by David Drake
There were chuckles from others, Saxa included. Paris didn’t crack a smile.
“And Gaius Saxa,” Macsturnas continued, “please honor me by taking the couch to my left. Indeed, your presence honors the whole gathering.”
Varus and his father settled themselves onto the indicated couches. Paris looked over his shoulder at Varus. With two instead of three on each cushion, they weren’t so close that avoiding contact during the meal would be next to impossible, but they were certainly close.
The Etruscan priest said, “I was told that you would identify the specimens from Africa, Lord Varus. If you did so, I failed to hear you.”
The tone was flat, not sneering, but the question was a sneer nonetheless.
Varus looked at the fellow. Close up, Paris was older than he had seemed in the crowd in the compound. Even granting the natural querulousness of the old, and perhaps a poor old man’s equally natural resentment of a rich youth, it took a great deal of philosophical resignation not to respond more sharply than would be polite to the host’s hanger-on.
Varus smiled at the thought. His expression, probably misunderstood, turned out to be the perfect response: Paris went tremblingly white with fury. Score one for philosophical resignation.…
Servants brought in finger bowls with rose water and linen napkins for the guests who had eaten the first course. As they did, little girls in pastel tunics—meant to impersonate Hebe, the cupbearer of the gods, Varus supposed; in other settings, Hebe was the Goddess of Youth—poured wine to the guests.
Varus tasted his cup cautiously, because he hadn’t been present when the host decided the dilution. He guessed it was two measures of water to each measure of wine, which was moderate if not ascetic.
Paris was being ascetic, drinking from a clear glass tumbler to emphasize that it contained only water. The plate in front of him held nut meats, slices of peeled apples and peaches, and a wedge of bread without even a bowl of olive oil to dip it in.
“My bout of sunstroke at Master Veturius’ compound prevented me from stating the little I know about the lizardmen,” Varus said in a cool tone. “I will hope to learn more in good time, but for now all I can say is…”
He let his voice trail off as servants brought in a richly carved bronze platter—true Corinthian Bronze, Varus suspected—cast with six hollows in which nestled what seemed to be miniature hares, skinned but otherwise complete. Varus took one and nibbled carefully, finding it to be a paste of hare meat cooked on a skeleton of rye bread and stuffed with a rich pork sauce. He caught the juice in his napkin before it dribbled onto his toga.
When he looked up, he saw that his father and the aedile were both staring intently at him, waiting for the answer. Their attention had drawn that of Macsturnas’ two friends as well, making Varus the center of all eyes. That was a regular thing when it was his turn to declaim in class, but he wasn’t used to it happening at formal dinner parties.
I’m not used to formal dinner parties.
Varus revised the answer he had been about to give. “Honored sirs,” he said, nodding to bring the other guests formally into the discussion. “I’m only familiar with one written account which might have bearing, that of Herodotus. In discussing the tribes of Africa, he says that in ancient times the Garamantes battled serpents and finally drove them deep into the desert. It’s at least possible that this is a garbled memory of lizardmen like those Master Veturius brought back from the depths of the continent.”
“Ah!” said Macsturnas. “Very interesting. Will you contact this Herodotus, then, young man?”
Varus managed not to blurt, “No, because Herodotus has been dead for five hundred years.” Though perhaps the Sibyl could put me in touch with him. He said instead, “The historian himself is deceased. I intend to search libraries and discuss the subject with scholars who are more learned than I, however.”
Did Macsturnas really find this interesting? Varus had felt … not contemptuous, exactly, but patronizing about the bird’s nest of information cluttering his father’s head; but Saxa was well read, though not an intelligent or critical reader. The aedile appeared to have no more literary knowledge than one would find in a pig farmer in the Alban Hills.
I should talk to a pig farmer before I use that simile in a declamation.
Varus lowered his eyes and returned to the fake hare. He dabbed his fingers in the rose water and then wiped them before he realized that Paris was still staring at him.
“Do you have something to say to me, fellow?” Varus said. What would Corylus do? What would—
He giggled at the sudden vision of his sister taking the “hare” remaining on the platter—Paris hadn’t eaten the one set out for him—and mashing it into the priest’s face. That was the sort of response that worked for Alphena. In her brother’s case, it was better to act as a gentleman and a scholar.
Before Paris could reply, Varus sobered his expression into a mere grin and said, “Forgive me, Master Paris; I was curt. A man like me who spends his life among books may show himself to be sadly lacking in social graces.”
“Books!” Paris said as though he were cursing. “You can talk about books to these others—”
His voice was pitched low enough that the remaining diners probably couldn’t hear the words, but it seemed to Varus that the hissing tone should have aroused attention. The host, Saxa, and Haltus were discussing governorships, while Afer was giving his attention to the meal. His cup was being refilled—not for the first time since Varus sat down—and he’d taken the leftover hare.
“—but I am not a child in the art myself. What have you learned by reflection in your mirror of art, Magician?”
“By reflection?” Varus repeated. He found he had eased back slightly, repelled—literally—by the priest’s venom. Varus deliberately leaned forward and shook out his napkin between them. “I told you that on reflection, I remembered the passage in Herodotus. And I’m not a magician, Master Paris. I am a scholar.”
“You know that the Singiri were driven from this world in the far past,” Paris said. “You know they are demons.”
“I do not know that,” Varus said. And your saying so doesn’t make me more likely to believe it.
Servants brought in the next course. Varus deliberately turned his head to watch the platter on which what seemed to be a miniature bull hunched, its legs drawn up under it. Varus wasn’t any more interested in food than he was in clothing—or in trees, if it came to that—but if he didn’t look away he would give the advantage in the contest to Paris.
Varus didn’t let his smile reach his lips. His sister watched gladiators cut and thrust with edged weapons. The law courts had a similar dynamic. Varus didn’t like the competitive declamations by which Pandareus prepared his students to conduct trials, but he had analyzed and practiced the necessary skills with a depth of understanding that few of his fellows could match.
“Why do you lie to me?” Paris said. “I tell you, I too am one of those who know.”
“This is a fetal calf from one of my own farms,” Macsturnas said proudly. “The mother was brought here and slaughtered in the kitchen this morning so that the meat is perfectly fresh! The horns and hooves are pastries made with the mother’s brains!”
Varus felt an urge to jot down that datum as he had begun doing with anything having to do with sacred rites. When he gave up verse—he couldn’t claim to have given up poetry; he had never been more than a versifier—he had decided to become the historian of the religion of the Republic. Even now many of the meanings that underlay traditional rites had been lost, even to the priests who carried them out by rote.
Presumably the butchering took place in the outdoor kitchen behind the garden rather than in the house proper. Even so, it was the sort of task Varus would have preferred to be taking place at a butcher’s shop a few streets distant rather than in the immediate vicinity of where he was eating.
A philosopher is above concern for blood and feces. Perhaps he should thank Ma
csturnas for giving him a chance to demonstrate Stoic resignation.
A servant used the blade of his knife to lay a thin slice of the meat on Varus’ plate, then broke off a piece of a “horn” to go with it. As Saxa’s son, he was being served second, immediately after his father.
“What I don’t know is why the Singiri have returned at this time,” Paris said. He was ignoring even his fruit and nuts. “But you do know, don’t you? Are they here to destroy the Earth this time instead of fleeing it?”
Afer was holding forth on the use of cauls to cover puddings; his mouth was full. The others present were listening with apparent interest; Saxa had contributed an anecdote out of Hegesander. Whether or not the conversation on this bench was of a higher plane, it was certainly different from that of the remaining company.
Varus washed and wiped his fingers; he waved away the servant ready to offer another slice. There were surely more courses to go, and the remainder of the calf wouldn’t go to waste. Even the servants waiting for the broken meats might be shorted with Afer at the table.
“I do not know what the lizardmen intend,” Varus said, meeting the priest’s eyes. He didn’t use—but didn’t comment on Paris’ use of—the name Singiri, which agreed with Varus’ vision of the Sibyl. “Presumably those which Veturius captured intend to enter the arena as part of our host’s gift to the Republic. I have seen no more reason to believe they intend to destroy the Earth than I do to believe they intend to fly to the table of the Olympian gods and drink nectar.”
The priest’s face worked angrily. “Faugh!” he said. He took a slice of apple. “You pretend to be wise, but you act like a clown. Clown your way to the tomb, then! And to your world’s tomb!”
Varus rinsed and dried his fingers again, thinking. Occasionally one had to make a decision instantly. He had learned how to do so, how to force himself to react at once. It didn’t come naturally to him; but like most other problems, hesitation could be overcome by training and willpower.
When Varus had time to think, however, he did so. The priest had started a second slice of apple when Varus said, “I have answered your questions, Master Paris. Now tell me: What is your place in this? Why did you invite yourself along to view the lizardmen?”
A servant bent to fill Varus’ cup; he waved her off. A male servant topped off the priest’s tumbler of water, but he had drunk very little. Perhaps he’s fasting as well as ascetic. He’s not much of an advertisement for a simple life, though.
Paris twisted his head to face Varus again. “I advise Lord Macsturnas and other members of my race on matters of religion and omens,” he said. “I regarded the return of the Singiri to this world to be as worthy of consideration as a statue speaking or the birth of a two-headed calf.”
I wonder whether our host would consider the calf fetus to be even more delectable had it been found to have two heads, Varus thought.
It was the sort of consideration he could share with Corylus alone of his acquaintances. Thoughts that to Varus were whimsically humorous struck ordinary folk—and the other diners here were ordinary in that sense—as signs of madness, or perhaps of extreme eccentricity, given that he was of the senatorial order.
“You say your race, Master Paris…,” Varus said. Servants were bringing in a platter of six squabs, each surrounded by pigeon eggs. “I gather you mean Etruscans?”
“The doves are stuffed with a forcemeat of asparagus and chickadee bosoms,” Macsturnas announced. “While the ‘eggs’ are pastry shells in which oysters from Lake Lucrinus swim in a sauce of sea urchin eggs. So fresh that the oysters are still alive!”
How in the name of Holy Wisdom do you tell a living oyster from a dead one? Varus realized that his ignorance didn’t mean that no one knew the answer, but he was permitted to have doubts.
“Yes, Etruscan,” Paris said bitterly. “The race which brought civilization to Italy in ancient times, before the Greeks came with their debased version—and long before Carce sprang up like a mushroom on a dung heap. Not that there are real Etruscans remaining, even in the best houses. Lord Macsturnas—”
He gestured to the host with his free hand.
“—has an Oscan mother, and his father’s mother was Sabine—and even then her lineage was far from pure Sabine.”
Varus took an egg and popped it whole into his mouth. The sauce was tart and unexpectedly good with the oyster. He suspected it contained giant fennel. Under other circumstances he might have asked, but he was sure that in the present company the question would drag him into all manner of discussion regarding a subject in which his interest was very slight.
“I’ve always believed that the reason Carce has been so successful,” Varus said in measured tones, “is that from the beginning we have been open to all races. Latins and Sabines and Greeks … and of course to Etruscans, including our last three kings.”
He took another egg, though he decided to pass on the squab itself. He wondered if Afer would manage three, assuming that the priest continued to ignore his portion.
“The success of mongrels!” Paris said. “A city that is open to all men is like a woman who is open to all men!”
Varus paused, then lowered the egg from his lips. “Master Paris,” he said. “I am a philosopher, willing to give a hearing to any idea no matter how coarse or coarsely phrased. I suggest, however, that you learn to moderate your language in the presence of your betters. I believe you’ve already met Marcus Pulto, who serves my friend Corylus?”
Paris didn’t respond, but his expression was suddenly guarded.
“Pulto’s criticism is apt to be of a robust variety,” Varus said, letting his smile spread. It wasn’t his nature to use the term “betters” in that fashion, but here it was called for. “And in this particular instance, neither his master nor I would attempt to moderate it.”
Varus swallowed the second egg. It was as good as the first, and in this case was further spiced by a feeling of triumph.
The remainder of the meal passed without further comment by Paris.
CHAPTER IV
The delivery cart Corylus had borrowed from his father had neither springs nor cushions, but the driver’s bench where he and Varus sat with the driver was mounted ahead of the axle. The location moderated both the jouncing of the two large wheels and the racking pace of the mule drawing the vehicle.
Varus grinned at his friend. “I’d probably develop blisters if we walked the four miles,” he said. “And although it’s sometimes uncomfortable, I’m coming to enjoy life that involves more than reading books and writing them.”
He coughed. “That is, I’m enjoying living life as well as reading and writing. If I had to pick one or the other, I wouldn’t be riding in a mule cart even on what I believe is a very good road.”
“I prefer it to being at sea,” Corylus said. He felt queasy on shipboard, even when the ship was tied up to the dock. “And it’s quicker than walking.”
The cart had a trough for the feet of those on the bench. A narrow-bladed spade lay in it. It was an ordinary nurseryman’s tool, but it was a little surprising to find it on a vehicle that was ordinarily used to carry jars of floral extracts in bulk from Cispius’ factory to the retailers—mostly in Carce—who would blend it with olive oil or lanolin into dropper bottles for the use of the fashionable and well-to-do.
Some would be applied directly to the bodies of women who expected to entertain—in one sense or another—men, but more of the perfumes went into dinner wreaths. There were mixed dinners that women of the faster set attended, but most dinners were exclusively male except for flute girls and the like. No young buck cared what a flute girl thought of his appearance.
Corylus reached for the shovel. The driver, Lycos, beside him on the bench, turned to watch what was happening. Lycos said nothing, but his gaze was disconcerting. A scar started at his hairline and ran down the left cheek, destroying the eye in its track. The scar turned a coarsely unattractive face into something out of nightmare.
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sp; Corylus held the spade upright between his legs and let his fingers run along the oak shaft. The sprite was a dim memory deep within the wood. She had been young when the tree was cut for its present use, but that was a long time ago.
Suddenly, as unexpected as nearby lightning, Corylus was in the midst of a scene in late evening: two men coming from in front of a cart that was stopped on the right side of the road and grabbing the harness of the mule; two more men with cudgels appearing from the ditches on the other side of the road.
The spade—Corylus was watching through the sprite’s eyes—rising; the blade punching through the face of a man as though cutting a turf in gritty soil; the tool reversed and the T-handle crushing the temple of a second man before he could block the stroke with his cudgel.
The man trying to clamber onto the seat from the right taking the side of the blade; the bone of his upper arm cracking, the knife in his hand flying free. The last man dropping the mule’s reins and turning to run, then twitching like a pithed frog as another thrust of the spade crushed his lower spine.
Corylus set the spade down again exactly as he had found it. The driver was still looking at him. Varus, on Corylus’ other side, kept silent. He clearly knew that something was going on, but he was clueless as to what it was.
“A load of floral extracts would be valuable,” Corylus said, speaking to Lycos in a deliberate tone. “Worth stealing, I should think.”
“There’s been some who thought so, yeah,” the driver growled. The few words he had offered previously during the drive had been gruff; now he sounded bestial. “If there’s trouble, you leave it to me, boy.”
“If there’s trouble,” Corylus said, the tone of command coming naturally, “then I’ll be glad of your company, Master Lycos.”
Lycos began to chuckle and faced forward again. “You know,” he said, “I had my doubts with your posh talk and school manners. But I guess you’re the Old Man’s son, all right.”