There was not much vision in the island hut, some light from the part-open door a-splay on its worn and broken leather hinges and some broken slats and patches of it through the broken walls, from a few quick embers in the fire where the bitter roots of an ancient olive tree smouldered with a bitter reek. The man muttered broken words Vergil did not ask him to repeat, why bother, what did it matter, the old ox-thrall had but a few breaths left. Vergil gave him the drops in the simple small wooden spoon which, seemingly, he had always carried; but, feeling that he should say something, for the mastery of the balance demanded it, said, ambiguously — even in the face of duty-bound death we children of the bloody womb (squalling from the inst of birth) must bumble and mumble — said, “I am doing what I can for you.” A soft grunt from the dying serf, breath not so labored now, a slight sound as the cracked lips slightly smacked upon the small liquid thick, breath not as labored now, a long moment came and went; then the old ox-thrall’s voice, much less unclear and troubled now, quite coherent and clear, saying (a trifle husky, though: what else?), “And I shall do what I can for the Messer Doctor, my Ser, my thanks …”. Another breath, another pause. “I shall give thee what I can. It may have some vally some day, once, Tis a good strong curse —”
“A curse!” Odd-favored gift indeed!
“Aye, a good ‘un, tis, which I had of my good gaffer on the gret Isle Negroponty. A very good strong curse upon the red oxen, me ser. As it work only on red oxen, no one know why, Nature have gret sport with we, may’ap she provide other good curse and strong on white, black, brindle, spotted …” Well, red oxen were a bit favored, thought to be a somewhat heartier, so: blood-oxen, they were called.
A sudden shift of tone apprised Vergil that the curse-chant had begun: it was no hard task to listen. Nor to remember.
The old slave’s breath wavered, waited, halted, resumed. Chanted:
The old man’s voice moved back to the level of simple talk. He said, “This strong, good curse, as I got of my good gaffer, back there in the gret Isle of Negroponty — a shame he perished of the painful flux — so I used it to get me revenge on more nor one cruel master, and they knew it not. Aa-heh!” — even as his death hovered impatiently, still he found breath for one moment’s sound of triumph and contempt: welladay! was he not entitled? And yet, on the old voice ran, heedless, now, of the lowing of the cattle and the other like sounds, of the heedless voices of the peons hastening by on the farm. “And all you needs to work it with is a scarp of red ox-hide, a —” His breath rattled, a look of slight surprise came onto his face, and then impatient death closed his eyes. A line of ichor oozed from the still-open mouth. Suddenly his nostrils, thatched with clotted hairs, seemed grown very wide. And his nose very sharp.
But there was not such portal of escape now, at sea.
Had the ancient been going to add something? was that last syllable not and? In which case “and” what? One would never know, now. Nor did it matter. Vergil had work to do; scarce had he reached the mid-point of gathering herbs on that far distant isle of Greece and comparing them with the illustrations in the Theophrast on Plants; the text he had of the illustrated manuscript, he strongly suspected of being a mere copy of a copy, and as filled with errors as a pomegranate with pips. Enough time —
He rose, there in the hut, and absently brushed his knees, his hose; chaff and straw had clung there, spiders’ webs and eggs, flecks of dried dung had clung there, husks of barley, and one blade of grass. There was no need for the familiar tests of mirror or feather; no one cared in the least. Tomorrow would do for burial, and if the old man were not now indeed dead (which, indeed, he was), certes he would be by then.
An old ox-thrall.
Then the scene vanished as mist dissolved by wind — though the wind had not quite dissolved this mist — he was back on the small “free” craft flying from the Carthagan corsair … though true corsairs sometimes only plundered and took what they fancied of the cargo and whom they fancied of passengers (if any) or crew … comely women … girls … handsome men … boys … sometimes even ugly old sea-scabs, did the corsair be short of hands. Even if this were merely a Carthagan corsair and not patrol-ship, even if intent chiefly on plunder: was the orchil-paste (shades of purple!) found in the hold: dead men were they all. Vergil heard the terribly laboring breath of the rowers, smelled their bitter stale and stinking scat; the captain had breath to spare, and all he said as he paced, Polycarpu, was, “Row! … Row!” and “Row!” The helmsman also had breath to spare, and he spoke but one sentence: “Holy King Poseidon who rules the Realm Sea save us from death!” and he spoke it again and again. And the ship’s master, Polycarpu, walked up and down, to and fro, back and forth, uttering his single, single word.
A sting of spray near-blinded Vergil in one eye. The pursuer was nearer now, one could hear the Cry of Carthage — war-cry, supplication, cry of triumph — Fire burns, water drowns, Carthage hates Rome — the Cry of, “Juno! Juno! Juno!”
All at once he was on his knees, in his hand the leather square from his old, soft, doe-skin budget, miracle! still with him! the leather square with the SQPR (death to counterfeit), Senatusque Populesque Romanum, stamped upon it (long ago) in gilt. For what? to prove to the Punes he was a citizen of Rome? This was no recommendation in the happiest of circumstances, and certainly it would be worse than none to Josaias, who would certainly not fail to remember the meeting with Vergil in the fields on Corsica where and when he had encountered Vergil at the very moment that he was robbed of his intended prey: the “stealer of the teeth” (did Vergil recall what teeth meant? vaguely he thought he might, but the recollection eluded him now, and besides there was no time). So —
He was on his knees, then, in his hands the leather square, initials SQPR still faintly visible although the gilt was long since worn away from the letters. It was all faded now, faded, worn, and, really: greasy; but there was a by-word about what color it had been — “He hath the hide of the red ox, he hath!” — in other words the he was a citizen, and not a mere denizen and subject, of Rome; not alone of Yellow Rome, the City, but of the very entire Empery of Rome … and Rome had chosen the blood-red color of Mars, godly Father of Father Romulus, father-founder of Rome; chosen it for this especial usage. Vergil was on his knees (Mamers, as Quint’s rich friend called the goddus in his native Etruscan tongue: and what matter now? either Quint or …), he, Vergil was chanting the curse upon the red ox — upon? against! why? well … they would soon see. His thumb prickled. The sybils, where are they? and your mothers, do they live forever?
He would soon see.