After some while, turning from the crags towards the sea, he saw the waves coming in, like students to a school. His mind, seeing them, was in an instant back a measure of years: when he, he himself a student, too: a single portmantle containing all his garb and gear, lived with others such — they shared one floor, one mess, one servant, and one set of books (they were very worn books, and for that matter, it was a very worn servant, too lacking one eye and one ear about his large and tufty head) — and all took turn and turn about. He could not imagine why a copse of exotic palm-trees was growing in the middle of their commons room now, he did not remember them, but there they were; and there were many things which he could neither imagine nor remember. It was said of such a group of student thriftbudgets that even a load of grass or hay served them at least three, even four, times: once to stuff their pallet-ticks; once, the stuffing having worn so flat or thin that they could feel the grain of the boards beneath, once to strew upon the floor in lieu of reeds or carpet; a third once, the strewing being grown thinner yet … and, for that matter, grosser, too! … to fuel the fire; and the fourth and last once the ashes served to polish knives and spoons.
Such a group of students was called a res, which was cant for a word not generally thought safe to use in public use: the thing, then, let it be called. At stated times they elected two consuls for themselves. Anselmo was Emperor then: arms, a shield of silver with five red roses. Rose, said to be in his honor (they relished even the touch of servility, that they might safely sneer upon it when in secret: Here’s two cheeks for you-know-who, one of them was sure enough to say when setting his naked buttocks on the cloak while dressing in the morn). Rose was the lining of their ragged cloaks, and they considered it themselves a brave sight and gesture with one motion to throw back the cloaks over the right shoulder as they walked along the lane: whereat passers-by or shop- or stall-keepers were expected to say, “The roses bloom …” Their particular res occupied the third floor and rooftop room of a tenement which clung like a wasp-nest to the surviving section of the curtain-wall of the Castello of Orland the Proud; the Castello of course itself was long gone, only here and there a stone of that famed honey-color was pointed out as being of such provenance. It was considered rather brave of them, the students, not to mind The Crone Below (so they called her when the door was at bolt); this was the old woman Iadwicka who lived in one room on the street floor and had a better beard than any of they students. Iadwicka in pits in part of the yard kept vipers and fed them with rats bought off the outcaste boys at five-a-stiver: one copperkin for five. Of which vipers she day by day killed such-and-such a number and them she stewed with honey and with dill till all the meat left all the bones: flesh and flour, vetch-meal and verjuice and broth she moiled in a mull and divided the mass into trochees of the lesser theriac[9]; this did she of the forenoons, and all the afternoons the hooded pothecaries in their hooded cloaks (none ragged) and their prentice-boys came upon their rounds and bought them up by weight in the scales the boys did tote, to be used as ingredient for many receipts and prescriptives.
It was considered rather brave of them to dwell there unmindful of the vipers (questioned, Were they a-feared? answered, that the vipers kept down the mice; sometimes, added, the fleas, or the lice, as well), but it was considered far from good taste to hiss. Once only someone did this, an ill-favored lumpkin whom none much liked; but so unskillfully that his imposture was soon discovered; instead of rueful laughter and rough good cheer which clearly and stupidly he had expected, they rated him at some long length, nor yielding to point out his bumpy skin and stinking feet and how ill he got his lessons; then they fined him. He was sullen after that a good long time and they by and by had reason to believe that he was mad, but they tried nothing to cure him. Merely they passed him by for mess-duty, fearing lest he introduce who knew what into the food, the while they wondered what to do with him. But soon he did it to himself, donned his cloak and went by ladder to the roof-peak and cast himself off.
“What a rare rose bloomed that day!” a pothecary’s prentice said, though his master growled and cuffed him for it.
They the students of that res dyed all of them their cloaks black from the linings out, and said it was for mourning, but in truth they knew it was for shame.
But why grew the grove of exotic palm-trees from the middle of their commons-rooms? Palms of such a sort, nor giant stalks of fennel, did not use to grow in Naples, nor samphire in the crannies of their raddled house-walls.
Fortunatus, the laughter of the Neopolitan court of its heavy Doge still ringing in his ears (only a certain sage, by name Vergil, had not laughed scornfully with the others: but did he not, behind his civil mask smile a bittle? — perhaps he did, a bittle, smile), Fortunatus scuttled through the door which the majordomo’s fingersnap had caused to be opened for him, half he turned for one further bow, but perceiving that the majordomo was already hastening off, Fortunatus gave half a shrug, then went his way. The courtly kindness had not ended with the gift of the purse which held fast on its thong against his belly (to be sure it was not a very heavy purse, but twas heavier than Fortunatus’s own purse ever was), for a torch parted from the cluster by the gate and a torchbearer said, trotting over before Fortunatus could vanish into the black, “If the Master Philosopher will just give me the directions — The house of Messer Magus, of course I so often —” Fortunatus, after a somewhat startled look to see that the sage, Vergil, had indeed come away from the levée and was standing right behind him, declared, “The Alley of the Hornscrapers, which lies yet other side of Oxen Shambles, past Fodder Lane. Yes, yes, yes, yes.”
Rapted in talk about the Latitudes and Zones (seldom he gat a chance for such talk … with Vergil or with anyone else), almost he forgot to make his single stop, by Poultry Court. Vergil observed with light surprise that the flemincoe or Flemengoe birds were wading in the puddle where live ducks were sometimes set to paddle and freshen before becoming dead ducks. The tall pink birds seemed quite at home, though Vergil had no thought that ever he had seen them in Naples before at all. Strange sights, well, some said these were strange times: likely they were right.
“Who in the bloody little hell knocks at such an hour?”
“Poulterer, the Doge’s Torchbearer; open, open, ope!”
“May his Grace’s torch be set to my house and out-sheds if me taxes be not already fully paid and tallies isshied — What, Messer Fortunatu? What?” The man startled at the sight of Vergil, but gave him a deep nod as good as any bow; it was difficult to bow at a tiny window which showed little but one’s face and neck.
“My man, at once, at once, one quarter of a hen-chicken, at once! Yes, yes, yes, yes.” Fortunatus at once resumed talk of the Zone in which lay Great Zeugma, known as the richest toll-bridge in the world, as it crosseth River Eupherate; but soon the thunk! thunk! of the cleaver on the block distracted him.
“Fo! the thick chickeny stenk o’ the place,” the torchman said, staring down the family, and the neighbors, and perhaps a score or so of onlookers who seemed to have appeared from nowhere to speculate and point … until eyed down, for the torchman wore a livery which all knew, and by the proud stance and glance of him he might have been the Master of the Doge’s guard. (Did he pose, thus, there, of course, they would have cuffed him).