The PHOENIX and
the MIRROR
BY
AVRAM DAVIDSON
a division of F+W Media, Inc.
AUTHOR’S NOTE: During the Middle Ages a copious and curious group of legends became associated with the name of Vergil, attributing to the author of The Aeneid and The Georgics all manner of heroic, scientific, and magical powers — to such an extent, indeed, that most of the world forgot that Vergil had been a poet, and looked upon him as a necromancer, or sorcerer. From the Dark Ages to the Renascence the popular view of the ancient world as reflected in the Vergilean Legends was far from the historical and actual one in more than the acceptance of legend and magic and myth. It is a world of never-never, and yet it is a world true to its own curious lights — a backward projection of medievalism, an awed and confused transmogrification of quasi-forgotten ancient science, a world which slumbered much — but whose dreams were far from dull. Such is the setting of the novel THE PHOENIX AND THE MIRROR. It is projected as part of a series, the entire corpus to be known as VERGIL MAGUS; and, though inspired by the medieval tales about him, it is not — though future parts may be — based on any of them.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Author’s Note
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Acknowledgments
Also Available
Copyright
CHAPTER ONE
HIS FIRST MEETING with her was quite by accident.
He had long ago lost his way in this vast, vaulted labyrinth, and the manticores, seeming to sense this, began to draw closer. He could smell the strong, bitter stink of them; could hear the guttural, gobbling noises which passed for speech among them. From high overhead, at regular intervals, slotted shafts of light came through the grates. The man looked back, without pausing, and saw the manticores, as they came to the diffused well of sunlight, divide into two groups and sidle, single file, along the walls . . . whispering, slithering, scuttling noises . . . scrabble of claws . . . click-click-click.
The manticores abhorred the light.
He pressed on.
To move faster might prove fatal. So far they had not come to deciding on a rush. The awe of men (along with the hate of men, one of their seemingly instinctive characteristics) still held them from it. He walked along as steadily as if he were passing through the streets of Naples — and some of those streets were darker than this; and some of them were not even as wide — and some of them, though not many, were almost as unsafe.
Behind him, just as steadily, came the manticores. In shape they were like great bloated weasels, hair a reddish-yellow for the most part and shaggy as goats, eyes bulging and glowing and rolling every way, showing an intelligence that, for all it differed so incomprehensibly from that of man, was far more than merely animal. Around each neck was a mane like a ruff of clotted plumes, framing a face which might have come from a nightmare — like a human face reduced in size and stretched to distortion: nose shallow and wide, eyes narrow, mouth broad.
So as not to attract attention the man did not now raise his head, but lifted up his eyes. Whoever had built these great tunnels through which the rains of Naples were drained off into the Bay, whether the Titans or the Greeks, the Carthaginians or the Old People of the Land, the Etruscans or whoever (Clemens would know if anyone knew, but Clemens would say only that the tunnels were places to be avoided, which was why Clemens was not here) — they had provided shafts and stairways. If he could manage to find one, if his finding one did not precipitate an attack, if the upper exit was not closed off . . .
Many such doorways were known to exist. Some would require weeks to open, so firmly had they been sealed with cement and masonry, with a gorgon’s mask or the Sign of Methras Invictus or some other talisman or apotropos fixed into them. Others were guarded by heavy doors, locked; but keys existed and hinges were well-oiled, in case those who held the gates wanted a quick way out with no necessity of advertising their movements in the streets. And there were, there had to be, other openings of which no man knew . . . or at least, which no man guarded, either personally or by proxy.
It must have been through one such passageway that the manticores had come, a century before, and stolen a human child. The raid had been witnessed by the child’s mother, who told of it before dying of her tainted wounds, and the tale had passed into legend. So far, though dreadful, it was easy enough to understand. But why had the manticores, instead of killing the child, kept him alive for forty years? And why, then, released him? No one could say, and, seemingly, only one man ever conjectured.
And how few outside the secret-burdened family of the “child” knew that the “child” was still alive (though himself insisting he had died!) at far more over a hundred years than was believable by any who held by the purely natural law. How much longer would he, how much longer could he live? How much did he know? Would his knowledge die with him? Had there not to be another store or source of it? And where else, where better, where likelier, than down in these dim and dirty mazes?
Down the center of this arm of the maze, a trickle of water flowed, and it was wet, too, near the mossy walls, from seepage. But there was a dry enough path — in fact, two — one on either side. The man walked down the left-hand one. Somewhere, far above, a dog barked. The sounds behind him changed at once. For an instant the pad-pad ceased. So did the grunting. The dog barked again — then again and again, without stopping. Then it stopped, abruptly, as if someone had commanded it, or thrown a stone.
Another grating was up ahead; like all of them, impossible to climb to unless someone at the surface sent down fathoms and fathoms of knotted rope. Dust motes swam lazily in the bars of light, then began to dance in agitation as the manticores broke into a trot. A querulous whine that was almost a question was succeeded by a deep gobble that was almost an answer. The movement was toward his right — they were not going to rush him yet — the intention was evidently to pass him, to cut him off. Knowing what little he did of the manticores, guessing from that little knowledge, the man believed that they would not have chosen this plan unless something favorable to it lay up ahead — unless something unusual lay up ahead.
The dog barked again. Or was it another dog? No, there were two of them, one behind and one before, neither visible, but both in the tunnel.
The manticores halted. And the man broke into a run.
There it was. A huge projecting leaf of the original rock thrust itself into the corridor, which turned aside to avoid it. The way was only half its usual width here; evidently the passage at this point was merely a fissure in the substratum. It would have been an ideal place for the manticores to hold him at bay. When they saw him ran, the pack of them began to howl and gobble, but the dogs barked, a man’s voice called out, then another, and another. Behind him he could hear his pursuers hesitate.
A dog began to bay in a half-frenzied, half-frightened fashion, which meant it had caught the bitter, pungent scent of the manticores. There was the grating of metal on metal, a loud creaking, a flood of light from high up on one side. A voice called out. The man fled up the damp and shallow steps.
Behind him, as the door was shoved to, locked, bolted, barred, he heard the devilish things below shrieking their frustration and fury.
• • •
The gray-be
arded man who had let him out demanded, “The other men? And the dogs?”
“There is only me. There were no dogs.” The place was some sort of grotto. Benches had been hewn out of the rock.
“But I heard,” the graybeard insisted. He had a sharp, watchful face. Two dogs barked, one after the other. Men’s voices called. The graybeard’s eyes swung up to the half arch of the ceiling, where the voices had seemed to be; swung over to the man he had just admitted.
“Was that what you heard?” the man asked. He looked at the door. It bore the image of an obscure god, one he had never seen before, an equestrian very much like that other godling, the Thracian Rider; but this was instead a woman in a strange headdress. More to the immediate point, perhaps, the door was sturdy and the huge bolts had slid smoothly into the living rock.
“Filthy creatures,” muttered the older man. “Why doesn’t the Doge send men, thousands of them — armed — with torches — and clean out the conduits once and for all? Is it because the manticores have so many burrows that the ground is riddled with them like an old cheese? They told me that’s why.”
“They told you rightly,” the newcomer said, turning to go.
But his rescuer was ahead of him now, blocking the way. “Is it true no man can follow? That hundreds would be lost — never find their way back?”
The younger man moved past him. “It’s true, and I thank you.”
A hand was laid on his shoulder, tightened. “Then why were you in the conduits?”
“Because I was a fool.” Their eyes locked. The hand took a firmer grip, then relaxed.
“No . . . you’re not a fool. And neither am I. So . . .” A curious sound came from not far off, like a bird call, but of no bird known. The graybeard removed his hand, placed it flat against the newcomer’s back and pushed him firmly ahead. “We’ll go and see her now,” he said. Two half flights of stairs brought them to the surface. They were in a garden, far too large to be located anywhere within the city. A huge oak wreathed in vines stood not far away, and a row of cypresses marked a path. There was a white froth of almond blossoms on the trees to his right, and the air was sweet with the scent of them. The curious call sounded again, nearer.
“I am coming, ma’am,” the graybeard said. “We are coming. ‘In the name of Poseidon Horse-breaker,’ I asked him, ‘why were you down in those daemon runs?’ ‘I’m a fool, is why,’ he said. And — ”
A woman’s voice said, sharply, “Tullio, be still!”
Tullio’s face broke into a broad smile as if he had been complimented, and he nodded vigorously to the newcomer as if inviting him to share his pleasure. He composed himself as they rounded the great oak, and he bowed. The woman who sat deep in the shade of the tree was probably handsomer now than in the first, fresh days of her nubility; that was clear. If she had been merely beautiful at another period was uncertain. It was sure that she had never been merely pretty. Behind her, on a slight rise of ground, was a large villa. Servants were behind her chair, crouching at her feet, and on either side; yet she had the air of being quite alone. A golden whistle lay in her lap, as lovely as her golden hair.
“Are you hurt?” she asked — concerned, yet more bemused than aware. “What happened? Who are you?”
The man bowed. “I am not hurt, ma’am,” he said. “I was lost — pursued — attacked — then saved, thanks to your servant. My name is Vergil.” He felt the breeze touch the back of his neck and was prepared when the white deerhound, who had been nuzzling the lady’s hands, leapt howling to its feet. A deep sound rose from Vergil’s throat, and the dog stood back, subsiding, but with its hair still bristling.
“I think that I will stand over here, if I may, ma’am,” Vergil said. “The wind brings him the smell of those creatures.”
She nodded, abstractedly. “Yes, we have it sometimes when the air is still and heavy. Earthquake days, or when Vesuvio is about to be angry. A bitter smell, deep and bitter. Foul things, and yet . . . yet they must have some awareness of beauty, don’t you think? They dig up rubies and emeralds and all such precious stones, and make piles of them only to look at them. Or so one hears.”
Tullio chuckled. His lips smiled, but not his eyes. “And so Master Vergil hears, too, ma’am, I dare say — which is perhaps why and how he happened to get lost. Eh, sir?”
Vergil said nothing. The lady said, “Tullio.” Reproof was implicit in her tone. Then: “Give him refreshment — no, you, Tullio.” The cheeks above the sharp gray beard were slightly flushed as Tullio, with the slightest of shrugs, the slightest of smiles, took the tray from a silent servant’s hand and gave it to Vergil, as a servant girl, who had started to move, sat down again. There was wine, bread, a dish of oil, a dish of honey, soft cheese, a sliced lamprey. Vergil bowed his thanks, poured a libation, began to eat.
“But . . . weren’t there others?” the mistress of villa and garden asked. “We heard . . . it seemed. . . .”
He swallowed a mouthful, took a sip of wine. The air was cool in the shade of the great oak. There were many questions in his mind, but he could wait for the answers. He lifted his head slightly. A man’s voice spoke from the top of one of the almond trees. All eyes turned to look. There was no one there, but the voice went on speaking. And then, from the very summit of the oak, a dog barked.
“I see,” the lady said. “And I know some little about such matters. This is no mere mountebank’s trick.” She nodded. Her fingers played on the golden whistle. “I understand, now. You are that Vergil.”
Vergil bowed.
Her deep-set violet eyes gazed at him intently. Her long, white, blue-veined fingers clenched, so that the single ring on them thrust forward its crested signet. “Magnus,” she said, “can you make a speculum for me?”
“No, madam,” he replied after a moment.
She beat her hands together. “Do you understand me? I mean a speculum of virgin bronze, prepared according to the Great Science which is your art.”
The wind had stopped, the air was still. Crouching on the ground behind her lady’s seat, holding in one small hand an embroidery ring with a long needle thrust through the unfinished design — a bird of strange sort sejant upon a heap — a servant girl looked up at him aslant with red-brown eyes. “I understand you, madam. In theory I can make a virgin speculum. In fact, however, at the present state of things, it is impossible.”
The lady gave a gasp of despair. She threw out her hands, opening, somewhat, with the force of the gesture, the carefully arranged folds of her robe. An inch or two of bordering showed, and — a sudden stroke of light illuminating a corner previously obscured — Vergil now had the key to the puzzle. But it did not increase his pleasure. There can be too much gold.
• • •
“I should hope, ma’am,” he said, calmly, “that you understand that no simple willfulness prevents my agreeing.”
The despair ebbed from her face, and was succeeded by the slightest of flushes. “No,” she murmured. “No, no . . . after all, you have eaten my bread. You have drunk my wine.”
Something stirred in his mind. “And not only here,” he said.
“What . . . ?”
He came close, spoke so low that only the two of them could hear. “‘I, perishing with thirst, was given to drink of the waters of memory. I drank from the cymbal, I ate from the basket.’”
Memory was in her eyes, enlightenment upon her face. “ ‘You have seen the sun rise at midnight,’ then, too,” she said. “You have seen the Eleusinian mysteries. We are brother and sister, but we . . .” She looked about her, held out her slender hand, and he helped her rise.
“Not here.”
They left the oak and the almond tree and passed along the lane of cypress trees to the villa. She still held his hand, did not let it go until they were in a room of darkly gleaming wooden walls, faint and musky with the scent of the beeswax polish. Arranged upon the walls were tapestries of Draco and the Gryphons, rich in crimson and scarlet and purple and gold. She sat
upon a couch and he, upon her gesture, knelt beside it on the soft, dyed fleece.
“Now we’re alone,” she said, placing her cool fingers against his cheek. “I’m not going to speak to you from one rank to another, but as mystagogue to mystagogue. I’d like to speak to you without speech . . . ‘by the unspoken secrets of the mystic chests, the winged chariots of the dragon-ministers, the bridal descent of Proserpine, the torch-lit wanderings to find the daughter, and all the other mysteries that the shrine of Attic Eleusis shrouds in secret.’”
“Yes . . .”
So low was her voice now that she seemed almost to speak without speech. “I am a mother, too,” she said. “I, too, have a daughter, and, like Ceres, I don’t know now where my daughter is. Ceres learned from Helios, the bright, undying, unconquered sun. I would learn from the mirror, round as the sun. And even if I, too, must search the dark halls of Hell, torch-lit or in utter blackness for my daughter then let Hell itself be harrowed.”
“You don’t know the problems involved,” he said. “If the speculum can be made at all, it might well take a year to make it. And I have not the year to spare. The task which brought me here today is one which must engage me tomorrow, and for many tomorrows after tomorrow, and there are other works of labor, too, which have been too long delayed. They call to me insistently. I cannot, ma’am, I cannot, I cannot, not even for the sake of the common and holy bond between us. . . . Not even for the Mystery.”
He said, “Though much I wish I could.”
There was no trace now of the confusion and despair that had come with his previous refusal. The violet eyes were calm, and then they seemed to glow in the dim light with another and deeper emotion. She said, almost in a whisper, “There are other Mysteries besides that one. Have you been at . . .” She spoke a name, and she spoke another, and then she spoke a third.
“Yes,” he said, his own voice now but a whisper. “Yes . . . yes.” He was aware, and aware that she was aware, that his answer was assent as well as affirmation. He put his arms around her, and his lips on her lips.
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