Avram Davidson - The Phoenix and the Mirror

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.

Vergil 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.