Avram Davidson - The Phoenix and the Mirror

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 questions.