Vergil in Averno: Book Two of the Vergil Magus Series by Avram Davidson

there was no one at his ear.
    There had
been
no one at his ear.
    Here.
    Or there.
    So it had not happened. So it was yet to happen.
    As Iohan would have put it:
Therefore
— one could only wait for it to happen.
    • • •
    “The wine is better here,” the man said, but said it with no hint that it was much better, here. “It would have to be.
There
, one may at least now and then stroll a few paces and look at the Bay. No matter how wretched one’s life, how hard one’s work,
there
, surely one may steal a moment now and then and see the Bay. Here one may only drink.” He drank. “And work.”
    Vergil felt no need to wonder which the man did most.
    An inn, almost by definition, is mostly for the convenience of travelers, which is to say . . . usually . . . people from elsewhere. Avernians, having doubtless their own taverns and wineshops, evidently did not much patronize this particular inn; and although the man sitting across the table spoke with distinct traces of the thick local accent, he did not in any other way resemble the mass of local people whom Vergil had seen about in the streets, or, for that matter, elsewhere. Perhaps the man had read this in his mind or perhaps Vergil’s thoughts had been as clearly written on his face as by a style upon wax. Or even perhaps all this had happened to the man before, and he was thus able to anticipate questions unasked simply because they had been asked so often before that he knew they would be asked again. And when.
    “There is little old blood in Averno,” he said; “but to the extent there is, I am of it. My father thought me puny, and yet I lived.” Saying this, he shrugged. “More than one warlock or practitioner of divination in its various forms has offered to discern how long I shall continue to, but I have declined. I have been afraid. Of what?” He shrugged. “Of being perhaps told that my life will be long. To live in Averno,
old?
Horrible!” He shuddered, and he shook his head.
    “Old people seem rather scarce here,” Vergil murmured.
    “Children are scarcer. Well! But we are very rich. And rich men may buy that which is beautiful even if they themselves are ugly, and among that which is beautiful which such men sometimes buy are beautiful women. They do not particularly buy beautiful men, even those some who favor men for partners in that act which has been called
love
. No, slaves fetched here are fetched for brawn. Endurance. Do you know what the foreman in any workplace here is called? Not the overseer or the manager or the captain, as in other places. No, he is called the Big Slave, even if he is not particular big or even if he is not a slave. Usually, though, he is both. Sometimes he is ugly, sometimes not, this is of no importance, it is important that he have a broad back and large arms and know well the work and be indefatigable in carrying it out. Well, it fairly frequently happens that such a man is freed by his master and adopted by his master (who, recall, will usually be childless). Though now and then one knows of a master, magnate or not, who has bothered both to take a wife and maintain her elsewhere. So he will have had his children there, if he has children, and sometimes they come back when they are grown, and — ”
    There was an interruption. Men drinking and talking at another table raised their voices. “Cadmus is king!” said one.
    “King of fools …”
    “King. He is king.”
    “King of mud.”
    “King of mud or king of gold: king.”
    “King of shit — ”
    I have heard those words before; where? —
    Before Vergil could recollect where, the first man, half-rising, struck the other down. And down he stayed. In a moment the talk and babble resumed, no one paying the matter any further attention. If the fallen one was living or dead, dead drunk, or only stunned, Vergil did not observe, as he had fallen into the shadows cast by the small and flickering lamps.
    “ — and take up the trade, whichever trade it