The Scarlet Fig: Or, Slowly Through a Land of Stone, Book Three of the Vergil Magus Series (9 page)

The streets were still and empty and once he heard the hasty sound of a quickly-shuttered window. A shallow shop-front gaped. No one was there … now … and whoever had been there had not quite bothered to empty it before fleeing: a length of purple-grey sausage sat upon a cutting-board, one shoe still a-dangle, and the knife dropped next to it. He picked up the entire chunk as he passed, but only ate the partly-cut slice, spitting out the casing. The odor rose to him,
it
certainly lacked not of the stinking lily; was it up to the standards of Quint’s granny? probably not, though it wasn’t too bad by country standards, even if probably made from the sorry carcase of a cargo-beast. Garlic and cumin and coriander had gone into it, and the tongue burning black berries of Ind the More, via the great black pepper-barns in Rome … in Yellow Rome … a throng of images came into his mind, but he did not care for them to linger. He ought not to have gone there, and it was going to be a long while before he went again. Why linger by the shallow yellow Tiber when the great blue Bay of Naples lay at the bottom of the hill? … thinking of the pepper-berries led him to consider the far-off folk of the Indoo Sea, which folk constantly spet blood: and no man knoweth why … though they be in sound good thrift and health…. Others say, they put somewhat in their mouths, as it were a comfit, to make them spit blood: it would be a wonder of the world should this be true: yet who can believe it? for why? … but out of India, always something new….

Something moved in the narrow street as his footsteps echoed, something crawled and twisted; the sudden passage of a bird across the sky, far too sudden — and he with his mind intent on other matters — to say if it were a bird of good meeting or some ill-omened fowl: it made him think of yet another thing so devoutly believed about the
Gunta
: that he could fly! And Vergil recalled in a Bill of Indictment and Indiction which had read,
that the said Gryphol called the Cozener and also the Falcon not being one of the unhidden ones on high did presume to fly unbidden over the domains of our sovereign Lord the Emperor to the displeasure and disquiet of said sovereign Lord his crown and staff and throne and of his subjects on the ground below
… Did Vergil indeed have such power he might not be making his way on foot along a squalid lane, but might have flown o’er the white-waved sea like Icarus and Dædalus — though neither one came to good end —

Something crawled and twisted and then rolled over with its back to a building; a temple, with its fine fronting of Parian marble scored and scarred from the rough wooden stalls of the street vendors having been roughly shoved against it again and again for at least a score of years — so much for the piety of Loriano-in-Corsica — equal, evidently, to its good manners! An old man lay there, only a bit propped up, and, face twisted in terror, held up and out a twisted, trembling hand. Perhaps such a useless gesture had he once before made, too late to ward off some lumbering wine-wain laded with heavy tuns and barrels and before which he had stumbled. One of his legs had been badly broken very long ago and badly-set — likelier never set at all — the grotesque angle (
angles!
) into which it had frozen. The other leg was merely crooked. The god had not been pleased to cure him,
he
had heard no vatic voice! if ever he’d tried to slumber in some temple of healing; and perhaps, by the look of his hands, horny as hooves, perhaps he had crawled along the streets of Loriano for far more than half a life-time — midst mud and dung and hurtful stones, stones —

On the spur of the moment Vergil handed over the thick chunk of sausage. The crippled beggar snatched it up at once and saved his breath: why bother to thank the demiurge? the god himself had worked a miracle! He spoke no word, but Vergil, continuing his walk, heard behind him the snapping grinding sound of the old man’s braken teeth and the gumbling, gobbling sound of the old man’s gorzel and gullet.
Like a starveling dog!
he thought.

And shameful memory engulfed him like a hot and stinking tide … then ebbed. Perhaps the god at last
had
hearkened to an old man’s prayer (it could be that the old one, unable to offer a hecatomb of oxen, had offered one of lice: had there not been a notorious case in Yellow Rome of someone who had offered a hecatomb of mice!)and all of Vergil’s preparations to play the
Gunta
and perhaps the entire incident itself had been only so that the crippled beggar might have, for once, a fine seasoned chunk of salame sausage in his mouth to wolf. The thought came to Vergil, why, then, had whichever god not merely moved the owner of the sausage-shop to make the beggar a gift of the hunky bit of meat? Answer came at once: the gods are chary of miracles, lest they become too cheap, and folk lose faith in prayer and offerings. For surely if the owner of a sausage-shop should give half a salame to an old crippled beggar it would have been a greater miracle than if Vergil should empty that quarter of the town by conjuring up the loud and rowdy ghosts of the dogs of the murd’rous dead.

The small city had disgusted him; was
this
a place of refuge? He let his feet take him along a small road, quite without pave, and tending upward. Common sense advised him to return to the port and see what ships had come in: and whence, and whither; but a long look downwards and around told him that no new hulls lay in the harbor or in the roadstead — farther out a few sails showed, but be sure they were but fisher-boats; going whither-soever, came they back by fall of night. In tales told to pass an hour of idleness a traveller often took passage of a sudden on a fishing-smack, eventually finding high adventure. But in tiresome fact, it would not do, it would not do. Fishers were the most conservative of faring-men, always eager to spend the night ashore; scarcely knowing any strange waters, anyway; and were he, foolishly and in despite, to offer them a full purse to have him aboard and make course for any foreign haven or strange coast of people? likely, almost certain, someone would give the signal to bind him ahind the elbows. Soon enough — when the conveniency of their tasks allowed — they would turn him over to the harbormaster, saying, “The one would go a-roving, and offered us this purse to take him with.”

Later, but soon enough, some portion of that purse would come back their way … not a very large portion, but more than made up for the risks which accepting of the alien’s mad offer might entail: storms of wind, sea-monsters, ship-wrack, pirates, hostile shores … life indeed was not a tale told to pass an hour of idleness…. What scene was
this?

This
was a man fleeing screaming across a field of yellow broomplant and scenting lavendar while a perfect storm of fire roared behind him: and behind the fire ran a group of men, also (by the enraged and open-mouthed and straining look on their faces) also roaring … by the look on their faces alone: Vergil could not hear them above the sound of the fire. One of the pursuers held as he ran a torch in one of his hands; in the other was clenched that wicked implement longer than a common knife, shorter than a common sword, the well-honed
harb,
without which (it was said) a Punic man felt naked. A man needed no torch in the daylight, this man was one of the brothers-passengers aboard of the
Zenos
, his name (Vergil knew) was Hamdibal, if indeed “Baal was his beloved,” Vergil did not know; but neither he nor any other man needed a torch in level daylight, so why then did he have it? Why, in order to set the fire; why else?

Vergil had studied fire in Sidon, for the sage Sidonians, zealots to learn, had learned it of Haephæstus himself, whom the Ebrew-folk call Tuval-cain, and the Romans, Vulcan; first and greatest of the limping smiths (hence the saying,
All smiths are lame,
**
so to say, though a man be greatly-skilled, yet he must have a fault).

Roaring, the man who fled, fled onward across the field; the men roared after him; Vergil did not roar, but Vergil ran, too; and he ran towards the fire.

There was something wrong with the fire, with the flames. The sound they made was familiar enough, but Vergil had not studied fire at Sidon without learning that fire could have many colors: but not
this
color. It was wrong, it was all wrong.

When all the hosts of Græcia sacked Prima’s topless castle-town and burned his lofty towers, well-peopled Sidon, that Punic city mart of many merchants, became famous for the arts of fire. By the Art of fire did Sidon molt glass and smelt copper, bronze, and brass. Nought was known anywhere of fire, its creation, composition, and application, which was not known in Sidon: and known better. Did the Punes of Cartha Gedasha have that coin? Vergil would now turn it over, and pay them with its other side.

He could hear the voices of the pursers now, “
Thief! Stealer of teeth! you would steal the teeth? Die, bugger of swine!
” But these words only entered into the antechamber of his mind, his mind was intent upon his running, scarcely he noticed the fleeing man and his very largely unlovely face, blood seeping down the seams of it, a rope of snot swinging from one nostril — why did it not detach and fall? — He noticed that the running men had stopped running and were watching him, mouths still agape but silent now; and very vaguely he was aware that the steps of the running man had slowed and perhaps the man himself was watching him.

Vergil ran into the fire.

Behind him, someone groaned. Someone behind him sucked in a great breath. Both, as if that other had felt great pain. But he himself felt no pain as the tongues of flame licked around him; as the tongues of flame licked around him he made only a sound of faint disgust … they felt faintly loathsome, as if — for example — he had touched that ropy plug of mucus hanging and swinging from the fugitive’s nare; there
was
something wrong with the fire: there was no slightest trace of heat. The fire was false. So — therefor — was the maker of it.
Videlixet
Hamdibal the Pune.

Behind, Vergil heard … probably too faint to be heard by the men pursuing … a faint gasp or sigh, slithering noises, a faint fall of gravel and soil: which seemed to tell him that the fugitive was taking advantage of the situation and making his escape via some sunken path or gulley. Slowly the “fire” sank down, ebbed, vanished. The Punes seemed to gather a moment together, to …
swell
… there was not other word for it … to gather themselves as water gathers itself upon a brim or berm or brink … about to pour themselves forward in an attack upon him. He felt for his own knife: no
harb
, he used it chiefly to cut his food: well aware how useless a weapon it was. Swiftly he bethought himself, scarce thinking of it thought by thought, should he employ the employment of the squid, send a pseudo-Vergil scuttling across the field at an angle, to be pursued whilst the real Vergil swiftly turned and ran? or should he concentrate all his innermost zeal to make himself “dark” and then vanish? no: as to this last, it could only be employed, if at all, during the “dark” of the moon; and if employed at all would leave him exhausted for far too long a time to come. Or should he —

There had appeared from nowhere a line of people who, looking neither to right nor left, interposed themselves as they walked, between Vergil and the Punes. There seemed something almost hieratical about them, something of the procession in the temple, and some one of them, clearly he could not see who, was holding up a Something: and it was the mysterious piece of parchment (who had parched it?) which Vergil had earlier found atween the pages of
Aristotle Was the Pupil of Plato
in the half-emptied establishment of
Sergius: Books
only that morning. He felt an absolute presentiment (or, merely, sentiment) that these were “The They who plan things in the dark;” it was
not
dark.

But it was darkening.

“You do well to turn back to town, Master,” someone said to him. He, Vergil, knew that he had certainly not turned at all. He knew also that he had seen the man before. The fellow was of no particularly outstanding appearance early in middle-age, figure already slackening, thickening: it was the one he had already twice that day seen by the open-air cook-stall: once he had commented that “it didn’t take much to make them angry there in Corsica,” and once he had joined in the mocking laughter over the crude jape of the bitter boxwood honey; Vergil had had enough of
that
matter. “You do well to turn back to town, Master. The day darkens, and this Isle Corsica is nay place, you ken, for strange travellers when the sun goeth down, and in the null of the moon.” Out of the corner of his own eye Vergil observed the very last of The They, who had come out of nowhere, going back into nowhere. It was all very strange. Why should a dried streak of blood upon a dessicated page be at all of interest to any? let alone of such value as to prompt such an intervention? It was all most mysterious.

Casually he turned to the man, himself now turning aside and hitching up his clothing as one who gins to go, and casually asked, “Are there many Punes in Corsica?”

“More and more all the time, Master.” Then the man was going.