The sound of the clopping of horse-hooves. Else —
Silence.
And in that silence there came thought a-visiting, a thought of a thing which he had somewhere read — and only some invisible and incorporeal recorder with no other task entrusted could know how much, how very much he himself had read, read, concerning which often had he heard and still he did betimes hear, He seems to read, and yet he neither reads aloud nor moves his mouth!
Briefly the guides had been named to him: the Berbar guides Sylvestro and Amulo, and Caniacus who was one of the Masked Men and wore a dark blue-black domino, far larger than common (common, though, among the Masked Men), which covered what they called the tharg, that part of the face from the bridge of the nose to the chin: and had no name at all, this part of the body, among any other of the peoples of the world. Folk who wished them well said twas because they had an unseemly facial blemish running in their blood and did merely wish to cover it and do others no fright; folk who wished them ill declared them a criminous caste who desired to pass unknown amongst others and espy out what they might steaclass="underline" and, when they came to steal, first off-stripped the mask, that they be not recognized nor open to identity. They themselves said only this, Thus did my Father and my Mother and their Sires and Dams, so thus do I. Well-known it was, not to venture to ask a twice.
Welclass="underline" and as Festus, Sylvestro, Amulo, and Caniacus cantered with him down this uncovered lane, this chasym through the city (from which arose but a smothered murmur like some half-distant throng of bees), so this thought visited Vergiclass="underline" Swiftly darteth the mind of a man who hath travelled over far seas and lands and thinketh in wistfulness of heart ‘I wish that I were here, or there,’ and many are the wishes he wisheth. And yet he too is fated to lie down in blood and dust amongst the dead … well, and what was this but a perhaps more complex statement than this in the Theophrast on Plants, that “Against death there grows no simple”?
Often at evening lightfail there was a cooling-off of the air, but in this black lane perhap even at noon meridian it had not been full hot: and certes it grew no cooler even now: but the same stagnant warmth stayed on. And next for sure the lane was covered over, and Vergil, riding with Sylvestro and Amulo afore him and with Festus and Caniacus ahind him, was sure that now they were indeed riding through cavern or tunnel; he saw nothing looking up, recalled the old word that to a man imprisoned at the bottom of a dry well, heaven was but one ell wide: could not see even that ell. Could hear the echoes of the hooves clatter. Felt all at once a breeze of wind upon his face, still some wet from the sea: looked up and saw above him the glittering stars.
One of the guides said something brief, the two others grunted, perhaps in agreement. Vergil had not known that they had voices. Many a court of kings and sub-kings, so to speak, favored the services of mutes: they could hear no secrets and, did they see of any, of them they could not tell.
Festus, suddenly beside and not behind him, said, “Did you see, me Doctor sage, them twain tall slabs at th’end of lane before went under the ground?”
“I did not take a notice.”
“We who take this lane some often, it’s an old jest of our’n to call they ‘The Pillars of Hercules,’ ” and he made a chuckle but a thin one as if well aware that the jest was very thin, too. Vergil’s reply was an uninflected, “Ah,” there was still the faintest line of blue against one part of the world, with darkness above it and darkness below: then it turned fainter, and green; then it was gone. He let his horse keep canter and company with the others.
But Festus, having made his introduction to the subject, now proceeded with it. “Them real Pillars, as you know of, Ser Lord …” (“Ah.”) “They say … tis said … One day shall come when a gigant shall put hands against them Herculean Columns, you know? and push, you know?… and bring down the sky … you know?”
“Ah. ‘They say.’ And which giant may be, if one may ask?”
“They don’t say.”
“Ah. I rather thought not. Just so. A giant.’ Easy to say. Which giant? Not so easy.”
Festus was a moment silent. Then he said, also. “Ah.” And added, “You be a rare skip tic, Ser.” Vergil was not sure if the man sounded shocked. Or relieved.
They rode on, with occasional stops, to pass round a water-skin, some dates or figs, to dismount very briefly for bodily reliefs. At no time did they gallop; twould have been folly to do so on so dim, and oft-times unseen, paths. At first light they got down for long enough to build a small fire and make some gruel. After this was done, and the fire pissed out, Festus bowed, and said, “Here I must leave you, Doctor, Ser. And return. Have no fear they guides might rob ye: they do not durst. Farewell.” Vergil thanked him, returned the bow; all remounted and went their different ways.
One thing now, as he and the not very talkative Sylvestro and Amulo and the quite silent Masked Man Caniacus cantered on through the thorny wastes, often the bushes covered with what at first he had thought were small white flowers, but soon enough had realized were the shells of snails (if quick, if dead, he did not discover): one comment of the man Festus ran through his mind; there was little in the sameness of the passing scene to divert his thoughts, and for the time being he did not much wish to think of the immediate and ungentle future.
Festus had said, as they sate their last moments warming their hands by the embers, “Ane thing I took notice of, Me Ser Lord Doctor Mage.”
Vergil was glad the fellow had not crammed in every possible title which had come along with the green robe and the thumb-ring; Titular Baron of Brabantia, for one thing; Authorized to Plumb the Depths of the Cloaca Maxima, for another. Well. Magehood obliges. “And what is that one thing, Festus, man?”
“Grey of poll ye departed from our Tingitayne, whenas headed south. Black as tar that poll when ye return.”
Again the vatic voice, like a blow aside the head. Had he? He had!. Hardly pausing to bethink an answer, yet he gave him one; “It was the Fig,” he said. “The Scarlet Fig: makes rough men subtle and old ones young.”
Festus just a moment considered this. Then he gave a deep nod. And handed back the empty bowl to Sylvestro. And asked no further. Of Juvens and Senex? Asked no further.
By and by the waste lands and their thorns and snails gave way to a place of tilled and walled-in green garths of farming folk. No one fled as the four men came riding by on the narrow path between the tilths: a small sign but a certain one that the Pax Romana still obtained, no matter which king or sub-king here held rule. A certain russet in the far-off hills affirmed something which he had for some time now suspected, namely that they had passed from White Mauretayne to Red.
White Mauretayne, its cities of alabaster and elephant-colored marble (actually, many of their buildings did have, anyway, fronts of such stones, however thin-cut) dazzling the coastland in the sun; White Mauretayne was under the nominal suzereignty of Spestibanu, “Chief of Kings” — these were of course petty and not Electoral Kings — and it traded with Aspamia, Lusitayne, Ægypt, Greece, Lybya, and Rome. Red Mauretayne had no coast, save that which, rolled over and over and beat upon by many dry and heavy winds, constantly cast up stones and sands.