The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Revenge of the Unicorn (Seventh Letter)

by Eromel

Letter the Seventh

This is, I think, the last letter that I will attempt to write to you. I can hear no news of your situation, and what omens I can read are mixed. I hope the Doctors of the Reform in Amsterdam have not yet learned the art of intolerance from our old enemies the priests, but the wheel of fortune turns ever forward, and one must always be willing to trim one’s sails to new winds. In my imaginings I dream of you sailing to America and there establishing some academy beneath the bowers of the forests, perhaps engaging the wise and uncorrupted natives of those distant lands in fruitful dialectic and promoting the exchange of ideas and industries. Be that as it may, our Master forewarned us that our school was destined to die out, at least in the Old World, if not in all the world. It is too philosophical for the common people, to bold and viral for the learned doctors, too seemingly impious for the outward imprimatur of the Church, and too pure for the night thoughts of priests.

As for me, the succession of day and night, and the progressions of the stars were my only companions once I had been sealed within my lofty chamber, as in a crypt. The scraping of a soup bowl, a tin of water, or the appearance of a crust of bread, followed by the fearful retreat of footfalls from the abode of the sorcerer, were the periodic signs that I had been spared a death of slow starvation. But I kept track of that golden orb which, far above the reach of human tyranny, measured out the faithful return of the seasons as the hills about the city iterated between nudity and verditure. And likewise his mate, pale Selene did I mark as she waxed and waned though her appointed mansions. For, although I could barely remember what I waited for, I knew that exactitude in these matters was required, and kept the count, even after the sun had crossed the path of his lover four more times from above and below.

It was then, on an early morning when the heavenly disk was again bearing for the heights of the Crab, when I bestirred myself from the groggy intermission of my sleep. Indeed, it seemed as if I had dozed off, my unkempt head and beard resting on the worm eaten pages of a weighty tome by Agrippa. It was that very Agrippa who teaches us how to summon spirits to salubrious effect, and how to avoid the enchantments of demons, and I, perhaps having drifted into a dream, imagined that I saw standing before me an awesome specter. Seeing it I took fright, although not such fright as many might have taken at such a fell image, since, as you know, the Master had accustomed us to the concourse of spirits, teaching us which ones might be used and which ones were better left alone. Yet, the more I skryed this phantom the deeper was my perplexity, for it had manifested itself not at my summons, unless I had done so in a dream, and with increasing consternation I realized that this was no dream, but rather a veritable spirit who had appeared unbidden. The presence of an unbidden spirit is, I hardly need to remind you Telesio, a circumstance which all practicers of our art view with great distaste, for there is no guarantee as to its nature, either for good or for evil.

Thus I knew not whether it was a spirit of malice, sent to avenge me for my hubris, or one of those preternatural guardians who constantly surround us for our protection in duress. For, as you know, the fell spirits announce their presence with a sulfurous odor while the angels ride in upon clouds of frankincense and myrrh. Yet this phantom reeked of hashish, a fragrance of ambiguous moral significance, seeming to some divine and to others demonic. Beyond the olfactory sense there was little clue as to its nature, for it was draped from head to toe with a thin summer cloak and hood, moreover it was veiled. All that manifested themselves from the shadow of the hood were flickering green eyes which held me in the focus of their rays.

Since it responded to no call, however barbarous, or to any of the sigils which I drew in the air, I was reaching the end of my learning, and on the point of consulting the arcane contents of Agrippa for aid in the phantom’s identification when, unprovoked, I committed myself to a foolish action. Without taking any precautions I impulsively reached out into the midst of the vision, to see whether it was altogether an illusion or composed of some ethereal substance. To my surprise it was tangible and unyielding, and it seemed to take some offense, or at least note, of my insolent explorations.

“Are you a mortal?” I queried. Up until that moment the possibility had not occurred to me, for the chamber remained, as it had been all these lonely years, perfectly sealed save for the narrow slot which provided for the entrance of my alimentary staples and the thin crevice of the window which opened out onto a sheer drop of over a hundred feet down to the walled grounds of the keep. Indeed, the introduction of a corporal being into such an enclosure would require a far greater miracle than the appearance of any spirit, and would strain the credulity, not only of the vulgar, but of men such as ourselves.

The phantom, if such it was, made no response other than to point a slender finger towards the window. I knew not whether it wished to explain its manner of entrance or suggest to me a potential avenue of escape. I was on the point of explaining that, whatever the phantom’s powers, I was bound by the attraction of the Earth and could not fly. However, as if in answer to my yet unspoken objection the mute figure began to rip at the ancient tapestry hanging on the opposite wall, coiling and knotting it into a long rope of fabric and gesturing for me to aid it in this endeavor.

It was a plan which I myself had long contemplated without taking action. The flaw in the plan was obvious: Even if one were able to lower oneself to the grounds of the keep, one would have only succeeded in insinuating oneself between two guarded walls, trapped within musket shot of the guards. In spite of the futility of the task, I fell to my work with relish, taking pleasure in rending the mocking image of the unicorn. It was, I reasoned, a relic of a barbarous age, one which idolized women and love. To modern men such as ourselves, O Telesio, such a world seems inconceivable, even though there were learned men within living memory who were shackled to its illusions. It never seems to have occurred to them that eros, like magnetism, was simply one natural force among many, one to be used with cunning lest one be ensnared by it.

The rope completed, the phantom, if phantom it was, tied one end to the leg of my table while throwing the coiled length out of the window, then beckoned for me to follow it out of the narrow aperture of my cell. If the creature was mortal, as I suspected, it was uncommonly spry, for it quickly cleared the window and lowered itself down to the grounds of the keep. I followed, no longer caring much for my Earthly existence, and expecting arrow or shot to pierce me as I slowly lowered myself, outlined against the sheer wall in the daylight of early morning.

To my surprise I survived the descent, to discover that there was nobody about in the grounds of the keep, not even barking dogs or other animals. The veiled creature, with mortal fallibility, had no better plan than to walk out of the main gate and into the outer precincts of the palace. I followed with a reluctance which changed to awe when I saw the figure of the keep steward swinging by his neck for a cord attached to the raised grill of the portcullis. As we penetrated the residential quarters of the palace, I noticed other signs of struggle, and it seemed that many of the animals who had once grazed in the grounds of the keep had now taken up residence in the private halls of the court, dining upon delicacies which had tumbled out from serving carts onto marble floors which had now become a splendid manger for goats and swine. Moreover, unlike the keep, the palace still had human occupants, running hither and thither with large burdens which seemed to consist largely of ornaments, utensils and furniture striped from the court chambers. Yet the mysterious figure which led me further into the interior of the palace paid no attention to this tumult but led on in silence.

At last we reached the office of the Chancellor of State, the erstwhile den of Scarpiglione. Instead of the hushed diligence of a secretariat, the chamber had taken on the aspect of a festival. The long table behind which the chief minister had dictated his decrees had been turned into a trenching board from which a motley crowd was helping itself to wines, pastries, and meats from the larder with as much gusto as the animals who cavorted in the halls. Looking about I saw familiar faces, people whom I had encountered in the cellars of the donjon and whose countenance I now saw for the first time illuminated in suprateranian light. There were other who I remembered from the court and its staff, who either had not had time to make their escape or had switched their allegiances in the midst of whatever swift events had transpired this morning. Several of the men who had been liberated from the donjon were now slacking their thirst for female companionship in the embrace of women, both high born and servile, who, for the most part seemed equally glad to throw off their inhibitions in an interlude of chaos.

Amidst this revelry there was only one figure, sitting at the head of the table behind an unemptied chalice of wine, who maintained a somber demeanor. It was to this personage which my mysterious rescuer evidently wished to introduce me. The creature gestured for me to sit down to the right of the man while it took a seat to the left. I recognized him instantly as the man who had been my antagonist in the dungeon, and whose mockery I had turned to friendship only through a judicious revelation of the secret art.

“Well conjuror,” He gave as much of a smile as I thought him capable, for he seemed afflicted by melancholy. “I thought you had been sentenced to an auto de fe...but I was mistaken, and I am glad.”

“So am I!” Then I gave a laugh...the first in many years. “Tell me, what is the meaning of this...and what are you doing here...and who is this veiled person who sits beside us, by whose favor I, no conjuror but humble Isidor, gentleman of Parva, was released from the dreaded Chamber of the Unicorn.”

“I am Marcellus, President of the Commune of Parva, although I suspect neither my tenure in office nor my life will last very long. Scarpiglione has retreated to the barracks of the Free Company, and the city is at present in a state of liberty. However we expect a counter attack any moment. As you can see,” he passed his hand about the room,“we are disorganized. I am a revolutionary by avocation, and have seen many revolts against Scarpiglione...each time we have lost more of the old worthies of the city, those who could really fight. Now the people are demoralized and they think only of taking their brief moments of pleasure before being reduced, once again, to slavery.”

“But you have succeeded in taking the keep and the palace.”

“No. This revolution...unlike so many others that we so carefully planed in the past, came to us unbidden and on the wings of fate. It came as a miracle, and though one may greet miracles with thanksgiving, one cannot depend on their continued occurrence.”

“A miracle? What do you mean?” For a man with a practical and skeptical disposition Marcellus seemed to have lately acquired an unexpected gift for parabolic expression.

He knitted his brow and continued, “I can hardly credit it myself. It has to do with this woman sitting here. However her story is so bizarre that it seems to be a tale concocted by a lunatic.”

I could now see that the phantom was, as I had begun to suspect, a woman. In Parva it was by no means unusual to see a woman veiled, much as in the lands of the East. The only things which I could not account for were her ability to walk through walls and the scent of hashish, an unusual indulgence in Italy. And yet there was an explanation, of course, and one which I ought to have discerned without the offices of President Marcellus...none the less I bid him to continue. “As a reputed conjuror I am on familiar terms with lunacy, and I assure you that I won’t ridicule you no matter what you say.”

“Very well, but bear with me, for lunacies and marvels don’t improve for being concatenated together. This woman, as you see is veiled and cannot speak our language. It would appear she came from the East, and entered our city as a player upon the ‘ub.”

“The ‘ub?”

“Yes. It is like our lute, except that it is strung with sinews of the sheep, rather than the wolf. She made her way about the more obscure districts of the city, in those dark corners where Scarpiglione’s prohibition of secular music can be safely ignored. Thus she became well known as an entertainer, and started to excite people’s curiosity. Naturally inquiries were made into her background, but she remained veiled and mute, as if her secret was locked up in a castle. Sometimes hot blooded youths, eager to see if she had a fair countenance and a willing disposition, would try to provoke her to speech or attempt to rip off her veil. However she greeted such attempts, however skillful, with the brandishing of a wickedly sharp misericord. She wielded this blade in such expert fashion that she acquired a sinister reputation and all further attempts at prying her secret from her were abandoned. That much concerning her is manifest...the rest is guesswork, rumor, and perhaps fabrication.”

“Fabrication or not, I would be interested in hearing it.”

“Well, I can hardly vouch for the source. As you know Scarpiglione expelled the Jews from our city, but they occasionally come back, for they have rare goods and information which this city is in sore need of now that the decrees of the monk have isolated us even from most of Christendom. One such surreptitious traveler, an old Israelite, claimed to be able communicate with the veiled maiden through the use of an obscure dialect which he acquired in the East. She told him that she had no memories of where she came from or of her family, but for as long as she could remember she had been a dancing girl in the service of various potentates of the East. Indeed, at one time she had risen so high as to serve in the Seraglio of the Sultan in ‘Stanbool.”

“That is a high station indeed...for a dancing girl.”

“Perhaps, but it is only the beginning of a long and melancholy story. As happy as her life in the Seraglio was, it was hindered by the fact that she was mute...or at any rate could not speak in the language of the Turk.”

“Perhaps not such a great hindrance...for a dancer.”

“Ah, but there is more. She was not completely mute, but it seemed that she was obsessed with a single phrase, the only one at her command. Whenever the poor girl attempted to express herself, this phrase came out of its own accord. Moreover it was not an innocent remark, but a terrible curse that mortified all around her.”

“How ghastly! It sounds almost as if someone had afflicted her with the black arts.”

Marcellus laughed. “I suppose you might say so conjuror. I, being a skeptic, think it more likely that she had simply taken leave of her senses. At any rate the effect on her fortunes was disastrous, and she became more and more of a pariah even within the confines of the Sultan’s court.”

“A pariah?”

“Yes, and no fit concubine for the Sublime Port. Therefore the chiefs of the Sultan’s palace hit on a cunning strategy. They would give her, as a seeming gift of conciliation, to the Sultan’s chief enemy, the Shahanshah, Chief of the Safavid Order. Thus she was deported to Isfahan, and enrolled in the harem of the Lord of Persia. However this brought no amelioration of her condition. For in traveling eastward she proceeded into regions which were even more superstitious and fearful than the realms of the Ottoman. As soon as she opened her mouth and uttered the curse, she was wiped and subjected to various indignities, at last being thrown out into the street and left to fend for herself. All this on account of the guile of the Sultan, and no fault of the poor girl herself.”

“How odd! What terrible curse could this be, coming from the mouth of a lovely and innocent girl, which would make the greatest potentates of the East and all their servants tremble?”

Marcellus, for all his revolutionary bravado and skepticism looked grave, and lowered his voice,“A terrible curse indeed. Even we, here in the enlightened West have heard of the dreaded mountain, the fortress of he who, from his perch on Alamut in Hyrcania, controlled half the world by keeping a knife close to the throat of every monarch in the East. Whatever her exact words may have been, that was the specter which the girl evoked.”

I felt I needed to query him closer on this. “But surely that ancient evil has been exorcised from the face of the Earth...was not the fastness of Alamut taken in the days of the Great Khan, the better of four hundred years ago? Surely today nothing is left of it but a bogy tale to preoccupy the nights when people gather about a fire behind bolted doors, or a specter used to frighten children into their beds.”

Marcellus shrugged. “Yes, the mountain of Alamut is deserted and under perpetual watch lest the descendents of its dreaded lords return. But as for its inhabitants, even the Great Khan could not track them all down or root them out of their hidden fastnesses. Even today, for someone in the East to unwittingly make the most casual reference to the Order of Assassins would create such suspicion as to render oneself an abomination and be subjected to the shunning of all. And such was the fate which was meted out to this girl, for her lot was worse than that of a leper, denied both human contact and the necessities of life. Yet she survived, if only by the curious chance that she fell in with a band of Qalendars.”

“Qalendars? How curious that she would be taken in by those indigent dervishes. They care for nothing, neither property nor power nor women. Most unlikely traveling companions for a dancing girl!”

“Perhaps it was only the piteous attraction of outcasts for one another. I could hardly credit that a woman would take up their vows, or habit, or tonsure...for they mercilessly pierce their bodies with ornaments of iron, claiming that this brings them closer to God. Neither do they make their monasteries in any one spot, but lead a peripatetic existence. Thus they wonder through the deserts of Asia, the hair plucked from their bodies and sewn into abominably hot vestments beneath which they scorch their skin. Never the less, she seems to have joined them in their delirious wanderings for several years, passing south of Isfahan to the province of Fars and hence to the bleak coasts of Carmania, then from Kirman across the desert to Qushistan, and further north into the countries which used to be called Kawarazim and Sogdiana, but which today, after the depredations of the Khan and Timur are in such a state of disorganization that nothing certain can be said of them, or at least nothing which can be known in Europe. And it was here that they encountered those Assassins who had regrouped after being pushed out of their mountain fastness in Hyrcania.”

“Encountered? Indeed this tale strains credulity, for the Assassins are invisible to all but those of their own order.”

“Yes, it is a token of the lunacy, not the cunning, of the Qalendars that they, of all the tribes of the East, have nothing to fear from the Assassins. Indigent, half-naked, careless of their lives and addicted to hashish...to them the disciples of the mountain seem more like distant relatives than a dread specter. Knowing that the girl, from her ominous mumblings, was connected to that odious cult they profferred her to them with the innocence of a child who returns a wallet dropped by a running man, not suspecting him to be a thief!”

“And how did she fare among the fanatics?” I asked with trepidation.

“Remarkably well. For she was embraced as one long lost, and now reinstated in the secret covenant which the world fears under the name of the Hashish Assassins, but who according to their own thinking consider themselves the remnant of all that is true and worthy, but which has vanished among the human race in general. Such a secret and impoverished society had, of course, no use for a dancing girl except in so far as her profession provided a cloak for other purposes. To this end they trained her in many deadly arts, and in time she was allowed to venture forth from the secret abodes of the sect and back into the world. There she danced her way into the hearts of princes and oligarchs, extorting their loyalty and patronage for the despised cult. On one or two occasions such individuals proved truculent, and there would be a cry throughout the villa of a rich man who had been found with his throat cut, his favorite dancer vanished. In time the sect came to consider the girl a great boon and gift which had been sent to them by an anonymous benefactor in the West, for they had made, through their numerous spies, several inquiries into her origin, and had come to know much about her, some of which she herself could little suspect. Consequently, being men of honor, at least in their own eyes, they resolved to repatriate her. She was to be sent as a mute, but living, letter to he who had furnished her to them so much to their profit. Moreover she was to be sent back, not only unharmed, but enhanced by the skills which she had acquired in the East.”

“Truly, it is to the credit of those whom the world execrates under the name of ‘the Hashish Assassins’ that they return not only the principle, but interest on what has been loaned to them! And thus she arrived at Parva?”

“Indeed, although why she should have picked this city as her abode I am at a loss to say. Nor, in spite of our present situation, am I too sure of whether her coming was to our advantage. To be sure, her presence seemed to effect a change in our fortunes. Although she arrived only a few months ago, the city has undergone an ominous transformation. To begin with, Scarpiglione’s spies, the men of the Nocturnal Council, began to show up in unlikely places, in sewers, in vats of wine, or hanging from the bottom of bridges. It seemed to give the city a whole new spirit, and scarred Scarpiglione out of his wits. Recently he has shut himself up in the palace and neither he nor his servants could walk the streets safely. But it didn’t stop there. The keep started to become unlucky for the friends of Scarpiglione as well.”

“Unlucky?”

“Yes, guards and men-at-arms started to disappear, perhaps from foul play or perhaps from simple desertion. Most recent, as you have evidently seen, was the demise of the steward himself. It must have happened early this morning when somebody unbarred the keep’s gate and we all started pouring out of the donjon and proclaimed the city a free commune. The palace raised an alarm and Scarpiglione fled to the Free Company’s garrison adjacent to the municipal gates. Which is how matters stand now. In short, this maiden has become the inspiration and the symbol of the rebellion, although whether she will bring us enough fortune to ensure its success I doubt. We await Scarpiglione’s counter-attack, and perhaps massacre by his mercenaries.”

“Perhaps you should ask the woman if she has any advice for the commune, if indeed she is so lucky.”

“To reiterate, nobody knows her language, and she doesn’t seem to have acquired ours.”

“Perhaps she would find words if she were sufficiently provoked. Rumors aside...have you ever tried to rip off her veil?”

Marcellus laughed, “Conjuror! You are indeed a lamentable excuse for a gentleman. This woman is the icon of our cause. Where is your chivalry?”

“Your commune doesn’t seem to be very protective of the fairer half of humanity.” I retorted as I surveyed the impromptu orgy which had been provoked by the fall of the palace. Somebody had evidently hindered the escape of several of the high born ladies and obliged them to donate their garments and jewelry to the cause of the rebellion. While it was clear to me that in most cases this change in regime and moral standards was being greeted enthusiastically, there seemed to be occasional exceptions.

“Surely you don’t mean her?” Marcellus gestured derisively towards a lady who was receiving the attentions of two burley communards, fore and aft. It was the thin woman who had been so eager to meet out punishment to Marcellus when he had been bound in the donjon. Now she was receiving her due recompense, not through the cruel lashings of the inanimate cat but with measured strokes from the living rod. “The others joined us gladly...and besides everybody’s drunk...it will make things go easier when Scarpiglione’s mercenaries come and put us all out of our troubles. As for this veiled maiden, she is respected by all. Being a symbol of our defiance of tyranny, she is inviolate.”

“We shall see about that!” I leaned over the table and ripped the veil from her face.

Marcellus’ jaw dropped in amazement, first, at the fact that I had not wound up on the wrong end of a misericord and secondly, that he recognized the face.

“What do you think?” I gave the chief communard a knowing smile.

“It’s an amazing resemblance. Do you think it could be...?”

“No.” I shook my head in derision. “The woman who would today be the Duchess of Parva disappeared into the Adriatic. I saw it with my own eyes. But it is a remarkable resemblance is it not?”

Indeed, she bore an uncanny resemblance to Leonora. True, this woman was older and her skin perhaps a shade darker, her face was drawn and she seemed somewhat leaner than the Leonora of my memory, moreover this woman had plucked her eyebrows and sported a small ring of gold on her nostril, but otherwise there was a distinct resemblance. There were the same green eyes staring out at me, but in an impassive, mute attitude.

“They come!” One of Marcellus’ subalterns in the commune had burst in among the revelers, evidently a messenger from the front lines of the rebellion.

“Well, this is the end.” Marcellus said in bitterness, “Do you want to wait here and be slaughtered or go out to meet them?”

“Perhaps we should go out and meet them,” I ventured,“but only the three of us, tell every else to barricade themselves in the palace.”

Marcellus laughed, “Ah ha! Three against hundreds. You will conjure us to victory! Very well, we have our spectral maiden, and now we have our conjuror...it’s a well planned revolution!”

Indeed it was, although not in quite the way that the president of the commune had in mind. In a few minutes the three of us were waiting, alone, at the entrance of the palace. We could see a long line of mercenaries and militia filing up the chief avenue of Parva between Grand Piazza and outworks of the ducal residence. Scarpiglione and the Captain of the Free Company were mounted and in the lead. I whispered a few words to Marcellus which caused him to raise his eyebrows.

“It will never work. She can’t even speak!” He protested.

“Remember that I am a conjuror. Observe!” I turned to the maiden and began to intone in a lilting voice. “Always, ever, always, ever, words once known when you were young. Always ever, always, ever, Latin, French, and Lombard tongue.”

Scarpiglione and his army had reached the outworks of the palace...somewhat surprised to find that the mob they had expected to find had dispersed, leaving a delegation of only three malcontents. The monk was enjoying himself as he addressed us. “Marcellus the tailor, Isidor the sorcerer...if you beg for mercy you still have some prospect that I will make your deaths quick and with a minimum of torment.”

Before we could answer the maiden had thrown back her hood. “Why, Father Scarpiglione, do you address yourself to my subjects and not myself? Has my long absence caused you to forget the rules of etiquette? Has the term of your regency accustomed you to regard all persons as your subordinates, and to neglect the modes by which you address superiors?”

For a while the monk just sat on his horse, stunned at the sudden apparition of one thought dead. It was hard to read his face...was it surprise, gratification, fear...or perhaps suspicion...suspicion that perhaps he was in the presence of an imposter. After all, this woman wore a turban and a nose ring. But then Leonora had last been reported in the East. Could it be her?

The maiden laughed a clear, simple laugh. “Oh Father Scarpiglione, have no fear of my wrath. I have heard much of how you have ruled this Duchy of Parva in my absence and after the death of my father. Indeed you have ruled, if not with justice, most certainly with a certain flair for style which will make your regency one of the unforgettable epochs in the history of this state. As a reward, I propose to lift you up to such heights has you have not dreamed of.”

That was enough for Scarpiglione. He dismounted and kneeled before the feet of the maiden. “My lady, welcome back! You come back at a time when your unworthy servant is crushing the remains of a rebellion against your grace, therefore you took me unawares. I am most overwhelmed with joy at your safe return after so many years.”

“Rise faithful servant. For you were indeed a faithful servant of Leonora, that vain girl who sought to supplant her father on the throne of Parva...and thus became a prize in a battle of sorcerers in recompense for her hubris. But that is all over, let us settle these civil struggles with amity and friendship...let there be no court or communard, partisan of Pope or Emperor, but rather let us enjoy the peace of a city reconciled to itself. As I have dismissed the rebels, so you may now dismiss the mercenaries back to their homelands with their purses bulging from the tribute of our loyal subjects. Likewise shall I dismiss you, for now I am skilled in many arts and in no need of a regent. But do not fear, O pious Scarpiglione, that you will go unrewarded, for I have promised to elevate you to yet greater heights than those which you now occupy.”

Citizens were now pouring up the avenue from the Grand Piazza, shouting the news of the return of the princess, and those who had been within earshot applauded the sense of the woman they took to be their Duchess-elect. It looked as if there would be a tumult, no less difficult to manage on account of its joy than a riot on account of its anger, so I suggested that we retire to the interior of the palace grounds for private conclave. After Scarpiglione had made a verbal agreement with the Captain of the Free Company over the terms of their remuneration we bid him adieu and the four of us strolled into the grounds and headed for the keep.

Scarpiglione was ecstatic. It appeared that he had once again established himself with the old dynasty and been relieved of the charge of illegitimacy. He would be able, at last, to dismiss the expensive Free Company and win back the people’s hearts with the princess. Moreover it seemed that she was willing to gratify his ambitions even beyond the station of Regent-Chancellor. Since there was no higher rank within Parva it could only mean an ascent to some even greater dignity. There were rumors that the Pope was ill. Of course there was no hope for Scarpiglione in any future papal election, since he was despised by the cardinal bishops as a dangerous maniac whose very existence was damaging to the church. However there was always the possibility that if the League would revolt against the consensus of the College of Cardinals, and if he had the support of the Duchess and her peers, that Rome might be taken not by election, but by sack. After all, it had happened before. Then he would find himself ruler, not of a city, but of half the world. But even half the world was not enough, and Scarpiglione was the only one, inside or outside of Italy, with the maniacal energy to seize it in its entirety. To seize and to squeeze, to drain the globe of its sinful juices like an orange, and then to set the rind on fire in a universal holocaust. To destroy the old world and perchance to announce the coming of the New Man, but in any case, to destroy the old and that utterly!

No doubt he was thinking some such things as we bantered pleasantries and wandered through the palace grounds. Then we reached the gate of the keep and the monk took fright at the sight of the steward, hanging from the portcullis. “Do you think he has been elevated high enough?...", intoned the maiden in a sweet voice,"...I assure you Scarpiglione, you shall rise even higher.”

At the signal Marcellus and I jumped upon the monk and bound him firmly, carrying him to the base of the tower. The maiden, with miraculous strength and agility, gathered the startled ecclesiastic up on to her shoulders and started to ascent the rope of torn fabric which still hung pendant from the window of that chamber which had been my home for so many years. With awe we watched as, yard by yard, she hoisted herself and the screaming monk up the perilous side of the tower. The monk made no physical struggle, for her was a slight man and even had he overcome the maiden risked falling to his death. Rather he howled prayers and incantations, hoping to wrest away the woman’s mind. However if he had expected someone as manipulable as the ill fated jailer he was sorely disappointed, for her will remained, if not exactly her own, certainly not his. After what seemed like a remarkably short time she attained the window and squeezed herself and her burden through to the interior. The chief communard and I then hurried through the atrium of the keep and rushed up the corbelled spiral within the tower.

By the time we reached the top flight of flagstones we were greeted by a remarkable sight. The tapestry rope, together with the maiden’s cloak, hood, chemise, and misericord were being shoved outside the narrow slot through which my meals had passed in recent years, then we saw the naked limbs of a woman emerging through the aperture. She was undergoing strange contortions, like a snake wriggling out of a hole in the ground, but bit by bit she emerged, flesh uncut and bones unbroken, from the small space. It was the sort of thing that a conjuror would be expected to do, but somehow it had never occurred to me, and in that respect I paid silent homage to the Hashish Assassins who had taught this maiden several arts which were beyond my ken.

She was nearly through when suddenly a boney hand stretched out to grab her by the ankle. Scarpiglione had evidently slipped his bonds and was trying to drag his abductor back into the cell. It was one of the last, and least prudent, decisions which he was to make during the course of his earthly existence, for the maiden snatched the misericord and stabbed several times at the hand, which soon withdrew, a bloodied stump, back into the chamber accompanied by the howlings of the unwilling anchorite. Suddenly the stairwell was flooded with communards, and the woman took belated notice of her immodesty for she wore nothing but her turban, a pair of silk slippers, and a curious black girdle. As a fellow conjuror I was charmed by her appearance, which was that of an Eastern fakir and contortionist, but she dressed hurriedly as the citizens passed a bucket and some other objects which appeared to be mason’s tools up the stairs. Quickly some of them started to fit a pair of bricks into what had once served as the Chamber of the Unicorn’s only place of access, and to mortar them into place as the creature within continued his howlings.

I for one do not know whether Scarpiglione resigned himself to starvation in the chamber or whether, in a bid for freedom, he fell to his death from the window of the tower. The maiden, Marcellus and I returned to the Chancery, which had now been freed of revelers and was now being restored to its place as a place of governance.

“I must have words with you my friend.” President Marcellus had resumed his continance as a morose conspirator. He took me aside and said, “This is only the beginning. The Emperor and the League will never accept our commune.”

“What am I supposed to do about that?”

“You know that I have teased you and called you Le Bateleur, but don’t get me wrong. I know that you are a sincere philosopher, and a chaste clerk and gentleman...better than most priests. As for our commune, not only have we incurred enmity by killing a famous preacher and overthrowing our government, but our leader...” He laughed self-depreciatively, “...is the illiterate son of a tailor!”

“You expect me to lead?”

“Why not? The office of bishop is open. Also, we have the imposter. If you will take episcopal orders you will be able to rule through her the way that Scarpiglione ruled through the real Leonora. For all your eccentricities you are a good man and a skeptic like me, a safe choice for bishop. I trust you not to bring in the Holy Office, or the mercenaries, or anyone else to ‘restore order’ as they say. In return, I would promise to restrain the more radical elements in the commune...no more animals grazing in the palace halls!”

“I must think hard on this.” I replied and removed myself a way from the gathering of the communards to a place in the hall where I could look at myself in one of the ornate mirrors which had escaped the looting of the palace. It was not to look at my image, which was that of an ex-prisoner in bad need of a barber, but to use the mirror as a tool for the investigation of time and space beyond the present and the obvious. Slowly I saw my form dissolve, only to be replaced by a saturnine figure in a black robe and hood. It was Scarpiglione, looking at me and laughing me to scorn. I knew why he laughed, for this was my punishment, not before any secular or religious court, but by the hand of providence. I had destroyed Scarpiglione, and my punishment was to become all that he was in his stead. Of course, at first I would behave with justice, or at least with discretion...but in the meantime I would endure a subtle change. Nothing noticeable...after all that was unnecessary since there were already so many ways in which I was akin to Scarpiglione. Was he saturnine and melancholic? So was I. Was he vengeful and ironic? So was I. Was he a creature of spiritual pride? So was I. Was he willing to go to any length to attain his ends? So was I. Did he loath humanity in its present state of ignorance, and conspire to see it swept away so that a new age might commence? So did I! Such was the cunning of the demon, that even as its old vehicle faced its destruction, howling in a chamber of its own devising...its spirit reached out for a new dwelling place. Spirit to kindred spirit. Nay, not just kindred but merging to become one and the same. Such was the form of immortality which was being offered to me. I had only to take the bait, and none would gainsay my decision, or notice its effects.

“No.” I said after I had rejoined the chief communard.

“Well,” Marcellus commented with undisguised bitterness, “I suppose you have your reasons.”

“I do. All I ask is that you give me two horses and leave a postern gate open for the imposter and myself to escape. I hope that you are able to keep your republic. Tell everybody the truth about Leonora’s death and the end of the dynasty. I will sign an affidavit affirming the story under my old seal as Chamberlain...which should go far to make you a tyrannicide rather than a regicide. Also, take heart in this, according to the astrologers we have entered a new and fiery triplicity. There is combustion in the air and Europe is changing, although many shall fall before they see the consummation of these things.”

Marcellus honored my request, and bid me and the maiden farewell at the postern gate. By nightfall we could see the torches of Regrado. Yes, the weather and the Venetian fleet were allowing it another brief season of existence. Directly, after posting the horses, we made our way to the hut of Pietro of Umbria. He remembered us, claiming that he never forgot a face, and was glad to see that his work had stood the test of so many years.

“But this woman is still young!” Exclaimed Pietro with mirth, “Are you sure her virginity needs no more protection?”

“Strike it off!” I commanded, and with expert timing Pietro severed the links of the belt without so much as pinching the skin of the maiden. The key, of course had been lost long ago, and according to the maiden the misnamed “potentates” of the East had little time for their harem girls and were in no hurry to savor such delights as were well protected and stored up for future delectation.

This time, instead of leading the maiden naked and on a leash as I had Leonora that fateful day so long ago, we strolled out decently clothed and headed for the strand. It was a starry night and after a brief stop at the tent of the money changers I thought it was best to talk alone on the shore. As Pietro of Umbria’s handiwork had fallen from the maiden’s body, so I allowed the works of my art to fall from her mind. Now she was blinking her eyes, even though it was evening...for the glaring brightness was that of an interior sun.

I ventured to speak to her. “For seven years you were bound, mind and body, in the East.”

She gave me a kindly look, “For seven years you were bound to one spot.”

I laughed, “Only in the sense that a rider need not move from his saddle!”

“So tell me master,” she gave me a curious look, “where is a place which is good for horses?”

“Ah! I am glad you ask. Do you know that the plains of the Viceroyalty of Rio De La Plata are broader than the steppes of Russia? With as much money as I once sold a woman for in Regrado we could own a fief ten times the size of the Duchy of Parva!”

“How much was that?” She asked.

“Six hundred florins.”

She laughed, “So much? Just for one woman? I knew the harems of the East, and no woman sells for that amount. You’re a liar Isidor.”

“If you don’t believe me look! I had it on deposit with a branch of the Milanese bank here.” I tossed her the pouch of coins.

Pensively she weighed the pouch in one hand. Then, when I was off guard, she brandished the misericord and put its tip to the bottom of my neck. “Thank you for the information about the Rio De La Plata. Now here is something that you should be aware of...never entrust six hundred florins to a Hashish Assassin and expect to get them back...even, or perhaps especially, if she is a woman!”

I looked into the mocking green eyes. When I had restored her mind and will, I realized that I would be tempting providence to cancel the debts of my hubris with my life. So be it, I thought. It was a natural fate...far kinder than the temptation of taking up the thread of Scarpiglione’s destiny.

Still holding the misericord to my throat she whirled the purse like a sling shot and sent it sailing out to sea. Surely it must have hit with a splash...but one which was hidden by the constant undulations of the waves. Then she looked directly towards me and with the same mocking grin turned the misericord around, point to handle and thrust the latter into my palm. Barely stopping to think that my life had been saved from the blade of a Hashish Assassin I shouted out, “You little vixen...you’ve put me out six hundred florins!”

She laughed, “Well, why don’t you try and see if you can get the same price for me?”

“You mock me.” I scolded.

“I only mock you because you are a negligent master. You have already lost your six hundred florins and you are about to loose me. You’ve given me back my mind and my will, you’ve struck off the insurance of my virginity, I’m clothed, shod, and have a horse.”

I was full of rage, but then I repented of my thoughts and suddenly found the humor in it all. “But you forget one thing madam...I have the knife.” I held it up to her throat, but she still looked at me with her mocking grin. Then I grabbed the collar of her chemise and brought the blade of the knife downward, ripping her undergarment from her and letting her cloak fall to the ground. These tatters I threw into the surge, leaving her naked save for her turban and silk slippers. Now I could spy those tokens which had been rendered upon her body during the course of her itinerary, for on her right thigh, discrete but distinct was the crescent of the Sublime Port, while on its counterpart was the sun of Persia. Such was the extent of her branding, but she had also been endowed with jewels, for affixed to a ring pendant from her right nipple was a ruby which seemed to capture the starlight, and on the left was a similiarly mounted sapphire, while her navel cradeled a glorious opal. Who had provided her with such a dowry I could scarcely imagine, but the Assassins had allowed her, at the very least, to return unhindered with her concealed treasures.

Yet it is not in how a woman wears what she acquires but in those encumbrances which she forfeits which reveal her quality and provide the touchstone of her true worth. Now that the maiden’s midparts were no longer concealed by cruel chains, I found myself in the position of an explorer who feasts his eyes for the first time upon an uncharted forest. Noticing my ardent regard the mocking maiden continued, “Isidor, you must go back to Pietro of Umbria if you want to flaunt me as a naked dancing girl without endangering my chastity.”

“I’m afraid madam, that the time for that is too late!” I threw her down on the sand and fell upon her. “Now you will learn a different dance, a dance after which, once performed, no woman remains a maiden.”

It was at that time, Telesio, that I first truly understood the teaching of the Master. Strangely, only by relinquishing the attainment of divinity did I come to the essential realization. For after we fell apart, exhausted, we rested with our backs to the sand and for the first time I could actually see, not think but see, the world as the Master described it. The world is nobody’s onion, no god’s and certainly no man’s, rather, it is a manifold of infinite space, stretching out in all directions without boundaries. For the first time I no longer saw a ceiling studded with gems rotating over our heads, but a cosmos in which every point is equally the center. Then I knew that the greatest attainment was simply to become oneself, a man walking on the Earth, and so I resolved to make quit of all vain knowledge and aspirations, the world of scruples and sophistries, of enchantments and elixirs.

As if to read my mind she asked, “Have you given it all up...I mean, becoming a god?”

“Utterly.”

“Then I can tell you why I threw away the six hundred florins. It was not to mock you my master. But I dread the prospect of living in a palace, whether in Parva or La Plata, as much as you dread the prospect of storming the heavens. I have gotten much chastisement and scant pleasure from eunuchs, fanatical ascetics, and impotentates more keen on the hording than the use of their women. I can no longer find happiness within the silk sheets of nobility...but if I am to be a slave then grant me at least this one right, the right to be used as a slave. Therefore do not let me go, but bind me in coils of servitude stronger than any chain forged by Pietro of Umbria...and if you must lay aside your aspirations of divinity...retain at least as much of your godhead as this...that you should forever remain my god and save me from that wonton freedom which a slave cares not to know. For I love you, and that is the strongest bond of all.”

Dealing with her according to to the firmness that she required I gave her my assurances. “Do not fear little vixen, Leonora or whomever I choose to call you. As much as my philosophy accords ill with involuntary servitude, there are ample grounds for making an exception in your case. Perchance tomorrow will find you on the public block of Regrado to see if you can recoup my fortune. No, rather I think that we shall become vagabonds, a traveling conjuror and his servant. And when people tire of my prestidigitations they will greet with applause and the shower of small coins the exquisite performance of my naked dancing girl. You may lay aside all anxieties of emancipation, for the term of your indenture shall be counted out copper by copper...to the sum of six hundred florins and a passage for two to the Indies!”

And that Telesio, was the upshot of the matter. It would have gratified that brave man from Nola that one more of his spiritual sons had cut the leading strings and had no more need to call him “Master.” For I had been disgracing him in the same way that the priests disgrace the Galilean...by glorying in my discipleship rather than walking in his way. After all, discipleship and servitude must tend to the single end of mastery. This cannot be gainsaid, even though for many the task is too great in this life, and perpetual slavery be their lot. Such a one is my little imposter. Imposter she was in truth, for she could neither rule her state nor even herself. Yet on the road from Regrado to the tents of the Assassins she found that she was capable, at least, of the dignity proper to a slave. It is not reigning but reins which suit her, and thus I lead her from town to town, walking beside my horse. Therefore Telesio do not, should you by some fortuen actually receive these epistles, take the trouble to respond, for there is no place to which you might post them. Rather, think of me, with my little dancing girl in tow, being here and there and everywhere...not unlike the infinite, unbounded universe itself. After all, that’s how our teacher would have summed it all up. And as far as the great experiment which I set out to describe to you is concerned...would you not agree that it was a resounding success?

-the end-