“These are tainted,” Douban said at length. “In fact, they are spoiled to the point of being poisonous. I have no doubt that your friend succumbed before you because she is relatively small and seems rather frail, but the two of you would soon follow had you continued to consume this.”
“What? But Athena … ,” exclaimed Pandy.
“All will be explained,” Douban said. “Now, I require hot water, a small dish, and a little space. And quiet.”
Quickly, Mahfouza poured a cup of hot water from an urn nestled in a glowing pile of coals. Pandy watched as Douban pulled a few dark glass bottles from hidden pouches in the sleeves of his robes. He emptied tiny measured amounts of the oddly colored, foul-smelling contents of the jars into the dish: powders; blue, milky white, and amber liquids; seeds; crushed dried leaves. Occasionally, he would murmur an instruction to his son, or ask what the youth thought would be the next step. At last, he added some hot water and quickly mixed together a greenish-white paste. Then, opening Iole’s mouth, he coated the inside of her cheeks and her tongue with the concoction.
“Do you see what I am doing?” Douban asked his son. “Mixing this with this. Do you understand why?”
“Yes, Father,” said the youth.
Then Douban brought out a small role of white gauze.
“Knife,” he asked of Mahfouza.
“Here,” she said, fetching a petite blade.
Douban cut several strips of the gauze and dipped them into the rest of the hot water, then laid them carefully across Iole’s mouth and nose. As his son found a place to sit behind his father, Douban settled back onto a large black cushion and closed his eyes.
“So … ,” Pandy began after many moments had passed.
Douban opened his eyes.
“Is she going to be all right?” Pandy asked.
“Of course,” Douban said. Then he shook his head. “I humbly ask your forgiveness. I did not mean to keep you in suspense regarding your friend. I was simply giving in to a momentary love of the art of healing … and thinking how much I shall regret having to give it up. But of course, your friend will be perfect come sunrise. The poultice is being absorbed through the wet membranes of her cheeks and into her blood, where it will have a restorative effect, I promise you.”
“But the food?” Homer said.
“Yes,” Douban said. “Let me explain. You have left your native homeland of Greece, ruled by your own gods. You are now crossing the Arabian desert on your way to …?”
“Baghdad,” answered Pandy.
“Ah. As are we,” he said, his face falling slightly. “Oh! Be merciful! Again, forgive my rudeness: allow me to introduce my son Douban.”
The youth nodded toward Homer, who greeted him back. Then he looked at Pandy and smiled … and didn’t look away.
“Are you called Douban the Younger?” she asked. “I mean … doesn’t it get confusing?”
“At home we call him Dou-dou,” said the elder man.
At this, the youth pursed his lips and looked at the ground.
“Do not fret, my son,” said Douban. “Shortly, you shall have my name all to yourself. And my work shall become yours as the art of healing is handed to you as my father handed it to me, and his before that. It is only a little sooner than I expected.”
“I am sorry, Father,” said his son.
“I can’t bear this,” said Mahfouza, causing Pandy to look at her with curiosity.
“At any rate, Pandora,” said Douban, with a wave to calm Mahfouza. “You need to know that the rules, the gifts, the enchantments of your lands and your gods have no sway here, and what was once beneficial can often become deadly. There is still an enchantment on your pouch and should you ever return to Greece, or someplace where your gods hold power, your pouch will start producing nutritious food once again. Until that time, well, we have our own higher powers here, and they must be respected.”
“But it gave me a lot of food just a few weeks ago when I was in the Atlas Mountains,” Pandy said. “That’s not Greece!”
“Indeed,” Douban answered. “And those of us who have been hearing of your exploits were most impressed by the way you handled your uncle and captured Laziness.”
Pandy was suddenly aware that the younger Douban was again gazing at her.
“But you see,” his father continued, “Zeus banished your uncle to that high peak, forcing him to hold the heavens for eternity. Therefore, your Sky-Lord must have some sort of power trade with the other gods or spirits of that land, and the enchantments of other Greek gods would still be in effect. We have also heard of your adventures in Egypt. I am certain there must be an arrangement with those gods as well.”
Pandy thought of the enchanted rope and understood the reason it was behaving so strangely.
“But wait! Dido ate this food,” Pandy said with a sudden realization. “He’s smaller than Iole. Kinda.”
“The unclean can eat anything,” Douban said.
Dido raised his head.
“Ex-cuse me?” Pandy said, dropping her voice.
“I am sorry,” Douban said. “I did not mean to offend. It is simply custom to call a dog—”
“Father,” interrupted his son, “if I may. In this part of the world, there are those who still cling to backward thinking. Dogs are considered unclean and some of the lowest of the low.”
Dido cocked his head to one side.
“However,” the young man continued, “there are others, such as myself, who understand that dogs are wonderful and loving companions. I know my father agrees; it was simply a slip of the tongue. And your dog, if I may say so, not only looks remarkable but seems to be a wonderful animal.”
The younger Douban looked at Pandy and smiled. Pandy felt her stomach drop toward the floor.
“He is,” she answered, quickly shifting her gaze back to Iole.
“How were you able to tell this food was bad just by sniffing it?” asked Homer.
“That is a gift I have been given,” Douban said, smiling wistfully.
“He is the greatest physician in the known world!” Mahfouza exclaimed, startling everyone.
“For the moment,” Douban said sadly.
“Then why did you say you have to give it up?” Pandy asked. Then she became bolder. “And why are you, um, a prisoner?”
Again, Douban stared at her for a long time. So long that she became uncomfortable and was about to speak, when he suddenly shifted against the cushion.
“I shall tell you my story,” he said. “I think there will be much benefit for you in it. But first let me tell you, Pandora, that you are to be greatly admired. Word of your quest has reached scholarly ears far and wide; you and your friends are much discussed in the libraries, senate halls, throne rooms, and, yes, even the gambling dens. Wagers on your success or failure are placed almost every moment.”
“For or against?” asked Homer.
“The majority against, I’m afraid.”
Pandy was silent. It was so much better when she thought that her quest was a big secret almost no one knew about. Now, to find out that most of the whole world already believed she was going to fail … Suddenly she felt very, very small. Smaller than she’d ever felt in her entire, miserable life.
“I don’t seem to be saying the right things to you, do I, my dear?” Douban asked, reading Pandy’s face. “Very well, then let me tell you a tale that might be of great interest.”
“I’m sorry,” Mahfouza said, pulling a small pillow to her side. “But this story makes me so mad that if I have to hear it again, I need to hit something.”
Pandy could not imagine what it was that Douban had to say.
“The current ruler of Baghdad,” Douban began, “Prince Camaralzaman, contracted leprosy several months ago. He tried every remedy at his disposal: baths, salves, burning the affected areas, freezing, but no cure could he find. The case was so severe that at last, having heard of my skill, he sent for me. When I arrived, the prince was close to death, but by
means of various potions and herbs, cloth bandages soaked in special oils and the like, I was able to cure him completely. He was initially so grateful that he gave me wealth such as I had never known—jewels, land, fine garments, and a host of slaves to do my bidding. I told him that I was thankful for his kindness, but that I really wanted nothing more than to return home to my family. Yet the prince demanded that I remain as his personal physician; he built me a palace next to his and elevated me to a position at his court equal to that of his grand vizier.”
“What’s that?” asked Pandy.
“The vizier is the most important, most trusted, and usually the wisest of the prince’s advisers. Except in this case. The grand vizier, seeing me ensconced in my new palace and in such favor with the prince became extremely jealous and, I am convinced, began to whisper into the prince’s ear that I was secretly plotting against him. The prince held a good opinion of me for many days but finally surrendered to the slander. One day, only a few weeks ago, the prince summoned me into his presence, but he did it with none of his usual graciousness: there were no roses strewn on the path before me; no lovely women leading me on, scenting the air with perfume; no musicians playing me along. This time, I was grabbed by my arms by two huge guards and dragged from my palace and thrown at the feet of the prince. The prince then said that he was aware that I was plotting to assassinate him and that he was going have me executed the next instant. I begged for only one thing.”
“What? What!” cried Pandy, horrified and completely rapt.
“That I be allowed to return home to my family for a stay of one week and set my affairs in order, arrange my funeral, bestow some charity, and acquaint my eldest son with the books and papers that he will need in his new position. I promised that I would return by the next caravan and he could carry out his sentence.”
“No way!” shouted Homer.
“You gotta be kidding!” cried Pandy.
“He’s not,” said Mahfouza, punching the pillow.
“But you were, like, in the clear,” Homer said in disbelief. “You could have taken your family and run!”
“Your name is Homer, yes?” Douban asked.
“Yes,” said Homer.
“Well, Homer,” Douban said. “Yes, you’re right, even though the prince sent a guard into my home, I could have easily made my escape anytime I wanted to. But I gave my word. In the end, it is the only thing that is ever wholly ours, and when we speak it must be only the truth. I said I would go back and back I am going. I am bringing my son so that he may return my remains to our home.”
“Not cool,” Homer said quietly.
“Do not despair,” Douban said, smiling. “Now that you all are here, I know I have made the right decision. You see, Pandora, I believe that my death will help you.”
“Okaaay. Kind of a big leap. Not really seeing it,” Pandy said.
“While I am going back to fulfill a promise, have no fear, the prince will also be punished. I know that you are not only searching for the great Evils, but for lesser ones as well. I believe that the prince is consumed with several, four to be exact: weakness of character, gullibility, deep ingratitude, and a lack of mercy. If you will join me at the palace at the moment of my execution, you may be able to capture a few of these. Now, you must pay attention to my head when it—”
“Uh, y-y-your head?” Pandy stuttered.
“Yes, my dear. That is how it will be done. The prince is demanding my head.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Paperwork
The old official led Hera through a series of back rooms and corridors, each sumptuously designed and detailed, and each staffed with workers who whispered and gawked as the Queen of Heaven walked by. There were, Hera noticed, a curiously large number of small monkeys clothed in colorful, bejeweled vests and caps, racing to and fro—carrying papers, fetching cups of hot liquids to the workers, pushing large carts full of papers or small, white rounded stones. And, she observed, each monkey had a collar around his neck with the same fat, milky white stone at the center.
From under her hood, Hera nodded graciously to everyone as if she were bestowing a great gift simply by being in the room. Then she caught two women giggling by an urn of cooled water as she strode by. Glaring at them, she heard another man snicker as he sat hunched over sheets of papyrus, copying information from one page to another.
“Guess I’ll be checking over a lot of forms with this one,” he called out to the official who was now leading Hera down a darkened hallway.
“Sorry about it,” the official yelled over his shoulder. “Hope you didn’t have any wine-and-hummus plans after work.”
He led Hera into what was, comparatively, a plain room, large and windowless except for a row of tiny, ruby-bordered windows along the very top of one wall, letting in only a small amount of light. In the center of the room was a long table on which were placed several stacks of paper, each a few centimeters high.
“And here we are,” said the official.
Hera looked down at the piles with disdain.
“Declaration of All Powers Outside Persian Borders,” she read aloud from the heading on one page. “Purpose of Visit to Persia, Agreement of Non-Malicious Intent.”
She picked up a pile, thumbed through it, and roughly tossed it down again.
“I have to sign all of these?” she asked.
“There’s that attitude again,” said the official. “And no, of course you don’t have to sign all of these.”
“I should hope not.”
“You have to sign all of these and all of these,” said the official, pointing across the room to two monkeys moving toward them, pushing a cart twice their size, full to the brim with piles and piles of papyrus sheets, most in small bundles.
Hera opened her mouth, but the official cut her off.
“It’s so simple. You either sign all of these forms, in triplicate, which means three—count ’em, three—times, or you will be denied access into the country and all rights and privileges granted therein. You won’t get an egg, and for you there’s no way out of this building without one except a one-way express back to your country of origin. Where, I can only imagine, they miss you terribly. Moudi and Houdi …”
He pointed at the monkeys, who jumped up and down and clapped their hands.
“… will be watching just to make certain you don’t miss anything. And if you leave, that’s it. At a later time, if you decide you do want to behave, you’d have to go back and wait in that long line again. No cuts.”
The man’s tone was almost more than Hera could bear. She desperately wanted to be furious, and for a moment she was until she was distracted by something the man had only glossed over.
“Egg?” Hera said, glancing at the collar around one monkey’s neck.
The official looked at her as if she were crazy.
“Of course,” he said, then he paused. “Didn’t you see all of the others walking away with shiny white objects when they left? Didn’t you pay any attention when you were standing in line? Oh, that’s right. You were so excited to be here that you fell asleep.”
“Yes,” Hera said slowly, her teeth clenched. If only she had this man in her clutches back in Greece. “Yes, I am sorry about that, I feel as if I have been waiting in line such a very long time.”
“Time is irrelevant here,” the official cut in. “Very much, I believe, like your underworld. You may have been here only several ticks of a sundial. Or you might have been here for weeks. You were sleeping, you know.”
“Yes, and again, I do so apologize, but what does an egg have to do with—?”
“An egg?” he said loudly. “Not just an egg. My word, you really didn’t do your homework, did you? Every immortal visitor must, at all times, be in possession of a roc’s egg.”
“What’s a roc?”
“What … whaaaa … what’s a roc? Do you know anything?”
“How to turn you into an oil lamp,” Hera thought.
“A roc i
s the most sacred of all our birds, and an unborn roc, still in its egg, is the most powerful creature in Persia, able to bestow abilities great and small on whoever possesses one. The unborn roc has two functions. One, it is the source of a visiting immortal’s powers while in Persia; or, in other words, it will allow you to use your powers while you are here. And two, it is the master of all genies. You have heard of genies, yes? Well, I can’t imagine you actually have, since you seem to know so little about Persia, but our main group of immortal beings is made up of genies and peris, or female genies. An unborn roc has one or several of these in his service. Yes, a genie or peri may be enslaved to a human, if a human is lucky enough to capture one that is being punished and is condemned to a ring or a lamp or a slipper or a chair or some such. But the unborn roc is the ultimate source of their powers, it is their ‘god’ if you will, and the death of a roc means disaster. This is why the egg must be guarded so closely by visiting immortals, and why it must be surrendered upon leaving.”
Hera noticed the monkeys, now sitting on top of the table, picking things off each other.
“You give an egg to a monkey?”
“You mind dropping the snide tone?” said the official. “You know I have half a mind to kick you out right now. We’re a tolerant and hospitable land, but you’re just a pill.”
“I am … sorry,” Hera squeezed out. “I was only wondering.”
“The monkeys you see all around are disobedient genies or peris. They either defied their human masters or, worse, defied their roc. One of the alternative punishments to being pent up in a lamp or a ring is that the roc sends them here to the Bureau, changed into animal form, very mortal I might add, which is rather debasing for them, and they are forced to do odd jobs and busy work until they finish off their punishment. The eggs around their necks are a constant reminder. And the unborn roc can communicate without words, so they are continually providing guidance. When the genies or peris have been properly rehabilitated, we take the collar off, they are restored to immortal form, and everything is back to normal.”
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