“Let him in, Tarp.” Febus Ravenga emerged from inside the osteria. “I don’t want any disturbance here; the customers are growing anxious. And you, beware. You’ve cheated me once, there won’t be a second time. You’d better have the means to pay this time, Muus.”

“Mr. Muus!” The scribe shoved Tarp aside. “Mr.! Beware how you address me, innkeeper!

“Wine,” he cried, lounging back in a chair. “The dearest you have!”

“Our dearest costs sixty crowns…” the maître d’hôtel stated gravely.

“I can afford it! Give me a whole jug and pronto!”

“Be quiet,” Ravenga admonished him. “Be quiet, Muus.”

“Don’t silence me, mountebank! Trickster! Upstart! Who are you to silence me? A gilded sign, but with muck still on your boots. And shit will always be shit! Take a look here! Ever seen so much gold at one time? Well?”

Nikefor Muus reached into the pouch, pulled out a handful of gold coins and tossed them contemptuously on the table.

The coins landed with a splash, melting into a brown gunk. A ghastly stench of excrement spread around.

The customers of the Natura Rerum osteria leaped to their feet and dashed for the exit, choking and covering their noses with napkins. The maître d’hôtel bent over and retched. There was a scream and a curse. Febus Ravenga didn’t even twitch. He stood like a statue, arms crossed on his chest.

Muus, dumbfounded, shook his head, goggled and rubbed his eyes, staring at the stinking pile of shit on the tablecloth. He finally roused himself and reached into the pouch. And pulled out a handful of soft gunk.

“You’re right, Muus,” said Febus Ravenga in an icy voice. “Shit will always be shit. Into the courtyard with him.”

The court scribe didn’t even put up any resistance as he was hauled away, too bewildered by what had happened. Tarp dragged him to the outhouse. At a sign from Ravenga, two servants removed the wooden cover of the latrine. Muus became animated at the sight and began to yell, struggle and kick. It didn’t help much. Tarp hauled him to the earth closet and threw him down the opening. The young man tumbled into the sloppy excrement. But he didn’t go under. He spread out his arms and legs and held his head up, keeping himself on the surface of the muck with his arms on bunches of straw, rags, sticks and crumpled pages from various learned and pious books.

Febus Ravenga took down from the wall of the granary a wooden pitchfork made from a single forked branch.

“Shit was, is and will remain shit,” he said. “And always ends up where shit is.”

He pressed down on the pitchfork and submerged Muus. Completely. Muus broke the surface, roaring, coughing and spitting. Ravenga let him cough a little and get his breath back and then submerged him again. This time much deeper.