But even as he used, pacing the tessellated pavement of the Golden House with growing impatience, growing — once again — the familiar ache and pain of loss within him, the Red Man appeared on the scene. He was quiet now, subdued, rather different from the tense figure he had been before.
“Ready to leave?” was all he asked. “Right.”
The rich, drowsy city was apparently prepared to see them depart as placidly as it had seen them enter. But, just as there had been a disturbance of one sort only at their arrival, just so there was destined to be a disturbance at their leaving; and of a similar sort. Out from a narrow lane in the poorest part of the lower town poured a group of the Soldiery, pressing around on all sides and pushing on a smaller group of captives, who, far from seeming cast down at their situation, were braving the blows and curses of their captors by singing a hymn.
Yom shel chamath, yom hazeh
Hoshanna, Oseh felleh —
And there in the midst of them Vergil recognized Angustus the Ephesian. At his sharp cry the Soldiery halted, scowling at first, then merely sullen. The hymn broke off.
“Sage, I will speak immediately to the High King and have you and your conventicle released. Meanwhile, have no fear,” said Vergil.
But the old man, his eyes wide and his lips moving in protest even before Vergil had finished, broke immediately into a spate of earnest disagreement, the burden of which was, “I forbid you!”
“I am not to be forbidden, sage, and I — ”
“I! I! Accursed payan, is it not always I with you? You think to gratify your greed for power by interfering with the work of that dragon serpent which is called Harlot, Beast, and Babylon — but we will not have it! We will not be released, cheated of our promised reward in the arena. As much as we are for the lions, the lions are for us. I adjure you, in the name of Daniel Christ, not to interfere!”
Vergil took out his book of wax tablets, quickly and firmly incised a message with his stylus, handed it to the captain of the Soldiery. “Take this to the King,” he ordered.
The old man broke into a cry of dismay. “Do not do so, do not do so! Is this the reward for the good usage I have shown you? I desire this death, and no other. I have desired nothing else since that day when, seized by the spirit as I neared Allepo, I — ”
“Sage,” said Vergil, a trifle coolly, “it seems to me that in your own speech as well, there is overmuch of I. Farewell, then, and if one is not mistaken, you will contrive one way or another, sooner or later, to engross the cruelty you both condemn and court — if not on this occasion, then on another.”
• • •
The voyage back was neither marred nor marked by any untoward incidents. The winds were fair, the weather well. The only thing of especial note was the growing uneasiness of Bayla. Evidently the thought of his brothers’ displeasure was now coming home to roost, ousting even the complacent satisfaction with which he looked back on his exceedingly vigorous pilgrimage in Paphos among the priestesses of Venus. And when the home island came into view, like a cloud at sunrise pink upon the horizon, he began to utter soft and plaintive little moans which grew increasingly anguished. At the approach of the first Hunnish ship, he made as if to bolt for the cabin, then bravely drew himself up and stood in full view at the bow.
There he was seen by the ship’s occupants, and a great shout went up. “Bayla!” the Sea-Huns cried. “Bayla King! Bayla King!” No trace of either wrath or ridicule was in their voices. He stood in surprise, and, as the men on the ship were seen to bow down and to strike their heads repeatedly and resoundingly upon the dirty deck, his mouth sank open and his round red tongue popped out and licked his dry lips in bewilderment.
“What do you make of this, Captain An-Thon?” Vergil asked.
“I don’t know. I don’t know. I’ve never seen them behave this way except for Osmet and Ottil.”
“Osmet and Ottil . . .” The stumpy little king muttered his brothers’ names, muttered something else, shifted uneasily from foot to foot. Signals flew between Hun ship and Hun shore, a triumphal dance of welcome broke out on the deck of the former, and now it seemed as though every vessel of the corsair fleet was making for the incoming ship which bore Bayla. Who cast questioning glances all around, continued his continuous questioning mutter, and seemed much relieved when Vergil and the Red Man took stands beside him.
Great was the multitude awaiting them onshore, where a platform of sorts had been hastily improvised. Some of those thereon were immediately recognized by mage and master as Bayla’s chamberlains: one-eyed Baron Murdas, one-armed Baron Bruda, limping Baron Gabron. Plucking up courage from their presence, Bayla pointed to two other figures, a huge and hairy, rather ape-like person — “Ottil, Ottil King” — and the thin one next to him, gaps between his long and yellow teeth, his bald head rising almost to a point — “Osmet brother, Osmet King.” Bayla’s finger moved, rested in the direction of an old and somewhat mangy, somewhat bearish man . . . and there the finger remained, while Bayla’s mouth again fell open with utter shock. The one he pointed to observed the gesture and gave voice to an absolute howl, began to move his legs up and down in a shambling and curiously familiar way.
Bayla found his tongue. “Tildas!” he cried. “Tildas Shaman!”
The black boatswain tossed a line, Osmet ran to catch it, the oars backed water, the ship slowed, floated, Ottil hastened to tie it to the canting old pillar which served as mooring.
They walked ashore.
Suddenly, it seemed, no one was willing to meet them, everyone avoided their eyes. Then stepped forward the squat figure of the Fox Sept-Mother, the sometime quasi-morganatic-concubine of Bayla and ex-officio Hereditary Court Singer. She gave three claps to her timbrel, all fell silent, she began to sing. Bayla at first regarded her much ascantly, as if comparing her to the priestesses of Aphrodite, but then the burden of her song — evidently composed for the occasion — began to come through to him. Vergil, afterward, was inclined to give the little, squinting, red-eyed King considerable credit that in this infinitely important moment he bothered to try to translate for his hosts something of what it was all about.
Tildas Shaman, wise man of the Hunfolk of the Atrian Sea, had “donned the bearskin” at the funeral feast of Old King, father of Ottil, Osmet, and Bayla. The purpose of his doing so was to obtain the final message from the Old King’s ghost, and any message going from the ghosts of the puissant Sept-Mothers. But Tildas had not “taken off the bearskin,” Tildas had remained a bear, Tildas had conveyed no messages, as a result of which the kingship had become a triumvirate — a triumvirate, however, in name only, with Osmet and Ottil sharing the power and Bayla receiving only titular honors. Honors which did not prevent his being despised, mocked, abused. So it had gone, this much they already knew.
But while they were off to Cyprus, something had happened. The Fox-Mother was awakened one morning by the slave whose daily chore it was to bring food and drink to the long-chained Tildas-bear, and, following the frightened servitor, found chained to the pillar no bear at all, but the bewildered and angry figure of Tildas-man himself. Why the metamorphosis had been so long delayed, neither he nor anyone else knew . . . or cared. It had occurred; that was sufficient. And the message so long delayed was more than sufficient.
Videlicet, that it was and had been all along the pleasure of the defunct Old King and the ghosts of the puissant Sept-Mothers that Bayla alone be King, and that Osmet and Ottil serve him in all things.
The shrilling of the song and the banging of the timbrel came to an abrupt end. The silence was shattered by a great cry of “Bayla! Bayla! Bayla King!” And Bayla drew in his breath and drew himself up and looked at his usurpatous brothers and they cringed, they groveled before him.
“It would seem,” said the Red Man thoughtfully, as Bayla proceeded to give them each a hasty, hearty kick and a sidelong look and snarl, which promised more close attention at a later date, “it would seem, Ser Vergil, that you now have a powerful
friend at court indeed.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
BUT THERE WERE no great tidings awaiting them as they made their last landfall, although from the once again increasing tenseness of the Red Man, who might have thought he expected such. No visible disappointment showed in his ruddy face, however, and Vergil — after reflecting briefly that, did he but know the Phoenician’s worry . . . did the latter but know his . . . it might well be that neither of them would exchange — saw only the well-remembered beauty of the Bay, Vesuvio’s white plume and Capri’s purple rock, ancient and teeming Neapolis climbing her steepy hills above the harbors thick with shipping. In order that they should not be seen together on ship in Naples, they set a course for Pompeii, where Vergil was to go ashore.
A breeze touched their faces. “And I smell the rotting garbage and the man-stale in the streets,” he said.
“This, too, is life,” said Vergil, after a slight pause.
The reaction astonished him. An-Thon Ebbed-Saphir’s face twisted and suddenly he seemed a thousand years old. “Oh, Melcarth!” he groaned. “Oh, Tyrian Hercules! Life! Life!” He gazed inland, mouth open on silent pain, as if seeking an answer. But none came; nothing and no one came — save only the harbor master’s clerk, seeking the manifest of the vessel, a possible bribe, and a probable free meal and at least a glass of wine.
“What is this?” the clerk exclaimed, surprised. “You left in ballast and you return in ballast? No cargo? No cargo? What kind of business — ”
Vergil flicked the corner of his cape, showing briefly the purple silk pouch with the monogram. “Imperial business . . .”
“Pardon, pardon, pardon . . .” The man’s voice died away as he stepped back, raising his hands and his eyes. But he was a true son of the city, and genuine reproach was in his voice as he said, “You might at least have brought a few women . . .”
All that Captain Ebbed-Saphir said as he and Vergil parted, was “We shall see each other again.”
And, “We must see each other again,” with a slight emphasis on the second word, Vergil answered; adding only that payment was ready at any time in the House of the Brazen Head. The curt, bother-me-not nod he received put him in mind at once of the Phoenician captain’s comments, when they were becalmed, of time and the payment therefore not being always tellable in money.
When he was in his own familiar street again, at his own house, “Watcher, what news?” he asked the guardian Head.
Whose eyes and mouth opened, moved, focused, spoke, saying, “Master, news from Tartis.”
This was confirmed soon enough by Clemens himself. The alchemist was seated in his favored corner of Vergil’s favored room, his leg crossed at an angle which put his left foot almost under his right ear, and he hummed and tutted to himself contentedly as he read from a small book. Looking up brightly at his friend’s entrance, he sang out, “What say you, Vergil, shall we attempt to employ ash of basilisk in this process? Ah . . . before you answer and before I forget . . . it’s come. What was sent to Tinland for. Now . . . ash of basilisk . . .”
But Vergil was not yet ready to discuss ash of basilisk. He sank into his chair with ineffable relief. “The bird of gold, the messenger bird, it’s returned?” Clemens slowly revolved his massy, maned head. A touch of cold was felt on Vergil’s heart. Had he now, having after all obtained the copper by going himself to Cyprus, to attempt himself the more than fabulous journey to Tinland? “But you said — ”
“I said not ‘What was sent to Tinland,’ but, ‘What was sent to Tinland for.’ That is, the tin itself. No, sadly, that curious and so useful creature never returned, and only one of the guardian falcon-eaglets . . . sadly battered, sadly torn, but bearing a purse of ore. The Tartisman called the Master of the Air was sadly bitter, I’m afraid. Now, concerning ash of basilisk . . .”
Concerning this substance, the great authority Roger of Tayfield felt it necessary carefully to distinguish between cockatrices and basilisks. The former hatch from the tiny eggs laid by old cocks on rare occasions, and are merely venomous, their ashes being antidotes to poison: but being thus dangerous — that if no poison were actually present to be counteracted, the patient might die instead from the poison of the cockatrice ash. Basilisks, however, were hatched from the eggs of certain hens, which, not withstanding they be so old that the cocks no longer tread them, in their unnatural lust seek out and gender with toads. That these unions are approved by the King of Hell — says Roger — is shown by the chicks having a tiny crest in the shape of a crown, whence their name from Basil, king. However, as the gaze of the living creatures causes almost instant calcification or petrification, it is customary to put them into opaque containers just before they hatch . . . else it is necessary to approach them from behind, walking backward . . . looking into a mirror . . . If these basilisks are burned to ashes they are of great effect in the making of gold and in other great work among metals. Thus, Roger.
“No,” Vergil said, bitterly, “I think not. The whole thing is far too chancy and uncertain. There is so much which must be done. Concerning which, my Clemens — ”
The alchemist, who had been nodding assent, lips pursed, now lowered his leg and sat up straight, rubbing his hands. “I think you will be well pleased with the preparations. We have, first, enclosed the larger portion of the yard and thus created a new workroom, untainted by the residues of any previous works. I have had windows installed of thin panes of alabaster which will admit a light clear and yet not harsh. Lamps have been hung and new ones, too, also chimneys of the same alabaster. The furnace is prepared, the hearth, the wood and charcoal, the kiln, the tools and implements, anvil and forge, sand and clay and wax, benches and wheels and iron. We have gotten ready, also, vessels of the finest earth, almost like glass, but less fragile. There are liquors of lye and potash, and pickles of aquafortis or oil of vitriol, as you may prefer, even sawdust of boxwood.”
Softly, Vergil said, “Good . . . good . . .”
Stroking his huge beard with his huge hand, Clemens said, cheerfully, “I shall think the less of you if you do not check every item as carefully as if I had never seen to it, and you may think the less of me if you find anything not just as you would have it.”
Vergil nodded. His pain had now reached a level at which it almost acted as its own anesthetic. Even more softly, he asked, “Any other news?”
Clemens reflected. No. No, no other news. Cornelia had been poking about once or twice, with Tullio, the latter looking ready to order all hands flayed and flogged at the slightest excuse. But the fact that preparations were always and obviously going on helped allay her impatience and his wrath.
“Oh.” He suddenly looked blank. Vergil raised his eyebrows in inquiry. “You’re back. By Poseidon’s codpiece! How silly of me to have forgotten that you’d gone somewhere farther away than, say, Elba or Ischia. Welcome, then, Vergil, and praise be to the Fair White Matron and her Consort, the Ruddy Man, for having obviously protected you in your journeying.”
Something tugged at Vergil’s mind. Surely he knew well enough that phrase, expressive in the ornate symbology of alchemy of the Moon and the Sun, Silver and Gold, and of their supposed “wedding” in the alloy electrum and elsewhere; then why . . .
But Clemens was speaking again. “Forgive my babbling on, and begin to tell me of everything that happened.”
Vergil smiled faintly, “It is here, as in most tales, that I should say to you that I am tired, and that my account must wait upon tomorrow. It is true that I am somewhat tired, but tomorrow will not find me less so, and, besides, tomorrow must see the beginning of a long and intensely careful unceasing toil. I had better tell you now. Yes . . . let us have in some flask or two of that fifth essence of wine engendered in your alembic, and I shall tell you now.”
• • •
Old Tynus nodded his snowy head. “True, master, some have always said that Friday is unlucky, but I cannot either see that this would hold true of our work here . . . if it ever held true of a
nything. For Friday is the Day of Venus, and Venus is not only a benefic — as is Jupiter — but she rules copper, brass, and bronze. Therefore today is an auspicious day to begin the work. Moreover, and mayhap most significant of all, as you point out, the sign of Venus is the sign of her mirror . . .” He scratched it with his staff on the cleanly sanded floor:
“The sign of lesser fortune, yes, but the sign of fortune nonetheless. From lesser fortune, appropriate to the beginning of a work, we shall ascend to greater fortune as we progress. The sun can only be seen in its own light, ‘By light, light,’ therefore . . . and, by mirror, mirror.” He stroked his long white beard. “Venus ruling copper, brass, and bronze, Saturn ruling ‘form’ and timing, also lead, of which copper ore will contain somewhat, and Mars ruling molten things. . . . Yes, master, you have chosen well and rightly, with Mars, Venus, Saturn, and also the Moon, all making good aspect to each other in the Heavens. Because of the various rulerships involved here, the question then, of course, becomes one of which hour — Moon hours? Venus hours? Mars hours? Or even Saturn hours. . . . But your decision is a quite proper one, for in horary-electional astrology, reading the augury of a given moment, it is the Moon which is, as we say, Significator of Change, and thus a Moon hour is preferred. Mars and Saturn conjoined in the mystical sign Pisces, well-appointed by Venus in the magic sign of Scorpio, a most creative relationship indeed, and none retrograde in motion, but all well-disposed toward the Moon in her own demesne of Cancer, and she translating the light of Venus unto Mars and Saturn — thus favoring secrecy of workmanship and the power of prophecy. . . .”
His voice died down and he murmured of Planetary Hours, and of Day and Night hours and rulerships; then he fell quite silent. All present seemed to breathe more lightly. And in this silence the slow, measured drip . . . drip . . . drip of the water clock was heard, its seconds melting away into minutes. Vergil raised his white wand, everyone ceased to draw breath, the hollow ball in the basin of of the clepsydra touched bottom with a clear, faint chime; he whipped the wand downward in signal; a dull, heavy, thudding blow followed immediately, no less startling for having been quite expected. The work of crushing the copper ore in the mill had begun. Up and down the Street of the Horse-Jewelers the deliberate sound penetrated, and, as the recurrent sensation, felt as well as heard, drew their attention, the people paused and looked at one another. Many things might have been read in their expressions, but fear was not among them. The owner of the House of the Brazen Head gave them no cause for uneasiness.
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