Lest Darkness Fall and Related Stories

by L. Sprague de Camp;Frederik Pohl;David Drake;S. M. Stirling;Alexei

  After dinner he was sleepy. He said to hell with the accounts and went upstairs to bed, leaving Fritharik already snoring on his mattress in front of the door. Padway would not have laid any long bets on Fritharik’s ability to wake up when a burglar entered.

  He had just started to undress when a knock startled him. He could not imagine…

  “Fritharik?” he called.

  “No. It’s me.”

  He frowned and opened the door. The lamplight showed Julia from Apulia. She walked in with a swaying motion.

  “What do you want, Julia?” asked Padway.

  The stocky, black-haired girl looked at him in some surprise. “Why—uh—my lord wouldn’t want me to say right out loud? That wouldn’t be nice!”

  “Huh?”

  She giggled.

  “Sorry,” said Padway. “Wrong station. Off you go.”

  She looked baffled. “My—my master doesn’t want me?”

  “That’s right. Not for that anyway.”

  Her mouth turned down. Two large tears appeared. “You don’t like me? You don’t think I’m nice?”

  “I think you’re a fine cook and a nice girl. Now out with you. Good night.”

  She stood solidly and began to sniffle. Then she sobbed. Her voice rose to a shrill wail: “Just because I’m from the country—you never looked at me—you never asked for me all this time—then tonight you were nice—I thought—I thought—boo-oo-oo…”

  “Now, now…for heaven’s sake stop crying! Here, sit down. I’ll get you a drink.”

  She smacked her lips over the first swallow of diluted brandy. She wiped off the remaining tears. “Nice,” she said. Everything was nice—bonus, bona, or bonum, as the case might be. “You are nice. Love is nice. Every man should have some love. Love—ah!” She made a serpentine movement remarkable in a person of her build.

  Padway gulped. “Give me that drink,” he said. “I need some too.”

  After a while. “Now,” she said, “we make love?”

  “Well—pretty soon. Yes, I guess we do.” Padway hiccuped.

  Padway frowned at Julia’s large bare feet. “Just—hic—just a minute, my bounding hamadryad. Let’s see those feet.” The soles were black. “That won’t do. Oh, it absolutely won’t do, my lusty Amazon. The feet present an in-sur-insurmountable psychological obstacle.”

  “Huh?”

  “They interpose a psychic barrier to the—hic—appropriately devout worship of Ashtaroth. We must have the pedal extremities—”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Skip it; neither do I. What I mean is that we’re going to wash your feet first.”

  “Is that a religion?”

  “You might put it that way. Damn!” He knocked the ewer off its base, miraculously catching it on the way down. “Here we go, my Tritoness from the wine-dark, fish-swarming sea…”

  She giggled. “You are the nicest man. You are a real gentleman. No man ever did that for me before…”

  Padway blinked his eyes open. It all came back to him quickly enough. He tightened his muscles serratus. He felt fine. He prodded his conscience experimentally. It reacted not at all.

  He moved carefully, for Julia was taking up two-thirds of his none-too-wide bed. He heaved himself on one elbow and looked at her. The movement uncovered her large breasts. Between them was a bit of iron, tied around her neck. This, she had told him, was a nail from the cross of St Andrew. And she would not put it off.

  He smiled. To the list of mechanical inventions he meant to introduce he added a couple of items. But for the present, should he…

  A small gray thing with six legs, not much larger than a pinhead, emerged from the hair under her armpit. Pale against her olive-brown skin, it crept with glacial slowness…

  Padway shot out of bed. Face writhing with revulsion, he pulled his clothes on without taking time to wash. The room smelled. Rome must have blunted his sense of smell, or he’d have noticed it before.

  Julia awoke as he was finishing. He threw a muttered good morning at her and tramped out.

  He spent two hours in the public baths that day. The next night Julia’s knock brought a harsh order to get away from his room and stay away. She began to wail. Padway snatched the door open. “One more squawk and you’re fired!” he snapped, and slammed the door.

  She was obedient but sulky. During the next few days he caught venomous glances from her; she was no actress.

  The following Sunday he returned from the Ulpian Library to find a small crowd of men in front of his house. They were just standing and looking. Padway looked at the house and could see nothing out of order.

  He asked a man: “What’s funny about my house, stranger?”

  The man looked at him silently. They all looked at him silently. They moved off in twos and threes. They began to walk fast, sometimes glancing back.

  Monday morning two of the workmen failed to report. Nerva came to Padway and, after much clearing of the throat, said: “I thought you’d like to know, lordly Martinus. I went to mass at the Church of the Angel Gabriel yesterday as usual.”

  “Yes?” That Church was on Long Street four blocks from Padway’s house.

  “Father Narcissus preached a homily against sorcery. He talked about people who hired demons from Satanas and work strange devices. It was a very strong sermon. He sounded as if he might be thinking of you.”

  Padway worried. It might be coincidence, but he was pretty sure that Julia had gone to confessional and spilled the beans about fornicating with a magician. One sermon had sent the crowd to stare at the wizard’s lair. A few more like that…

  Padway feared a mob of religious enthusiasts more than anything on earth, no doubt because their mental processes were so utterly alien to his own.

  He called Menandrus in and asked for information on Father Narcissus.

  The information was discouraging from Padway’s point of view. Father Narcissus was one of the most respected priests in Rome. He was upright, charitable, humane, and fearless. He was in deadly earnest twenty-four hours a day. And there was no breath of scandal about him, which fact by itself made him a distinguished cleric.

  “George,” said Padway, “didn’t you once mention a bishop with concubines?”

  Menandrus grinned slyly. “It’s the Bishop of Bologna, sir. He’s one of the Pope’s cronies; spends more time at the Vatican than at his see. He has two women—at least, two that we know of. I have their names and everything. Everybody knows that a lot of bishops have one concubine, but two! I thought it would make a good story for the paper.”

  “It may yet. Write me up a story, George, about the Bishop of Bologna and his loves. Make it sensational, but accurate. Set it up and pull three or four galley proofs; then put the type away in a safe place.”

  It took Padway a week to gain an audience with the Bishop of Bologna, who was providentially in Rome. The bishop was a gorgeously dressed person with a beautiful, bloodless face. Padway suspected a highly convoluted brain behind that sweet, ascetic smile.

  Padway kissed the bishop’s hand, and they murmured pleasant nothings. Padway talked of the Church’s wonderful work, and how he tried in his humble way to further it at every opportunity.

  “For instance,” he said, “—do you know of my weekly paper, reverend sir?”

  “Yes, I read it with pleasure.”

  “Well, you know I have to keep a close watch on my boys, who are prone to err in their enthusiasm for news. I have tried to make the paper a clean sheet fit to enter any home, without scandal or libel. Though that sometimes meant I had to write most of an issue myself.” He sighed. “Ah, sinful men! Would you believe it, reverend sir, that I have had to suppress stories of foul libel against members of the Holy Church? The most shocking of all came in recently.” He took out one of the galley proofs. “I hardly dare show it to you, sir, lest your justified wrath at this filthy product of a disordered imagination should damn me to eternal flames.”

  The bishop squared his
thin shoulders. “Let me see it, my son. A priest sees many dreadful things in his career. It takes a strong spirit to serve the Lord in these times.”

  Padway handed over the sheet. The bishop read it. A sad expression came over his angelic face. “Ah, poor weak mortals! They know not that they hurt themselves far more than the object of their calumny. It shows that we must have God’s help at every turn lest we fall into sin. If you will tell me who wrote this, I will pray for him.”

  “A man named Marcus,” said Padway. “I discharged him immediately, of course. I want nobody who is not prepared to co-operate with the Church to the full.”

  The bishop cleared his throat delicately. “I appreciate your righteous efforts,” he said. “If there is some favor within my power—”

  Padway told him about the good Father Narcissus, who was showing such a lamentable misunderstanding of Padway’s enterprises…

  Padway went to mass next Sunday. He sat well down in front, determined to face the thing out if Father Narcissus proved obdurate. He sang with the rest:

  “Imminet, imminet,

  Recta remuneret.

  Aethera donet,

  Ille supremus!”

  He reflected that there was this good in Christianity: By its concepts of the Millennium and Judgment Day it accustomed people to looking forward in a way that the older religions did not, and so prepared their minds for the conceptions of organic evolution and scientific progress.

  Father Narcissus began his sermon where he had left off a week before. Sorcery was the most damnable of crimes; they should not suffer a witch to live, etc. Padway stiffened.

  But, continued the good priest with a sour glance at Padway, we should not in our holy enthusiasm confuse the practitioner of black arts and the familiar of devils with the honest artisan who by his ingenious devices ameliorates our journey through this vale of tears. After all, Adam invented the plow and Noah the ocean-going ship. And this new art of machine writing would make it possible to spread the word of God among the heathen more effectively.

  When Padway got home, he called in Julia and told her he would not need her any more. Julia from Apulia began to weep, softly at first, then more and more violently. “What kind of man are you? I give you love. I give you everything. But no, you think I am just a little country girl you can do anythingyouwantandthenyougettired…” The patois came with such machine-gun rapidity that Padway could no longer follow. When she began to shriek and tear her dress, Padway ungallantly threatened to have Fritharik throw her out bodily forthwith. She quieted.

  The day after she left, Padway gave his house a personal going over to see whether anything had been stolen or broken. Under his bed he found a curious object: a bundle of chicken feathers tied with horsehair around what appeared to be a long-defunct mouse; the whole thing stiff with dried blood. Fritharik did not know what it was. But George Menandrus did; he turned a little pale and muttered: “A curse!”

  He reluctantly informed Padway that this was a bad-luck charm peddled by one of the local wizards; the discharged housekeeper had undoubtedly left it there to bring Padway to an early and gruesome death. Menandrus himself wasn’t too sure he wanted to keep on with his job. “Not that I really believe in curses, excellent sir, but with my family to support I can’t take chances…”

  A raise in pay disposed of Menandrus’ qualms. Menandrus was disappointed that Padway didn’t use the occasion to have Julia arrested and hanged for witchcraft. “Just think,” he said, “it would put us on the right side of the Church, and it would make a wonderful story for the paper!”

  Padway hired another housekeeper. This one was gray-haired, rather frail-looking, and depressingly virginal. That was why Padway took her.

  He learned that Julia had gone to work for Ebenezer the Jew. He hoped that Julia would not try any of her specialties on Ebenezer. The old banker did not look as if he could stand much of them.

  Padway told Thomasus: “We ought to get the first message from Naples over the telegraph any time now.”

  Thomasus rubbed his hands together: “You are a wonder, Martinus. Only I’m worried that you’ll overreach yourself. The messengers of the Italian civil service are complaining that this invention will destroy their livelihood. Unfair competition, they say.”

  Padway shrugged. “We’ll see. Maybe there’ll be some war news.”

  Thomasus frowned. “That’s another thing that’s worrying me. Thiudahad hasn’t done a thing about the defense of Italy. I’d hate to see the war carried as far north as Rome.”

  “I’ll make you a bet,” said Padway. “The king’s son-in-law, Evermuth the Vandal, will desert to the Imperialists. One solidus.”

  “Done!” Almost at that moment Junianus, who had been put in charge of operations, came in with a paper. It was the first message, and it carried the news that Belisarius had landed at Reggio; that Evermuth had gone over to him; that the Imperialists were marching on Naples.

  Padway grinned at the banker, whose jaw was sagging. “Sorry, old man, but I need that solidus. I’m saving up for a new horse.”

  “Do You hear that, God? Martinus, the next time I lay a bet with a magician, you can have me declared incompetent and a guardian appointed.”

  Two days later a messenger came in and told Padway that the king was in Rome, staying at the Palace of Tiberius, and that Padway’s presence was desired. Padway thought that perhaps Thiudahad had reconsidered the telescope proposal. But no.

  “My good Martinus,” said Thiudahad, “I must ask you to discontinue the operation of your telegraph. At once.”

  “What? Why, my lord king?”

  “You know what happened? Eh? That thing of yours spread the news of my son-in-law’s good fort—his treachery all over Rome a few hours after it happened. Bad for morale. Encourages the pro-Greek element, and brings criticism on me. Me. So you’ll please not operate it any more, at least during the war.”

  “But, my lord, I thought that your army would find it useful for—”

  “Not another word about it, Martinus. I forbid it. Now, let me see. Dear me, there was something else I wanted to see you about. Oh, yes, my man Cassiodorus would like to meet you. You’ll stay for lunch, won’t you? Great scholar, Cassiodorus.”

  So Padway presently found himself bowing to the pretorian prefect, an elderly, rather saintly Italian. They were immediately deep in a discussion of historiography, literature, and the hazards of the publishing business. Padway to his annoyance found that he was enjoying himself. He knew that he was abetting these spineless old dodderers in their criminal disregard of their country’s defense. But—upsetting thought—he had enough of the unworldly intellectual in his own nature so that he couldn’t help sympathizing with them. And he hadn’t gone on an intellectual debauch of this kind since he’d arrived in old Rome.

  “Illustrious Cassiodorus,” he said, “perhaps you’ve noticed that in my paper I’ve been trying to teach the typesetter to distinguish between U and V, and also between I and J. That’s a reform that’s long been needed, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, yes, my excellent Martinus. The Emperor Claudius tried something of the sort. But which letter do you use for which sound in each case?”

  Padway explained. He also told Cassiodorus of his plans for printing the paper, or at least part of it, in Vulgar Latin. At that Cassiodorus held up his hands in mild horror.

  “Excellent Martinus! These wretched dialects that pass for Latin nowadays? What would Ovid say if he heard them? What would Virgil say? What would any of the ancient masters say?”

  “As they were a bit before our time,” grinned Padway, “I’m afraid we shall never know. But I will assert that even in their day the final s’s and m’s had been dropped from ordinary pronunciation. And in any event, the pronunciation and grammar have changed too far from the classical models ever to be changed back again. So if we want our new instrument for the dissemination of literature to be useful, we shall have to adopt a spelling that more or less agrees with
the spoken language. Otherwise people won’t bother to learn it. To begin with, we shall have to add a half dozen new letters to the alphabet. For instance—”

  When Padway left, hours later, he had at least made an effort to bring the conversation around to measures for prosecuting the war. It had been useless, but his conscience was salved.

  Padway was surprised, though he shouldn’t have been, at the effect of the news of his acquaintance with the king and the prefect. Well-born Romans called on him, and he was even asked to a couple of very dull dinners that began at four p.m. and lasted most of the night.

  As he listened to the windy conversation and the windier speeches, he thought that a twentieth-century after-dinner speaker could have taken lessons in high-flown, meaningless rhetoric from these people. From the slightly nervous way that his hosts introduced him around, he gathered that they still regarded him as something of a monster, but a well-behaved monster whom it might be useful to know.

  Even Cornelius Anicius looked him up and issued the long-coveted invitation to his house. He did not apologize for the slight snub in the library, but his deferential manner suggested that he remembered it.

  Padway swallowed his pride and accepted. He thought it foolish to judge Anicius by his own standards. And he wanted another look at the pretty brunette.

  When the time came, he got up from his desk, washed his hands, and told Fritharik to come along.

  Fritharik said, scandalized: “You are going to walk to this Roman gentleman’s house?”

  “Sure. It’s only a couple of miles. Do us good.”

  “Oh, most respectable boss, you can’t! It isn’t done! I know; I worked for such a patrician once. You should have a sedan chair, or at least a horse.”

  “Nonsense. Anyway, we’ve got only one saddle-horse. You don’t want to walk while I ride, do you?”

  “N-no-not that I mind walking; but it would look funny for a gentleman’s free retainer like me to go afoot like a slave on a formal occasion.”

  Damn this etiquette, thought Padway.