Lest Darkness Fall Read online

  It reminded Padway of those United States Government projects for the restoration of Colonial towns, like Williamsburg. But this looked like the real thing. No restoration included all the dirt and disease, the insults and altercations, that Padway had seen and heard in an hour's walk.

  Only two hypotheses remained: delirium and time-slip. Delirium now seemed the less probable. He would act on the assumption that things were in fact what they seemed.

  He couldn't stand there indefinitely. He'd have to ask questions and get himself oriented. The idea gave him gooseflesh. He had a phobia about accosting strangers. Twice he opened his mouth, but his glottis closed up tight with stage fright.

  Come on, Padway, get a grip on yourself. "I beg your pardon, but could you tell me the date?

  The man addressed, a mild-looking person with a loaf of bread under his arm, stopped and looked blank. "Qui' e'? What is it?"

  "I said, could you tell me the date?"

  The man frowned. Was he going to be nasty? But all he said was, "Non compr' endo." Padway tried again, speaking very slowly. The man repeated that he did not understand.

  Padway fumbled for his date-book and pencil. He wrote his request on a page of the date-book, and held the thing up.

  The man peered at it, moving his lips. His face cleared. "Oh, you want to know the date?" said he.

  "Sic, the date."

  The man rattled a long sentence at him. It might as well have been in Trabresh. Padway waved his hands despairingly, crying, "Lento!"

  The man backed up and started over. "I said I understood you, and I thought it was October 9th, but I wasn't sure because I couldn't remember whether my mother's wedding anniversary came three days ago or four."

  "What year?"

  "What year?"

  "Sic, what year?"

  "Twelve eighty-eight Anno Urbis Conditae."

  It was Padway's turn to be puzzled. "Please, what is that in the Christian era?"

  "You mean, how many years since the birth of Christ?"

  "Hoc ille—that's right."

  "Well, now—I don't know; five hundred and something. Better ask a priest, stranger."

  "I will," said Padway. "Thank you."

  "It's nothing," said the man, and went about his business. Padway's knees were weak, though the man hadn't bitten him, and had answered his question in a civil enough manner.

  But it sounded as though Padway, who was a peaceable man, had not picked a very peaceable period.

  What was he to do? Well, what would any sensible man do under the circumstances? He'd have to find a place to sleep and a method of making a living. He was a little startled when he realized how quickly he had accepted the Tancredi theory as a working hypothesis.

  He strolled up an alley to be out of sight and began going through his pockets. The roll of Italian bank notes would be about as useful as a broken five-cent mousetrap. No, even less; you might be able to fix a mousetrap. A book of American Express traveler's checks, a Roman street-car transfer, an Illinois driver's license, a leather case full of keys—all ditto. His pen, pencil, and lighter would be useful as long as ink, leads, and lighter fuel held out. His pocket knife and his watch would undoubtedly fetch good prices, but he wanted to hang onto them as long as he could.

  He counted the fistful of small change. There were just twenty coins, beginning with four ten-lire silver cartwheels. They added up to forty-nine lire, eight centesimi, or about five dollars. The silver and bronze should be exchangeable. As for the nickel fifty-centesimo and twenty-centesimo pieces, he'd have to see. He started walking again.

  He stopped before an establishment that advertised itself as that of S. Dentatus, goldsmith and money changer. He took a deep breath and went in.

  S. Dentatus had a face rather like that of a frog. Padway laid out his change and said: "I . . . I should like to change this into local money, please." As usual he had to repeat the sentence to make himself understood.

  S. Dentatus blinked at the coins. He picked them up, one by one, and scratched at them a little with a pointed instrument. "Where do these-you-come from?" he finally croaked.

  "America."

  "Never heard of it."

  "It is a long way off."

  "Hm-m-m. What are these made of? Tin?" The money changer indicated the four nickel coins.

  "Nickel."

  "What's that? Some funny metal they have in your country?"

  "Hoc ille."

  "What's it worth?"

  Padway thought for a second of trying to put a fantastically high value on the coins. While he was working up his courage, S. Dentatus interrupted his thoughts:

  "It doesn't matter, because I wouldn't touch the stuff. There wouldn't be any market for it. But these other pieces—let's see—" He got out a balance and weighed the bronze coins, and then the silver coins. He pushed counters up and down the grooves of a little bronze abacus, and said: "They're worth just under one solidus. Give you a solidus even for them." Padway didn't answer immediately. Eventually he'd have to take what was offered, as he hated the idea of bargaining and didn't know the values of the current money. But to save his face he had to appear to consider the offer carefully.

  A man stepped up to the counter beside him. He was a heavy, ruddy man with a flaring brown mustache and his hair in a long or Ginger Rogers bob. He wore a linen blouse and long leather pants. He grinned at Padway, and reeled off: "Ho, frijond, habais faurthei! Alai skalljans sind waidedjans." Oh, Lord, another language! Padway answered: "I . . . I am sorry, but I do not understand."

  The man's face fell a little; he dropped into Latin: "Sorry, thought you were from the Chersonese, from your clothes. I couldn't stand around and watch a fellow Goth swindled without saying anything, ha, ha!"

  The Goth's loud, explosive laugh made Padway jump a little; he hoped nobody noticed. "I appreciate that. What is this stuff worth?"

  "What has he offered you?" Padway told him. "Well," said the man, "even I can see that you're being hornswoggled. You give him a fair rate, Sextus, or I'll make you eat your own stock. That would be funny, ha, ha!"

  S. Dentatus sighed resignedly. "Oh, very well, a solidus and a half. How am I to live, with you fellows interfering with legitimate business all the time? That would be, at the current rate of exchange, one solidus thirty-one sesterces."

  "What is this about a rate of exchange?" asked Padway.

  The Goth answered: "The gold-silver rate. Gold has been going down the last few months."

  Padway said: "I think I will take it all in silver."

  While Dentatus sourly counted out ninety-three sesterces, the Goth asked: "Where do you come from? Somewhere up in the Hunnish country?"

  "No," said Padway, "a place farther than that, called America. You have never heard of it, have you?"

  "No. Well now, that's interesting. I'm glad I met you, young fellow. It'll give me something to tell the wife about. She thinks I head for the nearest brothel every time I come to town, ha, ha!" He fumbled in his handbag and brought out a large gold ring and an unfaceted gem. "Sextus, this thing came out of its setting again. Fix it up, will you? And no substitutions, mind."

  As they went out the Goth spoke to Padway in a lowered voice. "The real reason I'm glad to come to town is that somebody put a curse on my house."

  "A curse? What kind of a curse?"

  The Goth nodded solemnly. "A shortness-of-breath curse. When I'm home I can't breathe. I go around like this—" He gasped asthmatically. "But as soon as I get away from home I'm all right. And I think I know who did it."

  "Who?"

  "I foreclosed a couple of mortgages last year. I can't prove anything against the former owner's, but—" He winked ponderously at Padway.

  "Tell me," said Padway, "do you keep animals in your house?"

  "Couple of dogs. There's the stock, of course, but we don't let them in the house. Though a shote got in yesterday and ran away with one of my shoes. Had to chase it all over the damned farm. I must have been a sight, ha, ha!
"

  "Well," said Padway, "try keeping the dogs outside all the time and having your place well swept every day. That might stop your-uh-wheezing."

  "Now, that's interesting. You really think it would?"

  "I do not know. Some people get the shortness of breath from dog hairs. Try it for a couple of months and see."

  "I still think it's a curse, young fellow, but I'll try your scheme. I've tried everything from a couple of Greek physicians to one of St. Ignatius' teeth, and none of them works." He hesitated. 'If you don't mind, what were you in your own country?"

  Padway thought quickly, then remembered the few acres he owned in downstate Illinois. "I had a farm," he said.

  "That's fine," roared the Goth, clapping Padway on the back with staggering force. "I'm a friendly soul but I don't want to get mixed up with people too far above or below my own class, ha, ha! My name is Nevitta; Nevitta Gummund's son. If you're passing up the Flaminian Way sometime, drop in. My place is about eight miles north of here."

  "Thanks. My name is Martin Padway. Where would be a good place to rent a room?"

  "That depends. If I didn't want to spend too much money I'd pick a place farther down the river. Plenty of boarding houses over toward the Viminal Hill. Say, I'm in no hurry; I'll help you look." He whistled sharply and called: "Hermann, hiri her!"

  Hermann, who was dressed much like his master, got up off the curb and trotted down the street leading two horses, his leather pants making a distinctive flop-flop as he ran.

  Nevitta set out at brisk walk, Hermann leading the horses behind. Nevitta said: "What did you say your name was?"

  "Martin Padway—Martinus is good enough." (Padway properly pronounced it Marteeno.)

  Padway did not want to impose on Nevitta's good nature, but he wanted the most useful information he could get. He thought a minute, then asked: "Could you give me the names of a few people in Rome, lawyers and physicians and such, to go to when I need them?"

  "Sure. If you want a lawyer specializing in cases involving foreigners, Valerius Mummius is your man. His office is alongside of the AEmliian Basilica. For a physician try my friend Leo Vekkos. He's a good fellow as Greeks go. But personally I think the relic of a good Arian saint like Asterius is as effective as all their herbs and potations."

  "It probably is at that," said Padway. He wrote the names and addresses in his date-book. "How about a banker?"

  "I don't have much truck with them; hate the idea of getting in debt. But if you want the name of one, there's Thomasus the Syrian, near the AEmilian Bridge. Keep your eyes open if you deal with him."

  "Why, isn't he honest?"

  "Thomasus? Sure he's honest. You just have to watch him, that's all. Here, this looks like a place you could stay." Nevitta pounded on the door, which was opened by a frowsy superintendent.

  This man had a room, yes. It was small and ill-lighted. It smelled. But then so did all of Rome. The superintendent wanted seven sesterces a day.

  "Offer him half," said Nevitta to Padway in a stage whisper.

  Padway did. The superintendent acted as bored by the ensuing haggling as Padway was. Padway got the room for five sesterces.

  Nevitta squeezed Padway's hand in his large red paw. "Don't forget, Martmus, come see me some time. I always like to hear a man who speaks Latin with a worse accent than mine, ha, ha!" He and Hermann mounted and trotted off.

  Padway hated to see them go. But Nevitta had his own business to tend to. Padway watched the stocky figure round a corner, then entered the gloomy, creaking boarding house.

  CHAPTER II

  Padway awoke early with a bad taste in his mouth, and a stomach that seemed to have some grasshopper in its ancestry. Perhaps that was the dinner he'd eaten—not bad, but unfamiliar—consisting mainly of stew smothered in leeks.

  The restaurateur must have wondered when Padway made plucking motions at the table top; he was unthinkingly trying to pick up a knife and fork that weren't there.

  One might very well sleep badly the first night on a bed consisting merely of a straw-stuffed mattress. And it had cost him an extra sesterce a day, too. An itch made him pull up his undershirt. Sure enough, a row of red spots on his midriff showed that he had not, after all, slept alone.

  He got up and washed with the soap he had bought the previous evening. He had been pleasantly surprised to find that soap had already been invented. But when he broke a piece off the cake, which resembled a slightly decayed pumpkin pie, he found that the inside was soft and gooey because of incomplete potash-soda metathesis. Moreover, the soap was so alkaline that he thought he might as well have cleaned his hands and face by sandpapering.

  Then he made a determined effort to shave with olive oil and a sixth-century razor. The process was so painful that he wondered if it mightn't be better to let nature take its course.

  He was in a tight fix, he knew. His money would last about a week—with care, perhaps a little longer.

  If a man knew he was going to be whisked back into the past, he would load himself down with all sorts of useful junk in preparation, an encyclopedia, texts on metallurgy, mathematics, and medicine, a slide rule, and so forth. And a gun, with plenty of ammunition.

  But Padway had no gun, no encyclopedia, nothing but what an ordinary twentieth-century man carries in his pockets. Oh, a little more, because he'd been traveling at the time: such useful things as the traveler's checks, a hopelessly anachronistic street map, and his passport.

  And he had his wits. He'd need them.

  The problem was to find a way of using his twentieth-century knowledge that would support him without getting him into trouble. You couldn't, for example, set out to build an automobile. It would take several lifetimes to collect the necessary materials, and several more to learn how to handle them and to worry them into the proper form. Not to mention the question of fuel.

  The air was fairly warm, and he thought of leaving his hat and vest in the room. But the door had the simplest kind of ward lock, with a bronze key big enough to be presented by a mayor to a visiting dignitary. Padway was sure he could pick the lock with a knife blade. So he took all his clothes along.

  He went back to the same restaurant for breakfast. The place had a sign over the counter reading, "religious arguments not allowed." Padway asked the proprietor how to get to the address of Thomasus the Syrian.

  The man said: "You follow along Long Street down to the Arch of Constantine, and then New Street to the Julian Basilica, and then you turn left onto Tuscan Street, and—" and so on, Padway made him repeat it twice. Even so, it took most of the morning to find his objective. His walk took him past the Forum area, full of temples, most of whose columns had been removed for use in the five big and thirty-odd little churches scattered around the city. The temples looked pathetic, like a Park Avenue doorman bereft of his pants.

  At the sight of the Ulpian Library, Padway had to suppress an urge to say to hell with his present errand. He loved burrowing into libraries, and he definitely did not love the idea of bearding a strange banker in a strange land with a strange proposition. In fact, the idea scared him silly, but his was the kind of courage that shows itself best when its owner is about to collapse from blue funk. So he grimly kept on toward the Tiber.

  Thomasus hung out in a shabby two-story building. The Negro at the door—probably a slave—ushered Padway into what he would have called a living room. Presently the banker appeared. Thomasus was a paunchy, bald man with a cataract on his left eye. He gathered his shabby robe about him, sat down, and said: "Well, young man?"

  "I"—Padway swallowed and started again—"I'm interested in a loan."

  "How much?"

  "I don't know yet. I want to start a business, and I'll have to investigate prices and things first."

  "You want to start a new business? In Rome? Hm-m-m," Thomasus rubbed his hands together. "What security can you give?"

  "None at all."

  "What?"

  "I said, none at all. You'd just have to
take a chance on me."

  "But . . . but, my dear sir, don't you know anybody in town?"

  "I know a Gothic farmer named Nevitta Gummund's son. He sent me hither."

  "Oh, yes, Nevitta. I know him slightly. Would he go your note?"

  Padway thought. Nevitta, despite his expansive gestures, had impressed him as being pretty close where money was concerned. "No," he said, "I don't think he would."

  Thomasus rolled his eyes upward. "Do You hear that, God?

  He comes in here, a barbarian who hardly knows Latin, and admits that he has no security and no guarantors, and still he expects me to lend him money! Did You ever hear the like?"

  "I think I can make you change your mind," said Padway.

  Thomasus shook his head and made clucking noises. "You certainly have plenty of self-confidence, young man; I admit as much. What did you say your name was?"

  Padway told him what he had told Nevitta.

  "All right, what's your scheme?"

  "As you correctly inferred," said Padway, hoping he was showing the right mixture of dignity and cordiality, "I'm a foreigner I just arrived from a place called America. That's a long way off, and naturally it has a lot of customs and features different from those of Rome. Now, if you could back me in the manufacture of some of our commodities that are not known here—"

  "Ai!" yelped Thomasus, throwing up his hands. "Did You hear that, God? He doesn't want me to back him in some well-known business. Oh, no. He wants me to start some newfangled line that nobody ever heard of! I couldn't think of such a thing, Martinus. What was it you had in mind?"

  "Well, we have a drink made from wine, called brandy, that ought to go well."

  "No, I couldn't consider it. Though I admit that Rome needs manufacturing establishments badly. When the capital was moved to Ravenna all revenue from Imperial salaries was cut off, which is why the population has shrunk so the last century. The town is badly located, and hasn't any real reason for being any more. But you can't get anybody to do anything about it. King Thiudahad spends his time writing Latin verse. Poetry! But no, young man, I couldn't put money into a wild project for making some weird barbarian drink."