Vergil Magus: King Without Country

Illustration by Steve Cavallo

Emericho, Count Mar, Master of the Ceremonies to the Emperor.

Oria, Countess Mar, Wife to the Master of the Ceremonies to the Emperor. Count Mar came from a very high and noble family indeed, and was indeed the last of his line. There had indeed been one sole cousin, an heir to the shrunken meadows and the crumbling chastel and to the very many honors, privileges, and titles. And when he had in fact died in battle against distant barbarians so barbarous and so distant that even Count Mar as a historian of war had never even heard of them (Turks, they were called. They were called Turks. And it was assumed that now that the Sub-commander of a Legion the Knight and Patriarch Ser Audulen Mar had given his life to defeat them, that they had slunk back into the wild wastes from which they had come, and would never again be heard of. Whence? That heartland of Asia More, Bactria Extra Oxum or some such syllables and babblement. Turkst), Count Mar had set up an altar and burned balsamum and myrrh. Himself the August Caesar had attended, as well as members of the Old Aristocracy. Which excluded those ennobled during the last seven reigns, or, rather, their descendents… unless said descendents were also descended from the Old Aristocracy. And everyone remarked how straight and erect had been Emericho Mar, the Count Mar, the Master of the Ceremonies at the Imperial Court, at the Court Imperial.

No one knew that afterward, all the servants sent away except that one servitor as old as the Count Mar and in fact his bastard brother by a garden-ing-maid, no one knew that the Emperor’s Master of Ceremonies had put his face upon his arms and wept aloud: not because of an especial fondness for the Sub-commander Ser Audulen Mar, whom he had never seen, nor had he ever seen his Father: but because the ancient and noble House of Mar had all but come to an end. The contents of the chastel might he leave as he would, but the chastel itself and the meadows at which grazed a flock of grizzled sheep of a race seen nowhere else, these would in no great time become escheat to the Crown Imperial, and the Emperor might do with them as he would.

House Mar: no more.

Vergil wiped the blood from the blade of his dagger, and set it aside. Carefully, he splayed the dove’s intestines and read the signs: Audacibus annue coeptis. Be favorable to bold beginnings.

He laughed and clapped his hands. The portents, horoscopes and auspices all agreed. This would be a marvelous day for the great work.

Which visible display of cheer should have spread quickly through the workshop major. Odd that it did not. There were a dozen workmen employed in various aspects of the Great Labor and though every man set to his task with a will, they exchanged many a nervous and even dark glance. They were all on edge. They would turn hastily away at his approach, as if there were something about his clothes or his appearance or his shadow that displeased them. Yet so good was their discipline that no one did speak a word to him. Not so much as boo.

None except the Chinese wizard Ma.

Ma came trotting up to him and with puppyish eagerness, said, “Great sir, stop. You are being superstition. Consider the sky. Consider the winds. Consider all life. Instead of kill birds, you must throw coins, separate yarrow stalks, consult Book of—” And then stopped, chagrined, because the tome whose divinatory authority he was about to (and, it might be added, far from the first time) call upon was not in his immediate possession. It had been some time, indeed, since he had last seen it. He was beginning to think he had left it behind. In his study. In Tai-Ting.

“Rest assured, my young colleague,” Vergil said, “that Roman science is quite advanced in the area of Prediction. Why don’t you go help out Oria in the workshop minor?” He was feeling particularly tolerant today. The signs were as good as he’d ever seen them. With such omens, absolutely nothing could possibly go wrong.

Also, as a scholar himself, he understood the pain of misplacing a book.

But Ma only shook his head pityingly, and thrust his hands each up the opposite sleeve of his tunic. When he was in such a mood there was nothing to do but ignore him.

The Chinese wizard had come to Vergil, as so many things did, as a gift. Technically speaking, he was a gift to the Emperor from the Great Cham the Son of Heaven, Conqueror of Hind, Tibet, Java Major and Minor (any day now, the deed was as good as done), Benevolent and Absolute Sovereign of the Middle Lands, aka Cathay, Qara-Khita, Greater Meng-tse, Serica, the Land of Silk, et cetera and cetera, amen. Who had heard distant reports of his beloved cousin’s glory and so sent, along with his compliments, a caravan of presents, including jugglers, carvers-of-ivory-balls, tigers, elephants, book-printing machines and mechanics to operate them, blackpowderers, kite-makers, fireworks artisans, and the odd inconvenient lateral heir to the throne itself, to say nothing of robes of hyacinth-purple silk, bolts of fine scarlet cloth, sandalwood casks of emeralds y-carven with Zodiacal ideograms, hempen sacks of peppercorns from Malabar and Tellicherry, cinnamon from Ceylon, brocades from the Isle of Lanka and dragon’s blood from Serendip, oh really the entire catalog is too tedious for recital. Let it be said: Munificent.

So the caravan set out for Rome. Past the Great Wall. Past the Gobi Desert. Over the cold Pamirs. Past the frozen and lofty Himalayas. Over the Oxus and the Jaxartes Rivers. Under the shadow of the Great Stone Tower. Across the waters of the Caspian Sea, heavy with sturgeon and epsom salts. Along the winter coasts of the Black Sea. Over the bars and shallows of the Indus with its ship-killing tides. Through the burning waters of the Erythraean Sea. Skirting first the crocodile-ridden lands of Gog and Magog, and then the hashish-beautiful lands of the Old Man of the Mountains and so to Babylon and past the ruined stump of Babel’s tower and then Byzantium and… well, it was a long trip.

At the end of which Ma, with his thousand-drawered pothecary chest, was the sole survivor to prostrate himself before the throne and offer the Chinese Emperor’s fondest compliments to his cousin, the King in Rome.

The King in Rome.

Caught ye that? as the Emperor would say. King in Rome, which was as good as to imply nowhere outside of Rome. It was a calculated insult. No sooner were the fatal words were out of the politically innocent (to say nothing of pig-ignorant) Chinese wizard’s mouth, than the court generals bristled and clapped hands to swords, ancestral memories of martial glory kicking up dust in their ancient skulls, and prepared for the clarion call to a senseless decade or two of yet another ruinous land-war in Asia.

But Good King Festus, as the denizens of the war-foddering classes were wont to call him, when they thought of him at all, which was—let’s be honest—not all that often, Festus as we began to say, had an original and straightforward mind. He knew how to make trouble disappear with a word. “No, no, dear child,” he said with a dismissive flick of the fingers. “I am the King of Rome. You want the King in Rome, which would be…” He consulted with an advisor. “Vergil. King Vergil, on the Street of Mages. Down the via and second left, you can’t miss it.”

And so the bewildered but ever-loyal-to-his-Emperor’s-command little wizard had come trotting down the yellow brick streets of Rome and into Vergil’s life.

“It’s going to explode!” the bellows-boy screamed.

The apparatus was a combination of pelican and sublimatory. Which is to say that the furnace had an iron bar running transversely through it just below the thick glass pelican (thus regulating temperature) and a perforated disk above that that held the glass vessel in place and vented the hot gases from the furnace. The pelican had two looping necks that returned the distillate to its residue for redistillation. Which process—called cohobation—might recur some five hundred times before a state of absolute purification was achieved.

Cohobation. An unlovely word. And yet…

An emerald through cohobation might improve its water threefold, though it were cheaper to simply buy a finer stone.

A base metal such as lead could, through cohobation, be improved into gold at a cost not many times greater than the value of the gold.

A certain Tincture through cohobation could be so clarified as to extend life—and in perfect health! no sibylline ironies here!—for so long as to be… well, indefinite. And no price was too great for that.

If one succeeded.

If the apparatus did not explode and kill everyone in the laboratory first.

The prevention of which catastrophe lay not in spells, talismans, and the employment of minor demons, but in regulation, constancy, a discerning eye. Watchfulness! While his laboratorians labored in silence, Vergil stood unblinking (those who mistook the sorcerer’s stare for aught other than simple and absolute attentiveness, who indeed found it downright spooky, were simply misinformed) and motionless. He held in his mind and at the tip of his tongue a cantrip for the regulation of the heat. Apprentice smiths extended long spoons (called “devil-suppers”) into the flames, each spoon containing a liquid that would bubble, steam, or sublime at a different known temperature. So that when a gust of wind coming through the laboratory door caused the flames to rise and hotten, Vergil was ready.

He spoke a certain Word.

With a whoosh, the flames leaped toward the ceiling beams. White-hot they were, far hotter than could be explained by any natural process. Hot almost as that Red Man whom Vergil had confronted (and fought; and defeated) in the deserts of Lybya. Insanely hot. Magically hot.

“It’s going to explode!” the bellows-boy screamed.

All stood frozen with horror.

Save Ma, who stepped forward and calmly poured a sack of salt over the flames.

With appropriate sputterings and smokings and belchings of stinks, the flames subsided. “What a mess!” exclaimed Petronius, his blacksmith-general. “What a damnable mess.”

Vergil, though outwardly composed, was disposed to agree. His contrivances, to say nothing of his cantrips, had been of the best—he was sure of that—and the auspices had been perfect. Yet it was his application of a spell to regulate the heat which had caused the flames to flare up so alarmingly. Which spell he had successfully applied an hundred times. Why had this happened?

What could possibly have gone wrong?

How?

The Emperor had given no thought to what he would do with the escheats of House Mar, as, well, why should he? Grizzled sheep, shrunken meadows, stone-cankered chastel, pah!, more trouble to rid oneself of than worth the getting (at least if one were as rich as—but who was?—his most August and Imperial self). But he had given a somedel thought as to what he would do with the Count Mar.

There was indeed an Empress, she came not to Court. Never? Indeed, never. She had been a camp-follower when the Sovereign, then a soldier of the line, took it into his head to marry her. She made a good-enough wife for those days, but those days were far off; the ways of court were not the ways of Petronella, Empress of all the Roman World, known generally as Aunt Pet to the hordes of nephews, nieces, ancient uncles, aged aunts, scraggy sisters, be-bent-over brothers, scrannel cousins, and all the rest of them over whom she was Empress; giving orders, handing out favors, throwing largesses of cheap coins and cheaper sweets: it pleased them, it delighted her, there she stayed, in her town of origin, received she allowances, came she never up to Rome.

Or any else where the Emperor might be encamped.

Save that once a year or so they did meet, both incognito, at a small farmhouse in the Libertiex of Etruscany. Conversation might go rather like this:

“Hast everything tha needs, Petsy?”

“Yes, Festus. Mother has tooken it into her head, she must have a closed litter, such a nonsense; ‘What’s thee wants ith such a thing,’ I have asked her. ‘Wants to crawl into it to scratch me tits, it’s not befitten for the Emprey’s mamm-in-law to do it fore the world!’ ” The Empress guffawed, showing missing teeth and present stumps.

“I’ll have it sent. Does any bother thee?”

“Nay. They dasn’t. Do they feed Us well at Court?”

“Too well. But there. Such is the nature of the camp. Hast any petitions or positions wanted or pointments made?”

The Empress stretched toward a basket, failed, quite, to reach it. Was the Empress… fat…? Foolish question. Members of the August House are never fat. But sometimes they are large and comely. The Emperor fetched the basket up himself. “I’ve made some lists.” Had some made, I being ignorant of book, went without saying.

“I’ll bineby have a look. What’s this, thy puppy dog?”

“I must always have one such. Going away, is thee, Festy?”

“Aye. Here’s some Roman sauce and sausage for thee. If tha but somedel needs, send a word. If any durst vex thee, squat and cuck upon them. Vale, then.” A brief embrace. Nothing more. Would be false.

Oria emerged from the lesser workshop, glass mask yet in her be-gloved hand. The mask was a protection against the caustics and mordants employed in alchemy, such as might threaten her perfect and most valuable complexion.

Setting the mask carelessly aside, she rushed into the workshop major, past the bellows-boy cursing and slapping at spark burns on his arms, to clutch Vergil’s hands and peer anxiously up into his eyes.

“Countess,” he said.

She dimpled with pleasure, as she always did when someone of quality had the courtesy to employ her proper and supposed title. Her face aglow with excitement, eyes large. A beautiful, beautiful woman was Oria.

Vacuous as three days in Gaul, but beauteous nonetheless.

What wanted she with Vergil? What did any attractive young woman with political entanglements—a dozen such he turned away from his door in a week—desire?

Aphrodisiacs.

Aphrodisiacs and fertility drugs.

Yet here was the curious fact that those who most required a love philtre were they who could least afford that knowledge be made public. It was the potion that dared not speak its name. As well ask for extract of pennyroyal to undo an unseemly swelling in the stomach! ’Twould get out.

No more did a mage of serious aspirations desire a reputation of being willing to provide such potions. There were spirits to conjure up and demons to put down. Discoveries to be made and most dire secrets to be kept. Who had the time? Life was short, alas. Life was short.

All of which led to the fastidious young Oria, with such connections as would compel cooperation from anybody, even a King Without Country, prenticing herself three mornings of the week as a pharmecary-in-training. Solely for the love of learning, to be sure. Oh, la! How she did swoon to distill and compound.

And Vergil, who was a compassionate man, had set her to learn the basics of distilling perfumes from the liqueurs of flowers and compounding ochres and vermilion for the ornamentation of the skin. She would tire of the sport, soon enough. ’Twere cruelty not to let her get from it something she’d value.

Oh, and by the bye: don’t teach her to prepare any poisons.

Oria gaped about the shambled laboratory, blinking most prettily and simultaneously pretending not to notice the admiring glances of the workmen. It was an act of great social dexterity, one that not just every girl could have managed. “Who was your friend?” Oria asked, and then, “Why did he leave so suddenly?”

Ma gestured helpfully toward the door. “He go that way,” he said eagerly. “Down street.” Misunderstanding, as usual, the question.

“Friend?” Vergil asked blankly.

“The Black Man. Who was he?”

Thus far, then: the Empress. Every day for a break-the-fast she had a specially baked white bread with honey, until her twenty-fifth year she had never even tasted white bread. Everyday for a nonetide muncheon they brought her a fresh-made sausage of kid’s flesh and veal with an abundance of onions, leeks, and garlic; she eat it boiled, with a sauce of must of yellow wine and sharp yellow spice-seed ground fine: fennel often as well. And for her supper every night they gave her a fine dish of pullets and capons and cockles also boiled, with the broth: more onions, more garlic, and carrots and parsley and weed of dill. Petronella was greatly fond of this broth and drank it loudly with frequent eructations. The fowls she pulled apart and fed bits of to her preternaturally old crone Mother and gave out larger hunks and chunks to her kin—Eat this fine wingy, Auntie Ara. Ah, what a tender pi’ce it be, a grace upon thy pudenda, niecey mine! A num a num! That’s what it’s here for… let me pull thee off this bump of arse, so, ope thy gob—Also His Imperial Majesty by Verteu of the Coinage Right each month had her sent five vast leathern baggs a-full of specially minted stiverkins with her own picture on one side for those who couldnae read the motto Petronella Empratrix. These she scattered day by day, grinning and chuckling: for this had she humped her hucklebones to many a grizzled decurion before the Festus had come to take her in marriage, for this had she brakked the ice on a muckle mountain pools and washed the Legions’ filthy clothes. For this she had marched with cracked and bleeding toes many marches on far frontiers, weaving counter-spells against the frightful fearful witcheries of the Petch-enegs and the Galicians and the Piets, the Sassenags and Scotes; rolled along the great wrought-iron kettle when the very ass-of-burden had perished with the cold in Northern Dace a-nigh the savage Geats, and therein had she cooked the Soldiery their stolen grain and stewed their plundered porks.

Her present life as Empress of a rude valley full of ruder peasant-kin? She loved it. She a-grudged The Festus nought. The Roman King, the Roman Roy, the King over all the Kings, His Splendor the Selected Emperor of all the Roman World? Nought. She begrudged him nought.

The Black Man. Just who the devil—and what—was he?

Everybody tried to talk at once. Luckily, they all had the same story to tell:

The Black Man had walked all morning in Vergil’s shadow unseen. Unseen by Vergil himself, that is. Everybody else had seen him just fine, thank you, and had assumed that Vergil was equally aware of his presence, and was eager to describe this negative-apparition:

He was tall, to begin with, taller than Vergil himself, who was not a short man, by a head at least. Nay, two heads. Naw yourself, but one. Didn’t blink. Had a harsh and scornful look. A look of command. Command—who’d obey such as he? Run’s more like it. African in origin, no doubt about that, consider his features, and yet like no African anyone had ever seen. Was black too.

Blacker than an Aethiope.

Blacker than an alembic’s bottom.

Black.

What did he in Vergil’s shadow? Well, he gestured thus and so. Arms wide. Fingers a-wiggle. Most particularly had he gestured thus when Vergil cast his ill-fated cantrip. The gestures that were made—but perhaps they were not accurately reproduced; “to lie like an eye-witness” being a phrase of most ancient lineage—were like nothing Vergil had ever encountered. He had made his gestures and then retreated to the doorway, to watch their results. Had left shortly after Ma poured salt on the flames. Was now gone. Where, no man knew.

“Emericho Count Mar.”

“Roy over all the Roys, I hear but to obey.”

They were in the Great Red Room in the New Palace. A sage-femme had once said that red was good again the measles. None had changed it syne. “The Archiver, ah, the Great Archiver, he tells me that at least five generations of your line, that Line of Mar, descended so he says from the gens of th’Emperor Marius, at least five have served this Imperial Court and Seat. Saith well? Saith well. All know that none but the House of Mar knows best the Ceremonies and the Manners. We wish Count Mar to understand quite well that there is a certain Lady very close to the Imperial Heart whom We should wish to see at Court. She be of good sound yeoman stock, you know, Count Mar, a widow-woman, her late vir was a captain of tens in the Sylvan Legion that fought valiantly in the Second War of…”

It was a work of vanity for the Roman Roy to tell Count Mar what War the Sylvan Legion had fought in valiantly, Count Mar already knew; Count Mar knew all such things. All such things of import. And Count Mar knew well exactly what his Sire and Ser imported, the Emperor imported now that he would that a someone of rank should marry this a-said Lady so very close to the Imperial Heart, and by so doing give title and status to her, in fait the Roy’s chief concubine. For, without someone of such rank did so, she might no more appear at Court than the laundress, be the laundress never so close to said Imperial Heart. Certes that no young man might do, for a young man might easily allow his veins to carry him away with a notion that literally he was a husband to the Lady, and to attempt and insist upon the fact. And this would not do, it would not do. And for sure that no one of recent creation of nobility would serve, for such had so very odd notions of their stature, the very newness of their station being such as to make them sensitive about it.

But someone of Emericho Mar’s age and Emericho Mar’s antiquity of title? Such a one would ken full well that ’twas an honor to be the Crown Lady and, hence, in mere title the husband and the vir de jure of the Crown Lady: an honor. Others? Let others prate that Antiquity means decadence, and Let no baron be a bawd to the Bed Royale. Mar was indifferent to such things. What held Rome together? The Roman Roy, held it. The Emperor was the sole fount of honor to the Empery, and therefor so—And the Emperor Festus, that same Festus, spoke very keenly to the Count Mar’s ear when he murmured, “There are certain folk at Court descended from creations of the last three reigns who might look upon this with scorn…”

“…canaille…” muttered Count Mar. Rabble, what had they to be scornful about: contractors grown rich selling musty meats and rotten grain to the Governance-at-War, parvenus from Over-the-Seas whose origins might be (and therefore were) unspeakably low; the get of rich lawyers, sons of successful engineers (by definition: common as tufa), painted pimps, and tax-farmers; foreigners using tainted fortunes (foreign? by meaning: tainted) to buy their titles: Count Mar regarded the New Nobility as he might the throng about a bawdy house. “…canaille…” What did they have to be scornful about? Furthermore did he knew for a fact that some of them had got their feet in the stirrups of the Order of Knights by charms and cantrips and by witchery and guile unspeakably vile, their women being poisoners and abortionists and contrivers at assignation. Scarcely did such so-called nobility know how to adjust a toga. Eh? The Emperor? Clean a different thing, the Emperor was selected by seven kings (some said: seventeen: sage folk split no hairs), and by the process of Selection became Roy, became Royal. Numinous.

Strapping the sword about his waist—the inconvenient sword that was almost as much a nuisance as the young Chinese pothecary was, for he was obligated to wear it will-he, nill-he wherever he went these days, his badge of office, the sword with no name—Vergil set out to find the Black Man.

It was on the face of it no easy task to find a single man among the swarming millions of Rome. Yet even in eternal and eternally jaded Rome a man seven feet tall, darker than any Aetheopian, and unblinking—such a man is noticed. And, for a copper or two, remembered.

The trail of small coinage led Vergil first to a poor neighborhood, and then to a yet-poorer tenement house. Three cabbage-smelling flights up, there was a door. He hammered on its frame. A silence. The creak of feet on old floorboards. The door opened.

Skin black as obsidian. Eyes unblinking as a snake’s. “I am in the presence of an inferior,” he said to the air. “But how inferior is he? Does he have such standing among his barbarous upstart race as to allow him admittance to my domicile without shame to me?”

Seeing his bearing, the palpable hauteur that hung about the man, the sneer that had not been achieved in less than thirty generations, Vergil knew the man for Aristocracy in his own land. Nor New Aristocracy, nor Old Aristocracy either. Old, Old Aristocracy. Older than the founding of Rome. Older than the rise of the Greeks or the Abyssinians before them. Older, perhaps, than the Flood.

Old.

Suppressing a quite inappropriate urge to bow, Vergil drew himself up and called upon his titles. “I hight Vergil Marius Mago, Bail to the Vicus of Ravenna, Captain of the Communality, Ser Messenger to the Doge of Naples and to the Vicar Imperial of the South, Co-Keeper of the Golden Clicket to the Golden Lock, Titular Count of Calabria, Titular Prince of Palermo, High Baron of High Barbary, Min Dan in Danland, Roman Knight and Patrician of the Romans, Magister of the Mountains with Ambulatory Jurisdiction…” Suchlike worldly tokens did not Vergil himself impress; nor, he saw, was the Black Man moved by them as well. Feeling absurdly like a small child reciting his accomplishments before a visiting adult dignitary, he cut short the list of his civic (for he did not of course mention any of the ranks he held in The Order of Sages and Mages; such were forbidden) honors. “King Without Country.”

The Black Man moved aside to let him in.

There was a feel in the room… of power… indecipherable, though. It came from the Black Man himself, but was like nothing Vergil had ever felt. Intuited. Experienced. Vergil well knew the feel and smell and even color of magic. This was nothing like.

This was something before which sorcery was a weak and strutting upstart. This was its negation and perfect opposite.

“I am stranded upon your sterile shore,” the Black Man said. “Without family or friend or wealth. As for family, I am the last of my kind, and as for friends…” He shrugged. “But before I die, I would return to my homeland. Gold will buy my way south to Nilus Meroe and Ophir, and from there to Farther Africa, where memory of Good King Boris may yet endure, and then through Equinox to lands whose names need not be defiled by your ears. So: gold I must have. My talents have been engaged by one who thinks his lineage sufficient. It is not. Yet the one behind the one behind that one I may without disgrace serve.”

“Sir, I quite understand. As the poet said, it is enough to have perished once. Let us not compound poverty with disgrace. Yet your activities…” he sought the neutral word, “inconvenience me. Surely you can see how they would?” No response from that face. Might’s well be carved of obsidian. Or, more aptly, black granite, like certain monumental visages that Vergil had seen in Aegypt of that conqueror Dynasty that had swept down from the South like wolves upon the… well, not lambs, exactly. And yet… “Let me propose a solution. I have money. It flows to me effortless, these days; ’tis not my doing, but fate alone and my lack of desire for such; were I to bar my doors and windows ’gainst it, ’twould smash them down in its eagerness to reach me. Allow me to share some small fraction of my good fortune with you. Say… twice what your sponsor offers? No names required! Only allow me the honor of paying for your peaceable passage home.”

For a long moment, silence.

Finally, “How came you to be King Without Country? Is it—” the Black Man hesitated—“an old title?”

When Vergil was done explaining, the Black Man looked thoughtful. “It is not a hereditary position, then?”

“No.”

“I had thought—well.” The Black Man stood. “I am afraid you must leave now, sir. I can do nought to help you.”

With greatest courtesy, he showed Vergil to the door.

Count Mar led the lady in question to the Nuptial Throne and by himself placed upon her fair hair the matron’s saffron veil and drew it down upon her brow: Oria, her name.

As for whatso gifts the Crown and Throne might make available in the Fisc to the order of the Count Mar, the Count Mar was largely indifferent. Now and then he drew upon them to erect monuments to sundry foreparents not yet memorialized, including that famous Roman matron Julia, the Con-jux Carissima, who had died fighting side by side with her vir, Audan, against the Samnites near Neapoly. Every now and then, using a small chauldron filled with Earth of Delphos and a brazier of burning laurel leaves, Count Mar would summon up the shades of his ancestors: and look on them at battle for the Roman altars and the Roman hearts.

However, less and less, lately.

The third day of the third week of each month (barring the Summers’ heats) had usually… well… often… seen Count and Countess Mar together, not so much at Chastel Mar—though there, too—she savoring, even slightly, the pretense of being in fact as well as in law a Lady of Title with her titled husband in their titled fortress; he savoring, even… and thus and thus… the fancy of having a real wife. He had had one. Once. Long ago. She was dead. The child too. But as for the most of the hours of the third day of the third week of each month they had showed each other off where the Roman World could see. Reclined together as they were borne in one litter. Sat side by side in the same carriage rolling and rocking ponderously but elegantly (one did not think of comfort in those slow, clumsy vehicles: one thought of show. Paint. Gilt. Escutcheons. Heavy well-kempt horses with scarlet harness; heavy well-kempt horsemen in scarlet livery) down some suburban road. Worshipping together. Paying visits.

But for a full six months now: less. In fact: seldom.

And the old count’s concern and increasing vexation about this seemed to fit in with his vexation and increasing concern in the matter of the King Without Country. Vergil by name.

By name Vergil.

King Without a Country.

Which King returned to his workshop to find it empty. Those hired specific to the day’s work had been, of course, released. But Petronius, his black smith-general, who should have been repairing the damage and then awaiting his further instructions was also gone, along with—what was more ominous—all five of his sons.

The Chinese wizard Ma entered the workshop, face stiff with disapproval. “I warn. I say, you are like wine-skin that bulge with wine. Full of own thoughts and ideas. If you not empty yourself, I say, how you expect me to teach you? Hah? But they no listen.”

“Where?” Vergil asked, with a premonitory chill. “Where did they go?”

Smiths are all sorcerers. Repeat: all. Consider Vulcan, consider Hephaestus, consider Daedalus, consider Weyland of Gaul… the list could be extended indefinitely. Or, if not sorcerers, then alchemists, which is to say privy to the exoteric if not the esoteric secrets of Guildery. Which, combined with the formidable musculature resultant from a regular fourteen hours per day at forge and anvil relieved by frequent leathern tankards of cooling buttermilk, inevitably combined to convince all the breed of their own invincibility.

When such strong, knowing, and confident men were loyal as well… ’Twas a formula for disaster. In their self-certitude, they would feel for their Master a combination of protectiveness and condescension. They would think it proper to follow him to a dangerous confrontation, from a distance to be sure!, and wait nearby with their hammers and amulets to see its outcome. And when their Master swept by the alley in which they lurked, dark-browed and clearly defeated in his purpose… why, then, they would bethink themselves to take matters into their own brawny and capable hands.

So reasoned Vergil Magus as he ran through the piss-yellow streets of Rome, the nameless sword slapping against his side with every running stride, the Chinese magician squeaking and scurrying in his wake. Back the way he had come. Into the slums. To the tenement where the Black Man dwelt.

He turned a corner and stopped, aghast. Before him stood Petronius, smith-gen. and artisan… burning, aflame, sooty flakes rising from the crisped horror of his body. And his five sons as well. They all six burned like candles fallen into the fireplace coals.

It was too late to help any of them. Yet still, Vergil tried. He did try. Moving widdershins, he called up his salamandaric powers, learnt in the Phoenicia of Sidon and not in the Phoenicia of Tyre (Tyre, burned to rock and ashes; Sidon, yet standing), and attempted to quench the flames.

With such lore had he defeated Phoenix himself. Yet now did the flames respond most disobediently, leaping toward the sky, hottening, burning whiter than angels… until, fuel gone, they dwindled, guttered and died.

Leaving nothing behind but greasy stains on the brick street.

Beyond where Petronius and his sons had been stood the Black Man, unblinking. Their eyes met and Vergil’s mind filled with words. He had heard others, both human and not, speak within the sanctuary of his skull before. This was not like that. Rather, it was as if every word in his head, other than these, had temporarily been erased.

You were shown hospitality. And betrayed it.

Vergil Magus stumbled away, numb with horror.

A here and a there and of a not infrequent time, the presence of a king was requisite; even the times of the republics had known the Kings of the Sacrifices. Kingdom after kingdom had been added to the Empery, was it not so? So it was. An empiry was by definition a foederation of kingdoms and of kings. Not so? So. And so it was not alone natural, it was necessary, that kings of kingdoms, roys of royaumes, should participate in certain matters of empery, that empery being as it were a kingdom of kings. The Council to Confirm the Accession of Territory. The Council to Advise on the Sending of Envoys into the OEconomion and Beyond. Council to Supply the Tars and Spars for the Fleet. Council to Authorize Debasement of Common Currency. And so on. And on, so. Now on the one hand a king might well agree that action on this matter or on that ought not occur saunce consent of kings, still, not always did a king wish to leave his own kingdom. Dost tha see? as Festus Imperator et Rex used to ask. Suppose a needed council required the presence of a set of kings. Perhaps to authorize (or not) the inclusion of another kingdom yet. Might the King of Cappadoce not feel affairs at home steady enough for him to leave. Perhaps the three Kings of Gaul did not trust one another at the time. Possibly the King of Aspania was in sooth sick. And yet a quorum was needed. Suppose said quorum of kings required another king more? what to do… what to do…? And then as well. Imagine that a king from outside the Empery arrived as visitor and guest, what more pleasant that, on route to be received by the Emperor said King (of Cush, let one say) said foreign king be first received by a king of the Empery? Agreed: ’twould be pleasant, good for good relations—Thrice welcome, Scion of Memnon, Melcarth’s Heir.

—but suppose there was no King of the Empery to receive him?—

Eh?

What then?

Often the Emperor might wish to take council of someone higher than a mere councilor. A consul? one of the (always) two Consuls of Rome, of which by now the Emperor was always one? This would not always, for various reasons, do. Hence the Emperor Ptolemy, but three reigns ago, finding himself in need of a King in Rome when no Kings were in Rome, took hold of The Patrician Ser Appius Appian, and crowned him King. “King over what?.. Your Imperial Majesty?..” “All in good time, there. Presently. Come forth thou, then, King Appius Appian, and sit at my side in a royal seat.” The need, whatever it was, being by and by over: so what then? See now Ptolemy showing that what wit he had was not a false byword: a Document of Full Appointment of Appius Appian to be King Without Country.

King Without Country!

A master stroke.

Every right and pleasure and duty that any other King had (outside his own country), so had the King Without Country. Any office that any other King could hold (outside his own country), so could be held or holden by the King Without Country. And… but… here came the kernel within the nut… however… no one who had ever held the Office of King Without Country could ever hold the Office of Emperor. At one stroke just about any cause for jealousy among any of the Seven (or Seventeen) (not less than Seven) (not more than Seventeen) Selectoral Kings was removed. Why be jealous of some fellow in distant Rome? Why fear any plotting, what might he plot about? The King Without Country could never be selected Emperor. He might resign. He might be appointed and crowned another time or another hundred times: never might he, in royal office or in out, be selected Emperor.

And even, mark this, many ones said to many other ones, should an Emperor suspect that such a one, a clever fellow, capable, popular, charming, might possibly even if not now take steps to become Emperor e’en though not a King (in within the letter of the Iron Laws, some man not a King might be selected to the Seat Imperial)—that such a one might someday intrigue… might plot… take up arms… plan… connive… this or that… someone alas not politic to kill… Well! A solution was always at hand. Kneel, thou loyal subject dan Fulano. We crown thee King Without Country. Rise, Fulano King.

As for income, income must follow. Income might follow out of the condescension of the Imperial Hand. And… even if the Hand Imperial be stayed a bit just then… there was always this: A purse of such and such at every Ides or Kalends. To be paid out of the Salt Gabelle. For salt was not very difficult to procure. Salt was an Imperial Monopoly. Byword: the Roman Roy doth eat no salt. Meaning: The Hand Imperial received all the income from the Salt Gabelle. And gave it all away. The astronomer Such-a-One had discovered a new star? named it after the Emperor? or the Empress? A purse of six gold solids. From the Salt. The salt. Byword: The Roman Fisc is full of salt. Somewhere there was said to be a tribe, a sect, a sept, which designedly did eat no salt. So ’twas said, and, ’twas said, always their teeth fell out and their finger- and toe-nails, too. Nay, but each soul it must eat salt. There was always plenty salt. The tax itself? A trifle. A few stivers to the sack. The sack was large. Even if the Emperor was not lavish in assigning fiefs and such, still, never lacked for money in his purse, Whosoever: King Without Country. Nom.

When you have led through the Court Ceremonies a maritime magnate almost like a bear save that he had braided nostril-hair and broke wind with every ponderous step, then a well-mannered wizard was perhaps an acceptable relief. The Mage Vergil was more than civil to the Master of the Ceremonies. The Master of the Ceremonies was never more than civil to anyone.

Except to his wife.

When he was with her.

Vergil sat alone by lantern-light, closeted with books. He was alone. Save for Ma, of course. Who was (politely, admittedly, oh, invariably politely) hectoring him again. He must learn fang-shwee, path of dragons, paint a circle on the wall, place a mirror before the door so that any goblins entering would see their reflections and flee, direct a stream just so through the courtyard. All in the name of harmony and balance. It was easy enough to ignore, though every now and then a sentence would pop up out of the murmurous flow and astound:

“Must drink own urine every morning. Then never get sick.”

A less charming way to start the day Vergil could not imagine. Scowling, he concentrated on his grimoires, grammaryes, and tomes of discouraged lore (it would be centuries before anybody would be so foolishly selfless as to actively forbid such useful learnings). And here, now, before him, what was this? A rarely employed technique labeled Magica Alba. White Magic. A magic of blizzards and milk, presumably, of lilies and ivory and goose down. Yes. With rising excitement, he began to read.

Yet even as his mind sought to fix itself upon the words, they wavered on the page, growing fluid in outline. Moistly the ink pulled itself up and off the parchment and formed into globs like quicksilver that rolled off the book and plashed from the slanted top of the reading table.

Leaving him with ink-blackened floor and a manuscript book of virgin parchment.

With a groan, Vergil raised his hands to the heavens (indeed, the roof was in the way; yet his intent was clear) and cried, “Where… how can I learn the secret of the Black Man’s power?”

“That easy,” said Ma. “I tell you.”

Was Count Mar surprised when the Emperor Festus made Vergil Magus his King Without Country? No one ever knew if Count Mar ever was surprised. If he thought (others thought) (some others thought) that a background as the adopted son of a former servant to a company of wandering astrologers turned farmer was scarcely an aristocratic one, the Count Mar said not so. Said the Count Mar, at the point The King Without Country kneels upon his left knee: so. The King Without Country now arises. So. Let here at this point The King Without Country kneel upon his right knee, bow his head once… twice… thrice… so.

Such, the conversations between Vergil King Without Country and Count Mar. The Master of the Ceremonies and the Roy Saunce Royaume. In fact, the neither of them gave a much thought about the other one of them. And then one day—

But wait. Earlier.

For full six months now, more and more seldom were the gaunt old he and the buxom young she seen together. When last had they dined at the high table in the Chastel at which nom else dining had been there for decades? Long. It beseemed the aged Count. Seldom were he and wife seen together? Seldom were together. More and more as the auld conde sat in the cold library in his chilly chastel unrolling the rent rolls of a hundred years before, looked down upon by gesturing posturing sword-brandishing members of the Line of the House in their dusty likenesses and limnings, or making notations for the tenth time about the Journal of his Grandser’s campaign against the Kingdom of Carsus—or some such prideful and utterly vain antiquarian-izing—more and more often did he realize it was and was only on the said third day, The Third Day, when his chamberman brought him a message and an elaborately carved and adorned case containing straw-padded covered dishes: “My Lord the Count, my ser and sire. My Lady the Countess much regrets that her work at Court with the Empress’s Silk Woman [Attiring Woman] [Embroidery Woman] must needs alas prevent my Lady the Countess,” babble… babble… babble… “and send herewith a disk of one brace of partridges farced with liver of lark and almondbread,” babble…

…babble…

…babble…

…babble…

Suddenly.

(What? when the Empress, never coming to Court, had no use of silk, embroidery, or attire soever! of a surety the things were for the use of the Countess, sole; what then?)

Suddenly there entered vision of a scene small thought of at the time. Vergil King passing through the Hall at Court wearing his trews of white samite and a broidered tabard, looped round with ropes of wire of gold the scabbard of a sword that only a King might wear at Court, passing in a quiet and full-seemly pace; should pass at angle before him and at once kneel and quickly kiss his hand, who? Oria, the Countess Mar. So. Of course she needs kneel and kiss the royal hand, the hand of any roy, cum royaume or saunce royaume. It was seemly that the king would at once half-bow and raise her. A word of grace between them. She passed on her way. He passed on his. A thing of nought.

And now this day, The Third Day of the Third Week of the Month, what? She was not to be here. Thus, what. Kissed the hand of the King Without Country. Was not to be here to be one sole day with her vir, her own husband. Was at Court, was perhaps even now a-kissing the hand of—Lightning-bolt: Why should not Count Mar, of his ancient House and Line, why should he not be, have been, King Without Country’? There came to his mind: reply? nom. Count Mar’s pride was high and deep. It was also very narrow. High and narrow. Narrow and deep. And thus he sat alone at his table, suddenly full of bitterness. And brooding sullen, ancient pride.

Sat he there long? None marked the time. In tumbling seeds of sand, selected by some long-dead sandifer for the hour-glass, perhaps not long at all. He sat. His chamberman stood. Usually Count Mar would flick his fingers at the courtly kickshaws, the chamberman would then serve a tepid polenta with cheap cheese, take away the dainty victuals and eat them with his family (his family would rather have had the common, coarse feeds to which they were accustomed, but the chamberman considered it a stiver saved and carefully dropped a stiver in his savings-pot; someday he thus hoped to buy a milch-goat for his thrall-mother, growing too old for chewing even turnips, even grain). (Even common-folk have feelings, some philosophies know it not, eheu.) Usually, then, indeed, always, disturbed in his reflections on family pride, senile hunger satisfied and sated with traditional porridge or such loblolly, the Count’s habits inclined him rise and go to Court.

To duty.

To duty.

For—family dead… or… all save one… and he half-dead—what remained?

Duty remained. Duty. Duty. Therein the real glory of the Line of the house of Mar of the gens of Marius Marcus, not sword and spear and brave death in battle, not for them alone, but in this: Duty. Duty. And if duty took the form of one who had usurped a place that should by rights have been and be his own? That scrawn stirk of the outlands? son of really who knows whom? Called “Marius” too, was he? All the more, then! Some day the stirk would stumble. The knacker would have already made sharp the knife.

So Vergil listened while Ma explained a totally new (to him) system of divination.

Passivity seemed to be the key. Where conventional forms of foreseeing the future all tried to impose order on the universe, this divination demanded nothing, imposed nothing, expected nothing. All the world, Ma explained, was flux and flow (well; even the Greeks knew that, could not step in the same river twice; nor even once; perhaps there was not even a river; but that was digression), and if one could but discern the direction of this flow… well, then one would ken whither it goest. Eh? By the reading of small, random, and chaotic events, the greater could be discerned. Once explained, it was orthodoxy itself.)

It was worth a try, anyway.

Ma went into a frenzy of activity, removing dark yerbs from his chest of many drawers, boiling water, preparing a suffusion. At last he proffered a cup of dark liquid to Vergil. “Now. You drink down most way to bottom. Not all way. Stop here. Most important, you stop here. Not later.” Ma drew an imaginary line four-fifths of the way down to the bottom.

Vergil bethought him of the many visionary potions he had imbibed in his researches, and their attendant side-effects. Vomiting, diarrhea, headaches, to begin with, and progressing quickly to bleeding from the nostrils, mucous discharge from the anus, rashes laced with boils, incontinence, simultaneous loss of hair and balance, spontaneous generation of worms within the flesh… The more primitive the culture, it seemed, the greater the discomfort attendant upon discovering so simple a thing as the future. “Wouldn’t it be simpler to just pour it off?” he asked.

“Drink.”

He took a sip. The dark liquid was bitter and astringent. He shuddered and with suppressed loathing drank the rest, down to the prescribed line. Then he handed the cup to Ma.

Holding the cup in his left hand, Ma swirled the liquid three times around and then with a snap of the wrist inverted the cup onto the table. When he removed it, the wet chai leaves had formed a pattern.

Both men leaned low over the leaves.

“What does it say?” Vergil asked.

“What? Hey? Seneschal—what?” The seneschal was a-most as old as his courtly master. “My sire and ser, my dan the Count. A visitor. His Honor the Varlet to the Vavaseur of Idalia.”

A varlet to a vavaseur was so low on the List of Honor as barely to be there at all. But be there he was. Be here he was. Who the devil was he? Who the devil was he?

Duty. Duty. Duty.

“The Varlet to the Vavaseur of Idalia will munch with me.”

A gust of sudden sigh. “I am so unworthy—”

“True,” said the Count Mar. In the air, hanging, Nevertheless, unbespoke. The chamberman set the trestle-table. The visitor got one of the partridges and the Count addressed himself to his nutmeal mush. The chamberman and the other partridge withdrew. (The extra-ancient Mother-thrall might mumble the almondbread dressing with loud Ooos of delight, or she perhaps would spet it out with even louder phoophs. One never knew. Life was full of change and interest even for a serf.) The Count, meanwhile, completely forgot that he even had a visitor; his pale-blue eyes slightly milky, even a thin film upon them like that upon a lightly basted egg, and rimmed with red, veined and weined with red, looked upon an older scene: a Chastel mar filled with noble men-at-arms, the Old Count’s Father, the Older Count, in armor and full prime and pride of life, and—But such scenes with or without the assistance of Delphic earth and burning smoking laurel-leaves, such scenes no longer served. Even as a prisoner will sate and cloy his womanless life with masturbatory fantasies, so for long and long the Count Mar had sated and cloyed his warless life with fantasies of war. After many a winter the prisoner’s fantasies cease to have any individual particularity, merge into one single flattened-out omnifantasy, and cease to be of an avail: so the bellic fantasies of the Old Count Mar.

In his heart he cried War! War! but there was no war.

“The bosom is full of thorns—”

What? What? What strange buffoon was this, ill-shaved, ill-washed, in dusty integuments, hypocrisy overlaying him like a membrane thin: but clearly visible; who? Instantly recognized, the worn-down badges of a varlet… authorized to fly the narrowest of bannerets… and of a vavaseur… the lowest rank of an hereditary honor… the serf of a thrall, a scullion’s vassal, instanta formed the scornful thought… but which vavaseur? which yerb upon that dirt-and sweat-stained broidered badge, which?—second knowledge to the old courtier: Idalia. Produce: Thyme.

“The bosom is full of thorns to observe how this wittold warlock The King Without Country—”

Count Mar was fall awake now, “ ‘The King Without Country,’ what—?”

Doggedly the shabbykins repeated his stupid formula, that the bosom was full of thorns, “to observe how this wittold warlock The King Without Country behaves, to the total and intire dishonoring of the lordly Count Mar, Reverenced and Worshipful Master of the Ceremonies—”

The so-pale-blue of the ancient eyes deepened. The yellowed face tightened. Even the untrimmed white hairs in the nostrils bristled. The whole figure of the classical and insulted figure was at once full of life—

—of rage—

—like a hungry wolf who lights upon a scent—upon a spoor—

“And so? the Varlet to the Vavaseur of Idalia? eh? EH?”

The visitor let his eyes roll around the room, proved it empty save for he and host. Eyes a-gleam like a beastling’s in the night; he bent forward, unbrushed brow-hairs, untrimmed cheekbones, ears, unwashed body—reek! sharp! pungent! careless of all—

“There is come from the crypto-court of the unacknowledged heir to Boris King of Africa, of Farther Africa, Count Mar,” he whispered as be leaned; “a one with a singular specialty of craft. He performs sorceries upon sorcerers!” Triumphant, the man sat back. Smacked the table softly with his palms.

Count Mar smacked his own palms upon it, pushed himself up. His mouth dropped open. And, “War!” he cried.

He cried, “War!”

“War! War! War! War!”

Fumbled in his pouchet. Withdrew a whetstone. And next drew forth a knife.

The Black Man stood in the middle of the Street of Mages, waiting for Vergil. Had this been difficult to arrange? It had not. Though the Black Man had abandoned his tenement lair (“Skipped out, and good riddance,” said his landlord, spitting for luck on a floor that had patently endured more than its share of such treatment), Vergil had simply sent criers throughout Rome crying a challenge to the Black Man to meet in the Street of Mages at noon. It was a challenge he knew would not be refused.

A challenge to fight a wizard’s duel.

The Black Man, as had been said, stood waiting. In the crowd to his back, hopping excitedly from foot to foot, waving scrawny fists, shouting deprecations (and yet nobody save Vergil paid him any attention; might’s well be one of the hundreds at a chariot race for all the attention he got; and Vergil paid him little enough) was Mar of House Mar. He was tired of being a spectator. He had come to smell blood.

Not that blood had much of a smell per se. Which fact Count Mar knew. He was a historian of war. It was in a metaphoric sense that he desired the smell.

There were thousands of onlookers, for the criers had gone everywhere. The buildings bulged with spectators. The roofs overflowed. Many had brought with them lunches. In front of the workshop behind Vergil all his faithful workmen, even those whom he had not seen in years, stood shoulder to shoulder in their best smocks, displaying solidarity with their sorcerous Magister. Everyone who could talk his way in was there, Oria and Ma as well.

The two mages strode toward each other until they were close enough to spit upon one another, were either undignified enough (they were not) to do so.

The Black Man raised his arms.

Vergil drew his sword. The sword with no name.

It was no easy thing for a sword to avoid acquisition of a name. The least trait or incident would suffice. Dost whistle when swung in the air? Deathsminstrel. Born in the forges of Caliburnus? Excalibum. Left it leaning on the outside of the tavern on the sunniest day of the year and came out not more than three drinks later to find it all a-rust? Stormbringer.

Vergil had overseen the forging of the blade himself, the work done by a blacksmith mute from birth, and when one of the apprentices had cried out on its emergence from the cooling bath (it was a stock sales technique; let the mark leave happy being a byword of greatmost antiquity), “Ah! ’Tis a very—” “wonder” he was about to say, or “marvel,” and there ’twould’ve been, Wonderblade or Wizard’s Marvelment, when the magus’s fist in the hollow of his stomach had cut short the thought.

“Thank you,” the mage had said. “I’ll take it.”

It was important that this be a sword without a name, for if Vergil were to occasionally find himself wearing such a thing during his researches (in a situation, say, where his professional and pseudoregal duties coincided), why then, it were wisest that the blade were alchemically neutral. There was magical power in names. And in this sword, none.

Vergil swung up the explicitly un-magical sword. The Black Man flung his arms out to either side, fingers wriggling like snakes, to turn his magics against him. For what use had a magus of a sword? Well, a hundred actually. All of them powerfully magical. None of which involved a straightforward stab into his enemy’s chest.

Blood gushed.

“Oh,” said the Black Man.

He fell forward.

Dead.

In the stunned silence, Vergil turned to Count Mar, who stood suddenly exposed by the fall of his champion. The old count did not return his look with any great enthusiasm. “You,” said the magus, sternly. “Lord Mar. What earthly reason do you have for this unprovoked attack upon me?”

“I… well… of course…” The Count flapped a hand toward his Countess, his wife, Oria. “The… ah… the insult… to the honor… of… my wife?” he ended weakly.

“For jealousy?” Oria said. “You tried to kill King Vergil for me?” She ran forward and flung her arms about the neck of Emericho, Count Mar, Master of Ceremonies to the Court, her husband. “Oh, ’Rico!” she squealed. “You darling man!” And to his absolute befuddlement, kissed him then and there.

She was a girl who knew which side her bed was buttered on, was Oria.

So there it was: Hero triumphant, villain dead in the dust, and now the clinch: the two lovers reunited. And if one were a trifle old for the role, well. One can’t have everything. To a man and woman, the bystanders cheered, whistled, stamped, and threw their caps in the air. They might not know exactly what had just happened. But they knew a good story when they saw it.

Count Mar then set his wife, Oria, Countess Mar, to one side and, with the astonishing assurance of the Old Aristocracy, took Vergil’s arm and led him aside. “This is a touch embarrassing, old boy, but I’m certain you in your professional capacity as a wizard and negromancer will of course… well, to put it bluntly, one finds oneself in need of a yerb or potion, something that will—as the saying goes—put some lead in the old stylus.

“For a friend, you understand,” he added quickly. “Not for one’s self.”

A King Without Country had many responsibilities, as many, indeed, as the Emperor in his wisdom might choose to heap upon his shoulders. Withal, he could not levy taxes, nor raise troops. Neither could he set policy nor declare war. He had not the powers of High nor Low justice, could practice neither infangthief upon criminal villeins, nor outfangthief upon suspicious-looking vagabonds, could not condemn a felon, nor imprison a traitor, nor e’en so much as fine a citizen, be the rascal never so annoying to endure. He could not aspire to the office of Emperor.

What advantage then, when all is said and done, hath a King?

Ans.: A King may forgive.

“I have,” Vergil admitted, “just the thing.”

Of a night not many months after, Vergil met with a certain Lady, incognito, at a small farmhouse in the Libertiex of Etruscany. The Lady was accompanied by her aged crone of a mother and a ragged varlet with emblems of the Vavaseur of Idalia whom Vergil did not recognize, for he had never before laid eyes upon the man. Vergil was accompanied only by his unshakable Chinese wizard. “So she’s tupped-up, is she?” said the Lady, when he was done his tale, wiping tears of laughter from the corners of her eyes.

“Most gracious Imperial Maj—” he began.

“Call me Aunt Pet,” she said. “They all does.”

“Aunt Pet. Yes, she is. Pregnant.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Ye’re not gawna try nor conwince me it were Mar’s doing? I’se not so provincial as all that! I don’t care how much lead thee puts in an eighty-year-old stylus, t’ain’t gwinter write no such nonsense.”

“No, Maj—Aunt Pet. The child is the work of your husband, the Emperor.”

She wheezed with laughter, and slapped her thigh thunderously. “Well, b’ain’t that just like him! As ready to rut as a goat! I remember a time when—”

Patiently, Vergil endured a ribald tale the single repetition of which in the Eternal City would be worth his head and the pole upon which it would be stuck. Standards were different out here in the country, of course. Then he said:

“Aunt Pet, I would there were peace between us.”

“Why, lor bless you, why shouldn’t there be?”

“You convinced Count Mar to hire the Black Man to kill me. I thought you might have had some reason.”

Aunt Pet blushed.

“Mummsy,” she said gently, “why don’t you go with that nice Chinee-man, the Babylonian or whatever. Have him show you how to fix up someat magical from his little boxy-thingie, eh?”

Then, when the reverenced hag had dragged young Ma off to the kitchen, she lowered her voice confidentially.

“It’s me mother. The Imperatrix-Mum. Her.” She gestured with a nod of her head. “She enjoys a spot of court intrigue, so we keeps a few spies, traitors, assassins, and so on, on the payroll. Just so she can keep a hand in—it means so much to her, old dear!” She lowered her voice. “They none of them does any real spyin’. Just sits in Rome on the expense account, boozin an whorin an guzzlin an makin up lies to send home.” Then, raising her voice, “All save for one wha’s too dim to understand that when it’s raining soup, ye holds out yer skirt.”

She glared at the varlet who shivered and hunkered further down into himself.

To break the tension, Vergil said, “One more question. Just who is the Vavaseur of Idalia?”

She clucked her tongue. “Why, bless you, sweets, I is! It’s a hobby I has. I collects titles. Big ones, little ones. I has one of each by now, I reckon. I don’t fancy it costs dear Festus nothing.”

Which pretty much wound up everything Vergil had come to ask. It would be impolite, though, to leave so abruptly. Also dangerous. The lady was still the Empress, and it was night, and there were (doubtless) wolves. So Vergil stayed, and talked, and listened. It was surprisingly pleasant to deal solely with inconsequalia for a change. Even a King (even One Without Country) can enjoy a touch of gossip.

After a time they began to speculate on the sex of the Emperor’s forthcoming bastard. Not that it mattered to the Emperor, he had dozens of the things, one more was simply one more, and rumor had it he was growing tired of Oria (and why else would she have arranged for the child otherwise?) anyway. But for Lord Mar, who yearned for the continuation of House Mar by whatever means necessary, as the saying goes (nor would it be the first time the blood of the Old Aristocracy had been thus refreshed by intercession of the Emperor), and for Oria, who had gone through so much to acquire an heir, it made an enormous difference whether she whelped a boy who could inherit the name and estates of Mar, or a girl, who could not.

“An she were here,” said Petronella, “I could tell by looking in her een. They always shows there, boy or girl.”

A shiver went up Vergil’s spine, for occulomancy was an old witch’s trick, and he remembered stories he had heard about the Empress’s past. Weaving… how was it the revered sage of Terra Incognita Occidentalis had phrased it, a passing reference in a long conversation through a brass tube that had occurred years after the man’s ostensible death?… “weaving counter-spells against the witcheries of the Petchenegs and Scotes…” Something like that.

And with that the last piece of the puzzle fell into place.

The Black Man had refused his offer of money because his pedigree was insufficiently old. Whose, then, could he respect? Not Count Mar, who was (by the Black Man’s standards) something of an upstart.

Some titles, however, were older than Rome. Older than civilization. Older than anything that can be named.

He cast a sharper look at the creature he had at first taken for some mongrel breed of lap-puppy and now recognized to be no such thing. No such animal as this was existed. On this world, anyway. Such creatures existed on the physical plane only as familiars.

Quickly, Vergil slid from his stool onto a single knee. “Eldest,” he whispered, and then a word of homage in a tongue that not a dozen men alive could speak.

“Hush,” Petronella said sharply. “Sit back down, thee. Have a hazzlenut. Festy sent me a bushel just last calends. Should be some not rotted yet.”

This line of conversation was interrupted by the abrupt reappearance of Ma. He carried a cup of the same steaming suffusion with which he had earlier unraveled the knot of knowing that had so bound Vergil. He thrust it at Aunt Pet.

“You wish to know about child,” he said. “Drink.”

Horrified, Vergil reached to stop the royal hand. But it went, instead, to a nearby honey-pot (it was the honey of thyme, not clover-honey or wildflower-honey; there was in Idalia no lack of thyme), there to dip a spoon and stir, once, twice, thrice, and up. A golden glob of sweet and amber-brown honey came up with it, and descended into the drink. Her majesty stirred, set aside the spoon, tasted.

“Nowt half bad,” she decided. “Might go nice with a touch of cream.”

The Chinese wizard waited until the cup was near-done. Then he took it back, and before Aunt Pet’s shrewd eyes gone suddenly gullible, swirled the liquid in the cup around and around. In which instant Vergil saw, with an intuitive occulomantic leap of his own, that among the next basket of trinkets and favors to be begged of the Emp. Festus IV, would be one requesting the custodianship of a certain young outland magician.

With a crisp turn of his wrist, Ma snapped the cup down onto the table. He lifted it away.

They all of them, even including the Varlet to the V. of I., leaned low over the leaves. Such is the miracle of a child’s birth that, though it happens every day a thousand thousand times over, interest in it never dims. The wonder is ever-green.

The Chinese wizard spread his hands in joy. “A boy,” he said. “A boy!”