by Anne Rice
mind.
These creatures had no names for me. They might have come from any verse in Ovid, or from the writing of Lucretius, or indeed from the blind poet, Homer. It was no matter to me. I lost myself in depicting uplifted arms and graceful throats, in painting oval faces and garments blowing gently in the breeze.
One wall I divided with painted columns, and around these I painted vines. Another wall, I worked with stiff borders of stylized greenery. Arid the third wall I allotted into small panels in which I would feature various gods.
Meantime, the house grew crowded with the ever noisy party, and some of my favorite drunkards drifted inevitably into the library and watched me at work.
I knew enough to slow my pace somewhat so as not to scare them with my unnatural speed. But otherwise, I took no notice, and only when one of the lyre players came in to sing for me did I realize how mad the house must seem.
For there were people dining and drinking everywhere now, and the master of the house in his long tunic stood painting a wall, the proper work for craftsmen or artists, not Patricians you understand, and there seemed no decent boundary of any kind.
I began to laugh at the absurdity of it.
One of the young guests marveled at my talent.
"Marius, you never told us. We never imagined."
"Neither did I," I said dully, going on with my work, watching the white paint disappear beneath my brush.
For months I went on with my painting, even moving into the banquet
room where the guests cheered me on as I worked. Whatever I accomplished it did not please me and it certainly did not amaze them.
They thought it amusing and eccentric that a rich man should decorate his own walls. And all the drunken advice I received did not amount to very much. The learned men knew the mythic tales I depicted and they enjoyed diem, and the young men tried to get me in arguments which I refused.
It was the spacious garden I loved to paint above all, with no painted frame to set it apart from our world with its dancing figures and bending laurels. It was the familiar garden. For I imagined that I Could escape into it with my mind.
And during that time I did not risk attending to the chapel. Rather I painted all the rooms of my house.
Meantime, the old gods whom I painted were fast disappearing from the Temples of Rome.
At some point or other, Constantine had made Christianity the legal religion of the Empire, and now it was the pagans who couldn't worship as they chose.
I don't think Constantine himself was ever in favor of forcing
anybody in religious matters. But that's what had come about.
So I painted poor old Bacchus, the god of wine, with his cheerful followers, and the brilliant Apollo chasing the desperate and lovely Daphne who turned into a laurel tree rather than allow the godly rape.
On and on I worked, happy with mortal company, thinking, Mael and Avicus, please do not search my mind for secrets.
But in truth all during this time I could hear them very near me. My mortal banquet parties puzzled them and frightened them. I could hear them approach my house and then go away every night.
Finally the inevitable night came.
They stood at my gate.
Mael was for coming in without permission, and Avicus kept him back, begging me with the Mind Gift to admit them once more.
I was in my library, painting it over for the third time, and the
dinner party that night, thank the gods, had not spilled over into the
room.
I put down my brush. I stared at my unfinished work. It seemed another Pandora had emerged in the unfinished Daphne and it struck a tragic chord in my heart that Daphne had eluded her lover. What a fool I'd been to escape mine.
But for a long self-indulgent moment I looked at what I had painted—this unearthly creature with her rippling brown hair.
You understood my soul, I thought, and now others are coming only to sack my heart of all its riches. What am I to do? We argued, yes, you and I, but it was with loving respect, was it not? I cannot endure without you. Please come to me, from wherever you are.
But there was no time for my solitude. It suddenly seemed rather precious, no matter how much of it I had had in the past years.
I closed off my happy human guests from the library, and then silently, I told the blood drinkers that they might come in.
Both were richly dressed, and their swords and daggers were encrusted with jewels. Their cloaks were fixed at the shoulder with rich clasps and even their sandals were ornamented. They might have been preparing to join the opulently clad citizens of the new capital, Constantinople, where great dreams were still being realized though Constantine was now dead.
It was with mixed feelings that I gestured for them to sit down.
However much I wished that I had allowed Mael to perish, I was drawn to Avicus—to his keen expression and the friendly way in which he regarded me. I had time to observe now that his skin was a lighter brown than it had been, and that its dark tone gave a rather sculpted quality to his strong features, especially his mouth- As for his eyes they were clear and held no cunning or lie.
Both remained standing. They looked anxiously in the direction of the mortal banquet room. Once again, I urged them to be seated.
Mael stood, quite literally looking down his hawk nose at me, but Avicus took the chair.
Mael was still weak and his body emaciated. Quite obviously, it would take many nights of drinking from his victims before the
damage done him would be completely healed.
"How have things been with you?" I asked, out of courtesy.
And then out of private desperation I let my mind envision Pandora.
I let my mind completely recall her in all her splendid details. I hoped thereby to send the message of her to both of them, so that she, wherever she was, might receive this message somehow, a message which I, on account of the blood I had given her in her making, could not send on my own.
I don't know that either received any impression of my lost love.
Avicus answered my question politely but Mael said not one word.
"Things are better for us," said Avicus. "Mael heals well."
"I want to tell you certain things," I commenced without asking whether or not they wanted such knowledge. "I don't believe from what happened that either of you know your own strength. I know from my own experience that power increases with age, as I am now more agile and strong than I was when I was made. You too are quite strong, and this incident with the drunken mortals need not have ever taken place. YOU could have gone up the wall when you were surrounded." "Oh, leave off with this!" said Mael suddenly.
I was aghast at this rudeness. I merely shrugged.
"I saw things," said Mael in a small hard voice, as though the confidential manner of it would make his words all the more important. "I things when I drank from you which you could not prevent me from seeing. I saw a Queen upon a throne."
I sighed.
His tone was not as venomous as it had been before. He wanted the
truth and knew he could not get it by hostile means.
As for me I was so fearful that I dared riot move or speak. Naturally I was defeated by this news from him, dreadfully defeated, and I didn't know what chance I had of preventing everything from becoming known. I stared at my paintings. I wished I had painted a better garden. I might have mentally transported myself into a garden. Vaguely I came to thinking, But you have a beautiful garden right outside through the doors.
"Will you not tell me what you found in Egypt?" Mael asked. "I biow that you went there. I know that the God of the Grove wanted to send you there. Will you not have that much mercy as to tell me what you found? "
''And why would I have mercy?" I asked politely. "Even if I had found miracles or mysteries in Egypt. Why would I tell you? You won't even be seated under my roof like a proper guest. What is there between us? Hatred and miracles?" I stopped. I had beco
me too heated. It was anger. It was weakness. You know my theme.
At this, he took a chair beside Avicus and he stared before him as he had done on that night when he told me how he'd been made.
I saw now as I looked at him more closely that his throat was still bruised from his ordeal. As for his shoulder, his cloak covered it but I imagined it to be the same.
My eyes moved to Avicus and I was surprised to see his eyebrows knit in a strange little frown.
Suddenly he looked to Mael and he spoke.
"The fact is, Marius can't tell us what he discovered," he said, his voice calm. "And we mustn't ask him again. Marius bears some terrible burden. Marius has a secret which has to do with all of us and how long we can endure."
I was dreadfully aggrieved. I'd failed to keep my mind veiled and they had discovered all but everything. I had little hope of preventing their penetration into the sanctum itself.
I didn't know precisely what to do. I couldn't even consider things in their presence. It was too dangerous. Yes, dangerous as it was, I had an impulse to tell them all.
Mael was alarmed and excited by what Avicus had said.
"Are you certain of this?" he asked Avicus.
"Yes," Avicus answered. "Over the years my mind had grown stronger. Prompted by what I've seen of Marius, I've tested my powers. I can penetrate Marius's thoughts even when I don't want to do it. And on the night when Marius came to help us, as Marius sat beside you, as he watched you heal from your wounds as you drank from me, Marius thought of many mysteries and secrets, and though I gave you blood, I read Marius's mind."
I was too saddened by this to respond to anything said by either of them. My eyes drifted to the garden outside. I listened for the sound of the fountain. Then I sat back in my chair and looked at the various scrolls of my journal which lay about helter-skelter on my desk for anyone to pillage and read. Oh, but you've written everything in code, I thought. And then again, a clever blood drinker might decipher it. What does it all matter now?
Suddenly I felt a strong impulse to try to reason with Mael.
Once again I saw the weakness of anger. I had to put aside anger and contempt and plead with him to understand.
"This is so," I said. "In Egypt, I did find things. But you must believe me that nothing I found matters. If there is a Queen, a Mother as you call her, and mind you, I don't say she exists, imagine for the moment that she is ancient and unresponsive and can give nothing to her children any longer, that so many centuries have passed since our dim beginnings that no one with any reason understands them, and the matter is left quite literally buried for it matters not one jot."
I had admitted far more than I intended, and I looked from one to the other of them for understanding and acceptance of what I'd said.
Mael wore the astonished expression of an innocent. But the look on the face of Avicus was something else.
He studied me as if he wanted desperately to tell me many things. Indeed his eyes spoke in silence though his mind gave me nothing and then he said,
"Long centuries ago, before I was sent to Britain to take up my time in the oak as the god, I was brought before her. You remember I told you this."
"Yes," I said.
"I saw her!" He paused. It seemed quite painful for him to relive this moment. "I was humiliated before her, made to kneel, made to recite my vows. I remember hating those around me. As for her, I thought she was a statue, but now I understand the strange words that they spoke. And then when the Magic Blood was given me, I
surrendered to the miracle. I kissed her feet."
"Why have you never told me this!" begged Mael. He seemed more injured and confounded than angry or outraged.
"I told you part of it," said Avicus. "It's only now that I see it all. My existence was wretched, don't you understand?" He looked to me and then to Mael, and his tone became a little more reasonable and soft. "Mael, don't you see?" he asked. "Marius is trying to tell you. This path in the past is a path of pain!"
"But who is she and what is she?" Mael demanded. In that fatal instant my mind was decided. Anger did move me and perhaps in the wrong way.
"She is the first of us," I said in quiet fury. "That is the old tale. She and her consort or King, they are the Divine Parents. There's no more to it than that."
"And you saw them," Mael said, as if nothing could make him pause in his relentless questioning.
"They exist; they are-safe," I said. "Listen to what Avicus tells you. What was Avicus told? "
Avicus was desperately trying to remember. He was searching so far back that he was discovering his own age. At last he spoke in the same respectful and polite voice as before.
"Both of them contain the seed from which we all spring!" he answered. "They cannot be destroyed on that account for if they were, we would die with them. Ah, don't you see?" He looked at Mael. "I know now the cause of the Terrible Fire. Someone seeking to destroy us burnt them or placed them in the sun."
I was utterly defeated. He had revealed one of the most precious secrets. Would he know the other? I sat in sullen silence.
He rose from the chair and began to walk about the room, incensed by his memories,
"How long did they remain in the fire? Or was it only one day's
passage in the desert sand?" He turned to me. "They were white as marble when I saw them. 'This is the Divine Mother,' they said to me. My lips touched her foot. The priest pressed his heel to the back of rny neck. When the Terrible Fire came I had been so long in the oak I remembered nothing. I had deliberately slain my memory. I had slain all sense of time. I lived for the monthly blood sacrifice and the yearly Sanhaim. I starved and dreamed as I'd been commanded to do. My life was in rising at Sanhaim to judge the wicked, to look into the hearts of
those who were accused and pronounce on their guilt or innocence.
"But now I remember. I remember the sight of them—the Mother and the Father—for I saw both of them before they pressed my lips to her feet. How cold she was. How awful it was. And I was unwilling. I was so filled with anger and fear. And it was a brave man's fear."
I winced at his last words. I knew what he meant. What must a brave general feel when he knows the battle has gone against him and nothing remains but death? Mael looked up at Avicus with a face full of sorrow and sympathy.
But Avicus was not finished. On he went with his walking, seeing nothing before him but memory, his thick black hair falling forward as he dipped his head under the weight of memories he bore.
His black eyes were lustrous in the light of the many lamps. But his expression was his finest feature.
"Was it the sun, or was it a Terrible Fire?" he asked. "Did someone try to burn them? Did someone believe such a thing could be done? (Oh, it's so simple. I should have remembered. But memory is desperate to leave us. Memory knows that we cannot endure its company.
Memory would reduce us to fools. Ah, listen to old mortals when they have nothing but memories of childhood. How they go on mistaking those around them for persons long dead, and no one listens. How often I have eavesdropped on them in their misery. How often I have wondered at their long uninterrupted conversations with ghosts in empty rooms."
Still I said nothing.
But he looked at me at last, and asked rne:
"You saw them, the King and Queen. You know where they are?"
I waited a long moment before answering. I spoke simply when I answered.
"I saw them, yes. And you must trust rne that they are safe. And that you don't want to know where they are." I studied both of them. "If you were to know, then perhaps some night other blood drinkers could take you prisoner and wring the truth from you, and they might strive to claim the King and Queen."
Mael studied me for a long while before he responded. "We fight others who attempt to take Rome from us. You know we've done this. We force them to leave."
"I know you do," I said. "But the Christian vampires continue to come, and they come in numbers, and those
numbers grow larger all the time. They are devoted to their Devil, their Serpent, their Satan. They will come again. There will be more and more," "They mean nothing to us," said Mael disgustedly. "Why would they want this Holy Pair?"
For a moment I said nothing. Then the truth broke from me hatefully,
as though I couldn't protect them from it, nor protect myself.
"All right," I said. "Since you know so much, both of you, let me explain the following: many blood drinkers want the Mother and the Father. There are those who come from the Far East who know of them. They want the Primal Blood. They believe in its strength. It's stronger than any other blood. But the Mother and Father can move to defend themselves. Yet still thieves will always be in search of them, ready to destroy whoever keeps them in hiding. And such thieves have in the past come to me."
