The Scarlet Fig: Or, Slowly Through a Land of Stone, Book Three of the Vergil Magus Series (8 page)

As Vergil passed the table where he had had the (faintly) fragrant bowl of acorn-meal, the food-wife called to him. “As you didn’t find my water sweet enough,” she said, with some show of apology, “I wish to make it up to you —” “No need, no need to —” “But I
wish
to,” she said, with some emphasis. “Here is new-baked bread of fine-sifted flour,” and surely useless to explain that he much preferred it to be, always, of unsifted; as like as possible to that of his childhood? He never could make it clear to anyone else not raised on the farms; even to them, not always.

“And here,” she said, as he drew near, willing, merely, to oblige her and leave no ill-will to abound; “here is
honey
, fresh and gold and sweet.”

He seemed suddenly aware of traces of that morning’s sour water, tasting of the god knows what minerals, still in his mouth; would be glad enough to thrust it away with fresh honey; seemingly by the way she emphasized the word, she felt aware of that. He sat down willingly enough on the rude bench by the rough table, and watched her slice the bread and pour the honey over it, which she did with an unstinting hand. A word of his old master, Illyriodorus, well-known for art and philosophy throughout the Attic lands, came into his mind as she re-arranged the slices and folded a napkin for him. “To be generous, what is that? To one,
bread and honey,
” by-words for generosity, “means a thick slice of fresh bread well-spread with all the richness of the hive; to another it means a thin slice from a stale loaf, sprinkled with a thin measure of honeyed water. Yet each may regard himself as generous. And if one be rich and one be poor, each
is
… generous …” The old man smoothed his vast white beard, only faintly yellowed here and there, and they waited for him to go on. But he did not go on. In the expectant silence they realized (at least Vergil did) that a poor man could certes be deemed
generous
if he could afford no more than a thin slice with thin hydromel, to give it forth to others: but suppose it were the rich man who did so? And. And all the while he was thinking this, and thinking of the bees humming around the violets and other flowers as they prepared to make the sweet honey of Mount Hymettus, known where even the name of Illyriodorus was not, although his School was located at its foot; all this while Vergil, without thinking, was sitting down, was spreading the napkin to save his tunic; even as he lifted the first piece to his mouth and was nodding his thanks to her, he was thinking: but surely the venerable did not mean merely to give a lesson in commonplace morality? surely he meant a metaphor? and what did the metaphor mean —

A taste of such bitterness burst from the sweetness of the honey as made him almost want to retch, it spread with incredible rapidity to his throat, and further down, even before he had more than swallowed a morsel of it — “His
face!
Look at
his face!
” And the woman burst into a peaen of laughter, loud and mocking and filled with great glee, laughter echoed by the small crowd which had (unnoticed by him) gathered to watch: hoots, shouts, even from one old woman, cackles: and the man who only a little bit earlier had addressed the food-wife as
Abundiata
and remarked that it didn’t take much to make them angry, there in Corsica — even this one was taking no care to restrain his swollen face from laughing, face split so wide that Vergil could plainly see the chewed dough to which he had reduced his food lying thick upon the tongue and teeth. “O crown and staff! look at his
face!
” A phrase from the
Natura
of that learned admiral came to him,
that honey wine made with poisonous honey is, after maturing, quite harmless, and that there is nothing better than this honey, mixed with costum, for improving the skin of women, or, mixed with aloes, for the treatment of bruises
*
.
It tasted as though it had already been mixed with aloes; he felt as though he had already been bruised.

“Oh, holy Hercules, how he don’t like it!”

“Mercury,
rex rhabdon
, he can’t take the bitter boxwood with the sweet!”

And the queæn Abundiata shrieked, half-helpless with laughter, “The
water
was too bitter for him! — how the
honey
, then, foreign fine-taster?”

A sick rage rose up in him like bile, such gross abuse of the laws of hospitality would scarcely have been expected of a Barbar-pack abusing a prisoner of war, rage seemed fair to undo him, he clutched the knife at his belt: still they hooted, and still they jeered: a small boy, who by the mere fact his nose was clean showed he was of good family, peered up into Vergil’s face to seek out the show of shame and pain; finding, laughed aloud with great delight; the knife meant nothing to them, probably even the gossoon had a sharp tickler of his own, and could pierce the femoral artery whilst a grown man lunged —

— and laugh while he pierced it —

No, the knife meant nothing to them, but something else did. A sound of fierce barking and loud baying in an instant drove off the pack of starveling dogs, eaters of dung (if the swine did not beat them to it), that had snarled and snapped even though they knew nothing of what was going on, save that they might with license snarl and snap, turned ragged tails and scabby rumps and fled, squealing as though they’d been kicked by heavy boots: they had not. Women leaped on tables, men rapidly threw their cloaks round their left arms and wrapped them against sharp teeth, the while drawing their own knives with their right ones; all, all looked swiftly round to check where the huge sounds might be (saw them not). And even then they did not understand. It did not take much to make them angry. But it took much to make them grasp … well … not
very
much, after all.

In a second or so and without transition the dogs’ menacing howls and barks sounded from the thick, thick branches of an over-hanging tree. And then one word came from every straining mouth: “
Gunta! Gunta!
”

The sneering child be-pissed himself, fell over his own feet, set up a shrill scream of sharpest fear: no one moved to help him. The food-wife cast her headcloth over her face and howling in terror, turned to flee.

Pure desire for power was not enough; many men greatly desired power, and not a few women: witness Flora, the famous
Regma
, who had reigned for decades via those to whom (in the words of that irascible Israelite, Samuelides) she was royally related “through blood and bed”: before finally it was assumed that she held all in her own right — still she signed herself proudly:
Daughter, Mother, Regent, Wife, and Queen.
But
Regma
was not
Gunta.
Thank the god; enough was sufficient. Pure desire for power was not enough, and malignancy was not enough, envy and the willingness to suffer great sacrifice was not enough. Learning was not alone enough: the Druids learned as much and the scant handful who composed the Order of Sages and Mages, holding, each a willow wand as rod and sceptre, had learned far more. Of one willing to be a
Gunta
, that he was of Greek speech went without saying (of course it need not be his sole or native speech), for he had to be a Bridegroom of Persephone and no man could experience the Mysteries of Attic Eleusis, eat of the basket, drink of the cymbal, and see the sun rise at midnight, who was not of Greek speech: capable of understanding the ceremonial words.

He who would be a
Gunta
— or be able to be one, would he or not would he — need he be a passed scholar of a white school, of any recognized school of philosophy, and of a black school, too, as it might be in Toledo or Sevilla, “those sewers of several sundry thousand devils.” Need he have slept an hundred successive nights untorn among the war-hounds of Molossia (by definition,
in
Epirate Molossia, for there were not an hundred Molossian hounds in any one place in the world elsewhere): and he need have slain the hippotayne in the reedy covert of the fens: for in the open water would not do; even that dandled boy-king of the Ægyptim had slain an hippotayne in the open water. And the man had in dark of night to have slipped past the sleeping swarm of bee-priestesses, all armed with stings, offered up any of the Twelve Great Talismans upon the altar of Diana of Ephesus (much more dangerous than fighting there with wild beasts) and kissed her many clustering teats; a thing it was strictly forbidden at any time to do soever, on penalty of being buried unburned in an urn. (And the penalty for touching a Vestal — and did this penalty perhaps not pursue him with slow deliberate haste?)

Who had done all this and these then had command of all the dogs of the dead, of those dead being shedders of human blood in time of peace, and having died unpurified on land and sea: though any dog of such a one which was not dead itself was in no wise subject to summons or command. That the
Gunta
had to feed each dog once in every extra-lunar month (of which there were seven in each cycle of nineteen years) with the heart of a man who had never begat a child? Rumor: lying, untrue, and false.

Mostly….

And not least of the frightening and terrifying aspect of the matter was that the beasts might drink no living water, but only the black stagnant water of a sunless cave might they suck, for
The waters of life cannot pass through the jaws of a dead dog
; and that the dogs of hell (whence even heroes might not be summoned) when summoned could even climb trees, not alone in pursuit but to escout and espy whither had the quarry fled. So men say.

There were may schools of philosophy, worshippers of numerous gods and goddesses, and divers cults of mystical enlightenment: all offered protections of sundry sorts. But all were on one thing agreed,
There is no guard against the Gunta.
Against this, the efforts of the
Gunta,
all amulets and talismans and charms and wards were all alike in vain. The squatter’s thrall sunk so deeply in the mire and the Emperor upon the Oliphaunt Throne, were alike incapable of immunity against him who summoned his servants from the dark battalions of the dead. For the
Gunta
made to serve him the dogs of the unrefusing and unpurified dead, and such dead had had many a sufficiency of dogs, and of such dead there was never any lack.

Nor of any such dogs.

In less time than it takes to let fly a break of wind all, all, were gone: all save one; also a cook-stall woman, she looked at him as if a bit distressed, but in no wise disconcerted by a possible attack from the hounds: she busied herself with her pots.

He felt sick, sickened (for one reason) by the penetrating bitterness of the bitter honey made from the nectar of the bitter boxwood flower, and sickened to realize that he had used his power as if it were that of the
Gunta
— in part; it was another power: if he had not been born with it then it was bestowed upon him, he yet knowing nought about it, whenas a babe before his head had closed — used that power upon a clot of dolts in a huddled port for which “provincial” was perhaps too kind a word. He had gained much; had he gained mastery? evidently not. To terrify yokels was not mastery. It was subjugation.

“Soldier,” said the woman who had not fled, from her own bench and table among the cook-pots; “Soldier,” and this could only refer to his rank in the Rites of Mithras; so many Mithrians being of the Soldiery that any initiates were held to hold at least courtesy rank as a soldier … but Mithras was a man’s mystery alone: so how knew she him or what he was? he wore no emblem, indeed it was strictly banned. “Matron,” he said, trying to collect himself and his wits, and making a slight bow.

“Corsican boxwood honey is always bitter,” she said, “I’m surprised you did not know. Some folk here are brutes indeed, you’ll not require me to beg pardon for them.— but here’s a cup of sweet water and here’s a bowl of fragrant acorn-meal: be pleased to cleanse your palate.”
Drink the sweet waters of Corsica and taste its
— let him be a long time before believing any street-cries again. Gingerly, and with hesitation, he supped of the porridge.

“It is scented with something more than acorn,” he said. “I know it and yet I know it not.”

“Would you know it in the dark?”

A short laugh. “It does not reek of the stinking lily, I am sure.” His wood spoon scraped the meal-filled mazer. A breath of the sea came through the food-smells: Porridge, parsnips, several sorts of fish, vinegar, wine, offals grilled on char. The sea would not go away.

“No … no … there’s no garlic in it. Still good, though.”

“Yes … good … my palate is quite cleansed now. I thank you, Matron.” He made no great show of thanks, nor apologized for having spoiled her trade: it was not seemly. And she merely nodded her acknowledgements. Then he picked his way atween the contents of the spilled cook-pots; it looked like vomit and already drew flies and, in the increasing heat of the day, smelled ill. Lord of
Z’bub
and lord of
Z’bul
: the Sidonians knew that more than sounds of words associated flies with dung.
Faw! O pópoi!
he waved his hand and he quickened his step.