Pandora - By Anne Rice Page 0,69

denial.

Suddenly there was a little ruckus and Flavius, much out of breath and red in the face, was admitted to the room. He had my sandals. He took one look at me and rested back against the wall in great and obvious relief.

“Come here,” I said.

He obeyed.

“Now look at these pages, read them, are they not in Latin?”

Two slaves came timidly, hastily washing my feet and fastening on my sandals. Above me Flavius looked at the pages.

“This is ancient Egyptian writing,” Flavius said. “The oldest form I’ve ever seen. This would fetch a fortune in Athens!”

“I just wrote it!” I said. I looked at the Priest, then the Priestess. “Summon your tall blond-haired friend,” I said. “Get him here. The mind reader, the one who can read the old script.”

“We can’t, Madam.” The Priest looked helplessly at the Priestess.

“Why not? Where is he? He only comes after dark, doesn’t he?” I asked.

They both nodded.

“And when he shops for books, all the books on Egypt, he does this by the light of lamps too?” I asked. I already knew the answer.

They looked at one another helplessly.

“Where does he live?”

“Madam, we do not know. Please don’t try to find him. He will be here as soon as the light fades. He cautioned us last night that you were most precious to him.”

“You don’t know where he lives.” I stood up.

“All right,” I said, I picked up the sheaf of my pages, my spectacular ancient writing.

“Your burnt one,” I said, as I walked out of the room, “your murdering blood drinker. Did he come last night? Did he leave you an offering?”

“Yes,” said the Priest. He looked humiliated. “Lady Pandora, rest and take some food.”

“Yes,” said my loyal Flavius, “you must.”

“Not a chance,” I said. Clutching the pages, I walked across the great hall to the front doors. They pleaded with me. I ignored them.

I went out into the heat of the day. Flavius followed. The Priest and Priestess pleaded with us to remain.

I scanned the enormous marketplace. The good booksellers were all grouped at the far left end of the Forum. I walked across the square.

Flavius struggled to keep up. “Madam, please, what are you going to do? You’ve lost your mind.”

“I have not and you know it,” I said. “You saw him last night!”

“Madam, wait for him at the Temple, as he asked,” Flavius said.

“Why? Why should I do that?” I asked.

The bookshops were numerous, containing manuscripts in all languages. “Egypt, Egypt!” I cried out, both in Latin and Greek. There was lots of noise, many buyers and sellers. Plato was everywhere, and Aristotle. There was a whole stack of the book of his life by Caesar Augustus, which he had completed in the years before his death.

“Egypt!” I cried out. Merchants pointed to old scrolls. Fragments.

The canopies flapped in the breeze. I looked into one room after another, at rows of slaves busily copying, slaves dipping their pens, who did not dare to look up from their work.

There were slaves outside, in the shade, writing letters dictated by humble men and women. It was all very busy.

Trunks were being brought into one shop. The owner, an elderly man, came forward.

“Marius,” I said. “I come from Marius, the tall blond one who comes to your shop only by night.”

The man said nothing.

I went into the next shop. Everything was Egyptian, not merely the scrolls rolled out for display but the fragments of painting on the walls, the chunks of plaster holding still the profile of a King or Queen, rows of little jars, figures from some long-defiled tomb. How the Egyptians loved to make those tiny wooden figures.

And there I beheld just the sort of man I sought, the true antiquarian. Only reluctantly did he look up from his book, a gray-haired man, the book a codex in modern Egyptian.

“Nothing that would interest Marius?” I asked, walking into the shop. Trunks and boxes blocked me at each turn. “You know, the tall Roman, Marius, who studies the ancient manuscripts, buys the most prized of them? You know the man I mean. Very blue eyes. Blond hair. He comes by night; you stay open for him.”

The man nodded. He glanced at Flavius and said with a lift of his eyebrows, “Quite an ivory leg there.” Cultured Greek. Excellent. “Grecian, Oriental and perfectly pale.”

“I come on Marius’s behalf,” I said.

“I save everything for him, as he asks,” said the man with a little shrug. “I sell nothing that isn’t offered first to Marius.”

“I’m