The Street of the Horse-Jewelers was a contrast between plan and panic. Some there were whose houses lay at the extremities, safe of fire for hours, probably — who had procured carts and wagons and were carrying their movable property to places of safety. There were others, such as Appolonio the lorimer, and the tavernkeeper of the Sun and Wagon, a notorious old rogue named Prosenna — whose places lay adjacent to Vergil’s house, and these had formed a bucket brigade from the Fountain of Cleo. The leathern vessels, brimming, splashing, passed rapidly along the line of men, which vanished from sight through the open door of the House of the Brazen Head.
Shouts and cries, not all of alarm and fear, filled the smoky air.
From her roof, old Dame Allegra caught sight of Vergil, coming up from below as fast as the Nubians could part the crowd (“Abrech!” the fore footmen shouted, a cry as ancient as the Crown of Egypt; “Abrech! Abrech!”).
“My lord!” she screamed. “My lord! Greek fire! A charm! A spell! A tetragrammaton! Greek fire! My lord! Greek fire!”
The bearers forged steadily through the swarm till they reached the foot of the steps. A word — they brought down the poles from shoulder-height to the length of their lowered arms; before he could get out, at another word, they knelt. Vergil raced up the steps. They placed the litter down against the wall, stood in front of it with folded arms. Their dedication was perfect, but it did not include fighting fires.
The men at the door of the balcony of the great hall, from which smoke came billowing, saw Vergil appear in the midst. Before they could say a word to him or to each other, he had vanished into the obscurity where blackness was from time to time shot through with a red and orange tongue of flame. Sweaty, sooty, coughing, they continued to receive the leather buckets of water, to dash them forward over the balcony, to return them down the line.
At length he reappeared. “Enough,” he said. “Stop!” They had fallen into a rhythm from which his words could not remove them. He seized the wrists of the man in front. “The fire is out!” he cried. “It’s out!”
They gaped at him. Then the man whose wrists he held said, “Sir . . . the smoke . . .”
“The smoke will be a long time in going away. But the fire is out.” He raised his voice. “The fire is out! Men — friends, neighbors, strangers — I thank you for your work of saving my house. Let Prosenna bring out his best wine and I will pay for it, and for an ox — ”
“There are embers enough to roast him, for sure,” someone said. A burst of laughter followed; died away, uncertainly, as they gazed at the buckets in their hands, suddenly become an encumbrance. After a moment the brigade took up its work again, now returning them as full as they got them.
From out in the haze, in rustic accents, perhaps those of a wagoner, a comment — “You may thank us, sir, it be your courtesy to do so . . . but we all knows it weren’t our work as put the fire out. You’d only to return and douse it with a spell. All’s we did was keep it in check till then.” A murmur of agreement followed. A familiar figure approached through the murk — Iohan.
“Master, it was Greek fire,” he said. “A projectile — ”
“Ah,” the countryman agreed. “A sallymandros, it were. Bain’t that a Greek word? I see un and I heard un, a-flyin’ and a-flamin’ through the air. I tell ‘ee — ”
“I haven’t time, I must get back at once — the Admiral — ” Even as he spoke, Vergil was moving. He glanced at an horlogue. It showed close to noon. He broke into a run. The floor was slippery with water, but he held his footing until he reached the stairs. And there he lost it . . .
• • •
Sergius Amadeus, Lord-of-the-Sea, commanding the Fleet of the South, stood on the quarter-deck of his flagship and squinted shoreward suspiciously. Everything he wore was white and freshly starched. At length he pointed a hairy, freckled hand.
“What’s that cockleshell craft approaching us so fast from astern?” he demanded.
Bonifavio, the ship’s navigator, followed the gesture. “An it please Your Lordship, looks to me like a Punic ship’s boat,” he said.
The Admiral continued to look suspicious. He never fully trusted anything on shore, near shore, or coming from shore. “She wouldn’t be overhauling us if this damned wind hadn’t dropped so damned low,” he said. “Who’s that aboard of her, clutching that gear in his hand and dressed in all that flummery?”
“An it please Your Lordship,” Bonifavio said, “I do b’lieve it’s that famous mage, as they call him. Vergil, he is by name. Them would be his doctor’s uniform, what he’s got on, me lord.”
“Damned chap broke an appointment with me this morning,” growled the Admiral. “Don’t like that. Shan’t let him aboard. A woman, a white horse, and a witch doctor — bad luck, all three, on shipboard. . . . Damn that wind! Where’s it gone to?”
Bonifavio looked up at the drooping sails, looked aft to where the craft steadily gained on them, its four oars flashing in the sun. “And it please your Lordship,” he said, “the thought what’s occuring to me is, maybe the mage has taken the winds outen our sails so’s he could ketch up to us, in a manner of speaking, me lord.”
Sergius Amadeus swore, stamped his foot, but made no objection to a line being thrown to the swift, slender little shell when she overhauled his flagship. Then, suddenly deciding to make the most of a bad matter, he invoked protocol. Two trumpeters wound their horns and a company of spearmen presented arms as Vergil, not indicating by anything in his manner that his doctoral robes were filthy with soot and water or that the blood on his bruised forehead was scarcely dry, came aboard.
Vergil saluted the quarter-deck with his wand, extended the pouch of purple silk to the Admiral, who touched it, did not take it. “Neptune’s navel!” he exclaimed, throwing protocol to the winds. “What in Hades has happened to Your Sapience? Flood, fire, and civil commotion, it looks like. . . . I trust the Emperor’s enemies were not involved?” he added, suddenly grim, seemingly prepared to put his ship about to grapple and board anything reachable on a heavy dew.
“You’d better come below, sir,” he said, pretending not to notice that Bonifavio had surreptitiously spat three times to ward off the malign influences, then dipped his right great toe in the water still dripping from Vergil’s robes to attract the benign ones.
Briefly, in the Admiral’s cabin, the Magus explained his errand.
The Lord-of-the-Sea was interested. “Speculum majorum, heard something about ‘em here and there,” he said. “Be useful to have one on board to see where enemy forces are located. Sea-Huns, filthy swine. They stay out of my sea, I can tell you, else I’d hang ‘em up on high, directly I catch them — only, of course, sometimes one can’t catch them, skittering away like water bugs. Cyprus . . . Paphos port . . . Temple of Aphrodite . . . ah-ah, Doctor!” — here he dug Vergil in the ribs, guffawed — ”there’s the kernel in the nut, eh? No? Hmm, well, I’m sure Your Sapience won’t take an old sea dog’s little joke amiss. Surely you’ll at least see the Temple? Respect all religions, is my motto, believe in none. Sensible principle. Still, you know, must say, after all, two thousand beautiful priestesses! All ready, willing, able — and I must say — dextrous! — to do their best to inspire male worshipers with love for their goddess, hah-hah!”
The Admiral’s wind-burned face took on an added glow of recollection, which was, despite his disclaimer, almost pious. Then he sighed. “Use of Imperial ships to get to Cyprus, quite impossible, sir, sorry, like to be of assistance. Impossible.”
“Why so, Lord-of-the-Sea?” asked Vergil.
Use of an Imperial ship, the Admiral explained to him (looking up at the drooping sails with dismay, regret, and semiconcealed impatience), was impossible without Imperial consent. The Viceroy could no more give such consent than he could coin money or issue patents of nobility. Letters of state were one thing — pieces of parchment with pretty words on them. But to risk one of the Emperor’s ships? Only the Emperor could permit it.
Ver
gil beat one fist into the other palm. “So we must send to Rome,” he said, vexed. “A delay of — ”
Sergius Amadeus interrupted him. “Sorry, sir, Rome’s no good. Wasting your time, Rome. No official business been done for weeks by the August House, and everyone knows why . . . don’t you? No? Surprised at Your Sapience. Well, sir, the Crown and Staff — that is to say, the Emperor — has a new girl, the Empress is wild, so himself has gone to Avignon with his doxy. He likes ‘em young, always has, no secret. And herself is not only long in the tooth, but bad-tempered about it. That’s a fault I could never abide in women, so why should the Emperor? Of course, this is just a bit of fun and games, this latest girl, it won’t last — but the scuttlebutt has it that the Imperial marriage won’t, either, don’t you see. . . .”
Muttering polite phrases, Vergil rose to leave. The Admiral accompanied him topside. Again, the trumpets sounded, the spearmen presented arms, and Vergil prepared to descend into the boat.
“You understand, then,” the Admiral said, “that withholding the ship is not of my doing. Rules, you know. Regulations.”
“Yes, yes. Certainly. Thank you for — ”
The face of the Lord-of-the-Sea grew redder than usual. “Then perhaps you’ll be good enough,” he said, in a low bellow, “to give my wind back! I’ve got to make my inspection tour of the damned fleet, and — ”
The wind flapped into the sails with loud cracks. The flagship gave a lurch. Vergil almost tumbled into the boat. Sergius Amadeus shouted his thanks. “‘Ware the Huns!” his voice came over the widening gap. “No quarter! And don’t pass up the Temple! Two thousand . . .” His voice vanished into the wind, but his gestures were unmistakable.
• • •
The Bay of Naples was, for once, its famous blue. Rocked, but not violently, by the wind and water, Vergil pondered. The subject of his thoughts were the words of old, mad Allegra, which he had almost forgotten. “It’s the Empire that’s wanted.” By Cornelia? It had made no sense at the time. How could the widow of an obscure frontier king, daughter of a provincial doge, aspire to the Empire?
But if Admiral Amadeus should be right, if his scuttlebutt was correct, if the Imperial Consortium was going to break up by reason of the Empress’s inability to accept the Emperor’s infidelity, then — then, perhaps more than just a gleam of light could be shed on the cat woman’s quasi-oracular pronouncement. If there was a chance for a new consort to the August House, then there was indeed a chance at the Empire. The current consort had no interest in politics, had never used her influence for any more than the award of minor posts to members of her not very influential family. Nothing interested her greatly, except the Emperor — and she could not bring herself to recognize that he was not, could not, be separated from his appetites. An aging, angry woman . . . and a barren one!
Surely, though, it was absurd to expect that Cornelia had any hopes of wearing the crown matrimonial herself? She must be older than the one who wore it now. Though was not barren . . .
Of course. Of Course! Of course! Vergil saw again the curious, calm look that had passed between Cornelia and the Viceroy Agrippa at the stag hunt, when Doge Tauro — displaying Laura’s miniature and so loudly boasting — had hinted, broadly, that he and Cornelia’s daughter would wed. What could be more natural than that the daughter of a doge of Naples should desire to see her own daughter its dogessa? Why, that she should desire to see that daughter Empress; that was what.
The reigning sovereign never desired more than an excuse to slough off cares of state. How natural, how inevitable, that he should — via a new, young, and beautiful wife — let those cares slip into the hands of . . . say, the Viceroy Agrippa. He would not object to becoming the husband of the ambitious dowager, the step-father-in-law of the Emperor. Oh yes, it began to make sense; more and more sense . . . if an Imperial marriage were intended for the Princess Laura, then a great deal more was involved in finding her than maternal concern (which appeared nonetheless genuine) and keeping open the Great High Road . . . .
There was a polite cough. He looked up, blinked, suddenly conscious of his sodden, filthy robes; of the fact that he was tossing on the Bay of Naples, a quarter of a league (or almost) off shore.
“Pardon me, Captain An-Thon,” he said. “I’m obliged to you for your efforts. In fact, if I hadn’t been lucky enough to find you and your ship’s boat by the Water Stairs — ”
“Yes. Right.” The Red Man continued to call the strokes, beating with his bolt of wood upon the gunwale, and, although absently, as deftly as any water bailiff. The oarsmen bent to their tasks, the cedar-skin skimmed swiftly over the sea. Vergil returned to his own thoughts, did not emerge from them until they were almost in port. Grain freighters in from Sicily and not yet unladen wallowed heavily in the clotted waters of the harbor, and then the oars flashed and the boat glided beneath a figurehead carved in the shape of a grotesque and heavily stylized bird.
“What ship is this? Why are we here?”
But An-Thon Saphir was already balanced on one foot in a line, grasped Vergil’s wrist, did not so much help as haul him aboard. “Mine,” he said. “Why not?”
Vergil suddenly had neither mind nor stomach for displaying his present sorry condition again to the whole of Naples. Clean clothes and a chance to wash off blood and grime were certainly available on board the Red Man’s ship.
The Red Man led his guest to a cabin carved in cedarwood that came from scented Lebanon, and did the valet’s part while Vergil stripped off his clammy garments and bathed in water containing nard and calamus. Offered his pick of the captain’s closet, he chose a suit in the local and current mode — fawn-colored shirt and tights, and a black doublet with silver laces.
This done, “I smell fire,” said the host, leading him to a place on deck where the sail had been rigged as an awning, for shade. They took seats on the cushions spread out upon a red rug, and the Phoenician poured wine and held out a platter of olives, raisins, and small dried cakes.
“I do not doubt it.”
“Each fire has its own odor . . . and this one stinks of Byzantium. Have you been there, by some mage-like art? Or has Byzant fire been brought to you? A gift, I should say, which you did not request, and which brings to my mind what one of the priests of Tyre, Léo-Cohan by name, said during that fatal siege: ‘Beware the Greeks when they come bearing gifts.’”
Vergil, nose dipped into wine goblet, reflected that mad old Dame Allegra had shrieked of Greek fire, and he told the Red Man so. The latter listened to his account of the conflagration at the House of the Brazen Head, then said, “Well, certainly, it’s possible that it was a salamanderos. But it’s not likely. It takes seven years to hatch one, and, besides, who in Neapolis had the craft to carry out such a project? You and Dr. Clemens. It wasn’t either one who did this day’s work.
“No — I think your man Iohan was correct. It must have been done with a projectile — a bolt of iron, likely, wrought to carry tow steeped in the Grecian fire. As to who is so skilled in artillery that his catapult could find your house at first attempt, I cannot say. An appeal or at least an inquiry to the Doge’s Master at Arms might produce results. In the meanwhile you appealed to Admiral Amadeus. Do you care to say with what results?”
The bosun of the ship alongside, a black man, came to the cancel and, leaning upon his massive arms, exchanged greetings in the Punic dialect with Ebbed-Saphir; and stayed there, at rest, regarding them with untroubled eyes.
“He said I would have to appeal to Caesar, but that Caesar was disporting himself in Southern Gaul, beyond the vexatious reach of appeals.”
“Where will you get your ship, then, for Cyprus? Do you know of any private shipmaster who might agree to such a perilous voyage?”
Vergil shook his head, looked at the Red Man.
Who said, “I understand your mind. And I am agreeable. It would be a straight commercial transaction — one thousand ducats for the charter, and the customary demurrage fees if we rema
in in Cyprus longer than a fortnight. The risk is great, and I can’t chance — without protecting myself — missing my customary cargoes by reason of a late return. What do you say?”
In reply, Virgil gave him his hand. The man took it, then said, hesitating a moment, “There is a condition. I can’t afford trouble with the copper cartel. My connection has to remain a secret one. We’ll have to rendezvous off Messina, and off Messina is where I’ll have to leave you upon our return . . . if we return.”
The Phoenician’s ship seemed a good one. It would not be easy to get another. Vessels piled constantly between Naples and Messina, and it was worth the inconvenience. He asked one or two more questions; then gave his hand once more. “Remember,” said the Red Man. “No one must know. No one.”
“No one need know. And no one shall.”
The black boson of the Sicilian freighter rowed him ashore. He spoke a word or two of Latin, not more; and, though declining with a grin Vergil’s offer of money, accepted with an even wider grin a jack of wine when put before him.
• • •
The Street of the Horse-Jewelers had not quite returned to normal when Vergil got back. Though the ox was reduced to bones being cracked for marrow, the wine still flowed. Allegra’s cats lay about her feet, too stuffed to move. She waved him a greeting, so busily finishing a spit of tripes that she couldn’t talk. Flagons were lifted toward him as he passed, and winey voices pledged his health and commended his generosity. One or two offered to put out as many fires as he cared to name, at the same reward.
He felt a tug at the hem of his doublet, and, looking down, saw one of the swarming children who had gathered around the ox roast like flies. Doubtless they, too, had been given their share; if not, they would have stolen it. The state of this one’s face — grease over the original grime — indicated that he had no complaints in this wise.
“Child, have you eaten enough beef?”
A vigorous nod. “Enough for this whole year, lord.”
Acting on what he thought was a reminder that hunger, unlike ox roasts, was a frequent visitor, Vergil put his hand to his purse. The gesture made him think that he had made it more than once before that day. Boncar, the black bosun . . . who else and where else?
The Phoenix and the Mirror Page 9