by Rice, Anne
I nodded. I knew what he meant. I didn’t have to think over all that had befallen me, or even think back to the rude cradle of Russia where I’d been nursed. He was right.
“You will want to share this power with them all,” he said. “Learn that you cannot. Learn that with each one you make there comes a terrible obligation, and a terrible danger. Children rise against their parents, and with each blood drinker made by you you make a child that will live forever in love for you or hate. Yes, hate.”
“You needn’t say any more,” I whispered. “I know. I understand.”
We went home together, to the brightly lighted rooms of the palazzo.
I knew then what he wanted of me, that I mingle with my old friends among the boys, that I show kindness in particular to Riccardo, who blamed himself, I soon realized, for the death of those few undefended ones whom the Englishman had murdered on that fateful day.
“Pretend, and grow strong with each pretense,” he whispered in my ear. “Rather, draw close and be loving and love, without the luxury of complete honesty. For love can bridge all.”
13
In the following months, I learned more than I can ever recount here. I studied vigorously, and paid attention even to the government of the city, which I thought basically as tiresome as any government, and read voraciously the great Christian scholars, completing my time with Abelard, Duns Scotus and other thinkers whom Marius prized.
Marius also found for me a heap of Russian literature so that for the first time I could study in writing what I had only known from the songs of my uncles and my Father in the past. At first I deemed this too painful for a serious inquiry, but Marius laid down the law and wisely. The inherent value of the subject matter soon absorbed my painful recollections and a greater knowledge and understanding was the result.
All of these documents were in Church Slavonic, the written language of my childhood, and I soon fell into reading this with extraordinary ease. The Lay of Igor’s Campaigns delighted me, but I also loved the writings, translated from the Greek, of St. John Chrysostom. I also reveled in the fantastical tales of King Solomon and of the Descent of the Virgin into Hell, works which were not part of the approved New Testament but which were very evocative of the Russian soul. I read also our great chronicle, The Tale of Bygone Years. I read also Orison on the Downfall of Russia and the Tale of the Destruction of Riasan.
This exercise, the reading of my native stories, helped me to put them in perspective alongside the other learning which I acquired. In sum, it lifted them from the realm of personal dreams.
Gradually, I saw the wisdom of this. I made my reports to Marius with more enthusiasm. I asked for more of the manuscripts in Church Slavonic, and I soon had for reading the Narrative of the Pious Prince Dovmont and His Courage and The Heroic Deeds of Mercurius of Smolensk. Finally, I came to regard the works in Church Slavonic to be a pure pleasure, and I kept them for the hours after official study when I might pore over the old tales and even make up from them my own mournful songs.
I sang these sometimes to the other apprentices when they went to sleep. They thought the language very exotic, and sometimes the pure music and my sad inflection could make them cry.
Riccardo and I, meantime, became close friends again. He never asked why I was now a creature of night like the Master. I never sounded the depths of his mind. Of course I would do it if I had to for my safety and for Marius’s safety, but I used my vampiric wits to gloss him in another way, and I always found him devoted, unquestioning and loyal.
Once I asked Marius what Riccardo thought of us.
“Riccardo owes me too great a debt to question anything I do,” Marius answered, but without any haughtiness or pride.
“Then he is far better bred than I am, isn’t he? For I owe you the same debt and I question everything you say.”
“You’re a smart, devil-tongued little imp, yes,” Marius conceded with a small smile. “Riccardo was won in a card game from his drunken Father by a beastly merchant who worked him night and day. Riccardo detested his Father, which you never have. Riccardo was eight years old when I bought him for the price of a gold necklace. He’d seen the worst of men whom children don’t move to natural pity. You saw what men will do with the flesh of children for pleasure. It’s not as bad. Riccardo, unable to believe that a tender little one could move anyone to compassion, believed in nothing until I wrapped him in safety and filled him with learning, and told him in terms on which he could count that he was my prince.
“But to answer you more in the way you ask the question, Riccardo thinks that I am a magician, and that with you I’ve chosen to share my spells. He knows that you were on death’s door when I bestowed on you my secrets, and that I do not tease him or the others with this honor, but regard it rather as something of dire consequence. He doesn’t seek after our knowledge. And will defend us with his life.”
I accepted this. I didn’t have the need in me to confide in Riccardo as I had with Bianca.
“I feel the need to protect him,” I said to my Master. “Pray he should never have to protect me.”
“So I feel also,” said Marius. “I feel this for them all. God granted your Englishman a great mercy that he was not alive when I came home to find my little ones slain by him. I don’t know what I would have done. That he had injured you was bad enough. That he had laid out two child sacrifices at my door to his pride and bitterness, this was even more despicable. You had made love to him, and you could fight him. But they were innocents who stood in his path.”
I nodded. “What did happen to his remains?” I asked.
“Such a simple thing,” he said with a shrug. “Why do you want to know? I can be superstitious too. I broke him into fragments and scattered those fragments to the wind. If the old tales are true that his shade will pine for the restoration of his body, then his soul wanders the winds.”
“Master, what will become of our shades if our bodies are destroyed?”
“God only knows, Amadeo. I despair of knowing. I have lived too long to think of destroying myself. My fate is perhaps the same fate of the whole physical world. That we could have come from nothing and return to nothing, this is entirely possible. But let us enjoy our illusions of immortality, as mortals enjoy theirs.”
Good enough.
My Master was absent from the palazzo twice, when he went on those mysterious journeys which he wouldn’t explain to me any more now than he had before.
I hated these absences, but I knew that they were tests of my new powers. I had to rule within the house gently and unobtrusively, and I had to hunt on my own and make some account, upon Marius’s return, of what I had done with my leisure time.
After the second journey, he came home weary and uncommonly sad. He said, as he had said once before, that “Those Who Must Be Kept” seemed to be at peace.
“I hate it what these creatures are!” I said.
“No, never say such a thing to me, Amadeo!” he burst out. In a flash I’d seen him more angry and uncomposed than ever in our lives. I’m not sure I’d ever seen him really angry in our lives.
He approached me and I shrank back, actually afraid. But by the time he struck me, hard across the face, he’d recovered himself, and it was just the usual brain-jarring blow.
I accepted it, and then threw him one exasperated searing glance. “You act like a child,” I said, “a child playing Master, and so I must master my feelings and put up with this.”
Of course it took all my reserves to say this, especially when my head was swimming, and I made my face such an obdurate mask of contempt that suddenly he burst out laughing.
I started to laugh too.
“But really, Marius,” I said, feeling very cheeky, “what are these creatures you speak of?” I made my wisdom nice and reverent. My question was, after all, sincere. “You come home miserable, Sir. You know you do. So what are they, and why must they be kept?”
“Amadeo, don’t ask me anymore. Sometimes
just before morning, when my fears are at their worst, I imagine that we have enemies among the blood drinkers, and they’re close.”
“Others? As strong as you?”
“No, those who have come in past years are never as strong as me, and that is why they’re gone.”
I was enthralled. He had hinted at this before, that he kept our territory clean of others, but he wouldn’t elaborate, and now he seemed softened up with unhappiness and willing to talk.
“But I imagine that there are others, and that they’ll come to disturb our peace. They won’t have a good reason. They never do. They’ll want to hunt the Veneto, or they will have formed some willful little battalion, and they’ll try to destroy us out of sheer sport. I imagine … but the point is, my child—and you are my child, smart one!—I don’t tell you any more about the ancient mysteries than you need to know. That way, no one can pick your apprentice mind for its deepest secrets, either with your cooperation or without your knowledge, or against your will.”
“If we have a history worth knowing, Sir, then you should tell me. What ancient mysteries? You wall me up with books on human history. You’ve made me learn Greek, and even this miserable Egyptian script which no one else knows, and you question me all the time on the fate of ancient Rome and ancient Athens, and the battles of every Crusade ever sent from our shores to the Holy Land. But what of us?”
“Always here,” he said, “I told you. Ancient as mankind itself. Always here, and always a few, and always warring and best when alone and needing the love only of one other or two at most. That’s the history, plain and simple. I will expect you to write it out for me in all five languages you now know.”
He sat down on the bed, disgruntled, letting his muddy boot dig into the satin. He fell back on the pillows. He was really raw and strange and seemingly young.
“Marius, come on now,” I coaxed. I was at the desk. “What ancient mysteries? What are Those Who Must Be Kept?”
“Go dig into our dungeons, child,” he said, lacing his voice with sarcasm. “Find the statues there I have from so-called pagan days. You’ll find things as useful as Those Who Must Be Kept. Leave me alone. I’ll tell you some night, but for now, I give you what counts. In my absence you were supposed to study Tell me now what you learnt.”
He had in fact demanded that I learn all of Aristotle, not from the manuscripts which were common currency in the piazza, but from an old text of his own which he said was purer Greek. I’d read it all.
“Aristotle,” I said. “And St. Thomas Aquinas. Ah, well, great systems give comfort, and when we feel ourselves slipping into despair, we should devise great schemes of the nothing around us, and then we will not slip but hang on a scaffold of our making, as meaningless as nothing, but too detailed to be so easily dismissed.”
“Well done,” he said with an eloquent sigh. “Maybe some night in the far distant future, you’ll take a more hopeful approach, but as you seem as animated and full of happiness as you can be, why should I complain?”
“We must come from somewhere,” I said, pushing the other point.
He was too crestfallen to answer.
Finally, he rallied, climbing up off the pillows and coming towards me. “Let’s go out. Let’s find Bianca, and dress her up as a man for a while. Bring your finest. She needs to be freed of those rooms for a spell.”
“Sir, this may come as a rude shock to you, but Bianca, like many women, already has that habit. In the guise of a boy, she slips out all the time to make the rounds of the city.”
“Yes, but not in our company,” he said. “We shall show her the worst places!” He made a dramatic comical face. “Come on.”
I was excited.
As soon as we told the little plan to her, she was excited too.
We came bursting in with an armful of fine clothes, and she immediately slipped away with us to get dressed.
“What have you brought me? Oh, I’m to be Amadeo tonight, splendid,” she said. She shut the doors on her company, who as usual carried on without her, several men singing around the Virginal and others arguing heatedly over their dice.
She stripped off her clothes and stepped out of them, naked as Venus from the sea. We both dressed her in blue leggings and tunic and doublet. I pulled her belt tight, and Marius caught her hair up in a soft velvet hat.
“You’re the prettiest boy in the Veneto,” he said stepping back. “Something tells me I’ll have to protect you with our life.”
“Are you really going to take me to the worst haunts? I want to see dangerous places!” She threw up her arms. “Give me my stiletto. You don’t expect me to go unarmed.”
“I have all the proper weapons for you,” Marius said. He had brought a sword with a beautiful diamond-studded diagonal belt which he clasped at her hip. “Try to draw this. It’s no dancing rapier. It’s a war sword. Come on.”
She took the handle with both hands and brought it forth in a wide sure sweep. “I wish I had an enemy,” she cried out, “who was ready to die.”
I looked at Marius. He looked at me. No, she couldn’t be one of us.
“That would be too selfish,” he whispered in my ear.
I couldn’t help but wonder, if I had not been dying after my fight with the Englishman, if the sweating sickness had not taken me over, would he have ever made me a vampire?
The three of us hurried down the stone steps to the quay. There was our canopied gondola waiting. Marius gave the address.
“Are you sure you want to go there, Master?” asked the gondolier, shocked because he knew the district where the worst of the foreign seamen congregated and drank and fought.
“Most sure of it,” he said.
As we moved off in the black waters, I put my arm around tender Bianca. Leaning back on the cushions, I felt invulnerable, immortal, certain that nothing would ever defeat me or Marius, and in our care Bianca would always be safe.
How very wrong I was.
Nine months perhaps we had together after our trip to Kiev. Nine or maybe ten, I cannot mark the climax by any exterior event. Let me say only, before I proceed to bloody disaster, that Bianca was always with us in those last months. When we were not spying upon the carousers, we were in our house, where Marius painted her portraits, devising her as this or that goddess, as the Biblical Judith with the head of the Florentine for her Holofernes, or as the Virgin Mary staring rapt at a tiny Christ child, as perfectly rendered by Marius as any image he ever made.
Those pictures—perhaps some of them endure to this very day.
One night, when all slept except for the three of us, Bianca, about to give up on a couch as Marius painted, sighed and said, “I like your company too much. I don’t ever want to go home.”
Would that she had loved us less. Would that she had not been there on the fatal evening in 1499, just before the turn of the century, when the High Renaissance was in its glory, ever to be celebrated by artists and historians, would that she had been safe when our world went up in flames.
14
If you’ve read The Vampire Lestat you know what happened, for I showed it all to Lestat in visions two hundred years ago. Lestat set down in writing the images I made known to him, the pain I shared with him. And though I now propose to relive these horrors, to flesh out the tale in my own words, there are points where I cannot improve on his words, and may from time to time freely call them up.
It began suddenly. I awoke to find that Marius had lifted back the gilded cover of the sarcophagus. A torch blazed behind him on the wall.
“Hurry, Amadeo, they’re here. They mean to burn our house.”
“Who, Master? And why?”
He snatched me from the shining coffin box, and I rushed after him up the decaying stairs to the first floor of the ruined dwelling.
He wore his red cape and hood, and he moved so fast it took all my power to keep up with him.
“Is it Those Who Must Be Kept?” I asked. He slung his arm around me, and off we went to the r
ooftop of our own palazzo.
“No, child, it’s a pack of foolish blood drinkers, bent on destroying all the work I’ve done. Bianca is there, at their mercy, and the boys too.”
We entered by the roof doors and went down the marble steps. Smoke rose from the lower floors.
“Master, the boys, they’re screaming!” I shouted.
Bianca came running to the foot of the stairs far below.
“Marius! Marius, they are demons. Use your magic!” she cried out, her hair streaming from the couch, her garments undone. “Marius!” Her wail echoed up the three floors of the palazzo.
“Dear God, the rooms are everywhere on fire!” I cried out. “We must have water to put this out. Master, the paintings!”
Marius dropped down over the railing and appeared, suddenly below, at her side. As I ran to join him, I saw a crowd of black-robed figures close in on him, and to my horror, try to set his clothes afire with the torches they brandished, as they gave forth horrid shrieks and hissed curses from beneath their hoods.
From everywhere these demons came. The cries of the mortal apprentices were terrible.
Marius knocked his assailants away, turning his arm in a great arc, the torches rolling on the marble floor. He closed his cloak about Bianca.
“They mean to kill us!” she screamed. “They mean to burn us, Marius, they’ve slaughtered the boys, and others they’ve taken prisoner!”
Suddenly more of the black figures came running before the first attackers could climb to their feet. I saw what they were. All had the same white faces and hands as we had; all possessed the magic blood.
They were creatures such as we!
Again, Marius was attacked, only to fling off all of them. The tapestries of the great hall were ignited. Dark odoriferous smoke belched forth from the adjacent rooms. Smoke filled the stairwell above. An infernal flickering light suddenly made the place as bright as day.
I pitched myself into battle with the demons, finding them amazingly weak. And picking up one of their torches I rushed at them, driving them back, away from me, just as the Master did.