Avram Davidson - The Scarlet Fig - Or, Slowly Through a Land of Stone, Book Three of the Vergil Magus Series

Pure desire for power was not enough; many men greatly desired power, and not a few women: witness Flora, the famous Regma , who had reigned for decades via those to whom (in the words of that irascible Israelite, Samuelides) she was royally related “through blood and bed”: before finally it was assumed that she held all in her own right — still she signed herself proudly: Daughter, Mother, Regent, Wife, and Queen. But Regma was not Gunta. Thank the god; enough was sufficient. Pure desire for power was not enough, and malignancy was not enough, envy and the willingness to suffer great sacrifice was not enough. Learning was not alone enough: the Druids learned as much and the scant handful who composed the Order of Sages and Mages, holding, each a willow wand as rod and sceptre, had learned far more. Of one willing to be a Gunta , that he was of Greek speech went without saying (of course it need not be his sole or native speech), for he had to be a Bridegroom of Persephone and no man could experience the Mysteries of Attic Eleusis, eat of the basket, drink of the cymbal, and see the sun rise at midnight, who was not of Greek speech: capable of understanding the ceremonial words.

He who would be a Gunta — or be able to be one, would he or not would he — need he be a passed scholar of a white school, of any recognized school of philosophy, and of a black school, too, as it might be in Toledo or Sevilla, “those sewers of several sundry thousand devils.” Need he have slept an hundred successive nights untorn among the war-hounds of Molossia (by definition, in Epirate Molossia, for there were not an hundred Molossian hounds in any one place in the world elsewhere): and he need have slain the hippotayne in the reedy covert of the fens: for in the open water would not do; even that dandled boy-king of the Ægyptim had slain an hippotayne in the open water. And the man had in dark of night to have slipped past the sleeping swarm of bee-priestesses, all armed with stings, offered up any of the Twelve Great Talismans upon the altar of Diana of Ephesus (much more dangerous than fighting there with wild beasts) and kissed her many clustering teats; a thing it was strictly forbidden at any time to do soever, on penalty of being buried unburned in an urn. (And the penalty for touching a Vestal — and did this penalty perhaps not pursue him with slow deliberate haste?)

Who had done all this and these then had command of all the dogs of the dead, of those dead being shedders of human blood in time of peace, and having died unpurified on land and sea: though any dog of such a one which was not dead itself was in no wise subject to summons or command. That the Gunta had to feed each dog once in every extra-lunar month (of which there were seven in each cycle of nineteen years) with the heart of a man who had never begat a child? Rumor: lying, untrue, and false.

Mostly….

And not least of the frightening and terrifying aspect of the matter was that the beasts might drink no living water, but only the black stagnant water of a sunless cave might they suck, for The waters of life cannot pass through the jaws of a dead dog ; and that the dogs of hell (whence even heroes might not be summoned) when summoned could even climb trees, not alone in pursuit but to escout and espy whither had the quarry fled. So men say.

There were may schools of philosophy, worshippers of numerous gods and goddesses, and divers cults of mystical enlightenment: all offered protections of sundry sorts. But all were on one thing agreed, There is no guard against the Gunta. Against this, the efforts of the Gunta, all amulets and talismans and charms and wards were all alike in vain. The squatter’s thrall sunk so deeply in the mire and the Emperor upon the Oliphaunt Throne, were alike incapable of immunity against him who summoned his servants from the dark battalions of the dead. For the Gunta made to serve him the dogs of the unrefusing and unpurified dead, and such dead had had many a sufficiency of dogs, and of such dead there was never any lack.

Nor of any such dogs.

In less time than it takes to let fly a break of wind all, all, were gone: all save one; also a cook-stall woman, she looked at him as if a bit distressed, but in no wise disconcerted by a possible attack from the hounds: she busied herself with her pots.

He felt sick, sickened (for one reason) by the penetrating bitterness of the bitter honey made from the nectar of the bitter boxwood flower, and sickened to realize that he had used his power as if it were that of the Gunta — in part; it was another power: if he had not been born with it then it was bestowed upon him, he yet knowing nought about it, whenas a babe before his head had closed — used that power upon a clot of dolts in a huddled port for which “provincial” was perhaps too kind a word. He had gained much; had he gained mastery? evidently not. To terrify yokels was not mastery. It was subjugation.

“Soldier,” said the woman who had not fled, from her own bench and table among the cook-pots; “Soldier,” and this could only refer to his rank in the Rites of Mithras; so many Mithrians being of the Soldiery that any initiates were held to hold at least courtesy rank as a soldier … but Mithras was a man’s mystery alone: so how knew she him or what he was? he wore no emblem, indeed it was strictly banned. “Matron,” he said, trying to collect himself and his wits, and making a slight bow.

“Corsican boxwood honey is always bitter,” she said, “I’m surprised you did not know. Some folk here are brutes indeed, you’ll not require me to beg pardon for them. — but here’s a cup of sweet water and here’s a bowl of fragrant acorn-meal: be pleased to cleanse your palate.” Drink the sweet waters of Corsica and taste its — let him be a long time before believing any street-cries again. Gingerly, and with hesitation, he supped of the porridge.

“It is scented with something more than acorn,” he said. “I know it and yet I know it not.”

“Would you know it in the dark?”

A short laugh. “It does not reek of the stinking lily, I am sure.” His wood spoon scraped the meal-filled mazer. A breath of the sea came through the food-smells: Porridge, parsnips, several sorts of fish, vinegar, wine, offals grilled on char. The sea would not go away.

“No … no … there’s no garlic in it. Still good, though.”

“Yes … good … my palate is quite cleansed now. I thank you, Matron.” He made no great show of thanks, nor apologized for having spoiled her trade: it was not seemly. And she merely nodded her acknowledgements. Then he picked his way atween the contents of the spilled cook-pots; it looked like vomit and already drew flies and, in the increasing heat of the day, smelled ill. Lord of Z’bub and lord of Z’bul : the Sidonians knew that more than sounds of words associated flies with dung. Faw! O pópoi! he waved his hand and he quickened his step.

The streets were still and empty and once he heard the hasty sound of a quickly-shuttered window. A shallow shop-front gaped. No one was there … now … and whoever had been there had not quite bothered to empty it before fleeing: a length of purple-grey sausage sat upon a cutting-board, one shoe still a-dangle, and the knife dropped next to it. He picked up the entire chunk as he passed, but only ate the partly-cut slice, spitting out the casing. The odor rose to him, it certainly lacked not of the stinking lily; was it up to the standards of Quint’s granny? probably not, though it wasn’t too bad by country standards, even if probably made from the sorry carcase of a cargo-beast. Garlic and cumin and coriander had gone into it, and the tongue burning black berries of Ind the More, via the great black pepper-barns in Rome … in Yellow Rome … a throng of images came into his mind, but he did not care for them to linger. He ought not to have gone there, and it was going to be a long while before he went again. Why linger by the shallow yellow Tiber when the great blue Bay of Naples lay at the bottom of the hill? … thinking of the pepper-berries led him to consider the far-off folk of the Indoo Sea, which folk constantly spet blood: and no man knoweth why … though they be in sound good thrift and health…. Others say, they put somewhat in their mouths, as it were a comfit, to make them spit blood: it would be a wonder of the world should this be true: yet who can believe it? for why? … but out of India, always something new….