“Ah, Wizard mine, and dear. Oh, Master Stones. ‘Sorry for him, am I not?’ But, oh. And ah. But yes. At least, you see” — the man moved a somewhat, the mule began to walk — ”as much sorry as was he for me.”
Vergil watched him again give his respectful salute, watched him ride off at a walk. There lay before him on the saddle a package, that is, some items confined in a net-bag. Their nature was no mystery. There were rolls of new papyrus. There were two, at least two, codex-books, bound in new bindings, red and black. There was, neatly folded, a checkered cloth. And there was also, the last to be identified as the strange gaunt man rode past all peering, what could be no other things than cases of pens. And bottles of ink. And flat sticks for ruling lines. Archimedes had had his circles, Euclid his triangles, Apollonius his cones. This one would have his arithmetics. His.
And Vergil? And the other men and the women in the teeming street? The eunuch had summed it up. Vergil had his stones.