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

A thin-bodied man with a large, naked veinous head had observed, “Tis said that tother day in little Yellow Rome a man did seize a Vestal by her little naked arm!”

And another standabout remarked, the while smoothing the skin of his face in which long secretions of charcoal-dust had enlarged the pores so that one had seen very small coins which were smaller, “Tis said twere done to save her little life from a little mule as had the hyderphoby and did go to bit she on the little sacred bod-dy —”

In a part of his mind Vergil acknowledged his awareness that the lavish use of the diminutive identified the users as true Neopolitans of the lower classes, for whom all the daintier pleasures of life would be very diminutive indeed; but most of his mind just then forebore philology and social comment. A third speaker was, if not elaborately clean, too clean to have spent much time sleeping on empty charcoal sacks; his comment was that, “In the reign of the Divinely Favored Marius there was such an incident, as sundry witnesses averred, that the man in the question did wrap his toga well-around his arm, up and down, before offering his elbow to the high-born virgin vestal to apport herself thereon; Tully sayeth, anent the chaste Lucrece, sayeth Tully —” By the man’s manner and faint Greek accent Vergil accompted him an old pedagogue pensioned off by his old master, an attorney … not so very lavishly pensioned, either. The fellow wound up with, “But as to indeed if to touch a virgin Vestal on her naked flesh whatsoever is a violation of law or merely of a custom having not quite the force of law, deponent sayeth not: it is not for a mere freeman such as your humble servant to comment thereupon.”

Hear now Pores, in a tone of admiration, say, “Ah, thou comports thy little self far too humble, Demosthese Mesalla, what? a great little scholard like thee.”

To linger longer in adjusting his dress would have been to attract even a little more attention than Vergil wanted; off with him! The conversation told that the news had reached Naples well before him — how , was vain to ask — and that reaction to it was ambiguous. Not at all ambiguous was the conviction to quit himself of Naples at once directly; Naples, where even the loafers in the archway already spoke of the incident in terms of the chaste Lucrece. His dream, like that of Quint, was coming more and more to seem vatic indeed. Above the bank-bong-rattleclamor of the swarming street came to his ears the sound of two instruments whose music together generally intended one sole thing. He moved closer towards it, while allowing nothing more in his manner to hint of any such thing.

Charcoal might come into Naples packed on horses, mules, or asses; it might come loaded aboard a ship of burden; even one might see a quarter-of-a-rick abaft the back of someone deeply bowed, stunted, smutched, splay-footed, gnome-like: naphtha came by ship alone; and, having crested the hill of the Reins-makers, Vergil prepared to come down the precipitate slope towards port, his eyes on his feet and his feet at an angle. Espying a pair of feet wearing shoes so high that almost they merited to be called boots — automatically, he looked up. And found himself looking into a pair of eyes: so deep-set, so cold and grey, so cruel: that almost he stopped and gaped. But dropped his eyes again. And wandered on. There had been, he noted, several pairs of such boots — thick-soled and adorned with nails. Somewhat further on he paused and feigned to pause and do this and that to his own shoes. And looked back. They still stood as they were clumped together, short black robes and short black cloaks. They were looking the other way, so frankly he gave over pretense and straightened up and stared. Someone coming along caught his stare, turned to see, saw, turned back. From the portion of cooked tripe he carried in a cracked pannikin, evidently he was one of the vast mob who did not “keep their own kitchen;” he said to Vergil, one citizen to another, “Ever see that like afore in our itty-bitty street?”

“No” — truthfully — “who?”

“Calls themselves ‘Slaves of the Immortal Gods,’ know what that means? no Isis, no Cybele, no Diana of Ephesus, no; only our good old native citizen gods and goddesses, down with all forring deities, Respect! Our good old native citizen gods, fluking foreigners pulling all our itty-bitty jobs away. ‘Tis said th’emperor is behind ‘em, shouldn’t like to meet ‘em in a hobscure halleyway; pre puce! My tripe’s a-gitting cold! won’t she yell at me!” And hustled off.

Dismal, Vergil asked himself: was Vesta “a good old native citizen goddess”? Dismal, conceded that the matter admitted of no discussion: oh she was! And … “the emperor was behind them”? this ugly snooping coven? Best be gone!

A stripling came down the street, hands holding the fipple flute on which he blew, and behind him a gobbo, bowed down probably by the sorrow of his condition — it was good luck to touch the puckle of such a one, but it was scarce good luck to have it! — and certainly bowed down by the drum he bore and beat upon. Every few minutes the stripling called out in his crisp fresh tones, “Drink the sweet waters of Corsica and taste her fragrant acorn meal! drink the sweet waters of Corsica and taste her fragrant acorn meal!” And at once the gobbo declared, in his hoarse voice, “The voyage having been accried enduring two full days and to say this is the third day, the stout ship Zeno her adventured navigation until isle Corsica shall be cried no further day! All cargo and any baggage a-larger than a common portmantle must be aboard afore ye night do fall. ‘ What shore, what shore! What coast of people? ’”

And, “ Corsica! Corsica! ” cried out the stripling. “Stout ship Zenos leaves at first light for port Loriano on ye isle Corsica! This ship shall sail with such despatch as the goddus does admit and shall not stop at Ostia I repeat shall not stop at Ostia but sails with full despatch for port Loriano on isle Corsica at first daylight in the morrow from the great mole a-nigh the Mole of Lucullus and take notice that her owners and master have avowed to offer a fine fat freemartin for the safety of this voyage and to burn her fat and thighs on the foreshore by the Temple of Neptune!”

And with a final invitation to drink the sweet water of Corsica and taste her fragrant acorn meal, the young man began again to sound his fipple flute and the gobbo to beat upon his drum; and they passed on until they should stop for announcement before another “island” of tenements and warehouses. And Vergil pondered what he had just heard!

Corsica! He had no pressing business in Corsica, nothing waited him there — yes! something did! Safety awaited him there! True, that Corsica was nearer to Rome than Naples was, Corsica was north of Rome — but the ship was not going to stop at Ostia, the port of Rome — assuming (and it could be only an assumption) that They were out looking for him, for Vergil, there was nothing to suggest to Them that he would go to Corsica — besides: Corsica was not only northwards from Rome, but was also westwards of Rome — ships left thence as well as came there — westwards the Mediterranean was an open sea and he might get him gone if need from the Empery itself by the opening of the Straits of Hercules … at least until this excitement died down, as surely it must….

“I am off again,” he told Polydore and Cosmo Nungo. “Do not use the athenor, or any other furnaces save one, and have the fire banked. Clean the smoke-vents and keep them clean. Hire no one. Let none guest have the house, save by my hand and seal. Has my portmantle been repacked with fresh things? Hail and farewell!”