The Scarlet Fig: Or, Slowly Through a Land of Stone, Book Three of the Vergil Magus Series by Avram Davidson

poplar, and was indeed a magical plant because it sustained itself on nothing … unless indeed upon the air … and then too because it was engendered by lightning; that heavenly meteor and messenger, even a lamb struck by lightning was holy, and so was the place where it was stricken:
bidensal
, such were called. The oaken-tree was held sacred by man because in one significant particular it resembled man: that is, a most important part of it resembled a most important part of man — one need not be a Druid to recognize that the acorn looked very like the glans peeping forth from the partially retracted foreskin. But such matters as this: which came first, and why it should be so, must await another occasion for thought. And yet there was the old saying, “
As the scent of the walnut tree inciteth to lust, so the sight of the oaken-tree inciteth to awe.
”
    He did not know where the woman had come from, he was half-asleep. In the darkness, how could he have told what color were her eyes? He put his arms around her, grateful for her presence, and proceeded to do what a normal man would do; not knowing or caring or even thinking if he would find the visit on the bill in the morning, or if it were more complicated than that. Neither did he know where the light had come from, later, the light in which he had seen an older woman in the same soft white dress ask, with an air of concern, “What ails thee Claudia? thou didst neither eat nor drink.”
    And the answer came, in a now well-remembered voice (had she
spoken
? before then?), “Oh, Volumnia, I have had such a longing to drink the sweet waters of Corsica, and to taste its fragrant acorn-meal —”
    Volumnia’s face changed from concern to surprise and then to perplexity. “Well, I suppose we could send —” Then her face grew horrified. “Claudia! the goddess forbid, that thou be pregnant!”
    — and Claudia saying, slowly, oh so slowly, “One night a man slept in my arms all night. His eyes were grey-green, his arms were strong, his chest broad, his waist was slim. We made love, Volumnia.” He heard Volumnia’s scream, and then he awoke, wet.

    Loriano, and the mountains round about it; as a port alone it was not much different than other Roman ports … smaller than Naples or Ostia, of course … but the streets adjacent to the harbor in Naples or Ostia spoke (he now realized) of a broad and modern hinterland. One never saw there as one saw here, numbers of women in antique costume squatting on the pave, market-sacks or market-baskets by their sides, long lustrous hair not dressed and not confined, streaming down their backs. A point of interest, if not more, and a mildly welcome diversion from the fact that much of the merchandise displayed was at least a little bit old-fashioned when not indeed outmoded, or in poorer condition than similar goods on the Gallic or Italian mainland; and sometimes frankly battered or broken. A question: Who would buy these writing-tablets with their covers chipped or here or there a binding-ribband torn short or entirely missing? An answer: Someone who badly needed a writing-tablet in any better condition than the one he already had. Who.
    Yet there was no particular air of poverty, if the vegetables were of fewer varieties and smaller selection — only one kind of celery, for example, or asparagus — they were fresh and sturdy. If the grain-seller displayed more spelt than wheat, if the wheat was dusty and looked ill, the spelt was certainly good enough spelt. Good enough to eat … a sudden thought cut short his chuckle, and he went and stood by a table where a middle-aged woman … she must have been all of thirty-five … was stirring something in a pot over charcoal burning in an earthen jar on a raised fire-hearth. “A small bowl of acorn-meal, Mother,” he said, “and a glass of water and a small glass of wine.”
    The acorn-meal
was
fragrant; he had forgotten how good it could be: Brundusy, even Calabria, that