For a few minutes he simply dithered, like the proverbial ass between two haystacks. Then he decided that Cassiodorus would have the most valuable information to impart, as it dealt with an environment in which he himself was living. So he lugged the big volumes out and set to work. It was hard work, too, even for a man who knew Latin. The books were written in a semi-cursive minuscule hand with all the words run together. The incredibly wordy and affected style of the writer didn't bother him as it would have if he had been reading English; he was after facts.
"Excuse me, sir," said the librarian, "but is that tall barbarian with the yellow mustache your man?"
"I suppose so," said Padway. "What is it?"
"He's gone to sleep in the Oriental section, and he's snoring so that the readers are complaining."
"I'll tend to him," said Padway.
He went over and awakened Fritharik. "Can't you read?" he asked.
"No," said Fritharik quite simply. "Why should I? When I had my beautiful estate in Africa, there was no occasion—"
"Yes, I know all about your beautiful estate, old man. But you'll have to learn to read, or else do your snoring outside."
Fritharik went out somewhat huffily, muttering in his own East-German dialect. Padway's guess was that he was calling reading a sissy accomplishment.
When Padway got back to his table, he found an elderly Italian dressed with simple elegance going through his Cassiodorus. The man looked up and said: "I'm sorry; were you reading these?"
"That's all right," said Padway. "I wasn't reading all of them. If you're not using the first volume . . ."
"Certainly, certainly, my dear young man. I ought to warn you, though, to be careful to put it back in its proper place. Scylla cheated of her prey by Jason has no fury like that of our esteemed librarian when people misplace his books. And what, may I ask, do you think of the work of our illustrious pretorian prefect?"
"That depends," said Padway judiciously. "He has a lot of facts you can't get elsewhere. But I prefer my facts straight."
"How do you mean?"
"I mean with less flowery rhetoric."
"Oh, but my dear, dear young man! Here we moderns have at last produced a historian to rank with the great Livius, and you say you don't like—" He glanced up, lowered his voice, and leaned forward. "Just consider the delicate imagery, the glorious erudition! Such style! Such wit!"
"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."