Complete Short Fiction, page 46
Tanaquil saw that the girl had cast a spell on a certain young man with an ochre cloak. His eyes looked glazed; he stood as still and wooden as the figurehead of a becalmed ship. She was telling him to extend his hand. At first she spoke in Latin; the hand remained at his side.
Not all Sutrii were bi-lingual, it seemed. Then, she spoke in Etruscan. Out shot the hand, open and trusting. Casually the girl removed from her tunic a fibula, a pin with a coral head, and drove it up to the head in the man’s palm. He gave no sign of pain. The crowd suspected a trick. One of the watchers, a youth with large feet which were housed in wooden sandals, cried:
“You didn’t really stick him, did you, Spritey?”
Smiling, the girl withdrew the point, which glistened with blood and left a small red wound, the size of a gnat, in the victim’s palm. Tanaquil winced. The young swains cheered and filled the plate with gold, but shook their heads when asked if they cared to volunteer as subjects. The victim, awakened by a slap to his cheek, looked down ruefully at his palm and followed the others to the nearest wine shop.
But the cats lingered, drawing around the magician as if she had promised them a dinner of quails and cream. She knelt in their midst and held out a handful of small, greenly glittering jewels and seemed to address them. At any rate, her lips began to move, though Tanaquil could hear no words. The cats responded with frightening vehemence. Fur rose on their backs. They slashed the air with their tails. They snarled and hissed and tensed their long bodies. Then, before they could vent their ferocity, the girl dismissed them with a nod of her head. They neither slunk nor scurried, but strode with pride and arrogance, heads high on the tall necks, ebony spots flashing like black pearls.
Tanaquil shuddered. She had never seen Bast in such a mood. She felt as if she had intruded on an arcane ritual. It was best to announce her presence.
“Are you a sorceress?” she asked politely.
The girl looked at her with surprise. “Yes.”
“From the lake?”
“Yes. The Town of Walking Towers.” Her answers were brief but not unfriendly. She stared at the poppies in Tanaquil’s hair.
“I think I know one of your people,” Tanaquil continued. “Here in the town.”
“None of my people live in Sutrium.”
“This one is a slave. His name is Vel.”
“And you must be Tanaquil!”
“Arnth sent you, didn’t he? Where is he now?”
“I left him in the forest.”
“Are you related to Vel?”
“I am his friend.”
Friend? thought Tanaquil. No, his woman. Jealousy stung her like black henbane.
Vegoia took her hand. “His friend—like you. Together we shall help him. No?”
How small were Vegoia’s fingers! A child’s fingers, exigent, not to be denied, touching her heart as well as her hand; probing gentleness to the very roots of her being, like an antidote for the henbane of jealousy.
“People can watch us here,” said Tanaquil. “You see the temple over there, the one with the statues on top—the demons and little Tages? It ought to be empty now; the priest goes to market like everyone else. I just saw him. Follow me there in a few seconds.”
The temple to the child-god Tages perched on its platform like a big clay toy which was painted with all the colours of a rainbow shell—orange for the tiles which covered the wooden walls—purple for the low triangle of the pediment—and every colour, green and black, lemon and blue and rose, for the grinning, prancing demons on the roof. It might have been painted by the god himself. Only a child, thought Tanaquil, Etruscan at that and very knowing, could have splashed his colours with such a disregard for Athenian harmony, and modelled such young, outrageous, and irresistible imps, who were bent on mischief even while they seemed to attend their master, Tages.
They were phallic imps, of course. Like Vel.
She climbed the tall steps and passed between the columns of the porch and into the cella or room of worship. She had to watch her step. The temple was a sanctuary for unwanted kittens. The priest fed them from the offerings and, once they were grown, found homes for them with Etruscan families. A little speckled fellow clung to her sandal and allowed himself to be ridden across the tiles of the floor. Tanaquil dislodged him with difficulty. Being a serval kitten, he had strong claws. Then she examined the room, which never failed to enchant her.
The walls were decorated, childishly and touchingly, with little boys climbing into chariots made of sea shells, and a terracotta statue of Tages, smaller than the one on the roof, stood on a pedestal and looked down at her with boyish roguery. He was clumsily done, to be sure. The Etruscans had yet to overtake the Greeks, who had learned, after centuries of stiff Egyptian frontality, to capture the natural grace of the human form. The eyes were exaggerated in their slant, the limbs were loose and awkwardly attached to the body. Nevertheless, he radiated life; in fact, he looked uncomfortable on his pedestal and as if he might clamber down on those loose limbs and ask—or demand—a ride in one of the shell chariots. Her own brother Aulus had also been a stocky, fearless, and energetic boy, and Tages had always been her favourite god. She loved him infinitely more than his quarrelsome grandparents, Tinia and Uni, or the bleak and sinister Vanth.
Vegoia followed her silently into the cella and stopped, marvelling, beneath the statue; then, with affecting deference, she bent and kissed the sandalled feet of the god. Really, thought Tanaquil, the girl is incapable of a false or awkward movement. Anyone else would have looked as if she were parading her piety.
“And the pictures on the wall!” Vegoia cried. “Those dear little boys! They are going to race their chariots.”
“They really do, you know. Right here in Sutrium. Once a year, the market is cleared of stalls, and the little boys hitch wagons to assess and race each other for the prize of a red cart with copper wheels.”
“How I would love to see them race! Do they ever get hurt?”
“Never. Though sometimes they do get tummy aches from all the sweets fed to them after the race. But the boys on your lakes must have races too—with boats.”
“They did,” said Vegoia. “So did Vel, once. But that was years ago. They have all grown up, and there is no one to take their place.”
“No children at all?”
“It is not as if we really needed them,” she said quickly. “We live for a very long time and when the last of us die—well, let the flamingoes have our lake. Now we must talk about Vel.”
“You’ve come to help him escape?”
“Yes.”
“What can I do?”
Vegoia looked at her searchingly, and Tanaquil felt as if the yellow eyes were probing into her heart; or perhaps even the soul which, she hoped, would survive the death of her body and dwell in the after-life of love, games, and banquetings. Vegoia’s eyes looked immeasurably older than her slight girl’s body. Not that they were tired; but they looked as if they could not be fooled.
Vegoia opened her bulla and drew out several of her brilliantly green gems with yellow stripes. Cat’s eyes. Stones from the East reputed to possess powers as a talisman. The kittens, at least a score of them, began to press at her ankles.
“Give these to Vel,” she said.
“He will know what to do?”
“Yes. Quickly now. Hide them under your cloak.” She stooped to caress the kittens, one of which had clambered up the fur of her tunic.
“I’m glad you’ve come,” said Tanaquil. “Vel has been caged for too long.”
“You like him, Tanaquil?”
“Yes. Very much. Though I’m afraid of him too.”
“I told Arnth that Vel would have his way with you.” Tanaquil flushed. “He has not had his way with me.”
Vegoia looked sceptical. “And yet you say you like him.”
“But I do.”
“Why deny him then? His pleasures are few, I think, in your father’s house.”
“He would have taken me without kindness.”
“You are perhaps a virgin?”
“Yes.”
Vegoia laughed. “Two in as many days.”
“What do you mean?”
“Arnth.”
“Arnth a virgin? But he sang such wicked songs. As if he understood everything.”
“Now he understands.”
Honestly, it looked as if every young man who crossed Tanaquil’s path had been enjoyed by Vegoia. Not that anyone expected virginity in a man. In fact, Tanaquil had come to accept, even to savour the worldly image of Arnth. But to hear that he had been a virgin when she met him, and then lost his virginity to Vegoia—well, it seemed such a waste. Vegoia was not a girl to appreciate the rarity of his gift.
But she saw that Vegoia was not boasting. The nymph was speaking naturally about a matter which to her was very natural.
“I will take your stones to Vel,” said Tanaquil.
Vegoia was looking at the pictures on the walls. “Have you ever wished, Tanaquil, that they always stayed like that? Little boys, mischievous but not really—wounding?”
“And not having to go away to fight wars and be wounded,” said Tanaquil. “Yes, I certainly have.”
“But they do grow up,” said Vegoia. “And their boyish bodies harden to the sinews of a man, and they grow desirous and desirable as well as mischievous. But they keep their little boys’ hearts. Quick. Merry. Forgetful.” She turned from Tanaquil as if to study the pictures, gasped, and pressed a hand to her heart.
“You have a pain in your heart?”
She removed the hand and shrugged. “My heart? I have no heart. Like Vel.”
Tanaquil was puzzled. “I don’t think you are heartless at all. Either of you. Only wild. I think I could learn to be wild myself.”
“Not in our way. Wild to you means living in the woods. Wearing a fur like mine—or nothing at all. Hunting, fishing, talking to the birds. Wild to us means—not caring. Go to Vel now. Take him the stones. But I think you were wise to deny him his way. Yes, he would surely have hurt you.”
Vel, on his knees, was-scrubbing the floor with fuller’s earth. His movements were spry and quick, and the red tiles of the atrium glowed like embers in the slanting light from the roof. But he seemed bemused; as if the ladder of light could carry him out of the house. Another slave was working with him, the Athenian who had complimented Tanaquil’s beauty; a minikin fellow with black, inquisitive eyes which looked as if they loved to spy secrets.
“Vel,” said Tanaquil. “Come into the garden with me, will you?”
The Athenian stared at her as if he had just spied a secret; his eyes seemed round black olives sparkling with brine. Vel followed her at a distance; she could hear the slap, slap, slap of his feet.
In the garden there were no dragonflies, and no poppies in the mouth of the shrine to Lavis—Tanaquil had cut them for her hair. There was only Bast, asleep among the flowerless poppy stalks. Tomorrow, perhaps there would be no Vel to enter the garden with her. Now, she was not afraid of him. She had talked with Vegoia; she understood his wildness.
She opened her palm to display Vegoia’s cat’s-eyes.
“Vegoia has come!” he cried.
“Yes. I saw her in the market place. She told me to bring you the stones. That was all.”
He snatched them out of her hand and clutched them jealously between his long, narrow fingers.
She waited for a word or a gesture of gratitude. “You will be going with her?”
“Yes.”
“Can you tell me when?”
“Soon.”
“Vel, you understand that I never meant you harm.” She laid her hand on his moist shoulder.
He did not acknowledge the touch. “It was for you your father caught me.”
“But I never told him to.”
“It was for you.” He pointed to the crimson ring on the back of his hand; the indelible brand of a slave.
She caught his hand and pressed it against her cheek. “Vel, Vel. May I come to visit you on the lake and meet your people? I liked Vegoia. Truly I did. I’m sure I will like the others. You see, I—I am very fond of you.”
“Where is Arnth?” he asked. “He did not come with her, did he?”
She dropped his hand. “She left him in the forest.”
“Arnth has no love for towns,” Vel said proudly. “He will come to see me on the lake.”
“And play for you? That’s why you love him, isn’t it? His music.”
“Arnth is music.” His face seemed a burst of sunlight. “When he plays, he is all a shining and a sweetness, and I want ”
“What?”
“To dance for him.”
“And me?”
“You? You are a woman. What would I want except to——” He laughed and caught her wrists with vicious fingers; talons.
“No,” she said. “First you must respect me. As you respect Arnth.”
And then they heard Arnth’s flute, and the big-wheeled cart, rumbling up the street.
Vel released her as if a scorpion had stung him. “You said—he was safe in the fowest.”
CHAPTER VI
He watched her, a small, resolute figure with a wooden bowl in her hand, follow the road until she was lost in the company of Weir Ones—towering Centaurs, hairy Panisci—and hidden by the green meanderings of the trail. “The town’s sorceress.” Sorceress, he wondered, or little girl playing at spells and incantations? And yet there had always been a strangeness about her, an intimation of angers and anguishes which were anything but childlike. He had seen her wrath. He could guess her power.
Meanwhile, Ursus had grown impatient. He began to paw the ground and crackle the dry leaves.
“All right, Ursus,” Arnth said softly. “It’s time to go.”
Harnessed at last, Ursus lifted his stalwart legs, which, rolling like water wheels, powered him into motion until he belaboured the road as if he were driving before the blast of the wind-god, Boreas. Going—where? Arnth did not know. Viterbo. Volsinii. Spina perhaps, and even one day the towns of the red-haired Gauls, his grandfather’s people. Somewhere, anywhere, away from his three perplexing friends: the child who was thirty years old and had no heart; the web-toed boy whom she hoped to rescue with the help of sorceries; and the girl who, inadvertently, like a dazed sleeper stumbling out of a cave, had crossed their path.
Vegoia, Vel, Tanaquil. Water Sprites and human girl. He saw their faces, like brilliant lilies against the green opacity of a pool. Which would remain afloat and which would drown, its petals shredded in the obliterating waters? Etruscans did not easily relinquish their slaves, and enslaved Weir Ones did not easily forgive their masters.
He knew, as suddenly and certainly as he had liked Vel and Tanaquil and desired Vegoia, that he must return to Sutrium. Return, help, heal. Be there, that was the thing.
He shouted, he jerked on the reins, he felt like Hippolytus in his runaway chariot; arid then he waited. Ursus could not be hurried; first, he acknowledged Arnth’s message with a growl of aggravation. Then, with a casualness which approached insolence, he slowed, paused, turned, and jogged toward Sutrium at the pace of a superannuated mule.
Once he had changed his course, Arnth was not in a hurry. He had no wish to overtake Vegoia on the road and risk her wrath and even her sorceries. She had more reasons than one to punish him. Multiply the number of his freckles. Turn him into a fish or a bear or even an overripe pomegranate. Or, with peculiarly appropriate justice (so she would think), subtract him into a eunuch.
He sighed. “The net. Do you hear me, Ursus? We’re riding into the net.” Ursus continued his lethargic advance, raising his feet heavily as if they were caked with mud.
“Don’t tell me,” he seemed to say. “It was you who turned us around.”
“But you know,” said Arnth, “at least it’s a silken net.”
Here was the house at last, Tanaquil’s house, with its orange-tiled face and its saddle roof as red as Tanaquil’s poppies. A red-headed house, thought Arnth with a surge of affection. Like me, poor thing. But no freckles.
It was afternoon. He had paused in the fields beyond the town to find food for himself and Ursus. At a prosperous farm house a kindly woman had fed both of them on grapes, mash, and cheese, and allowed Ursus to lick the pot of a Corn Sprite.’ Then, they had driven to the foot of Sutrium and hailed the keeper of the drawbridge, the same ill-mannered chap who had searched Arnth’s wagon on his recent departure. Admitted with the observation that bridges were not intended for heavy wagons and fat bears, they had clattered up the ramp and into the town.
Perhaps they would find Vegoia at Tanaquil’s house. Spying out the place? Or, Tinia forbid, plying her spells? Precisely the nature of her spells, Arnth could not predict. Sorceresses were highly versatile: they could read the future. They were rustic physicians, healing fever with gentian roots and headaches with willow bark; they manufactured potions for unrequited love and poison for disposing of a rival; and according to hearsay, they could change their shape at will and fly through the air or creep along the ground.
He thought it best to announce his coming. He had no wish to surprise anyone, certainly not Vegoia. He blew a cheerful blast on his flute. Ursus’ walk became a gallop, and they rolled down the street as if they were hungry and the house was the world’s largest honey cake. Soon, he felt like his music and the rush of his cart, swift, gay, and careless. He played of love opening like an African lotus, to shelter lovers in its blue, willowy walls. The music seemed spell and amulet. Nothing of evil could mar such an afternoon.
