Cicatrix
Part V. Inspiration, Salt, and Luck
That night Cicatrix lays in his bed and all he can think about is Rachel. Every time he closes his eyes he sees red hair and green eyes and his mind becomes tangled in her voice and her smell. And all of those other things.
He sits up. He stirs the fire. He lights a candle. He opens the lid of the wooden chest and lifts out the bronze coffer, putting it behind the bed. He reaches into the chest and takes out a book. He looks at it briefly, then sets it aside. “No,” he says. He takes out another book, looks at it, and sets it aside. “No.” He does this again and again. In frustration, he begins to toss manuscripts haphazardly.
He stops. He takes a deep breath.
He pulls out a loose pile of papers from the chest. “Business transactions,” he says. “I will bore myself to sleep. Somnus and Morpheus, I beg your welcome!”
He looks around the confines of his hut. “This is very bad,” he sighs. “I am talking to myself. Again.”
He reclines and reads:
“Greeting to Gaius Agricola, hail from Claudius, your humble servant, admirer, et cetera.
You have no doubt been pleased to hear of the financial woes of Octavius, self-proclaimed Salt King of Ostia, and your rival for the favors of that beautiful young boy. Now, behold his desperation! After going to great expense to re-open the salt mines in Strassfurt and Salzburg, he has realized that he foolishly over-estimated the market without regard to the African caravans, and has since been going to extravagant lengths to unburden himself of his overstock. My informants tell me that Octavius has directed his agents to promote usages of salt that are truly laughable. Without evidence, they herald it as a cure for countless common maladies such as sore throat! Add salt to your daily bath and it will soothe and relieve the pressures of life in Imperial Rome! When sprinkled between the cracks in tile floors it prevents weeds! And it will free your gardens of those awful slugs! Now, my friend, behold this absurdity —I have it on the best authority that Octavius’s agents are infiltrating the marketplaces in the guise of soothsayers. There they spread the notion that to accidentally spill table salt will bring terrible misfortune. Unless, of course, additional salt is thrown over the shoulder as a sacrifice. Can you imagine?!”
“So Gaius, how are things in the olive grove? Fabian stopped by last week and asked about you....”
Cicatrix snuffs out the candle. He drifts off into sleep sprawled across scattered manuscripts. Under his left arm is Discorides’s De Materia Medica, open to an illustration of the deadly nightshade. At his side is Naturalis Historia, Book XXIV, part of Pliny the Elder’s encyclopedia of beneficial plants. At his feet is Theophrastus’s Historia Plantarum, detailing the preparation of herbal drugs. Perilously close to the fire is a copy of Theriaca, by Nicander of Colophon, a treatise on venomous creatures such as snakes, spiders, and scorpions, as well as antidotes to their poisons.
That night Cicatrix dreams about an exotic island. And a tree with milky breasts.
* * *
The morning sunlight silhouettes the distant peaks. The air is crystal clear. The sky disappears into the distance, forever.
Cicatrix runs his fingers through his scraggly hair and picks the twigs from his beard. He reaches down and grabs a chunk of crusty snow, which he uses to scrub his face.
Far below, he can see a valley deeply nestled between the peaks. At the head of the dale a waterfall gushes with the snowmelt of springtime, tumbling into a stream coursing through a broad meadow, now awakening with wildflowers.
He smiles. “Some days you want to live forever.”
On the way up the trail he plucks a piece of a weed and chews it. “How strange,” he mumbles. “The Empire lies in ruins. Everything is chaos. And people will believe anything.”
* * *
“I will start with the tail of a rabbit,” he says.
“The tale of a rabbit?” snaps Rachel, scowling as she bangs the pots and pans about the tavern’s kitchen. “I am too old for childrens’ stories.”
“No! The tail of a rabbit!” He points to her rump and she slaps his hand.
“The tail,” he repeats. “How many tails does a rabbit have?”
“One, you ninny.”
“Good. How many ears does a rabbit have?”
“Two!”
“Excellent. How many feet does a rabbit have?”
“Four!”
“So what does a rabbit have the most of?”
“Babies!”
“NO!” he says, throwing his hands into the air. “What does a rabbit have the most of?”
She picks up a skillet and backs away.
“Four legs!” he says as he steps toward her.
She clobbers him on the head with the skillet.
* * *
“I tell you, I could not believe it,” says the woodchopper, running his thick hands through his curly hair. He is holding court at a table in the tavern.
“So Rachel told me that One-Eye has concocted a harebrained scheme. So I listen. And I say to myself, I say Alaric, this just might succeed, there being no end to people’s stupidity. So I do like One-Eye proposed. I butcher some rabbits and cut off their little feet. Then I string the feet up into a necklace, and I go to find Lady Newell. I parade about in the presence of her Ladyship, so as she cannot help but ask. And sure as the sun rises, she asks. So I recount One-Eye’s story about how a lost book of the Bible tells of a rabbit that saved the life of Jesus when he was perishing in the desert, and that to wear a rabbit’s foot brings God’s blessings.”
He pauses to let everyone take this in.
“Well?” asks the potter. “What of Lady Newell?”
“Well,” says the woodchopper, “she bought the whole blessed lot of them! Every blessed one!”
“Well,” says the stonecutter flatly, “I for one do not believe it.”
The cobbler chimes in. “One-Eye would not lift a finger for anyone!”
“Would you care to make a wager?” grins the woodchopper. He tosses a plump bag of coins onto the table.
The weaver turns to his wife and hustles her away, whispering, “Tonight we butcher rabbits. Tomorrow I will pack the mule and we will go down the trail to the city.”
* * *
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(Go to Part VI: The Meadow and the Moon)