Pandora - By Anne Rice Page 0,39

grew angry, frustrated.

The merchant put out his hand in warning, as if to control the man.

“What the hell happened to your leg?” I asked. “How did you lose it? Who made you this glorious replacement?”

Lowering his voice to an angry yet eloquent whisper, the slave declared slowly and patiently:

“I lost it in a boar hunt, with my Roman Master. He saved my life. We hunted often. It was on Pentelikon, the mountain . . . ”

“I know where Pentelikon is, thank you,” I said.

His facial expressions were elegant. He was utterly confused. He licked his parched lips and said:

“Just make this merchant fetch the parchment and the ink.” He spoke his Latin with such beauty, the beauty of an actor or rhetorician, yet with no effort. “I’ll write the Amores of Ovid from memory for you,” he said, gently pleading through clenched teeth, which is no mean feat. “And then I’ll copy out all of Xenophon’s history of the Persians for you, if you have the time, in Greek, of course! My Master treated me like a son; I fought with him, studied with him, learned with him. I wrote his letters for him. His education I made my education because he wanted it so.”

“Ah,” I said in proud relief.

He looked the full gentleman now, angered, caught in impossible circumstance yet dignified, and reasoning with just enough spirit to strengthen his own soul.

“And in bed? Can you do it in bed?” I asked. I can’t say what rage or desperation prompted this question.

He was genuinely shocked. Good sign. His eyes really widened. He furrowed his brow.

Meantime the slave trader emerged with the table, stool, parchment, ink, and set it all down on the hot cobblestones.

“Here, write,” he said to the slave. “Make letters for this woman. Add stuns. Or I’ll kill you and sell your leg.”

I broke again into helpless laughing. I looked at the slave, who still stood dazed. He broke away from my gaze to cast a disdainful look on the merchant.

“Are you safe around the slave girls?” I said patronizingly. “Are you a lover of boys?”

“I am completely trustworthy!” the slave said. “I am not capable of crimes for any Master.”

“And what if I desire you in my bed? I’m the Mistress of the house, twice widowed and on my own, and I am Roman.”

His face darkened. I couldn’t name the emotions that seemed to pass over his expression, the sadness, indecision, confusion and ultimate perplexity that transformed him.

“Well?” I asked.

“Let’s put it this way, Madam. You would be much more pleased with my recitation of Ovid than with any attempted enactment of his verses by me.”

“You like boys,” I said with a nod.

“I was a born a slave, Madam. I made do with boys. I know nothing else. And I need neither.” His face was crimson now, and he had lowered his eyes.

Lovely Athenian modesty.

I gestured for him to sit down.

This he did with amazing simplicity and grace, considering the circumstances: the heat, the dirt, crowds, the fragile stool and the wobbling table.

He picked up the pen and quickly wrote in flawless Greek, “Have I foolishly offended this great lady of learning and exceptional patience? Have I brought about, through rashness, my own doom?” He wrote on in Latin, “Does Lucretius tell us the truth when he says that death is nothing to fear?” He thought for a moment, and then he wrote in Greek again, “Are Virgil and Horace really equal to our great poets? Do the Romans truly believe this, or only hope it is true, knowing their achievements shine in other arts?”

I read this all very thoughtfully, smiling most agreeably. I had fallen in love with him. I looked at his thin nose, his cleft chin, and I looked into the green eyes that looked up at me.

“How did you come to this?” I asked. “A slave shop in Antioch? You’re Athenian-bred, just as you say.”

He tried to stand to answer. I pushed him to sit down.

“I can tell you nothing of that,” he said. “Only that I was much beloved by my Master, that my Master died in his bed with his family around him. And that here I am.”

“Why didn’t he set you free in his will?”

“He did, Madam, and with means.”

“What happened?”

“I can tell you no more.”

“Why not? Who sold you, why?”

“Madam,” he said, “please place a value upon my loyalty to a house in which I served all my life. I cannot speak more. If I become your servant, you will have the