Avram Davidson - The Phoenix and the Mirror

It was while host was making polite discourse of local scenery, in particular of certain grovy hills on the road to Larnaca, that a thought which had been rolling about in Vergil’s mind came to the surface. “There is a hill, sir,” he said, “not on the road to Larnaca, but on the road to Chirinea, at the foot of which there is a thriple arch. Can you tell me anything about it?”

The reply was brief, politely disinterested, provoking. “The phoenix sometimes honors it,” said the High King of Cyprus. But it was then that the copper arrived, in chests of carven olivewood, and there was no time for further discourse.

Messengers had already been sent for Bayla, and he was there, enjoying the rare pleasure of a hot bath, in the Golden House, comely serving maids rubbing the soles of his feet with perfumed pumice stone as he grunted delightedly. He had evidently worshiped the goddess to his heart’s content, and put forth no objection to an immediate return. Now the company lacked only its third member, and word was brought that An-Thon was not at his ship in Paphos port. Where was he? Certainly not still at that hill concerning which Vergil had asked of the King — that hill, marked at its roadside base by the thriple arch, on which Vergil (going to Sylvian’s villa) had observed the previous night a great fire, and heard a cry of ecstasy; that hill from near where he might have seen the Red Man coming on his own return… but so far was the distance and figure, so dim the now dying fire, that he could not be sure. And perhaps never would be.

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.