Lest Darkness Fall (17 page)

            A raise in pay disposed of
Menandrus' qualms. Menandrus was disappointed that Padway didn't use the
occasion to have Julia arrested and hanged for witchcraft. "Just
think," he said, "it would put us on the right side of the Church,
and it would make a wonderful story for the paper!"

            Padway hired another
housekeeper. This one was gray-haired, rather frail-looking, and depressingly
virginal. That was why Padway took her.

            He learned that Julia had
gone to work for Ebenezer the Jew. He hoped that Julia would not try any of her
specialties on Ebenezer. The old banker did not look as if he could stand much
of them.

            Padway told Thomasus:
"We ought to get the first message from Naples over the telegraph any time
now."

            Thomasus rubbed his hands
together: "You are a wonder, Martinus. Only I'm worried that you'll
overreach yourself. The messengers of the Italian civil service are complaining
that this invention will destroy their livelihood. Unfair competition, they
say."

            Padway shrugged. "We'll
see. Maybe there'll be some war news."

            Thomasus frowned.
"That's another thing that's worrying me. Thiudahad hasn't done a thing
about the defense of Italy. I'd hate to see the war carried as far north as
Rome."

            "I'll make you a
bet," said Padway. "The king's son-in-law, Evermuth the Vandal, will
desert to the Imperialists. One solidus."

            "Done!" Almost at
that moment Junianus, who had been put in charge of operations, came in with a
paper. It was the first message, and it carried the news that Belisarius had
landed at Reggio; that Evermuth had gone over to him; that the Imperialists
were marching on Naples.

            Padway grinned at the
banker, whose jaw was sagging. "Sorry, old man, but I need that solidus.
I'm saving up for a new horse."

            "Do You hear that, God?
Martinus, the next time I lay a bet with a magician, you can have me declared
incompetent and a guardian appointed."

            Two days later a messenger
came in and told Padway that the king was in Rome, staying at the Palace of
Tiberius, and that Padway's presence was desired. Padway thought that perhaps
Thiudahad had reconsidered the telescope proposal. But no.

            "My good
Martinus," said Thiudahad, "I must ask you to discontinue the
operation of your telegraph. At once."

            "What? Why, my lord
king?"

            "You know what
happened? Eh? That thing of yours spread the news of my son-in-law's good fort
— his treachery all over Rome a few hours after it happened. Bad for morale.
Encourages the pro-Greek element, and brings criticism on me. Me. So you'll
please not operate it any more, at least during the war."

            "But, my lord, I
thought that your army would find it useful for —"

            "Not another word about
it, Martinus. I forbid it. Now, let me see. Dear me, there was something else I
wanted to see you about. Oh, yes, my man Cassiodorus would like to meet you.
You'll stay for lunch, won't you? Great scholar, Cassiodorus."

            So Padway presently found
himself bowing to the pretorian prefect, an elderly, rather saintly Italian.
They were immediately deep in a discussion of historiography, literature, and
the hazards of the publishing business. Padway to his annoyance found that he
was enjoying himself. He knew that he was abetting these spineless old
dodderers in their criminal disregard of their country's defense. But — upsetting
thought — he had enough of the unworldly intellectual in his own nature so that
he couldn't help sympathizing with them. And he hadn't gone on an intellectual
debauch of this kind since he'd arrived in old Rome.

            "Illustrious
Cassiodorus," he said, "perhaps you've noticed that in my paper I've
been trying to teach the typesetter to distinguish between U and V, and also
between I and J. That's a reform that's long been needed, don't you
think?"

            "Yes, yes, my excellent
Martinus. The Emperor Claudius tried something of the sort. But which letter do
you use for which sound in each case?"

            Padway explained. He also
told Cassiodorus of his plans for printing the paper, or at least part of it,
in Vulgar Latin. At that Cassiodorus held up his hands in mild horror.

            "Excellent Martinus!
These wretched dialects that pass for Latin nowadays? What would Ovid say if he
heard them? What would Virgil say? What would any of the ancient masters
say?"

            "As they were a bit
before our time," grinned Padway, "I'm afraid we shall never know.
But I will assert that even in their day the final s's and m's had been dropped
from ordinary pronunciation. And in any event, the pronunciation and grammar
have changed too far from the classical models ever to he changed back again.
So if we want our new instrument for the dissemination of literature to be
useful, we shall have to adopt a spelling that more or less agrees with the
spoken language. Otherwise people won't bother to learn it. To begin with, we
shall have to add a half dozen new letters to the alphabet. For instance
—"

            When Padway left, hours
later, he had at least made an effort to bring the conversation around to
measures for prosecuting the war. It had been useless, but his conscience was
salved.

            Padway was surprised, though
he shouldn't have been, at the effect of the news of his acquaintance with the
king and the prefect. Well-born Romans called on him, and he was even asked to
a couple of very dull dinners that began at four P.M. and lasted most of the
night.

            As he listened to the windy
conversation and the windier speeches, he thought that a twentieth-century
after-dinner speaker could have taken lessons in high-flown, meaningless
rhetoric from these people. From the slightly nervous way that his hosts
introduced him around, he gathered that they still regarded him as something of
a monster, but a well-behaved monster whom it might be useful to know.

            Even Cornelius Anicius
looked him up and issued the long-coveted invitation to his house. He did not
apologize for the slight snub in the library, but his deferential manner
suggested that he remembered it.

            Padway swallowed his pride
and accepted. He thought it foolish to judge Anicius by his own standards. And
he wanted another look at the pretty brunette.

            When the time came, he got
up from his desk, washed his hands, and told Fritharik to come along.

            Fritharik said, scandalized:
"You are going to
walk
to this Roman gentleman's house?"

            "Sure. It's only a
couple of miles. Do us good."

            "Oh, most respectable
boss, you can't! It isn't done! I know; I worked for such a patrician once. You
should have a sedan chair, or at least a horse."

            "Nonsense. Anyway,
we've got only one saddle-horse. You don't want to walk while I ride, do
you?"

            "N — no — not that I
mind walking; but it would look funny for a gentleman's free retainer like me
to go afoot like a slave on a formal occasion."

            Damn this etiquette, thought
Padway. Fritharik said hopefully: "Of course there's the work-horse. He's
a good-looking animal; one might almost mistake him for a heavy cavalry
horse."

            "But I don't want the
boys in the shop to lose a couple of hours' production just because of some
damned piece of face-saving —"

            Padway rode the work-horse.
Fritharik rode the remaining bony saddle-horse.

            Padway was shown into a big
room whose ornamentation reminded him of the late Victorian gewgaw culture.
Through a closed door he could hear Anicius' voice coming through in rolling
pentameters:

-

"Rome,
the warrior-goddess, her seat had taken,

With
breast uncovered, a mural crown on her head.

Behind,
front under her spacious helmet escaping,

The
hair of her plumed head flowed over her back.

Modest
her mien, but sternness her beauty makes awesome,

Of
purple hue is her robe, with fang-like clasp;

Under
her bosom a jewel her mantle gathers.

A
vast and glowing shield her side supports,

Whereon,
in stout metal cast, the cave of Rhea —"

-

            The servant had sneaked
through the door and whispered. Anicius broke off his declamation and popped
out with a book under his arm. He cried: "My dear Martinus! I crave your
pardon; I was rehearsing a speech I am to give tomorrow." He tapped the
book under his arm and smiled guiltily. "It will not be a strictly
original speech; but you won't betray me, will you?"

            "Of course not. I heard
some of it through the door."

            "You did? What did you
think of it?"

            "I thought your
delivery was excellent." Padway resisted a temptation to add: "But
what does it
mean
?" Such a question about a piece of post-Roman
rhetoric would, he realized, be both futile and tactless.

            "You did?" cried
Anicius. "Splendid! I am greatly gratified! I shall be as nervous tomorrow
as Cadmus when the dragon's teeth began to sprout, but the approval of one
competent critic in advance will fortify me. And now I'll leave you to
Dorothea's mercy while I finish this. You will not take offense, I hope?
Splendid! Oh, daughter!"

            Dorothea appeared and
exchanged courtesies. She took Padway out in the garden while Anicius went back
to his plagiarism of Sidonius.

            Dorothea said: "You
should hear father some time. He takes you back to the time when Rome really
was the mistress of the world. If restoring the power of Rome could be done by
fine talk, father and his friends would have restored it long ago."

            It was hot in the garden,
with the heat of an Italian June, Bees buzzed.

            Padway said: "What kind
of flower do you call that?"

            She told him. He was hot.
And he was tired of strain and responsibility and ruthless effort. He wanted to
be young and foolish for a change.

            He asked her more questions
about flowers — trivial questions about unimportant matters.

            She answered prettily,
bending over the flowers to remove a bug now and then. She was hot too. There
were little beads of sweat on her upper lip. Her thin dress stuck to her in
places. Padway admired the places. She was standing close to him, talking with
grave good humor about flowers and about the bugs and blights that beset them.
To kiss her, all he had to do was reach and lean forward a bit. He could hear
his blood in his ears. The way she smiled up at him might almost be considered
an invitation.

            But Padway made no move.
While he hesitated his mind clicked off reasons: (a) He didn't know how she'd
take it, and shouldn't presume on the strength of a mere friendly smile; (b) if
she resented it, as she very likely would, there might be repercussions of
incalculable scope; (c) if he made love to her, what would she think he was
after? He didn't want a mistress — not that Dorothea Anicius would be willing
to become such — and he was not, as far as he knew, in need of a wife; (d) he was
in a sense already married ...

            So, he thought, you wanted
to be young and foolish a few minutes ago, eh, Martin, my boy? You can't; it's
too late; you'll always stop to figure things out rationally, as you've been
doing just now. Might as well resign yourself to being a calculating adult,
especially as you can't do anything about it.