Lest Darkness Fall (8 page)

            "That's just the
trouble. You can't give me Polybius, or even Julius Caesar —"

            "Julius Caesar! Why
everybody knows
he
couldn't write! They use his
Gallic War
as an
elementary Latin text for foreigners! All very well for the skin-clad
barbarian, who through the gloomy fastnesses of the northern forests pursues
the sanguinary boar and horrid bear. But for cultivated men like ourselves — I
ask you, my dear young man! Oh" — he looked embarrassed — "you will
understand that in my remarks on foreigners I meant nothing personal. I
perceive that you are an outlander, despite your obvious breeding and
erudition. Are you by any chance from the fabled land of Hind, with its
pearl-decked maidens and its elephants?"

            "No, farther away than
that," said Padway. He knew he had flushed a literary Roman patrician, of
the sort who couldn't ask you to pass the butter without wrapping the request
in three puns, four mythological illusions, and a dissertation on the
manufacture of butter in ancient Crete. "A place called America. I doubt
whether I should ever return, though."

            "Ah, how right you are!
Why should one live anywhere but in Rome if one can? But perhaps you can tell
me of the wonders of far-off China, with its gold-paved streets!"

            "I can tell you a
little about it," said Padway cautiously. "For one thing, the streets
aren't gold-paved. In fact they're mostly not paved at all."

            "How disappointing! But
I daresay that a truthful traveler returning from heaven would pronounce its
wonders grossly overrated. We must get together, my excellent young sir. I am
Cornelius Anicius."

            Evidently, Padway thought,
he was expected to know who Cornelius Anicius was. He introduced himself. Ah,
he thought, enter romance. A pretty slim dark girl approached, addressed
Anicius as "Father," and said that she had not been able to find the
Sabellian edition of Persius Flaccus.

            "Somebody is using it,
no doubt," said Anicius. "Martinus, this is my daughter Dorothea. A
veritable pearl from King Khusrau's headdress of a daughter, though I as her
father may be prejudiced." The girl smiled sweetly at Padway and excused
herself.

            Anicius asked: "And
now, my dear young man, what is your occupation?"

            Without thinking, Padway
said he was in business.

            "Indeed? What sort of
business?"

            Padway told him. The
patrician froze up as he digested the information. He was still polite and
smiling, but with a smile of a different sort.

            "Well, well, that's
interesting. Very interesting. I daresay you'll make a good financial success
of your business." He spoke the sentence with a slight difficulty, like a
Y.M.C.A. secretary talking about the facts of life. "I suppose we aren't
to blame for the callings wherein God stations us. But it's too bad you haven't
tried the public service. That is the only way to rise above one's class, and
an intelligent young man like you deserves to do so. And now, if you'll excuse
me, I'll do some reading."

            Padway had been hoping for
an invitation to Anicius' house. But now that Anicius knew him to be a mere
vulgar manufacturer, no invitation would be forthcoming. Padway looked at his
watch; it was nearly lunch time. He went out and awoke Fritharik.

            The Vandal yawned.
"Find all the books you wanted, Martinus? I was just dreaming of my
beautiful estate —"

            "To hell with —"
barked Padway, then shut his mouth.

            "What?" said
Fritharik. "Can't I even dream about the time I was rich and respected? That's
not very —"

            "Nothing, nothing. I
didn't mean you."

            "I'm glad of that. My
one consolation nowadays is my memories. But what are you so angry at,
Martinus? You look as if you could bite nails in two." When there was no
answer, he went on: "It must have been something in those books. I'm glad
I never learned to read. You get all worked up over things that happened long
ago. I'd rather dream about my beaut —
oop!
I'm sorry, boss; I won't
mention it again."

-

            Padway and Thomasus the
Syrian sat, along with several hundred naked Romans, in the steam room of the
Baths of Diocletian. The banker looked around and leered: "I hear that in
the old days they let the women into these baths, too. Right mixed in with the
men. Of course that was in pagan times; there's nothing like that now."

            "Christian morality, no
doubt," said Padway dryly.

            "Yes," chuckled
Thomasus. "We moderns are such a moral people. You know what the Empress
Theodora used to complain about?"

            "Yes," said
Padway, and told Thomasus what the empress used to complain about.

            "Damn it!" cried
Thomasus. "Every time I have a dirty story, either you've heard it, or you
know a better one."

            Padway didn't see fit to
tell the banker that he had read that bit of dirt in a book that hadn't yet been
written, namely, the
Anecdotes
by Procopius of Caesarea.

            Thomasus went on: "I've
got a letter from my cousin Antiochus in Naples. He's in the shipping business.
He has news from Constantinople." He paused impressively. "War."

            "Between us and the Empire?"

            "Between the Goths and
the Empire, anyway. They've been carrying on mysterious dickerings ever since
Amalaswentha was killed. Thiudahad has tried to duck responsibility for the
murder, but I think our old poet-king has come to the end of his rope."

            Padway said: "Watch
Dalmatia and Sicily. Before the end of the year —" He stopped.

            "Doing a bit of
soothsaying?"

            "No, just an
opinion."

            The good eye sparkled at
Padway through the steam, very black and very intelligent. "Martinus, just
who are you?"

            "What do you
mean?"

            "Oh, there's something
about you — I don't know how to put it — not just your funny way of putting
things. You produce the most astonishing bits of knowledge, like a magician
pulling rabbits out of his cap. And when I try to pump you about your own
country or how you came hither, you change the subject."

            "Well —" said
Padway, wondering just how big a lie to risk. Then he thought of the perfect
answer — a truthful one that Thomasus would be sure to misconstrue. "You
see, I left my own country in a great hurry."

            "Oh. For reasons of
health, eh? I don't blame you for being cagy in that case." Thomasus
winked.

            When they were walking up
Long Street toward Padway's house, Thomasus asked how the business was. Padway
told him: "Pretty good. The new still will be ready next week. And I sold
some copper strip to a merchant leaving for Spain. Right now I'm waiting for
the murder."

            "The
murder
?"

            "Yes, Fritharik and
Hannibal Scipio didn't get along. Hannibal's been cockier than ever since he's
had a couple of men under him. He rides Fritharik."

            "
Rides
him?"

            "American vernacular,
literally translated. Meaning that he subjects him to constant and subtle
ridicule and insult. By the way, I'm going to pay off your loan when we get
home."

            "Entirely?"

            "That's right. The
money's in the strong box waiting for you."

            "Splendid, my dear
Martinus! But won't you need another?"

            "I'm not sure,"
said Padway, who was sure that he would. "I was thinking of expanding my
distillery."

            "That's a great idea.
Of course now that you're established we'll put our loans on a business basis
—"

            "Meaning?" said
Padway.

            "Meaning that the rate
of interest will have to be adjusted. The normal rate, you know, is much higher
—"

            "Ha, ha," said
Padway. "That's what I thought you had in mind. But now that you know the
business is a sure one, you can afford to give me a lower rate."

            "
Ai
, Martinus,
that's absurd! Is that any way to treat me after all I've done for you?"

            "You don't have to lend
it if you don't want to. There are other bankers who'd be glad to learn
American arithmetic —"

            "Listen to him, God!
It's robbery! It's extortion! I'll never give in! Go to your other bankers, see
if I care!"

            Three blocks of argument
brought the interest rate down to ten per cent, which Thomasus said was cutting
his own heart out and burning it on the altar of friendship.

            When Padway had spoken of an
impending murder, he had neither been passing off hindsight as foresight, nor
trying to be literally prophetic. He was more astonished than Thomasus, when
they entered his big workshop, to find Fritharik and Hannibal glaring like a
couple of dogs who dislike each other's smell. Hannibal's two assistants were
looking on with their backs to the door; thus nobody saw the newcomers.

            Hannibal snarled: "What
do you mean, you big cottonhead? You lie around all day, too lazy to turn over,
and then you dare criticize me —"

            "All I said,"
growled the Vandal in his clumsy, deliberate Latin, "was that the next
time I caught you, I'd report it. Well I did, and I'm going to."

            "I'll slit your lousy
throat if you do!" yelled Hannibal.

            Fritharik cast a short but
pungent aspersion on the Sicilian's sex life. Hannibal whipped out a dagger and
lunged at Fritharik. He moved with rattlesnake speed, but he used the
instinctive but tactically unsound overhand stab. Fritharik, who was unarmed,
caught his wrist with a smack of flesh on flesh, then lost it as Hannibal dug
his point into the Vandal's forearm.

            When Hannibal swung his arm
up for another stab, Padway arrived and caught his arm. He hauled the little
man away from his opponent, and immediately had to hang on for dear life to
keep from being stabbed himself. Hannibal was shrieking in Sicilian patois and
foaming a little at the mouth. Padway saw that he wanted to kill him. He jerked
his face back as the dirty fingernails of Hannibal's left hand raked his nose,
which was a target hard to miss.

            Then there was a thump, and
Hannibal collapsed, dropping his dagger. Padway let him slide to the floor, and
saw that Nerva, the older of the two assistants, was holding a stool by one
leg. It had all happened so quickly that Fritharik was just bending over to
pick up a short piece of board for a weapon, and Thomasus and Carbo, the other
workman, were still standing just inside the door.

            Padway said to Nerva:
"I think you're the man for my next foreman. What's this about,
Fritharik?"

            Fritharik didn't answer, he
stalked toward the unconscious Hannibal with plain and fancy murder in his
face.

            "That's enough,
Fritharik!" said Padway sharply. "No more rough stuff, or you're
fired, too!" He planted himself in front of the intended victim.
"What was he doing?"

            The Vandal came to himself.
"He was stealing bits of copper from stock and selling them. I tried to
get him to stop without telling you; you know how it is if your fellow
employees think you're spying on them. Please, boss, let me have one whack at
him. I may be a poor exile, but no little Greek catamite —"