Avram Davidson - The Phoenix and the Mirror

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.

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.”