Not while three sticks of this house stand together: surely a figure of speech: Diomedes, good at the war-cry and no mention of Diomedes (who had fought Greeks and Trojans, goddesses and gods) teaching his horses to feed on human flesh in peace or war. Diomedes —
Suddenly he said it aloud, “Diomedes, good at the war-cry.”
She looked at him, slightly she moved the slight lines at the corners of her eyes and at the corners of her mouth. “Here!” said Huldah. “He’d need be!”
No word said, a while. Then Vergiclass="underline" “Come ships seldom here?” he asked. “Black ships, galleys, galleons, carracks made brave with paint of red?”
A gesture (hear her silver bangles sing!). “As thee see. Seldom come ships here…. That is well,” she said. Said she, “Well that it is so.”
Again they were speaking of silver, silver … the pale and shining … there were priestesses who called it The Tears of Diana; clearly they had known it only as droplets to set like so many beads upon the bottom border of a necklace; had never set gaze upon the black or the dark brown matrix, the mother of ore itself from which silver was refined. It was, though, perhaps possible, that they spoke in a slaunting way (safer in Thessalia than in the Thebaid) of the tears of those hundred myriad slaves which toiled in the silver mines of Ægypt to make yet richer the already immensely rich House of Ptolemy. Yet Claud was King of that nation now; if not altogether a philosopher, yet an astronomer and geographer; had he need for the serfdom? or worse than serfdom — for serfs slaved in the sunlight — in the rain, too: yes: but there was no rain in Ægypt nor in the great Garth of Tambuqtoun, where the very houses, seemingly built of slabs and pillars of many-colored marble, were actually wrought of the mines of many-colored salt — was it for crude, rude wish for further wealth that women and men moiled in the mines for salt and silver? Was there no truth in the soft-told tales that this was the common fate of all thought disaffected to the King and Court of this great House of Ptolemy? Surely no one who had measured the earth as with measuring-rods and had seen overhead the clear and glittering stars and counted them all and given them names which had had no names before — Surely King Claud, author of that great book Almageste, might see fit to break the bands binding those bound to toil in darkness. One must hope … and one must hope, as well, some day to learn what any of this had to do with Diana … though to be sure if tears were silver, tears were salt as well. The Fair White Maiden, or Matron occymists often called the moon. Back to the scene before him. “These twain armils or bracelets,” he said, “that is, their silver, may contain some traces of copper as well?” Copper. The Rudy Man. That was the sun. And therefore: Therefore: The Fair White Matron Wedded to the Ruddy Man … Therefore?
He had, by grammar, made a sentence. A statement. But by tone, it was a question. Vitruvius and his architectural jars which swallowed sound, as the vatic chauldrons of Dordona produced it: Vitruvius would clean comprehend this. But an antic notion: produced it? released it? consider if the words of some drama, swallowed up in some theater, should echo forth from the sacred soup kettles in the oaken-wooded holy hills of Aelian Dodona? — or the words of an emperor thus absorbed from an audience chamber? what might pilgrim worshipers make of it? … antic indeed …
“Or some metal not quite known,” she said. “ — or no longer known —”
“Like that missing wind no longer found in the Rose of All the Winds?”
Her face and its considering, sometimes almost brooding, look: her face, the lightest shade of dark … for dark had as many shades as light … her face, on either side of which now grew a richer tint with a slight flush reminiscent of the second bloom of the twice-blooming roses of Paestum, her face. “Or some metal not quite known?” here she it was who asked a question. Yet there was in it a sentence, a declaration of fact — me Herc! here he was, a thousand miles or more from the black navel-stone of all the world, upon the marshes of the Maurs and of the Troglodytes, and he bethought him now of rhetoric!
“But one?” he asked. “Only one? One such not-quite-known-metal alone?”
Reflectively: “Well … I speak now of silver. Certainly I believe that with silver, that behind silver, or within silver, there sometimes lies secluded a severalty of metals otherwise —
“— not quite known,” he finished. He repeated. “And what —”
“Of one I know nothing more, save that it is of a silvery sheen, and yet coarser … and yet stronger, baser, harsher. Of another, I only know that it is somehow finer than silver. Neither of these tarnish; does the moon-Diana tarnish? And of course one knows of silver and lead, of silver in lead, as one does of copper … and perhaps bronze.” Thus she said, speaking to him easily enough. The motes of dust suddenly danced again in the sunlit air. He turned his eyes to see if she had noticed. And, as he did, heard a voice, a man’s voice: Speak to me never of bronze: low, intense, quick. Astonished, he recognized it. It was his own voice. And yet he knew that his mouth was closed, and that he had, actually, said nothing. She heard the voice clearly, clearly she had understood him, she showed no change of countenance, she lifted not her eyes nor made no sign. The vatic voice … After a moment she went on, “But I am also thinking of something called antimony …”
But, then and thereafter, forever more, she never spoke to him of bronze.
In his ordinary voice and manner, asked, “You believe that there is antimony?”
Emphatically: “I know that there is antimony And that it is not a fantasy, not a legend nor a myth. It is nothing like, oh, the tears of the daughters of Meleager turning into amber. And I believe that it is quite true it has a melting point below that of lead. I know it so.” How she knew it, he asked her not.
They were sitting facing one another then, and she had leaned slightly forward and placed her light hand atop of his own right hand, so much heavier. She knew many things, this one, this woman whom Vergil was coming to know. “Had you this silver from your Father?” he asked, on the impulse. “Or was your Mother privy to the secrets of those secret ores, as are you?” He did not ask if mother or father had been privy to or had given her the way of those secret airs, those gauze-like veils of mist or what were they, by means of which she concealed her coasts from the knowledge of alien ships, vessels not expected. She had her own motives and her own mantic arts. Her own means and methods. He asked himself, had he a hidden harbor, the key to a rich coast and an even-richer hinterland — and: suddenly: he wished he had — would he want to make it known to hordes and hosts of interlopers, stinking ships laded with cheap pots made hideous with “decorations” of Gorgons’ heads, and cheap cloth dyed bright and gaudy with colors certain to fade at the first washing or, at most, the second? merchandise certainly not sold cheaply? — he remembered the broken trash in the market at Loriana of Corsica — ships which might unlade those who would break and tear and wound the earth for its ores and enslave the people to work it, and set up fires and furnaces which would poison and would taint the air and sully the soil with the sweet venomous fumes of mercury? cut down such trees as did not turn black and useless? Would he — No. He would not. And neither would she, and neither did she.