He turned and he went down the ladder, the steps, and the ramp, and along the long passageway that led to the warehouse’s outer door.
Meanwhile all the trumpets sounded and all the tambours beat.
Rano looked, after some long bemusement, once again at Vergil. Whatever had been in his eyes and in his mouth before was not there. His face moved, though. His mouth moved. His manner showed neither secret confidence nor anger, not even scorn. It did not even show amazement. “You see?” he said. “You hear? You …” Words failed him. One word, next, did not. “Mad,” he said, shaking his head. “Mad, mad, mad, mad, mad …”
Although it might seem that Averno was inhabited chiefly by masters and slaves, with many of the masters themselves once-slaves; as well as a surly rabble depending perhaps less on their daily dole of rather bad bread (with SPQR roughly indented on it just before baking). . and this only if, rabble or not, they were Roman citizens. . than on either employment of a sort small different from outright theft, or on outright theft itself. — Still, in Averno, there were other sorts of people, of the sorts found elsewhere, almost every elsewhere. There were merchants, physicians, astrologers, superior craftsmen who produced detailed work (jewelers, blind or sighted, for example) such as the workshops of Averno’s magnates did not know. If there were no architects, if there were but a few who might be termed engineers in that they worked in such crude engines as the regular work of Averno need must have: presses, stamps, drills, looms, or what; if there were no painters, hardly, not counting those who spread white lime on walls with vast brushes or, often, merely mops; still, still, from the world outside Averno — how! was there still a world outside Averno? more than once, thus, Vergil bethought himself — came some small and unsteady influx of such arts as, principally, aliens denizened in Averno might desire.
So one day, he having chosen to go alone some short way on what proved to be a bootless errand, strolling idly (idle was his stroll, but not his mind) back to his apartments, he heard the familiar sounds of a trio of music sounding the sort of strains which advertise that a troop of traveling players is about to begin its show; to listen was to look, and so, rounding a corner — a process that occupied all his attentions, lest he slip on the stepping-stones and bemire himself in the filth and sludge — at last he lifted his eyes. Flute and lute and cymbals ceased almost at that moment, and prepared to go within whatever rented room was to be their theater. . and where, no doubt, they would also play. . one of them sounding a last call to the “citizens and residents and visitors in the Very Rich City who are very welcome to pay the most modest of prices and enter here to attend at The Great Play of Troy. …” A woman, one of two, cast an eye at him ere she and her companion and the musics, all, turned and went in. He followed.
Such cheap and popular theater, if it did not take too long, often amused him, if (as often) for no other reason than the immense difference between the classical readings from Homer and the bawdy buffoonery, half-improvised at the best, usually interlarded with such popular allusions as had most lately been thrust into the script. Several considerations worked at his mind; one was that his mind might well be the better for some little rest from the restless chores with which he had been so deeply engaged; other considerations? For some reason, and he could just then say no more than some, the woman who had looked at him reminded him of a very curious story being told about Simon Magus and the woman whom he called (was said to call) Helen of Tyre. . or of Troy. Third and last of the considerations was that there had been that something in this one’s look at him, before she turned and went inside, which had more in it than the mere automatic look at any man as any man has had more than once from any such a woman, half a strolling player and half a whore. Or did he flatter himself? Did he or did he not, in he went, the price was indeed very modest and he paid for three seats in order that he might be free of perhaps unwanted, say unpleasant, company in the seats to right or left.
The play itself was nothing. Mingled with lines from Homer such as not alone every schoolboy knew but many who had never been inside a schoolroom, and lines introduced now and then rather less because the play required them as to allow those who knew them to show they knew by reciting them half-aloud along with the actors; mingled with those were abridgments of entire scenes compressed into a paragraph; now and then touches for the popular taste, if “taste” was quite the word, such as an obsequious actor, if actor was quite the word, declaiming, “O Hail Great King Priam! Great and glorious art thou, O King! I tell that thou art indeed a god!” At which time see “King Priam” make his eyes grow large, rise from his throne, extract from beneath it a vessel of an obvious utility, scan it closely, and respond, “That’s not what me night-pot tells me!”
Raucous laughter from the cheapest seats, chuckles from the others, though ancient (and, indeed, rather honorable) the jest. . jest now repeated with appreciation. . many people could not at all appreciate a jest in silence (most, Vergil recalled, with an inner sigh, could not even read in silence; his own, to some, arcane, ability to do so had more than once been remarked upon).
However. Nothing new. Half, Vergil was minded to leave and get on with things, half he waited in hopes he would by and by hear from the musicians a song, either old or new…. Vergil dearly loved a good song, or any good music e’en sans singing…. Quickly the action shifted, Priam lumbered offstage; enter his son Prince Paris, and with the Prince the Lady Helen of Troy; she was the woman who had so lightly, briefly, looked at him outside. A fine, full figure of a woman.
Paris: Come now, my Lady Helen! Why are you so bored? I know! It must have been the damned dull life you led, wedded to that oaf Menelaus! But come with me, and I shall show you that despite the fatigues of battle I am a better man than he — et cetera, et cetera, several bawdy declarations introduced as evidence to back his claim; chuckles from almost all the seats.
Helen: (Faces audience as she is tugged along, bedchamberward, by Paris, who, presumably deafened by passion, of course hears not one syllable) Helen: O Gods! These Trojan trolls! At least when as a chastely wedded, bedded wife I was from time to time assuaged and solaced of my boredom now and then by some good man. . not always Menelaus, to be sure…. She rolls her eyes, laughter from below; Paris, to emphasize the efforts he is making to drag her offstage, lifts his knees high and plants his feet down exactly where they were before; more laughter; cries of “Get a move on, Prince!” and “Want some help up there?”. . but at least there, across the wine-dark, the dolphin-torn, the gong-tormented sea. . a full half of the audience, catching on quickly to its cue, echoes: “… dolphin-torn …” And so on with the rest of it “… one heard at least, however cloaked in darkness, now and then some words in decent Greek!” Many laughters, doubtless for many different reasons. And Paris triumphed at last, off the two went, leering and winking, and then the music began to play an epithalamion, and not at all a bad one, with muffled amorous noises and now and then a small shriek from offstage-right.
She who played Helen, was it her full form that affected Vergil? — for affected he was — her face, fair enough? Or merely some deep and primal response to the little-or-no-nonsense, despite the nonsense, sexuality of the stage business? When had he last been in a woman’s arms? Since how long? Too long. Too long. In whose arms, in which woman’s arms would he now wish to be? Poppaea’s, came the true reply. Of beauty as determined by fashion and as delineated by the sculptor’s wedge or painter’s brush, of such Poppaea had near none. Her skin was unblemished and her large gray eyes were fine: what more? Her face was nothing memorable, not even could he entirely have said as he had heard one veteran legionary say of an eastern queen, “She was so uncommon ugly it fair hurt your teeth at first to look upon her, but my Here, boy! after one week of but standing a-guard inside her door, I’d have sold meself to sit by her feet.” Ugly, Rano’s wife was not, for all that she had a figure like an undernourished boy’s; would Vergil have sold himself to sit by her feet? One Vergil, a Citizen of Rome, no more: yes. But as P. Vergilius Marius, Master in Philosophy, and all the rest of it, who had made long journeys and endured hard studies in order to attain mastery over many things, the first of which class of things had been his own self and soul and pride and patience and over them, well … no. Much would he give, but he would not give himself to be in further thrall.