Iohan gave his head a quick shake. His hands had stayed clasped. He said, “Be pleased to mount up, ser, for if we tarry, one of them local brutes will fling an insult at or a turd at me, and I shall be obliged to fight him, ser.”
Vergil placed his ankle in the clasped hands and mounted. The mare gave what seemed to be a gratified sigh, but Vergil’s mind was not on this. “Slavery at the forge does not produce good manners,” he said. And rode.
Iohan seemed moody. “Ah, ser, the freedmen here are worse than the slaves. . and the citizens, worse than the freedmen.”
As if to prove a point, by and by someone rough-hailed them from a small upper window. Vergil did not know the house, but he knew the face; rough-skinned, warty, pop-eyed though it was, still it brought a rush of thoughts far from ugly with it; still. . “Magnate Rano,” Vergil said politely. “If you are well — ”
But Magnate Rano did not seem to desire the complimentary salutation completed; perhaps, in fact, he never had heard it completed. It was in fact not impossible (Vergil thought) that the man had never before even heard it begun. “Come up!” said Magnate Rano. His head withdrew, an order was barked, was heard repeated by a second voice, by and by the small door in the large gate opened. A surly servant appeared, gestured, said sourly, “In!” He cleared his throat, pursed his lips, seemed about to spit. Did not. Iohan unclenched his fists.
But, Vergil not dismounting, the doorkeeper, mantling his annoyance very little, repeated, “In! In!”
“Open the gates.” — Vergil.
The doorkeeper, now more astonished than sullen, and realizing that the visitor intended to ride in, exclaimed, “Nuh! Nuh! In! Down!”
Perhaps it was the rough tones of Rano (different, certainly, from his previous manner when in his own home), perhaps the presumption of yet another troll-thrall, perhaps fatigue exhibiting itself in the form of pride, perhaps all of these and more of these than he could have then and there said in words or even formed in thoughts; whatever: Vergil turned to Iohan (who had clenched his fists again, perhaps unwise, but he was still quite young), said, “As you are the servant of a wizard, you may wish to observe how one turns a man into a toad.” And lightly he struck against his leg the light stick he carried; it was not the willow wand of the Order, but perhaps the inhospitable Janus did not know that. For a second or so the man stared at the slight rod as though curious why anyone should think he feared its sting; then, as Vergil began simultaneously to make an odd sound in his chest or throat and to cause the stick to make little jumps, the doorkeeper’s eyes bulged, his mouth gaped and showed its filthy teeth; the odd sound became audible as a low, slow croaking: the man vanished.
In an instant the bolts were heard grating, and then, first one side, then the other, of the great iron-bound gates were swung open. The doorkeeper bowed so low that not alone his scurfy scalp but his scabby neck was displayed.
“You are to treat my servant well,” said Vergil, riding into the courtyard. “And my horse.”
Bows, grunts, groans.
Vergil dismounted.
A servant of quite a different sort was there to guide him to the upper story; grave, silent, composed: a Greek perhaps, or Syrian. Any nostalgia for the groves of Arcadia or the rivers of Damascus that wrenched his heart (and how could it not?) his face well concealed. This house was not Rano’s, but besides Rano there were gathered there most of the magnates Vergil had met before, and some whom he had not. Though the day was still young, preparations for what elsewhere would have been an evening’s entertainment had been made. On the side tables were set out such eatables as roasted goat-lung, boiled owls’ eggs, bitter almonds, and a huge cabbage cut in slices; also parsley and watercress: sure signs that an occasion of serious bibbling lay ahead. There were also crowns of ivy, but though meant for the same purpose, namely the avoidance of drunkenness, they were meant to be worn and not eaten. Broad gestures invited the visitor to take part, some of the gestures so broad as to indicate that participation had begun without him. Vergil set a garland on his head and he nibbled, and, for a while, said nothing.
“My lord seems pensive,” said someone strange to him, perhaps one of the outsiders who had inherited a business in Averno and returned now and then to show he was still liable to return now and then, in hopes of minimizing the inevitable peculation for which prolonged absence from business gives such excellent opportunity to those who remain present at the business scene. A flaccid fellow, this, with sense enough to be dressed neither negligently nor ostentatiously; but this was perhaps due to his valet, and his valet could not provide him with sense in conversation. . or, for that matter, much in anything else.
“Perhaps my lord is thinking of this important matter now before us.” The immediate matter now before them consisted of an enormous quantity of wine, so spiced and honeyed and fruited as to lead one to suspect the quality of the vintages whose tastes were thus disguised. “Great heat, what we might term, I ask my lord’s opinion, intense heat? Eh — not only produces great effects when produced on the surface, but performs very wonderful transformations among things below the surface, as we may see in De Natura Fossilium … in De Natura Fossilium we may see that — but surely my lord will know of all this, of course, being a Consul of Philosophy, as I do perceive.”
Vergil thought it likely that the man perceived very little, but instead he said, “Hardly. No. Nor am I to be honored as ‘lord’ ” — some old echo in this thought here; but he did not pause. “Neither am I nor was I ever a Consul in Philosophy; I was a student and sat at the feet of more than one. But I am not one.” The fellow heard him out politely. But he was clearly dubious about the disclaimer; it may be that he was dubious about anyone’s disclaiming an honor, for it was less than dubious that he would disclaim any himself. Somewhere he had picked up the title of De Natura Fossilium, and the being able to mention it and the scrap or two of something contained in it was for him a merchandise or coinage that would never wear out. A fortunate man (thought Vergil), to have so little and to be so rich.
They were saved by Lars Melanchthus from any further need to discuss any sentence in De Natura Fossilium. Lars Melanchthus shouted, “Well, you have eat enough salad and such now, Wizard, needn’t fear getting slop-slop; so, now, Wizard, drink!” Vergil did usually not require shouts in order to drink, the drink need not be “the best Falernian,” but this time it might have been that without the shout he would have done without the drink. Still, the shout had come. A single word came to his mind, and said more than a volume of elaborate Stoic philosophy. Therefore. One of the butlers came forward and dispensed for Vergil, who bowed, poured his libation-drops, and sipped. The wine was, alas, just as he feared. But dally as he would, he was from time to time summoned to drink more. The magnates needed no shouts to urge themselves on. Again Melanchthus called out, wiping his oozy chin. “We were sending to send for you, Wizard, yes! Yes! Only, being wizard, you knew, ha-ho!”
Ha-ho, indeed, thought Vergil. What he knew was that there was enough strong spice and crushed fig in this ghastly mixture, this hideous hippocras, to physic a horse sicker than Hermus had been. Perhaps if he drank enough of it, it might numb his taste. . or distaste. So. . therefore. . he did drink more. In any civilized city the leading men would regard drunkenness with abhorrence; hence the customary precautions against it. But here, here the alexipharmic salad herbs, the roasted goat-lung, the boiled owls’ eggs, the ivy wreaths, and all of that was evidently a mere show: They did not wish to use these to prevent becoming drunk, they were determined to become drunk in spite of having used them. A mere show. As was so much in Averno. Ah, well. . His mind thought and sought another saw or wise-word or. . Ah. When in Averno …