Avram Davidson - The Phoenix and the Mirror

“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 remain 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?

“You are the boy who ran to tell me of the fire!” he exclaimed. The child gave a vigorous nod, looked at him with keen, bright eyes, large in his pinched face. “What is your name?” he asked.

“Morlinus, lord.”

“I offered you money before and you did not take it. There is, in fact, scarcely enough money in Naples, to pay you. Have you a family for whom you want something done?”

Morlinus shook his head. “I work the bellows for Lothar,” he said, naming a small baker of the district. “He gives me bread and a place to sleep. But what I want — I’d like” — he hesitated, then words came out in a rush — “lord, I’d like to be a magus, too! And I can’t even read.”

The smell of the fire hung heavy in the house. To Iohan, Vergil said, “I hope the damage was not great.”

“No, sir. Fortunately. But there was a loss of good seasoned timber.” Behind him, in the murk, an apprentice sat, still weighing bits of charcoal in the scale, still checking the hourglass before adding them to the fire beneath the closed vessel.

Vergil pointed to him. “Was much time lost from that?” Four years the steady fire had burned, and there were two yet to go before the year in which the heat would be slowly reduced, then the six months of cooling.

“Sir, no time was lost from that at all.”

Vergil looked at the man’s back. Thus he had sat and performed his careful tasks in the early days; thus he had sat, concentrating and carrying out when the projectile came sounding and crashing; and, while the flames rose and the smoke billowed, he — not knowing but what the very house might burn around and above and beneath him — or, rather, utterly confident that his master’s craft and cunning would prevent any such thing from happening — had continued to sit, intent and diligent.

“Have him take his pick among the small instruments in my cabinet,” Vergil said. “Astrolabe, horlogue, or be it what it may. If it is silver, have it enchased in gold. If gold, in silver. If neither, then in both. And upon the chasement let the engraver write the single word Faithful. ”

He turned to the boy at his side. “Morlinus, could you serve like that? Carefully, and without fear?”

The boy hesitated, then said, “Sir — lord — I would try to be very careful-careful. But I would probably be a little bit afraid.”

The Magus smiled, “Iohan, start this one off as a forge boy, and have someone teach him his letters — just Latin ones for a start. Greek, Hebrew, Etruscan, Saracen, Runic, the character of Bouge, and the others can wait till he has encompassed ciphering. If he learns well, advance him. If he learns ill, he shall have a place at the forge as long as he cares to keep it, with food, clothing, lodging, and wages.”

The boy gaped, wide-eyed, said nothing.

“If you learn well,” said Iohan, voice rumbling in his great chest, “then you shall lodge with me. And if you learn ill” — he bent his huge arm till the muscle swelled — “then I shall beat you until you learn well.”

Morlinus rolled his eyes, trying to take all in at once. He swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing in his scrannel throat, and in a thin voice he said, “I give you leave.”

Again, Vergil smiled. “Iohan, send word to Dr. Clemens that I am leaving soon and would like to see him even sooner. Perrin, Tynus, judge when it is best suited that I speak to the men about affairs during my absence, and tell me a while in advance. You have helped me arrange my gear for a journey before, and I will have you help me for this one.”

But he had never made a journey like this one before, and deeply and dismally he knew it.

THE PHOENICIAN WAS engaged in telling tales from his lost home’s voluminous history once again.

“Our chief demigod was named Melcarth,” he said. “In other words, Melec-Cartha, or King Arthur, the one who…”

Vergil sat placidly, certain that no response was expected of him and that as long as he sat in a posture of listening, An-Thon would be content. Having many thoughts of his own, he remained quiet, not moving enough to have tinkled a hawk’s bell. The ship rode well, the sea was clean, the sun warm. He had left Clemens in nominal, titular charge of the preparations for casting a speculum majorum — without ever stating or even implying that the charge was not intended to be actual. Left to do all by themselves, the chief artisans, though intrinsically capable, might well have become divided and resentful among themselves. This way, they would combine as one against the basically harmless vagaries and idiosyncrasies of the alchemist.