Vergil in Averno

“Ah,” said Vergil softly. “So here you are.”

“Yes, Master Vergil. The wine is better here.”

The wine is better here. Of what did this at once remind him, other than that the wine had been the common wine of poor folk’s daily diet?. . Where last (and first) they’d sipped. . for remind him of something else at once, most certainly it did. As though a pole were thrust into a murky pool and touched some. . something. . which had by the mere touch been shifted; little would one’s sense of what it might be be conveyed through the gross medium of the pole; and yet. . and yet. . The wine is better here. That is, better than there. What was there about the wine there which. . No. Here or there. The wine. Warmed in a crude hot-water bath, over a small charcoal brazier. Bath. Bath. A voice in his ear said, Wash.

Wash! the voice had said.

But there was no one at his ear.

There had been no one at his ear.

Here.

Or there.

So it had not happened. So it was yet to happen.

As Iohan would have put it: Therefore — one could only wait for it to happen.

“The wine is better here,” the man said, but said it with no hint that it was much better, here. “It would have to be. There, one may at least now and then stroll a few paces and look at the Bay. No matter how wretched one’s life, how hard one’s work, there, surely one may steal a moment now and then and see the Bay. Here one may only drink.” He drank. “And work.”

Vergil felt no need to wonder which the man did most.

An inn, almost by definition, is mostly for the convenience of travelers, which is to say. . usually. . people from elsewhere. Avernians, having doubtless their own taverns and wineshops, evidently did not much patronize this particular inn; and although the man sitting across the table spoke with distinct traces of the thick local accent, he did not in any other way resemble the mass of local people whom Vergil had seen about in the streets, or, for that matter, elsewhere. Perhaps the man had read this in his mind or perhaps Vergil’s thoughts had been as clearly written on his face as by a style upon wax. Or even perhaps all this had happened to the man before, and he was thus able to anticipate questions unasked simply because they had been asked so often before that he knew they would be asked again. And when.

“There is little old blood in Averno,” he said; “but to the extent there is, I am of it. My father thought me puny, and yet I lived.” Saying this, he shrugged. “More than one warlock or practitioner of divination in its various forms has offered to discern how long I shall continue to, but I have declined. I have been afraid. Of what?” He shrugged. “Of being perhaps told that my life will be long. To live in Averno, old? Horrible!” He shuddered, and he shook his head.

“Old people seem rather scarce here,” Vergil murmured.

“Children are scarcer. Well! But we are very rich. And rich men may buy that which is beautiful even if they themselves are ugly, and among that which is beautiful which such men sometimes buy are beautiful women. They do not particularly buy beautiful men, even those some who favor men for partners in that act which has been called love. No, slaves fetched here are fetched for brawn. Endurance. Do you know what the foreman in any workplace here is called? Not the overseer or the manager or the captain, as in other places. No, he is called the Big Slave, even if he is not particular big or even if he is not a slave. Usually, though, he is both. Sometimes he is ugly, sometimes not, this is of no importance, it is important that he have a broad back and large arms and know well the work and be indefatigable in carrying it out. Well, it fairly frequently happens that such a man is freed by his master and adopted by his master (who, recall, will usually be childless). Though now and then one knows of a master, magnate or not, who has bothered both to take a wife and maintain her elsewhere. So he will have had his children there, if he has children, and sometimes they come back when they are grown, and — ”

There was an interruption. Men drinking and talking at another table raised their voices. “Cadmus is king!” said one.

“King of fools …”

“King. He is king.”

“King of mud.”

“King of mud or king of gold: king.”

“King of shit — ”

I have heard those words before; where? —

Before Vergil could recollect where, the first man, half-rising, struck the other down. And down he stayed. In a moment the talk and babble resumed, no one paying the matter any further attention. If the fallen one was living or dead, dead drunk, or only stunned, Vergil did not observe, as he had fallen into the shadows cast by the small and flickering lamps.

“ — and take up the trade, whichever trade it be. And sometimes they put it into the hands of the Big Slave. And sometimes, of course, they find it simpler to sell the works. And who buys it, generally? Another Big Slave, past or present. White or Black. So most of the magnates who govern this colony of hell have themselves been slaves. And of those who have spent a generation, at least, toiling at the stinking forge or the stinking dye-pots or the stinking tan-vats, one need not, must not, expect a great measure of delicacy. You will take this into account when you make your calls.”

Vergil said, “I have already made one call. One whom you mentioned — the only one whom you mentioned, the dyer Haddadius — says he has no need for such things wherein lie my skills.”

Two tables over someone, by his looks an Avernian, grunted and spread his legs and lifted his tunic and made water on the floor. No one gave it any notice. No one attempted to remedy the matter by emptying bucket or jug.

“So said Haddadius? So. No doubt he had his reasons, he — ”

Things were being pounded on the surface of another table: fists, mugs, dice-boxes, providing some arrhythmic accompaniment to the constant thuddings from the fire-fields. Vergil waited till the noise had somewhat abated. “And you, sir, no doubt have yours.” He perceived a degree of glaze upon the other’s eyes, was it drink alone? He had seen a one rather alike it on the eyes of bridegrooms; others, still akin, on the eyes of those who have been to uncheerful physicians. He spoke on. “What may your reasons have been, to send. . or bring. . me here by the methods which you have used. . you alone? others? you and others?. . methods, which, by the way, imply a measure of the same skills…. Eh? Why?”

A woman then passed by, stopped, stroked Vergil’s head once, twice, said, “How pale your face. How black your hair and beard.” He had begun, slowly, to look up, to extend his hand — too slowly. Some rough voice from another table hailed her, Vergil felt no more than his hand touch the edge of her sleeve as she moved away. He looked back to his host, who shrugged without ceasing to drink, then said, “Why? Well, in part to pique your interest. Was it piqued? Oh, so. And in part. . well, had it been simply suggested that you come here because a contract might be obtainable, would you, considering the place and its repute? Probably not, I think. So — ”

Of a sudden the heavy doors were flung open and a man, a young man, who seemed far too slight to have done this, came in. He came in dancing, dancing he came in, and singing and clapping his hands, and he had small bells upon his hands and he had a crown upon his head. All rose and bowed. Despite the shock of the novel scene Vergil was able to concentrate attention upon the singing — it could not really have been called a song — but though now and then he made out words, and even, less often, sentences, the words together, even such of them as were not gibberish, made no sense. There was no coherency to them. There -

Vergil put his mouth close to the ear of the other man at his table. “Who?”

“That is Cadmus.”

“Who is he?”

“He is king.”

“King of Averno. King of here.”