The Phoenix and the Mirror

by Avram Davidson

  The attackers — dirty fellows in patched jerkins — breathed noisily through open mouths. The stranger moved to Vergil’s side, made a sweeping and violent gesture. In an instant the circle was sucked into one flaming heap, which went roaring down upon the thugs, spreading out, fan-wise, as it did so. They fled, whooping in terror. Now the fire was a great serpent, undulating in pursuit, nipping at the heels of each of them. The shadows danced madly on the grimy bricks of the buildings. The fire moved more slowly, but the fleeing brutes did not slacken, nor look behind. And the fire sank down, drew in upon itself, its heat seeming to leave it, its color changing from yellow-orange-red to the blue-white of phosphorescence. At last there was but a spot, a speck, like the glow of a firefly. Vergil turned to see the Red Man beside him.

  And then even the reflection vanished from Vergil’s eyes.

  “I should like to know how it is done,” Clemens said, speculatively. “The proper control of fire — or, more exactly, of heat — is a perpetual problem in alchemical work. As I am sure that you, Captain An-thon, know. Hmm. Hmm. There is an account of a man named Eliah or Elio or something like that, who lived in Samaria or Philistia, and who could bring fire down from Heaven. It’s said that he finally ascended in fire and was seen no more. . . . Hmm.”

  The Red Man said, “Yes. Right. As to how it is done — everything is a pattern, a configuration, of the atoms, as Lucretius teaches. Some patterns are stable, some static, others are in flux. The figures of fire are always flux. They bend to the wind, they yield to the water. It is a matter of knowing how to begin. Once that is learned . . .” He smiled, but the smile did little to dispel the waiting tautness of his face. The air of watching from within something distant.

  Clemens leaned forward, nodding, his fists buried in his beard, his elbows on the table. He, too, waited. But the Red Man said nothing more. Clemens sighed, sat back. “Someday, perhaps,” he murmured.

  “Someday.” Vergil reclined at comparative ease, his dinner digesting leisurely, his muscles relaxing from the long climb of the afternoon, the dull ache and fear for the moment stilled. “Someday I must learn not to become involved in altercations. Two in one day, well — although neither one turned out badly for me. Perhaps that is because you, sir” — he turned to the Phoenician — “were near at hand on both occasions.”

  Ebbed-Saphir looked up from a model of a new astrolabe (a project of Vergil’s which had been put aside a while back), thrust out his lower lip doubtfully. The two cases were coincidental and dissimilar; he would accept no compliments. One was that of a single man gone mad from brooding on his wrongs. The other was most probably — almost certainly — a put-up job.

  “You still think so? You really do?”

  The Phoenician was not to be swayed. “It was no brawl,” he said. “It was an ambush. The biggest of the lot — and the worst — the one with the slashed chin, is in the pay of Thurnus Rufus.” Clemens snorted. Half Naples, and the worse half, was in the pay of Thurmus Rufus. But the Phoenician continued his argument. Throughout the day, he went on, the rumor had swept through maritime Naples that trade with Cyprus was going to be opened up completely. The copper factors were in dismay — their profitable monopoly would be destroyed; the stocks in their warehouses reduced to a fraction of present value. Who was the chief of the merchants sharing in the monopoly? Thuraus Rufus. False though the rumor undoubtedly was, Thurnus must have believed it. It was not necessary that he be entirely convinced, it would be sufficient if he thought there might be even a grain of truth in it.

  “If you are right,” Clemens said, “there will be more trouble. Our friend Vergil has never learned to leave well enough alone.”

  Their friend Vergil did not seem deeply concerned. He began to talk of his visit to Tartis Castle, and of the Tartismen themselves.

  The Red Man took up the thread. “I visit them whenever I am in a port that has a Tartis ward,” he said. “I’ve carried cargo for them upon occasion, and I’ve always found them honest — though not always easy. Besides, I feel a certain affinity with them. I, too, am of a race of exiles. I have said that I am a Phoenician. This is true. But I am more specifically a Tyrean. You have heard of the Tyrean War?”

  Vergil and Clemens encouraged him to tell them about it. Wine was poured, and some of the fifth essence of wine, distilled by Clemens, added to the goblets. A glow came over Ebbed-Saphir’s wind-red face as he described the grandeur and the glories of seagirt Tyre. Her palaces. Her navies. Her great halls of scented cedarwood. The cloth of that imcomparable purple, the secret of which Tyre first learned, and the trade in which first made her rich.

  “Oh, there was great wisdom among us,” he said, his eyes shining. “Our astromancers studied the skies, learning from the heavenly configurations and profigurations how to sail out of sight of land by night, and what nights were auspicious and what ones were best spent at anchor or ashore. Our philosophers conned the secrets of man and matter and the tri-part psyche, our priests and prophets communed with the Supernal Figures. Wisest of all was Perez, son of P’er-Hiram, King of Tyre. But his wisdom was not without flaw. . . .

  “One day there came to him the Great Elim — Mikha-El, Gavri-El, Raphoy-El and Ori-El.

  “These, Princes of the Four Quarters of Earth and Heaven, asked Perez to decide which among them was the wisest. And, in an ill-starred moment, he agreed to make the choice, and his choice fell upon Ori-El. Then he demanded his reward.

  “He demanded the love of the most beautiful woman in the world — Eleana, the promised-in-marriage of Alexander Magnus, who, wroth at his loss, and with all the tribes of Greece for his allies, crossed into Asia and besieged Tyre for seven years.

  “Every day his men sank huge stones into the water to build a causeway connecting Isle Tyre with the mainland. Every night our swimmers dived down and tied grapnels to them so they could be pulled up. Seven years the Greeks besieged us. Then we were betrayed. Well, Good Fortune upon your venture, Dr. Vergil. If you need a boat — ” He did not finish.

  For a moment the two, not having yet grasped the abrupt termination of the narrative, gaped at him. Nodding curtly, the Red Man wrapped his cloak about him and departed.

  “What do you suppose . . .?” Clemens, on his feet, was amazed. “Emotional reaction at the memory of that old tribal legend?”

  Vergil shook his head. “There’s more to the matter than that. Much more.”

  “But . . .”

  “This has been a tiring day for me. Will you spend the night? . . . No? Then I will excuse myself. There is much to do tomorrow.”

  He had not realized that he was so tired. Almost numbed with fatigue, he climbed into his bed. Before the singing darkness overwhelmed him there came one thought — but it came not clearly. Wishing only to lose himself in the black, soft cloak of slumber, he yet strained for the thought. It came, at last, briefly but vividly. The ring. The Red Man’s ring. . . . The picture faded, was succeeded by a faint, failing wonder as to why it had appeared in his thought at all. He had caught only a glimpse of it . . . could not remember it . . . could not collect it . . . could not Cornelia . . . rings. Who goes? he demanded, voicelessly. The brazen head moved brazen lips.

  But all was silent.

  CHAPTER SIX

  THE PARCHMENT OF the invitation that arrived the next day was large enough to have represented the entire usable hide of a sausage bull, but although it could have contained the whole texts of the Sybil-line Books, the small amount of actual wordage occupied only a few widely separated lines. This was high courtesy indeed; Vergil had not realized he was held by the Dogical court to be worthy of such. Even Clemens, so fresh from the baths that drops of moisture still glistened here and there in the thickets of his curls, was impressed.

  “The fact that they even invite me shows that they must really value you,” he said. “My last and only audience with the Doge probably established a record for brevity.”

  “How so?”

  “Why, he said, ‘Will you
make me gold?’ and I said, ‘No,’ and he said, ‘Go,’ and so I went. . . . It is fortunate that the Fates have made him Doge. He leaves the business of government to his intellectual superiors among his servants, whereas, were he a teamster, he would manage to tie up traffic at least daily, you may be sure. Well. Hmm . . . hmm. A stag hunt. To what elaborate lengths the equestrian classes go in order to draw out the simple business of butchering venison. Ah well, it keeps their bowels open and their attentions occupied, and better King Log than King Stork. Anyway, we ought to have a good breakfast given us. I may even enjoy it.”

  The hunt was being given by His Gracious Highness the Doge of Naples to honor the return of Dowager Queen Cornelia and the visitation of His High Excellency, Andrianus Agrippa, Imperial Viceroy of the South. The Master of the Hunt, come hither expressly for the purpose, was none other than the famed Count Phoebus, son of King Modus, and called the First Captain of the Chase. Obviously, for such a distinguished occasion, no worthy mounts were likely to be found in the livery stable on the Street of the Horse-Jewelers. Vergil’s perplexity on this point had evidently been anticipated, for, within an hour of the arrival of the invitation there was a great stir in the street and the brazen head announced the presence of “the Servants of the Doge.”

  The swart-faced man in the forest-green jupon and tights introduced himself as the Sergeant of the Hunt, and, “This one’s His Highness’s chief groom, who we hope will help high Doctor Vergil and this other high doctor — Duty, mesire” — he doffed his cap to Clemens — “to pick out one of the horses here. But if so be none of ‘em suits, he will be happy to bring along another twelve or twenty, won’t he? Yes. And the compliments of Gracious high Doge. Likewise, also are saddles and other tackle and gear.” He kissed and smacked his lips to a passing wench.

  Thus it was, quite early of a morning, that Vergil and Clemens found themselves at breakfast in a pavilion set up in the Deer Park near Mount Somma, on this side of Vesuvio. Lamps were still lit and charcoal braziers of the type called scalde-rini kept away the chill. Doge Tauro, that huge and hairy man, waved a vast paw at them, but his mouth and bristly black beard advertised not only the menu but his inability to talk. Cornelia smiled a dim, sweet smile, as at one not disliked, but only vaguely remembered, and sipped her hot wine. The gathered nobility and gentry looked at them with mingled respect and curiosity, but did not engage them in conversation. This was left to that suave and slender man, keen of eye and sharp of nose, Viceroy Andrianus, clever and competent link between the indifference of the Emperor and the incapacity of the Doge.

  “Sages, your pleasure?” he inquired, “‘Where there is no bread, there is no philosophy.’ I suggest this delightful hot bread baked with orangewood, for a start. It is better than cake. We have cake, too. A glass of hot wine, Dr. Vergil? Or would you prefer the mulled ale with spices. Here is excellent honey. Try the toasted cheese, Dr. Clemens. It is from the Imperial farms. Let us divide this great grilled sausage between us — veal and suckling pig, what could be more tender. Nor will we ignore this dish of roasted pears with thick cream. As for — dear me” — he broke off into a lower, very slightly lower, tone — “I believe the Bull is about to bellow.”

  The Doge was gesturing at them, his eyes wide with intent, his massy jaws masticating furiously, as he left his place at the table and stamped down to clap Vergil and Clemens upon the shoulders. By this time he had swallowed most of what was in his mouth. “Mustn’t waste time!” he directed, in a low roar. “Important things like hunt, all right. ‘Morrow — back to work. On” — he looked around, bent closer, said in a conspiratorial rumble — “on you know what! Eh? Me cousin’s daughter — the Lady Laura — three months ago — left Carsus — no sign of her. Mrrr . . . look!” He rummaged in the hairy thicket of his bosom, pulled out a thick gold chain, opened the locket to display an ivory miniature. “See what I mean? Haaa . . .”

  Proudly he showed the face of a young girl of the age of entering womanhood, his manner almost proprietorial as he said, “Her grandfather was Doge, too.” When the miniature had been much admired, he snapped it shut and bellowed, “So see you make it — you know what — eh? — quick! Find out where she is! Go there meself! And as for them that I find there . . .” He made vast gestures of tearing apart, swaggered back to his seat to repeat the movements immediately over a plate of roasted pullets. And a curious, calm look passed between Cornelia and sly Agrippa.

  Snatches of conversation reached Vergil’s ears as he sipped the hot, honeyed wine.

  “Gire falcons and a falcon gentle . . . plump goats and sometimes good hens . . . best thing . . .”

  “No hare?”

  “Well . . . perhaps once a week, a hare.”

  “Doge keeps good game. Mamma mine, if I’ve ever seen less than two inches of fat on the flanks of the poorest buck pulled down here.”

  “Our Lady Venus, well, when Doge isn’t feeding or futtering, depend on it, he’s hunting.”

  He caught the Viceroy’s eye. The official said, “If one could only get them to show as much interest in sound fiscal policies or adequate water supply. . . . There is another pavilion set up, Dr. Vergil, part way along the course, and unless your passion for the hunt is much greater than mine, you may wish to pause there. If so, then, with your permission, I should like to elaborate on the matter the Doge mentioned. But not till then. Meanwhile, sir, before the servants reach us with water, geminors, and napkins, to what may I help you for a savory? The larks seem good, and so do the smelts. Allow me, sage. Allow me.”

  Cornelia looked at them and sipped again at her wine. This time she did not smile. Grave, serene, baffling, beautiful, she seemed now not to see him at all.

  • • •

  There was still dew sparkling on the grass as they came out into the freshness of the morning, but if the birds were sounding their love songs it was impossible to say. Huntsmen and horses and grooms moved about, none silently, and there were the greyhounds and the hounds de mota — running dogs and lyme-hounds — voicing, it seemed, their determination to earn the obol a day allowed for each one’s keep to the berners and fewterers. The Sergeant of the Hunt was there, the yeomen of horse and the yeomen of bow, the foresters and parkers, the chacechiens. The lyme-hounds strained their sleek black necks against the lymes or straps of horsehide, a fathom and a half long, but the white and brown brachets rested more patiently, confined by the berners in the couplets made of mare’s tails, three couples per relay.

  These hunted by scent and hunted in voice, melodious and deep. Not so the great gray and gray-white alaunts, ferocious beasts used in war as well as hunting: they quested by sight alone, and they ran mute.

  The merry confusion and tumult died away as the noted Captain of the Chase, Count Phoebus, stroked his thin mustache, came forward and began to examine the dogs one by one, bending his comely head of golden hair as he picked up each foot. “There may be someone here who knows less about all this than I do,” Clemens said, “but I can’t imagine who.”

  This seemed to touch the Sergeant’s sympathy. “Now, perceive, mesires,” he said, “the beasts of venery, or beasts of the forests, if you prefer, they be five — are called silvestres tantum — the hart, the hind, the hare, the boar, the wolf. But not the buck, no, mesires. Because why? Because he’s entitled a beast of the field, is why. Now, the beasts of the forests, making their abode all the daytime in these great coverts, and have their secret places in the woods . . . yes. And in the nighttime coming out into the meadows and pastures and all the pleasant feeding places . . . a-hah. Mamma mine! And that’s why we says about a park, ‘What’s a park? Vert, venison, enclosure — that’s a park.’ Forest, now, or chase, perhaps having venison and it perhaps has vert, or peradventure the two both, but enclosure, no, Lord, indeed. Only your park has all three.”

  And now Count Phoebus had concluded his inspection of the dogs, and summoned the lymerers to him, one standing a bit forth of the others to answer for all the traditional ques
tions.

  “Lymerer, did you yestere’en make your ringwalks?”

  “Yes, mesire.”

  “Did you find slot, trace, voyes, pies, or foil?”

  “Found slot and trace, mesire.”

  “Fresh slot, good track, heels and cleeves and toes, clear of mark?”

  “Yes, mesire.”

  “You made scan-talon and you hold him to be warrantable? — a hart of right age, and no hind, buck, or brocket?”

  “Yes, mesire . . .”

  Next the Count called the chief parker, and questioned him if he had checked and observed abatures where the stag had lain and pressed down the herbage, thus showing where it harbored and what size it was. The parker, answering in the casual and confident manner of an experienced and trusted servant, declared that he had. He had made blemishes to mark the spot, and blazoned the trees where the beast had frayed its horns. He had put the nets and blinks all in place to keep the stag from scaping the course when in full flight, and had seen to it, too, that sewels and sewings and other scarecerfs were hanged up to keep the stag from running down the hidey-lanes. And all the trystes and stablestands had been set up and yeomen of office stationed in them to blench the game if it turned.

  Count Phoebus turned and addressed the lymers once more. “Have you found fewmets?” The stag’s clean stools were presented on leaves before him and he examined them, his face relaxing into a smile. “It promises a large and healthy stag, wouldn’t you say, lymerer?” (“I would, I would, mesire.”) “Then sound the stroke and divide the relays.”

  The treble notes of the stroke sounded and quavered, the company began to mount, and the hounds were divided into the three relays — vauntchaseurs, middlers, and perfecters. And, to the sound of the horns, the company began to move unto the hunt.