Vergil was therefore long in leaving, and he neither drew reign of his borrowed horse, a gentle stalwart grey with dappled haunches (the Etruscan … a bit mysterious, like most his kind; and like most his kind: rich … had many horses, asked no questions) nor looked back till he had reached the rise by the third mile-stone. Then he halted, and turned. No pursuit? None … though he was uneasy in recalling that a dream, like a curse, might sometimes wait as much as seven years for fulfillment. No sign of pursuit, nor yet he was not easy. Ease is not always to the wise; was he wise? Some knowledge had he gained, but had he gained wisdom?
And lifting his eyes from the Appian Road he saw in the setting sun the cloud of dust raised by the hooves of the beasts being driven into the city to be slaughtered early next morning for sale in the markets, and the dust was faintly yellow. He saw in the suddenly visible middle distance the gold-spiked roofs, and stonework in marble the color of the hair of a fair-haired woman, brickwork the shade of straw, tiles a tint between that of the lemon of Sicily and a bright marigold blowing in the wind. He saw the glittering roofs and glowing golden buildings of Rome by the Tawny Tiber. In the yellow dust of the yellow dusk he saw the city of Yellow Rome … of Yellow Rome …
Yellow Rome.
He turned and urged on his horse. It was a long way to Naples.
II
The Port of Naples
Back in Naples, he first turned the horse over to the stableman, with instructions to care for it after the journey and then return it with the next string of mounts going to the capital. The man would not take money from him, saying, “There’s no one that doesn’t know of his name, ser. That rich Etruscan? Fufluns Cato? He could buy and sell Yellow Rome, several times over … and a generous payer, we hear, as well.”
Vergil had wanted only to return to his house for a moment, pause, pack, and flee. To what point of peril had his involvement with the mantic arts brought him: Mantova, daughter of Tiresias, had established those arts and thereby and therewith founded Mantua … Mantua … the name seemed to speak to him with the vatic voice. But what was Mantua to him? at all? the Dame Mantova, her arms three black goats on a field of golden asphodel … He hastened him to his house, all thought of Mantova and Mantua gone a-glim; Cosmo Nungo would be there … one hoped … the man was an artisan, an artificer, an alchymist … the man was not what one more rigid than Vergil could call dependable. The talk of the Art in Naples was that Cosmo Nungo had (some said) three times (some said, seven) achieved projection — and each time, in his haste to sell the gold to gamble and to drink (“Let the mourner bury his dead, and the reveler hasten to his wine,” was Cosmo Nungo’s favorite proverb; hint enough to the wise: who or rather what had “died” in order for projection to succeed?) each time had in his haste forgotten the steps. Naples slurred over the small detaiclass="underline" “Cosmo could make,” and that was all. “Why that damned old rotten robe, Cosmo Nungo, man, when thee can make?” The man merely showed his mouthful of yellow broken teeth, and shrugged.
Sometimes Cosmo Nungo the artisan felt close enough to his origins (for he came of citizen stock) to wear his toga — grimy, nearer grey than white: but ah! the prestige! Sometimes he wore the remnants of tabard and trews. But generally he wore his work-robe and this was basically a mass of patches: squares which had once been madder, rectangles of dyers’ green, triangles of indigo, and shapeless pieces steeped in woad: whatever he had been able to pick up as he passed between one workshop and another, all sewed into his loose ragged cloak of (originally) grey or brown: and all of them and it: very, very dirty.
The rough robe of Cosmo Nungo the artificer had missed its annual washing for more years than one or two — glue, sawdust, paint, plaster, gesso, even here and there a glistening fleck of gold which he had probably stolen, the gold dust pinch by pinch, the gold leaf, leaf by leaf, grease, gypsum, here a smear of color and there a smear of oil. Vergil encountered Cosmo Nungo the alchymist fairly often, and sometimes employed him in one task or another: too poor, Cosmo Nungo, too inconsistent, too irresponsible, ever to have gained (or, if he had gained, not kept) the status of a master craftsman; always able to get employment and never able to keep it. Cosmo Nungo would steal the gold leaf from under the master’s nose and sell it to buy wine — the gold leaf, not the nose: though, had he been able to sell the nose for wine, be sure he would have stolen it, too — going without pay, often, when the employer was himself poor but the work went well; stealer of bread, lover of music, playing on the rebec with stained fingers, foul of mouth but in his love of arts very sweet…. “Solitary, mad, and indolant; shockingly eccentric, and unreliable” — Cosmo Nungo.
He had, Cosmo Nungo, a half-way face — that is, his face was half-way between crimson and scarlet — with a turned-up nose, a mouthful of yellow crooked teeth, and a small twist of white beard. Seeing him with his red, red face bent so near his work that the nose, had it not been fixed by nature at such an angle, would have touched said work, one might have assumed that his sight was bad; but Cosmo Nungo could recognize a drink of wine the length of a street away. Some other occasion, then, must be found to explain such close attention: and the explanation was — his work? He loved it. He loved something else, too, besides work and wine. He loved to gamble.
The story was well-known how, playing at the die and dice one lowering Winter day with a less tender toss-pot, the carver Valerian, luck fell, cast after cast, to Cosmo Nungo. How he mocked at Valerian! cast after cast, coin after coin, win after win, joke after joke, jibe after jibe. Ah — sweet little Hercules with the parasol? ah? ah? there goes the cabbage-money, Val! Will the old ‘oman sleep with thee, Val? You’ll have to play with it, Val! no foining or futtering this week, Val! it’s mine, all of it’s mine!
He raked in the heap of mean coins, he was not gracious in victory. Cosmo crowed. Valerian said nothing, produced a two-obol piece from his toothless gob, cast … won … cast … won. The luck was turned, clean turned. Cosmo Nungo lost coin after coin, cursed — cast — lost — tossed — lost again — Coin after mean coin moved from the one pile to the other. The vile wine with vile water was all drunk, even the water itself was all drunk, the stinking cheap oil failed in the little lamp, outside it began to snow: the two old villains played on in the dimness and the cold.
Val gave a great hoot of triumph — started to rake in the pile of scanty stivers — a cry from old Cosmo Nungo: Wait! Another throw!
Val paused. “Have thee another oboi, son of a sow?” No, Cosmo Nungo conceded that he had not, rapidly unlaced his right shoe (the left had long ago lost its lachet: the god knows how). “Shoes ain’t shiners!” was old Val’s sneer. And Nungo: “Call ‘em a oboi each! Valley them sandles at a stiver, one by one! Don’t be mean! Don’t ‘ee be no Longobard! Call the twin shoe a twain obol!”