Avram Davidson - Vergil in Averno

Was the mummy-ragtatter japing again. “What do you do with the fees? Hoard them in a pot? — No, forgive me, I — ”

“Wind, fire, and water. Thrice have I said so, once for each vatic hole. Follow.” The man moved off stiff-legged, lurching yet spry, the stinking winds seemed to bear some distinctive taint from him in addition. Follow? Why not? “ ‘Hoard them in a pot’? Ha-ha. In a pot, yes. Hoard? No. Hast ever heard of the fifth essence, the quintessential, of wine? of the art of estillation? of a pot-still? No. Not likely. Follow.”

Things had changed. The weight, immense, was off Vergil’s chest and off his shoulders. Joy? Certain not. Things were merely as before. . as far as his own inner self was, that was. But. . somehow, other. . things had changed. The lines were different. There was no longer, as he followed the figure (he had seen corpses exhumed that looked better), the nightmare figure which had once indeed extruded a nightmare as a snake extrudes its tongues, and done it simply (simply!) as a test; this sticklike stalking horror teetered along down lanes which had some semblance to geometry, from which the general scramble of the unclean canals district could not have been farther removed. Were they still in Averno? Had the way been gathered up, were they somewhere else? If so: where?

“Ser Beadle — ” (“Peh!”) “Elder one, what mean you, ‘here in the — ’ ”

They scrambled along angles strange and yet not without logic. He had not known and never would have suspected such a place as this in Averno. . or, for that matter, anywhere else. . and yet. . and yet. . was there not something familiar here? It nagged at his mind, but with no clamorous nagging.

Suddenly they were somewhere else. Somewhere inside. Somewhere inside of something which was itself inside of something. Very suddenly this had happened. It was clean underfoot. It was neither dim-dank-dark nor bright-dry-light. Then they came to a wall and in the wall, not flush with the floor nor reaching to the ceiling, was a door; the door was made of bronze and the bronze was devoid of ornament and its surface was polished. It seemed to catch even the once-beadle by surprise, for he stopped short. He looked and peered. Squinted. A slight sound broke through his cracked lips. He said, but this time low and quiet, “Wash.”

And this time he seemed to speak, indeed, to himself alone.

The door opened, they entered, the door closed. There was a source of light high up, the air was cloudy — no. The air was steamy. They were in a small bath. Vergil was as suddenly glad there was space for them to bathe apart; and sluiced and soaped and sluiced and scraped and sank into his own small pool without lifting his eyes to watch the other. But in his mind he saw the filth coming off under the strigil like some roll of. . no simile was supplied. But of a sudden, seeing the fresh clothing (he had not noticed it before) neat-folded in their recesses, and thinking shame to himself for (perhaps) having felt too much shame. . and too little sympathy. . for his former superior, in the man’s decay; so, abruptly, Vergil said, “Well does Homer speak well of the pleasures of the warm bath and the clean garment — ” And then he could have bitten his tongue.

For the other did no more than to cite some other singer, with “ ‘Seven cities claimed blind Homer, dead, Through which blind Homer, living, begged his bread.’ ”

His once not-quite-pupil looked up. What more the older man may have meant by this perhaps too often quoted line, he wondered. But did not wonder long, for, very, very near to him he saw some others; and he was not surely certain he had seen all of them before.

As, sometimes, the sky being clouded almost over, yet the moon is seen unclouded and in the midst of a wide circle where its light meets the clouds and superimposes upon them; just so, or almost so, in the midst of the clouds of steam there was an area quite clear of them. And in the midst of this stood sundry men, Armin amongst them; they bowed to Vergil. And he, naked as when the midwife washed him first in water and next in wine, bowed back.

Said one, “We would ask the Lord Vergil if he would be kind enough, of his own mere grace and favor, to shake out the robes he wore when he entered.”

Vergil, saying, “I am not ‘the Lord Vergil,’ ” complied.

Said another, “We thank the Noble Mage, and further tax his condescendence by requesting that he raise his arms and turn round, rather slowly.”

Vergil, saying, “I am not ‘the Noble Mage,’ ” complied.

Said another, “Although we have doubtless asked of the Duke Vergil more than may be forgiven, still, we do venture to ask one thing more: Has he with him, upon him, within him, or anywhere accompanying him at present, any amulet and talisman? Or any item of wax, parchment or papyrus, metal, bone, stone, ivory, or any other substance upon which any sign, sigil, or symbol may be or might have been inscribed?”

Vergil said, “I am not ‘the Duke Vergil,’ and the answer to your question is no. — “Duke, duke,” Mount Blanco holds the rank of duke, you might as well address your questions to the mountain as to me: better, I should think.”

They bowed, and, in unison, thanked him; then, as though his last comment had not been made, then yet another asked, “Would the magister, magus, dux et dominus employ those arts and talents which are known to him and not to us, and endeavor to discover and ascertain if there might not be here along with him such things of such nature, the presence of which he may either have forgotten, or — ”

Lips continued a moment more to move, but Vergil heard not what they said; he had gathered his forces within himself, deeply so, and then he sent them outward again, but slowly, and in a certain special way. Nothing. He drew them back, considered them, sent them forth again, again returned them. Again examined. Then relaxed. “Again, sers: no. And again I tell you: those titles which — But mind that not. I had thought I was merely entering a private baths. Am I about to enter a court upon some charge of lese-majeste against the Emperor, his crown and staff, that you should seek and search after items that might harm him or the judges or unfairly provide me with some advantage against the cause of justice?”

But this time it was Armin who answered. Saying, “It is not that they suspect you, against them. It is that they suspect others. Against you.”

And Vergil — somehow, somewhat, humbled — said, “I see. I see. I see.”

He turned to speak to these men. But the vapors had closed in. And next the vapors vanished. And the air grew cold. Another door had opened. And his strange companion said, “If you will take your things, let us enter the cooling chamber.”

“This bath, then, was not that I might be refreshed, but that I might be examined,” Vergil said.

No answer to this was made. And perhaps none was required.

And after the two had cooled them, they dressed and moved on; and, though ever the way seemed to grow more narrow, they came into a broader place.

There the same men sat before him, ranged in a crescent. He said, “I am listening.”

For a moment it seemed that everyone was listening. But there was no sound, save the distant drip and tinkle of water from the frigidarium. Then one of them spoke; one who sat on the farthest right.

“Doctor,” he began.

Vergil felt an impatience which he attempted to restrain. He felt some sense of having gone through these experiences of modest denial before, and in another place, but did not try to recollect when or where. “Enough of these titles, my men. I will accept a simple courteous ‘ser.’ And no more.”