Avram Davidson - The Phoenix and the Mirror

Vergil left the table to consult his map of the Economium. Clemens continued the story and the squab. The claimants so ravaged the country that the Great Council of Carsus met in secret and appealed to the Emperor, who, suddenly reminded of Vindelician, supplied him with three cohorts, and a councillor called Tullio and sent them off to “restore peace and commerce, suppress brigandry, and allow the smoke from the altars to rise unvexed.”

The twins met under a truce to discuss joint efforts to put down the invaders; but Tullio, in the name of Cornelia (according to Clemens), sent each of them a confidential message urging him to slay his brother — after which Cornelia would betray Vindelician, marry “the rightful king,” and, presenting the Emperor with an accomplished fact, obtain his support and favor. The scheme worked out perfectly. The twins fell upon one another, inflicted fatal wounds, and their leaderless armies capitulated to Vindelician, who had reigned without opposition, Tullio doing the actual ruling, for the rest of his life.

Vergil turned from his map. A dull tale of a dull country, and one which told more of Tullio than Cornelia. Carsus was a landlocked and mountainous country of no great extent, no great resources, and no great interest to him.

It mattered little, after all, where she had learned the cunning of the evil art practiced by her upon him. That she had learned it, used it, was all-sufficient. He did his best to throw off a painful weariness which no sleep could assuage while he stayed in his present, deprived condition. He had heard of men continuing to feel pain in an amputated limb; now he knew how it must be. And yet, what had passed just before had been so glorious, so indescribably beautiful.… So indescribably false. Everything is Cornelia, and forever. Always more, always more.…

“Why,” he asked, “is she back at her villa here?”

Clemens, having finished his story and the squabs, belched, wiped his fingers on his tunic. “She’s a widow, that’s why. And by the law of Carsus, no royal widow, unless she’s a queen regnant — which Cornelia, of course, isn’t — can remain in the country for fear of her engaging in intrigue. Damned sensible of the Carsians, say I. Tullio, of course, was retired on pension. Bides his time, I have no doubt.”

Vergil listened without comment, gray-green eyes expressionless in dark, dark-bearded face. His hands wandered, as if independently, to the case of books set into his great table. The table was circular and revolved at the touch of a hand, from right to left. At its center, three tiers high, was a cabinet which revolved with equal facility from left to right. Thus the immediate necessities of several current projects, as well as standard needs such as the map, were always at his fingers’ ends.

The case of books formed part of the inset cabinet. There were scrolls of one staff, scrolls of two staves, scrolls made of a single long sheet of parchment and requiring no staff at all; there were codices — books made up of single sheets of papyrus and bound in covers — books written in curious tongues of the Nether Orient and upon a curious material unknown to the Economium, pressed together between ornately inscribed boards; and “books” which were so only for lack of any better name to call them: scratched upon dried leaves, incised on split twigs, painted upon bark and carved into thin slabs of wood… and, of course, the notebooks of ivory and ebony and beech, insides inlaid with wax for the scratchings of his stylus, in haste or with deliberate slowness.

His hands rested on the bottom shelf of the bookcase, and lay inert.

Vergil said, “No… it isn’t here. I shall have to go to my library.” But he did not move. A numbness so cold and deep that it almost stilled the insistent pain of loss (of Cornelia — of manhood — of Cornelia) came upon him as he realized how nigh to impossible was the task he was bound to perform. He repeated, mechanically, “I shall have to go to my library.”

Clemens raised a quizzical eyebrow. “Why bother? I am here.”

The faintest of faint smiles touched his host’s lips. The numbness began to fade. “I suffer your boundless arrogance,” Vergil said, “only because it is so often justified. Yes, my Clemens. I see that you are here. The question is, why?”

On its pedestal a smaller replica of the brazen head in the niche in the outer stairway now opened its lips. A sound, repetitive, and hollow as a drumbeat, came from somewhere inside it. Dull, insistent, it would eventually force itself upon Vergil even in his deepest revery; and it was designed to do so.

“Speak,” he said now. “What?” As though he cared.

“Master, a woman great with child. She would have a nostrum for a good delivery.”

Ignoring a snort from Clemens, Vergil said, wearily, “I have none. Tell her if she wants a nostrum to go to Antonina the Wise-Woman. Tell her, too, that if she wants a good delivery she should go neither to Antonina nor any other wise-woman. Have you heard?”

“ I have heard and I will tell and I will ever guard you well…” The voice died away.

Clemens said, scornfully, “Now that instead of being recognized as a piece of minor common sense of which any properly educated child should be capable — will be spoken of in every house and hovel in the Dogery as if it were a paradox as heavy with wisdom as that imbecile slut is with child.”

“For one who is in so little practice among women as you are, you have a remarkably poor opinion of them.”

The alchemist picked up a stylus and thrust it into his poseidon-heavy poll of curls. “That is why I am in so little practice among them, perhaps,” he suggested, scratching. “However… as to why I am here. I came thinking you might know something of antimony. I remained to meditate. I remain, still, because I am full of food — as well as knowledge — and hence, for now, inert.”

Vergil stood up abruptly, dropped the toga-long piece of linen and walked over to his dressing table. Into a basin of water he poured out of habit a very few drops of a preparation of balm, nard, and seed of quince; bathed his hands in it. He paused in the act of drying and said, “What was that word? Anti…”

“Antimony. The supposed metal softer than lead.” He yawned, picked up a lyre, touched the chords with a tortoise-shell plectrum. “But I am tired of philosophy.… Shall I play you something from my Elegy on the Death of Socrates? Oh, very well!”

He put down the lyre. “I will say what I know you want me to say. I came also because I was somewhat concerned about you. And now tell me — what does Cornelia want of you?”

Vergil paused, immobile. Then he tucked his long shirt into his tights and adjusted the codpiece. He fastened his tunic and sat down to pull on the soft, form-fitting, calf-length boots. “Not very much,” he said. “She wants me to make a major speculum.”

The alchemist pursed his lips and cocked his head. “I see… nothing simple, such as going to the Mountains of the Moon to gather moonstones, or bringing one or two of the Golden Apples of the Hesperides for her supper. No mere piece of easily obtained trivia such as a unicorn’s horn, or the Peacock in the Vase of Hermes. Oh, no — the Dowager Queen of Carsus only wants a virgin speculum, such as Mary of Egypt herself made but one of in her entire life. By Nox and by Numa! Why? ”

“She has a daughter on the Great High Road, coming here from Carsus, and is concerned for the girl’s safety… wants to know where she is… The girl is late.”

Clemens rolled up his eyes and blew out his lips. “Oh, for some of that essence of wine, distilled five times in my alembic! Only therein, more spirit than solid, could I find refuge from this woman’s incredible… incredible… I lack the word. What next? Will she burn Naples to warm the soles of her feet? Oh well. A filly, a fool. And I daresay you told her as much.”