The Phoenix and the Mirror

CHAPTER SEVEN

THEY RODE ALONG together, Vergil mounted on a white hackney, and Clemens on a sturdy, dun-colored mule which now and then rolled one wicked-looking eye back at him and snapped a mouthful of yellow teeth. Cypresses lined the road. Here and there was a tomb. They slackened the pace, read the epitaph on one.

Ave Julia Conjux Carissimma

Salve Ad Eternitam

“I would be moved by that,” the Alchemist said, “if such things moved me. In all probability they fought like cats and dogs and he smiled all the way here.… Did you get the letters of state?”

Vergil nodded. Out of sight, a shepherd whistled to his dog. There was an answering bark, a chorus of bleats, and the dull bonk-bonk of the lead-wether’s bell.

The Viceroy’s secretary had been incredulous and far from encouraging. “Really, my sir,” he said, “unless you go with the great convoy these documents are useless. The Sea-Huns will attack first and read letters later… if they bother to read them at all. If they have anyone along who can read. Why not wait till next year’s convoy?”

“There isn’t time,” he had answered.

The Secretary’s worried look had dissolved in a sudden relief. “Of course!” he exclaimed. “Doubtless with my sir’s arts magical he will interpose something between his ship and theirs, and make it invisible. Or take the wind from their sails — or make their oars heavy — or — or something like that.”

“If necessary… something like that.” And the secretary had handed over the documents of vellum and parchment, lettered in glossy black, vermilion, and purple; here, with seals affixed to the page, and there, with seals dangling upon ribbons tied through slits — all very impressive.

If the Sea-Huns paused long enough to be impressed.

Clemens’ mule made another snap at him, and he gave it a slap on the muzzle which echoed, and which caused the beast to shake its head, and to subside, convinced, into relative good manners. Then he pointed, with the same very large hand. “That, I believe, is the gate of the villa — but what, may I ask, is that arrangement in gray?”

Tullio, clad in gray silk, his iron-gray beard cut sharp, was waiting for them at the gate, mounted upon a gray charger. He was accompanied by two squires in gray linen on dappled gray ponies, and a pack of the small greyhounds that were (outside of the Italies) called “Italian” capered about them.

“It is her seneschal. You know of him. His name is Tullio — he’s the one who opened the door to the conduits when I was here before, and let me out.” He said nothing as to what other door Tullio had helped to open. And to close.

“I don’t know what you find to laugh at. The closer I get, the more impressive it looks.”

Vergil did not begin to explain that his laugh was an affected one; there would not have been time to finish. The company rode forward to meet them.

“Magus, I bid you welcome in the name of Her Majesty Queen Cornelia, Dowager Queen of Carsus.” He bowed from his saddle.

The bow was returned. “Sir Tullio, my thanks. This is my companion, Dr. Clemens, a savant learned in the lore of metallurgy, and a leading alchemist, as well as master of music and many other subjects. He will help us in our present task.”

Various expressions moved slowly over Tullio’s face. He was impressed with Clemens’ title and attainments. He was not impressed with his mule. The contrast between Vergil’s neat and fashionable cut garments and his companion’s — which were neither — seemed to confuse him. He approved of Clemens’ considerable size. After a moment be nodded, as if having digested all and come to a conclusion. Then, with a courteous word and gesture to the alchemist, he and Vergil fell behind.

Cornelia met them in a chamber floored and walled and roofed in marble of many colors. The lucent stone seemed to give as well as receive the soft flood of light in which her chair (it was almost a throne) swam in the center of the room. She had taken some pains with her toilet. The high collar of her robe, around which was bound a rope of gold, became her more than the lowcut garment she was wearing when Vergil had first seen her, under the great oak-tree. It was more feminine then the severe hunting costume she had worn at their second meeting, and — perhaps more than a hint of the native garb of Carsus being present — there was a certain vigor and splendor to the ensemble which was at the same time barbaric and sophisticated. Certainly there was nothing of the softness of current Neapolitan fashion to it, and this absence complimented her own decisive personality very well. There was a glow in her cheeks that did not seem altogether the result of cosmetics.

“I’m not Queen this afternoon,” she said, having greeted them, “only Lady Cornelia. Please sit in my presence. Wine.” The wine appeared, as if conjured, was poured, served. “Have you made progress, Magus? How near are we to beginning the work of the speculum?”

Vergil suppressed a sigh. “Lady Cornelia, we are one day nearer than we were yesterday. I hope tomorrow to arrange for passage to Cyprus on one of the Imperial ships.”

A spasm shook her face for an instant, was quickly controlled. “Another day and another day. My daughter is in danger, Magus — a danger no less terrible for being unknown. Why is it necessary to risk your person and to spend your time in making this trip to Cyprus? Why can you not, with your art magical, simply bring the ore of copper to Naples? I knew a nigromancer — ”

“Madam, I am not a nigromancer.”

The serene and lovely face lost its composure, dissolved. “Please do not vex me with these subtle distinctions, Magus,” she cried. “I am in agony over the necessity of this matter. Each moment’s delay may bring death so much nearer.”

Vergil bowed, slightly. “The work will be carried on as rapidly as I am able to do it,” he said. “But it is I who am doing it, and no one else — not even the Lady Cornelia is capable of judging or of correcting me in it. She may, however, if dissatisfied, dismiss me, and seek other assistance.”

She looked at him, her mouth open, her eyes lost. Her hands worked convulsively upon the carved lions’ heads that formed the ends of the arms of her chair. Tullio placed his hand upon his sword. Clemens picked up, as if negligently, a marble-topped end table, and held it in one hand.

Vergil did not move from his place. His head slightly to one side, he appeared to be listening. The room went from sunlight into shadow, and, in the shadows, dim figures, which had not been there before, moved indistinctly. Voices murmured. The shadows grew darker, thicker; the obscure figures more numerous.

The Lady Cornelia’s eyes moved from side to side. She opened her mouth, shuddered. Vergil, turning to that side of the room where the ghostly company seemed thickest, shook his head. Gradually the shadows dissolved, the voices fell away, the strange and umbrose crowd vanished entirely, and the sunlight was bright and warm once more upon the marble.

In a low, distressed voice, wherein there were now quavers and tremors, she said. “You ought not to have vexed me with these subtle distinctions.” She threw back her head, gestured with both hands. “I’m only a woman, I don’t understand matters of science and witchery. There, Magus, on these tables, as you have asked, are all of my daughter’s jewels and tiring-gear — except for what she has with her on her journey — for you to choose among. Shall I have them brought to you?”

He nodded, took a seat at a long board facing her. She snapped her fingers. Instantly, from right and left, servants came, bringing boxes and coffers and cases, set them down before him with their lids turned back.

“We can’t use pearls and gems,” he said. “Only things of metal can be of virtue in this work.” He waved aside the necklaces of coral, ropes of carnelians, beryl rings and bracelets; pushed away from him the heaps of rubies and emeralds, set and unset. Gold rings and armills which had no stones he kept, also plain brooches and ear baubles of silver filigree. “Any of these will do, I suppose,” he said. But he seemed hesitant. His fingers moved among the gold and silver articles, moved uncertainly. Nothing… nothing seemed to feel right.

Or, at least, not right enough.

“The Lady Laura has, as I suppose, so many, many things to wear — ”

“She is the daughter of a king,” said Cornelia, “and the sister of a king. Her grandfather was Doge of Naples, and her grandmother’s grandfather was an emperor.” The lady’s face grew prouder as she recited this lineage, and her eyes sparkled. “Of course she has many jewels. What of that? Why should it be otherwise?”

Slowly, carefully, choosing his words, Vergil explained to her exactly what it was that he wanted — something which the Lady Laura had had very often upon her person. With such a rich supply to draw upon, it was likely that her ornaments were constantly varied, none of them being worn very frequently. It was natural for her to prefer variety when she had it. But, was there not, perhaps, one single and particular item, an item which was not among those spread out on the board, but was nonetheless available; a favorite pin, perhaps? Or anything at all, as long as the missing young woman had worn it very often?

Cornelia listened intently, little gleams of gold glistening and sparkling about her, then she spoke words which Vergil did not recognize. Instantly, a maidservant left the room. Vergil, glancing after her almost automatically, noticed the marble-topped table which Clemens had hefted as easily as though it were made of willow withes. Clemens, Where was Clemens? Nowhere to be seen.

The maid returned, and with her was an old woman — an old, old woman, barefooted, shawled, some sort of ornament on one of her ankles tinkling as she walked. Vergil noted, with a start of surprise, that the crone actually had a ring in her nose: something he had heard and read of, but never before seen. She moved forward confidently, speaking without ceremony in a foreign language, and holding out a little box. Cornelia took it, opened it, wrinkled her face, gave it to another servant to give to Vergil.

“This is my daughter’s old nurse,” she said. “Her name is Desfiyashtsha — barbaric, is it not? — but she’s a dear and faithful old thing. I’d let you talk to her, but she knows only the language of Carsus. She assures me that my daughter wore this almost every day. I’d forgotten she even had it, but now that I see it, I remember. Tsan foa, De-sfiyashtsha’n, Laura’t?”

“Anah, anah, Passilissa’n,” the crone said, vigorously, nodding her head, and gazing at Vergil out of tiny, dark, deep-set eyes, bright as a bird’s.

“Yes, it is hers. Will it do?”

It was a small, worn, copper fibula in the form of a brooch, very crudely depicting a lion trying to shove his tail into his mouth with both paws. It was the sort of thing that might be used to fasten an under tunic. He picked it out from the box. For a moment he stayed quite motionless. Then he smiled, very faintly. There seemed a faint tinge of bewilderment in the smile.

“It will do, Lady Cornelia.”

“And you would really rather not have gold or silver or electrum?”

“It would not make much difference, really… but, of course, copper will go into the flux very well when we are preparing to cast the speculum. It is not virgin copper, but so small an amount will make no difference. The addition of this article — which was worn very often and very closely by the Lady Laura — will physically connect her person with the speculum, which is to reveal where that person is at the moment of revelation. That is its only function. Its intrinsic value makes no difference, you see.”

It seemed as though she wanted to speak, almost strained to speak. Then an expression of absolute helplessness crossed her face. She slumped in her chair, made a helpless gesture. “I see only danger, agony, death. I tell you that I know nothing of science or witchery. Please make the speculum quickly so that we can discover where — where my daughter is.” She got to her feet in one swift motion. “Magus, I wish you well upon your voyage, and I will offer victims for your safe passage and return.” The formal words of farewell. Again she hesitated. “I know you won’t dally. Farewell.” With a final nod to Vergil, and another to Tullio, she swept from the room. He caught one glimpse of her eye, face half turned. Then she was gone.

Most of the servants followed her. Last to leave was old Desfiyashtsha, Laura’s nurse. She examined him with curiosity, spoke to him in her own language, smiled in wonder that he really did not understand, and at length hobbled away, tinkling as she walked.

“Yes, but what is your real reason for having agreed to make the speculum majorum?” Clemens asked, insistently. The afternoon was sinking away as they rode back along the road to Naples. They would make home before nightfall, but not much before.

“Perhaps my real reason is simply that I have never made one before,” said Vergil.

His companion gave a gusty sigh. “I’m glad,” he said. “I hope it’s really that, and only that.”

“Why?”

The sight of a fire some distance from the road revealed that what might have passed for a small hillock was really the mud and brushwood hut of some shepherd or farm laborer; and the smell of aubergines having their purple skins singed off disclosed the menu for supper. The few notes of a song which came on the wind were too faint for the words to be distinguished.

“Because,” said Clemens, “I’m afraid the whole thing may be a wild goose chase — an elaborrate, though mystifying, hoax. I’ll tell you why.”

When Vergil had first begun to examine the missing girl’s jewels and ornaments, Clemens, he said, suddenly became aware of that necessitious summons to which even kings are subject, and left the room to find a closet of ease. He asked his way of several servants, but they either spoke no Latin or had but a few words (“ — and most barbarously butchered, too — ”). He blundered into several wrong places before he finally found the right one.

“Do you remember that miniature which Doge Tauro has, and was showing all around at the stag hunt?”

Vergil frowned. Once again he felt the same pricklings of his flesh which he had felt when the Doge had snapped open the picture case. “Of Laura as a younger girl? Yes. What about it?”

“That’s how I knew who she was, you see.”

“Knew?”

Clemens said, quite calmly, “Laura. The missing girl. She isn’t missing at all. She’s right there, at the villa. Don’t tell me ‘impossible’ — I saw her. She was five years older than the picture, of course, but it was she all right. Her hair was red, with glints of brown. And her eyes were brown, with glints of red. Very white skin, nice ears, nice mouth. Not my particular taste, you know — I prefer them either younger or older. Like cheese. However… what’s the matter?”

Matter enough for his companion to strike his thigh with the flat of his hand, causing the white hackney to break pace, in alarm. “Upon my life!” he exclaimed. “And by my father’s ashes! I saw her too! How could I have forgotten? When I first saw Cornelia… it was just a fleeting glimpse… but no wonder I felt that odd stir when the Doge showed the miniature… yes! She was dressed as a servant, sitting there at Cornelia’s feet, holding the embroidery.

“And…” He frowned, trying to concentrate. Shadows grew long, grew blue. What was it? The embroidery? Clemens’ next words shattered the image slowly taking form.

“Dressed as a servant. Correct. Well, there you are, O Vergil, doctor mirabilis — are they trying to trick the Doge, or perhaps even the Emperor (may he live forever; though it’s not likely — better King Log who does nothing than King Stork who’d devour us), perhaps even Caesar himself, into accepting a servant girl as a princess? If so, then this whole affair of the mirror of virgin bronze is so much flummery, a device to gain time while the girl perfects her role. And then Cornelia will pretend to have her sighting in the mirror, and — lo and behold! — everyone will trot off and ‘find’ the semi-promised or twice-promised spouse at some prepared hideaway.… Do you think that’s it?”

Vergil shook his head. No. No, he didn’t, couldn’t, think that was it. The young dowager’s intense interest in having the speculum prepared was too genuine, her concern too obvious and sincere, for him to accept Clemens’ notion. But if that wasn’t the real explanation, what was?

The alchemist had another question. “Have you made any philosophical preparations for your work and journey? You surely don’t intend to go stumbly, blind, do you?”

The Magus assured him that he had no such intention. “I have gone through the Door,” he added.

Clemens nodded vigorously. “Good!” he exclaimed. “Good! Good!”

Going through the Door… the metaphysical exercise of placing the mind or psyche on another level of awareness or experience, in order to find out what lies ahead, was often done through the medium of a dream. It demanded a state of intense concentration and projection, of which few were capable — and those few, not without long study.

“But of all the things I ‘saw,’” Vergil said, slowly, “the only thing that made sense was what my old teacher, Illiriodorous, said.” And he told him of that.

Clemens listened, combing his vast and flowing beard with his fingers. At length he said, as they approached the Pompeii Gate of the Naples city wall, “As to what you ‘saw’ making sense, you ought to know that often enough these sights make no sense at all until one experiences them in the flesh. Sometimes, not even then… not until later, looking back. And as for what Illiriodorous told you, certainly that makes sense, excellent sense. The act of looking into the virgin speculum is an act of catalysis. Whatever is done — anywhere, everywhere — is at once imprinted on the universal and omnipresent ether, which is present in each and every of us, as each and every of us is present in it. The rays of the sun are present everywhere, although it is true that one can see the sun only by its own light, as the wise Jews of Alexandria have reminded us — but one needs the lens of a burning-glass to concentrate the rays. The speculum majorum is such a concentrating agent, such a focus.

“But what Illiriodorous told to you is not in any way so important as what Illiriodorous did for you. It would have been a fatal act for you to have tasted his honey. That would have brought the metaphysical into too direct a contact with the physical. In the instant that you tasted it — had you done so — your psyche, soul, spirit, anima — call it what you will — that part of you which was there would have been trapped there, forever incapable of returning here. Your body might have lingered alive awhile, but it would have been a mindless, idiot thing.

“It would not have been the Vergil we know…”

And the Vergil he knew reflected, half-wryly and half-bitterly, that the Vergil Clemens knew was hardly the Vergil Clemens thought he knew. How many Vergils or parts of Vergil were there? this particular part of this particular one wondered.

Dusk was upon them. Torches flared, were set in sockets by the Pompeii Gate. Slowly, ponderously, the great portals began to swing shut. They spurred their mounts, cantered forward. A soldier shook his head, gestured at them, lowered his spear as they still came on. Then he flinched, darted back, speaking over his shoulder. They heard the words, “Vergil Magus! Hold! Hold!”

The massy doors halted. The soldier brought his spear to the salute, half grinned, apologetically, as they trotted through. The men twisted their heads to look, then once again put their shoulders to, pressed on. The gates shut with a clash of iron. The bolts were dropped. They were safe in Naples for the night — where “safe” was, would always be, a relative term.

“Let us be thankful, at least,” Clemens remarked, as they urged their mounts toward the livery stable at the foot of the Street of the Horse-Jewelers, “that the Vergil we know is still so well-known.”

Vergil did not voice his bitter and bewildered thoughts.