Vergil in Averno

cry at all of thalassa!) they once again espied the sea that Iohan, having once looked back at the thin smudge of smoke which alone now marked upon the sky, murmured something else. It being too low for his master to hear, his master, after an abstracted moment, turned his face and raised his brows. “They did be canny things, them arts of fire and metal,” the boy said. Then, an instant later, in a dogged tone different from the tone of puzzled memory, remarked, “They do be canny things. . them arts of fire and metal.”

“Yes,” said Vergil. And, “We are nigh safe home.”

The mare now turned again her head and gave him that characteristic, almost arch, look. He stroked her muzzle. “Thou good beast. . served me well, well, well…. I cannot keep thee, though.” She flung her head, still looking at him. Then it seemed as though, even whilst they regarded one another, that something dulled and dimmed in her eye, her head turned round and down, and she ambled on the road. And thus reminded of the essential and essentially unexisting details of quotidian life, Vergil said, “Iohan, when we are to my lodging-place, tend the mare as best you can. . and. . ah! yes! see that you give her a double handful of the best white barley….” Iohan nodded, nodded; unchanged, that wan, drawn look; and why “changed,” should one expect it to be? Solely that a horse might eat, and eat, however scantly, well? “ — and then. . Iohan. . I intend presently to speak you, about your. . our. . arrangements. . employment. . and then — Iohan — the mare must go back, of course, to Fulgence — so bring her back. Tell him to prepare his account. I shall. . presently …”He moved his hand. What need of words. The boy nodded, nodded. They did not, man and master, look each other in the face. There was no need.

— Later, Vergil sat, blank, exhausted, in the sole chair in his rented room, the confused memory of the return from Averno unreeling before his eyes as though some tapestry or painted cloth upon two great spools. Charge: one penny for the Commander of the Legions (one shrug had he given at the sight of the site where once Averno had crouched). The Commander of the Legions. . what time the Viceroy of the South had said something close to the Commander’s ear, gesturing the while to Vergil; what had the Commander of the Legions said? — Nothing. What had he given Vergil? For that matter, what he owed Vergil? Nothing. He had given one shrug and he had given Vergil two decades of troops — they must return that way anyway — two decades of troops to company Vergil, his mare, his man, as they returned — lagging, lagging — aware of a total absence of joy. Suppose Sisyphus to have been acquitted his need of forever toiling up his hill in Hell, would he have made the last journey in joy? Or would mere fatigue have extinguished all other emotion, as a torch extinguished in a sconce? The troops were useful, very useful, the troops kept apart the hordes they met upon the roads. Hordes, hordes, some mere seekers after curiosity. “Master, Master, what happened?” — Some, so many some as to exhaust all pity. “Master, hast ‘ee heard of such a one? my son? my daughter? my sister’s son? Master, master, has thee heard?” He had not heard. And those who asked him naught, and told him naught, but did their best to avoid the soldiery, men of grom glance with many an unsaddled horse and mule and many an empty sack and cask and box, for who knows what they had hoped to find, for the tugging out and for the picking up? Nor did they dare purse lips to phrase the words their faces and their glances saith well enough: salvage. . plunder. . loot …

Later, then, Vergil sitting, blank, exhausted, in his chair in rented rooms, now and then some thought coming straying to his wasted mind, as Cadmus was made king in order that the king must die, there being no greater sacrifice than the sacrifice of a king, or. . many times, uselessly uselessly: Whence came Cadmus, and what his early tale?. . there came again Iohan, all but dead with trudging and fatigue and latent, latent shock, saying:

“Master, Fulgence gives you full quittance for the steed, and he says, says Fulgence, ‘There is no accompt, all is paid; if you are well, it is well, and he is well …’ ”

Some long while silence buzzed in Vergil’s ear. Then he arose. “Iohan, youth is your blessing and youth shall be your cure, so lie you down and rest; I shall be some small while gone.” And down he went the ladder to the level ground, and began to walk the streets, no destination in his mind, no purpose, no explanation, only some thought of the few coins still in his purse: how he would divide them with the boy, and then — But there was, really, no “… and then …” — Whom should he meet?

A woman, certainly not young, surely not yet old: the favored house-servant of the Matron Gunsedilla; what was the she’s name? He knew it not; she knew him well. Up she flung her arms, and “Ah! Master Vergil! the gods be praised for having brought you safe again, grains and incense and drops of the best wine I will be offering them, for glad I am to see you — ”

“Woman — ”

“You will sure and soon come visit, ser? An old servant and a faithful one, I has my privileges, ser, I must tell you straight, matron has missed you, master. ‘Missed you,’ what do I say? Matron has languished, master. Since you gone away, ser, to tell the truth, and it’s a funny thing of me, master, ser, that I must tell the truth, let them as like it not, lick — but let me mind me mouth, ser mage and master ser. Since you gone away, matron, she keeped to her room, she keeped to her room the untire time, master, and hardly scarce she eat a thing. To tell the truth, master.”

Last of all which he would hear: the tale of the Matron Gunsedilla. Her image came into his mind, he thrust it away, he confused it, he did not confuse, he was perhaps going mad, why should he not go mad, the image of the Matron Gunsedilla did not come clear into his mind at all, it was imposed upon, it lay beneath, the image of the mare….

Prima, was that the mare’s name? It made no difference. The way the matron turned her head and rolled her eyes, the way the mare rolled her eyes as she turned her head, the recollection that Matron Gunsedilla had studied magic: how —!

As though he read it on some fresh-writ scroll, clearly it now came to him: how she, being aware of the plot to bring him to Averno, but being unable to prevent it, in order to see him safe thither and safe there and safe thence, she had not only, somehow, caused the stallion, Hermus, to be ill, but she had, by the same and by whichever art, call it metamorphosis or — no, not quite shape-shifting — call it by whatever name, she had inhabited the body of the mare. Until that last moment when he had thanked the mare.

This, she, Gunsedilla, had done for him; this was the way her seemingly mad dash had saved him, had saved Iohan; could she, have anyone, have done more for him? Why had she done it? The reasons obvious, though the means complex. What could he now, henceforth, do for her? The answers obvious, though the question complex. Walking the narrow and the broader streets, he thought of all of this, and long he thought of all of this. At length he concluded that he, if he would not do more, could certainly not do less, than he had done before.

He would continue, not often, but as often as before, stop by of an afternoon, and discuss aubenry, envoutement, white magic so called, and this and that and that and this. He would continue, as often as before, if not often, to come now and then of an evening to attend at the readings from Homer. And, however much, however often, he might feel at least a bit impatient, however much he might wish to ignore, when those very slightly protuberant eyes would roll his way, and ask their invariable and inevitable question, he would not ignore it, nevermore could he ignore it; he would reply, as always and as before:

“Yes, madame. Indeed, Matron. It was very well done, madame.

“Indeed …”

As before.

Aurelio.

Had his, Vergil’s, feet carried him this far? To the new house he had builded for the freedman Aurelio? And such different, cleanlier, more worthy task, than that which came his way next! No. Aurelio was not sitting in his new house, Aurelio was but sitting on the barber’s bench, awaiting his turn to be trimmed and shaved. Aurelio rose and bowed and gave a cheerly friendly smile, gesturing Vergil should sit beside him; Vergil did. Vergil saw no signs in the goodly old man’s face of any toil or torment or of sorrow. Aurelio was perhaps, probably, not even aware that Vergil had left. So be it.

“Aurelio …”

“Ser. I hope I see you well, me ser.”

“Aurelio — ”

“Your new gray cap befits you well, me ser.”

What babble was this? For so soon the words were said, Vergil, though well he knew he wore no cap, brushed hand over head: no cap. Again:

“Aurelio. As to your adopted daughter.”