Pandora - By Anne Rice Page 0,50

asked. “To yield is not to abandon. It is to honor. I speak of a prudent life; I speak of listening to the wisdom of our bodies. I speak of the ultimate intelligence of kindness, and enjoyment. And if you will know, Lucretius didn’t teach me as much as one might think. He was always too dry for me, you know. I learned to embrace the glory of life from poets like Ovid.”

The crowd of boys cheered.

“I learnt from Ovid” came shout after shout.

“Well, that’s fine, but remember your manners as well as your lessons,” I said firmly.

More cheering. Then the young men began tossing out verses from Ovid’s Metamorphoses.

“That’s splendid,” I declared “How many here? Fifteen. Why don’t you come to my house for a supper?” I asked. “Five nights from now, all of you. I need the time to prepare. I have many books I want to show you. I promise you, I will show you what a delicious feast can do for the soul!”

My invitation was accepted with amusement and laughter. I disclosed the location of my house.

“I am a widow. My name is Pandora. I invite you with all propriety, and the feast awaits you. Don’t expect dancing boys and girls, for you will not find them under my roof. Expect delicious food. Expect poetry. Which of you can sing the verses of Homer? Truly sing them? Which of you sings them now from memory for pleasure!”

Laughter, conviviality. Victory. It seemed everybody could do this, and welcomed the opportunity. Someone made a soft mention of another Roman woman who would be most jealous when she discovered she had competition in Antioch.

“Nonsense,” said another, “her table is overcrowded Lady, may I kiss your hand?”

“You must tell me who she is,” I said. “I’ll welcome her. I want to know her, and what I can learn from her.”

The Teacher was smiling. I slipped him some money.

It was getting dusk. I sighed. Look. The rising stars of the tinted evening that precedes blackness.

I received the boys’ chaste kisses and confirmed our feast.

But something had changed. It was as quick as the opening of one’s eyes. Ah, painted eyes, no.

Perhaps it was only the awful pall of twilight.

I felt a shudder. It is I who summoned you. Who spoke those words? Beware, for you would be stolen from me now and I will not have it.

I was dumbstruck. I held the teacher’s hand warmly. He talked about moderation in living. “Look at my plain tunic,” he said. “These boys have so much money, they can destroy themselves.”

The boys protested.

But this was dim to me. I tried to listen. My eyes roved. Whence came that voice! Who spoke those words! Who summoned me and who would attempt the theft?

Then to my silent astonishment I saw a man, his head covered by his toga, watching me. I knew him immediately, by his forehead and his eyes. I recognized his walk now as he moved steadily away.

This was my brother, the youngest, Lucius, the one I despised. It had to be him. And behold the sly manner in which he fled from notice into the shadows.

I knew the whole person. Lucius. He waited at the end of the long portico.

I couldn’t move, and it was getting dark. All the merchants who are open only in the day were gone. The taverns were putting out their lanterns or torches. One bookseller remained open, with great displays of books under the lamps above.

Lucius—my much detested youngest brother—not coming to welcome me with tears but gliding in the shadows of the portico. Why?

I feared I knew.

Meantime, the boys were begging me to go to the nearby wine garden with them, a lovely place. They were fighting over who would pay for my supper there.

Think, Pandora. This sweet little invitation is some keen test of the degree of my daring and freedom. And I should not go to a common tavern with the boys! But within moments I would be alone.

The Forum grew quiet. The fires blazed before the Temples. But there were great spaces of darkness. The man in the toga waited.

“No, I must be off now,” I said. Desperately I thought, what I shall I do for a torchbearer? Dare I ask these youths to see me home? I could see their slaves waiting about, some already lighting their torches or lanterns.

Singing came from the Temple of Isis. It was I who summoned you. Beware . . . for me and my purpose!

“This is madness,” I muttered, waving goodnight