thule or akin far-off place beyond ken, Oft was I wearied when I worked at thee, though the thought came to him that such would not be amiss here.

  Toward the waning hours of each night so passed and spent, they moved their own wearied bodies to some high place or hill, whence they might spy down upon the wastes. For the most parts all was dark and dim. Sometimes they saw a glowing light, sometimes they saw one argent-pale. Iohan had known the story of the salamander, who had not? Could Iohan have been trusted to select only those in their first year? Possibly not. Therefore Vergil had counseled him — and him, to counsel others: those forest herdsmen of swine — to select, and to select only, the salamanders no bigger than his, Iohan’s, index finger. The young man was stalwart, but he had not reached his full growth yet at all (almost he seemed to be growing from day to day, to have grown a bit, perceptibly, during his absence); who could know, how could Vergil have known, how large the swineherds’ hands might be, or how long their fingers? Suppose any of them to be older or larger, either way to have fingers longer than Iohan’s? If any of them should have index fingers longer than the lad’s, say, as long as Iohan’s next finger, the so-called “digit of infamy,” well, it would still not be too long. Salamanders of such a size would still be within the proper length. So Vergil mused.

  For the most part, there below, all was as dark or as dim as when they had walked across those parts, stooping, marking. But as with tired eyes they peered, in other parts, not so. Now and then Iohan gave his master a slight tap on arm or shoulder; pointed. There, then, where he gestured, would be seen some spot of light, like that of a glowworm, though less intermittent, or not at all. Sometimes they saw one golden-bright, sometimes they saw one argent-pale. Sometimes a mere single spot, and this, Vergil knew, was that of a single small salamander that had sought and found some nearby bit of warmth, signaling by its now-glowing presence some fire beneath. This he would mark in the (approximate, if not better) proper space upon the grid-worked chart. This he did regardless. Many a pickle makes a mickle. But what gave him (and Iohan) the greater satisfaction was when a number of such fiery spots was seen, sometimes moving slowly, sometimes swiftly, sometimes appearing, as ‘twere, one glowing mass of fire . . . yet different, clean and clear different, from the greater blazes whence were shooting forth the subterranean fires that constituted the real riches of the Very Rich City . . . or, even, merely, smoldering. For such sights meant that more than a few small salamanders had found out where a greater heat lay beneath the surface, though that heat be nowhere ordinarily observed above.

  And this place, too, was marked. By night, with a certain sign in dark lead. By day, when day came, refreshed with paint of bright-red minium.

  Sometimes, of course, as they had known would happen, the salamanders merely found their ways (naturally, but now, to Vergil, uselessly) to some of those many fires already visible and known and worked, and there would crawl quite fast into the glowing, roaring heart of such, there themselves to glow the selfsame fire color as the flames themselves; though from above unseen.

  As for others, whenas either Iohan or Vergil or both came the following day to check, it happened more than once he or they found a trail as though left by some influorescent slug or snail; and would trace and follow, only to see the shining line disappear into the tiniest of tiny holes or the slimmest of cracks or fissures. Sometimes their feeling the ground thereat was rewarded with a feeling of fire or heat: a seal upon the chart, of a different sort than the other marks. Sometimes, of course, the temperature of the ground round about such cracks told them nothing to the touch. But the trail was there, the trail of the salamander, that creature born for fire as the frog is born for water. And they would know that some sense stronger by far than any sense of man had informed the salamander, had, as it were, beckoned it, had tempted and drawn it thither and in and down: and that, though they saw this not, they would know that somewhere in caverns below, in fires so far beneath and below the surface that the surface told no man aught, in the flaming depths of hell that lay beneath Averno those creatures reveled, awaiting their own transformation into fire and flame. These deepest places they had sought as certain fish seek the deepest pools.

  But it was of the utmost importance that the salamanders being used were no older than their first year, for at that age, though their inclination toward the fire was fully developed, it was an inclination that must result in every one of them being gradually subsumed into the fire; within much less than one year would each atom of flesh be replaced by an atom of fire, and so, atom by atom, these fingerlings would, glowing, vanish into fire and flame. A salamander of the third year, however, though still provided with the same instinct, would have already passed a climacteric, visible to the eye (this climacteric) chiefly only as to the salamander’s size; prior to that the salamander “chick” would be to the true s
alamander as the tadpole to the true frog; only after that time would it be a true salamander: And the salamander, the true salamander, its skin by now proof against the searing flames, its inner heat transformed, contrarities clean reversed, sympathies changed into antipathies — the salamander thus transformed, in contrarity to all folk belief would not start a fire; it would by its mere presence, and weight for weight, atom for atom, put the fire out. And all this he had learned in Sidon, where he had studied fire.

  And now and again on such nights, was the wind in the right quarter, or was the night quieter than most, or were they in some sound-pocket, kith to an echo chamber . . . or whatever and why-ever . . . they might hear the tambours beat and the cymbals clash and such other sounds and cries betimes they might hear as told them that Cadmus the King, Mad Cadmus, King of Averno and King of Fools, still danced in the mule market —

  — and sometimes they would learn, by the direction of the cries and sounds of song and music, that not there alone did he dance. Not only there. At all.

  • • •

  At length:

  Another look Vergil took at the master map. All was in order as it had been when last he looked not a second or so before; why had he so suddenly looked again that he could feel his head snap? What had he so suddenly seen, which he had either not seen before, or had not noticed, or —

  There was Averno, there Baiae, there the Portus Julius, Cape Misenum, the Bay, down there Naples, Cumae not far off, off there the Isle of Goats, over here …

  He heard that voice now among all voices men could ever hear, echoing as from a thousand chambers forth, and, echo ceasing as swift as if it had never been, voice speaking in that awful and awesome crooning that surely no man durst stand to listen to, save his heart was at least at that moment clean; he saw the words limned upon the map: Cumae…. How had he dared not have thought to visit her before daring to think, even, of coming here? Every tiniest hair he felt distinctly rise upon his flesh, large parts and small. Had they noticed, the magnates, looking at him there, whilst from every side the hammers smote the white-hot iron upon the hundred and the thousand anvils? . . . whilst he stood here, here in this sullen mockery of a council chamber, the absurd and ugly frescoes peeling from the sullen walls?

  “Have you — I suppose you have — must have — have you? The Sibyl . . . consulted? You have, you, of course you have.” Did they see his lips a-tremble? Hear his voice quivering? “… consulted the Cumaean Sibyl?” One who had presented her prophetic Books to Tarquin the Proud when he had been king above the Senate and the People of Rome. He who had refused to pay her price. As if he had been haggling over the cost of a lard-sow. She who had without one complaint consigned all but one of the Books into her fire. He who had presently asked her present price. She who had told him what she had done and had told him that the price was for the one sole remaining Book what it had been for all the Books. He who had started from his chair so it fell crashing back, and in utmost haste pushed forth to pay it.

  Vergil asked, the magnates answered. “Oh yes. Of course. This was almost the first thing.” Almost their voices seemed to grumble, How dare thee ask, there in the dingy hall on whose walls the dingy devils of Etruscany leered at malefactors, beaks like those of raptor-birds, and lunged and threatened with the tines of hay-forks. What artist had done this? Was he free or captive? What did it matter?

  How the hot and sulfur-tainted air parched his tongue and dried his mouth. With his teeth he scraped spittle enough to swallow, and swallowed that he might ask another question. Before he could, however, one magnate fixed him with a low and lingering look. “She was not cheap,” said that one. With a lowering look, and one which accused.

  “Ah. And . . . Magnate . . . what said the Sibyl …?”

  The magnate now looked at him again. All the magnates looked up. Scribes and secretaries looked up, the scribes from their scrivening, the secretaries from their secrets — all looked at him. A pause.

  He ventured, “What …” He fell silent.

  Then, “What said the Sibyl? You ask us, Master, what the Sibyl said? What …” Some faced some others, asked among themselves. “He asks? He asks what the Sibyl said….” They shook their heavy heads, as though in bepuzzlement, befuddlement; they rumbled a bit together, more. Then they gestured one to be their spokesman, who half-arose, sat down. His face and gurgling voice seemed more to defend than accuse.

  “Did indeed Master Vergil ask . . . You ask us, Master: ‘What did the Sibyl say?’ ”

  “Yes.”

  The gurgling voice seemed some troubled, but it answered, right then.

  “Why, Master, she said to ask you.”

  He heard that voice among all voices, then, as though echoing from a thousand chambers forth. Dux, Dominus, Magister, Magus.

  • • •

  The litter of the Legate Imperial had carried Vergil that time to the latter’s chambers; afterward it had carried him back. Now and then, not often, some magnate or other had lent him another, other, litter, litters; it had not seemed to him that they had done so ungrudgingly; furthermore, their litters smelled evil. There were times, places, he had needs go afoot. But now this day he remembered that there was the mare; he had of course never taken her to the fire-fields or slag-heaps or to any of the smoky or the stinking-steamy works; scarcely had he remembered her than he looked out his window and saw horse and horse-boy coming out into the street below.

  Iohan. Mostly, as they had walked and worked together, as they visited not the wastes alone but the manufacturies, the boy had been silent, perhaps in awe, perhaps from fear. Now and then he had made some comments, some few. Once, for instance: “They be clever, mighty things, master, these arts of fire and metal. Canny things, they be.”

  Absently, yet with some touch of playful scorn, Vergil had asked if the boy might like to stay and study them. There. The young face, which had lit up for a moment, sank into some show of contempt not the least bit playful. “ ‘Study them’? Mayhap, master. That might be, ser. But . . . ser . . . here? Were I lingered here, ‘twould be my death I’d study.”

  Vergil had said nothing more of that. Now he came down, greeted his servant, looked at the mare. Still, she looked familiar — had he ever mounted her before her hiring? She looked, also, in good fettle. “They care for her well, then, boy?”

  The boy flung his head back, looked at his employer eyes-to-eyes, though the eyes of one of them looked up and the other’s eyes looked down. “ ‘They’? Ser, I cares for her. ‘Well’? Didn’t I feed her, she’d go ill-fed. Didn’t I sleep in her stall, like that they’d cut her tail off to sell the hairs; belike worse they’d do to her . . . though she’s a canny beast, master, ser. Seems this morning she wants to be the better for a ride about, and thus, ser, I have taked the liberty. For perhaps you, too, ser. Therefore.”

  Iohan’s therefore included a good deal more than a rhetor might allow. But it was full understood. He had laced his fingers and was about to bend and help Vergil mount when suddenly he stopped. He did say nothing, but his eyes moved, and Vergil’s followed their direction. It was Cadmus they saw, and this the second day in a row that Vergil had seen him. Whether the King of Fools still danced in the muddy market or hung bright tapetties upon the black walls or flung garlands round the necks of black mules, Vergil had lately neither heard nor inquired. But yesterday he had seen him close.

  Yesterday he had seen him close. The madman had walked along heavily, looking neither up nor down; his madness lay well-heavy upon him and in this burden there was no room for gaiety and abandon. His lips had moved and muttered, but the tone of voice was thick, and his very color was not as it had been before; there were no roses in his cheeks, no frenzy, fine or otherwise, played round about his eyes and mouth; but his face was the color of slate, and the instant thought in Vergil’s mind had been, This man looks as though he were already dead….

  But today, today again came Cadmus, walking close next to Vergil. This was yet another Cadmus: swift
his speech, pale his lips and face, but not, today, corpse-pale; the words came forth jerkily. “What will he do, what will he do, what will he — ”

  Vergil had not thought to interrupt him, for to interrupt a madman was notoriously as dangerous as to interrupt a sleepwalker; no such information burdened the mind of Iohan. “What will who do, me sire?” asked he.

  And Cadmus answered, without anger, without surprise, “He whose life I am obliged to live.” The stop at the end of this was the only full stop in all his speech; instantly after it he resumed his “What will he do?” and this changed to “What will be done, what will be done, what, what, what?” And then he passed out of their hearing and, rounding a corner, out of their seeing as well.

  Iohan gave his head a quick shake. His hands had stayed clasped. He said, “Be pleased to mount up, ser, for if we tarry, one of them local brutes will fling an insult at or a turd at me, and I shall be obliged to fight him, ser.”