Vergil in Averno

might look out for a bookshop, as he slowly walked. He had. . after all, and it was an immense, an immensely terrible all. . he had his fee. Who had paid it? Had Rano caused it to be slipped into the baggage, back. . back there? Had someone else? Had someone done that, here? Was it possible that somehow, somehow, someone, some certain one, had spun herself a net, and such a net or web as spiders weave, sometimes a mere wisp of web, and somehow, sailed off upon it? Pausing here? Suppose Poppaea to have escaped, clearly she had not wished to tarry here with him; whither would she wander? Far, no doubt; no doubt so very, very far. Past the great Isle Taprobane, set in the center of the Indoo Sea. As far, perhaps, as Tambralinga and the Golden Chersonese, where honey dripped from the reed called succharum.

And, perhaps, farther.

Perhaps, though no Roman knew what lands lay farther; still, perhaps farther.

Such thoughts bemused him as he walked the street, the crowded street. Still the people spoke of what had happened. . there. He heard one gossip-voice, as thus he slowly moved himself along, trying to think of other things, heard one gossip-voice saying, loudly, almost in a scolding tone, “Nay, but this is what I heard, I heard it true, that there went some great magus-man into that city and he did them wondrous works, and they would not pay him, nay, a stiver not: whereat he cursed the city. ‘You be curst!’ saith he, and by his magery did turn it all to ash, to ash — did we not see that gray, gray ash? I heard it true — ”

A greater weariness came upon him, then, than even before. Some other voice next whispered loud, “Look! There he go!”

A moment a silence. One moment. And another voice declared, “Ah, and see! Black o’hair he left, and now his head is turned as ashen-gray!”

He did not turn aside, but he could not avoid the faces that looked at him as he walked, of those who moved away, to give him way as he walked. Was there horror in their faces? Abhorrence? Terror? Fright? Not one shadow of any that. He might his whole life hence deny the tale. Always there would be some, many, who would believe it all. And what did they show, as they looked at him, believing it? Awe. None else. And then -

Along the street, riding the longest-legged mule ever Vergil had seen, own legs tucked under him, stooped over, and yet still visibly and preternaturally tall: who? Vergil did not wish to know, there were other things he wished to know. Should he, for once there being gold in his account, should he seek for home and wife? Bethink him of sons and daughters, family, heirs? And if not this very day — no, be certain not this very day — to commence upon such a matter, why, ah, what was the woman’s name — she in her shoddy purple gown, who lived all but next door to him in his rented rooms? He need not even know her name, nor she, his; she likely, she of a certainty, had troubles, too. But whatever his or hers might be, for some hour or so they might forget somewhat their troubles in each other’s arms. — Upon the mule! Who? The eunuch, Rano’s eunuch. Who saw Vergil stop and stare. And halted then his mule, and gave a grave salute.

“But how did you escape?” cried Vergil.

“ ‘Escape’?” That unforgettable voice, high and rich as a rich-voiced woman’s, yet strong as a man’s, said, “I did not escape. I was not there. I had, indeed, already left. I have been here since before.”

Still Vergil stared. Then: “Rano sent you off? He gave you leave to go? So — ”

But no.

“ ‘Sent me,’ my Wizard dear? ‘Gave me leave to go’? Ah, Master Vergil, Sage and Seer, it is little you had learned in Sevilla about such things. I went. ‘Frog,’ I said, ‘I am going Outside. I shall take such and such a sum with me to do some business; so hand me hither to my hand the seals for such.’ And so, of course, he did.”

There was little reason Vergil had to doubt. A strange relation, that between Magnate Rano and his eunuch. Stranger was it, though, than that between Magnate Rano and his matron? No. Question now beginning to form in Vergil’s mind was now answered before being asked, answered there in the long street along the shore of the blue and great and tideless sea, under the sparkling sun and in the clear and brilliant air. “What shall I do? I shall do thus: A house I have engaged, and a warehouse, too. Goods I have purchased, and equipment, too. All is done as by law required. It is registered, I registered it, in Rano’s name. And I sealed the same with Rano’s seal. Is Rano dead? I know naught. What says the law? The law is not a man, and in this instance the law says naught. Till such time as Rano is declared to be dead, after which, his estate is approbed and settled, why, my Wizard dear, till then, by lawful proxy, I am Rano! I set the terms! The books of account are all mine to keep! No one stands between me and the way I want things done! I hold the rule and draw the lines across the sheets and pages of the records as I want them drawn and when I want them drawn. If not, I leave them clear and open. The buying is all mine and the selling is all mine, ‘tis I allow credit and allot times and terms. Or, as the case may be, disallow. I write the figures and I choose the type of figures to be written and it is I who determine the methods of calculation and of numeration.

“Everything is in the most perfect and efficient order and will so continue. When a time comes that it is said to me, ‘Rano is legally extinct and all which is his demises to kinsmen thrice-removed,’ or, ‘escheats to the Crown Imperial’ — or what or which — ‘so, therefore, Eunuch, stand by and accompt for every drachma, ducat, oboi, groat, stiver, silver, and gold,’ it shall be done. It shall be done.” The man seemed perfectly confident, perfectly content; more, the man seemed happy, too! As happy be defined, or definable: those not-quite-human-eyes….

Still Vergil stared. Then he moved his hand some slight gesture to where some semblance of dark cloud, shaped roughly as an upright finger, tainted, still, the otherwise serene sky. “Are you not in any way sorry for him?” he asked.

“Ah, Wizard mine, and dear. Oh, Master Stones. ‘Sorry for him, am I not?’ But, oh. And ah. But yes. At least, you see” — the man moved a somewhat, the mule began to walk — ”as much sorry as was he for me.”

Vergil watched him again give his respectful salute, watched him ride off at a walk. There lay before him on the saddle a package, that is, some items confined in a net-bag. Their nature was no mystery. There were rolls of new papyrus. There were two, at least two, codex-books, bound in new bindings, red and black. There was, neatly folded, a checkered cloth. And there was also, the last to be identified as the strange gaunt man rode past all peering, what could be no other things than cases of pens. And bottles of ink. And flat sticks for ruling lines. Archimedes had had his circles, Euclid his triangles, Apollonius his cones. This one would have his arithmetics. His.

And Vergil? And the other men and the women in the teeming street? The eunuch had summed it up. Vergil had his stones.