Аврам Дэвидсон - Peregrine - primus

Peregrine considered a moment, but could think of nothing else. “That will be all for now,” he said, somewhat grandly. Philoxena gave him a grateful glance. It may have been that she, for one, had thought of something else.

The boat had floated some ways downstream, and Peregrine had to run to catch up with it.

Appledore greeted him. “Stretching your legs, eh? I don’t blame you. Mine, however, have had all the stretching they need during our recent journeyings on foot, and I’m glad to let them contract. —Say, the next real city ahead should be Chinigirium, if I’m not mistaken. It used to be on a west branch of the river, but that one dried up; fortunately the east branch flowed right past the other end of town so they just had to build new docks.”

“Is that so?” said Peregrine, lazily, who had seen the chart.

“Yes, it is. And what’s more to the point, an old and very dear schoolmate of mine is there, or used to be: the philosopher Volumnius. You wouldn’t have guessed it, though, at one time, that he would ever get to be a philosopher!”

“Is that so?”

“Yes, it is. In fact, in those days we used to call him the Dumb Ass of Parnassus! Ha ha ha! What do you think of that for a nickname?”

He paused, and Peregrine, who had not been closely attending, but, observing the expectant pause and politely desiring to return an answer, hazarded, “The Child of Abraxas . . .”

“Ha ha, not quite. Volumnius came of middle-class parents in the provincial city of N. Funny name for a city, isn’t it?”

Instead of attempting an answer, and the question in fact, hardly seeming to need any, Peregrine spoke on something which he had just been reminded of. “Say, Appledore, about the child of Abraxas, and that spell by which you re-created him? “What about it my boy?” Well, it just occurred to me that I once saw a gemstone ring which my old uncle Bumbulac used to have, and there was an Abraxas on it: You called him in your spell, ‘Ass-headed Abraxas,’ right? —but on this ring I saw once he had a cock’s head.”

Appledore politely raised his brows, arose and gave his limbs a comfortable if limited stretch. “Did you, my boy? Did it? Did he? Well . . . The spell worked, didn’t it? So I must have gotten something right?”

Thin cool shafts of sunlight were passing through the trees along the riverbanks when Eugenius decided to tie up for the night. A similar thought occurred to the Hun Hordes, or, at any rate, to Hun Horde Number Seventeen, for the yourts came to a slow and lurching stop in the flats not far from the boat. Peregrine ambled over, passing Matron Eudoxia and ladies, who

murmured something to him about Christian resignation, vales of tears, missionary efforts among the heathen, future purchases of holy oil for holy lamps; and would perhaps have murmured more to him about something else, save for a slight twinge which caught her when she half-turned; so that what she actually said was, “Christos Chrestos, I’m sore. I don’t believe them goddam Huns sweep the gravel out of those lop-sided bee-hives from one year’s end to another! Furthermore, I’m hungry, and I don’t mean for any more chop horsey, either, I want some Christian vittles such as bread and beef. Well . . . see you later, then, prettyboy ...”

The lady-Huns who were preparing the campfires (although what they might cook thereon, Peregrine could not imagine) ignored him as he came up. Attila IV gestured towards a horsehide rug near his own, and Peregrine sat, crossing his legs as the other was doing—a gesture which did not escape his host. “Hoy,” he said. “You sittee on ground all-same Hun sittee, not like Christian.”

“Well, I’ll tell you a secret, King. I’m not really a Christian.”

The Hun digested his slowly. Then he slowly nodded. “Secret, yes. Me no tellee. But no tell white man, you! Hammer big sharp stick up—”

“I know, I know. Boy, do I know!”

His host sighed deeply. “Sunamabitch big goddamn day. Me all tire out. You know gamboo-game, play with knuckoo-bone? Yes? Fat white mamma lady show how, catchee allee money from ship captain gib us. Now me number one poor boy again. Me! Attila Four, Grand Hetman Hun Hordes, Scourgee God, King Hun Horde Number Sebemteem . . .” He passed into a moody silence, then, the traditional hospitality of the nomad (ha!) breaking even into his moodiness, he ran his hand through an open sackful of something which Peregrine could not at once identify. “Likee pumpkin seed?” the Scourge of God inquired, listlessly. “Raw . . . Good for keepee peepee up,” he added, with a graphic gesture. He heaved a huge sigh, which, as it progressed, contained notes which were on the whole not entirely without contentment.

“Listen, King,” Peregrine said, leaning forward, Attila at once stifled his yawn, leaned towards his guest. “Do any of the peoples down the river know that you and your people are

here?”

Attila thought about this, his hairline almost meeting his eyebrows as he concentrated. Then he drew something which might, with both generosity and imagination, be called a map, in the sand with an exceedingly grubby great-toe. “Lessee . . . Horde come from here . . . Ribber runnee ober here . . . Down ribber down dere . . .” He withdrew a bit and examined his cartographical exercise with a measure of fondness. Rapidly he cast up the whole thing in his mind, discerned an answer.

“Nope. No-boddee know. Wha’-fo you ask?”

Peregrine brought his hand fairly close to the other’s tiny rufous eyes, and showed him the band of a thin and flat and rather worn ring. Then he revolved it. On the bezel, no longer concealed, was the stag’s-head symbol of Sapodilla. And over it was a crown. Attila scowled, considering. A stag’s head by the bezel’s brim, a simple stag’s head was to him; but a crown was, after all, a crown.

“Hey,” he commented. “What? You King? Lillee boy like you, king?”

Peregrine said, quite truthfully, “No. My father is a king.”

There may have been times when Attila’s mind moved slowly, but these times were not every time. “Then what you do here?” he asked. And at once answered his own question. “Ho. You get chase out. You bahrstar, huh?” Peregrine nodded. The savage little chieftain clapped him on the back. “Nevva mine,” he said. “You no Christian, me no Christian, we no givee fuck.” He lifted his head, and uttered some sounds which were half-whinnies and half-clicks. One of the lady-Huns rose and removed from the fire something which sizzled and dripped. Something shifted uneasily in Peregrine’s innards. Was this, he wondered, the same saddle of horsemeat which had twice changed hands, so to speak, earlier that day? He had an' unwholesome vision of it, progressing halfway across lower central Europe at a slow trot, getting softer and softer.

“You no mine eatee woman food,” said King Attila indulgently. It was almost certainly horse, for surely that rib had never formed part of ox or cow; it was, however, quite definitely a rib, and he could hardly imagine the most case-hardened Hun riding very far on top of it. And also, remembering the bawdy tale of the young first Caesar and the King of Pontus, he was

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peregrine: primus

thankful that no grosser (or more limber) item of anatomy was now being thrust at him. He thanked his host, took it by the stick which impaled it, and began to nibble.

It was of course tough and it lacked the smoothness of mutton, veal, or beef; it was slightly sweetish. But he was young and he was hungry and he was diplomatic: and it was not bad. After several minutes of champing, he propped the bit up where the fire would finish cooking the inside portion of it. “Listen, King,” he said, again, “how would you like to collect some tribute?’’