Pandora Gets Angry (4 page)

“Maybe we could use one of theirs.”

CHAPTER FIVE
Unwanted Epithet

It had been amusing for a while, watching the other deities laugh, poke, pinch, and prod Hera as they stepped around the sleeping goddess, still slumped at the front of the line, her hip thrust sideways at an awkward angle. Each immortal chided her after their own fashion, spitting unintelligible curses or whispering snide remarks.

But now it had become tiresome to everyone. Finally, one official whose place at the counter had just opened up, held his hand high and halted Cloacina, the Roman Goddess of the Sewers, just as she was crossing the yellow line. With a glare at the official, she stepped back but not before waving the sleeves of her stinking cloak underneath Hera's nose, which caused the goddess to cough in her sleep.

“This has gone on long enough,” the official said for the benefit of everyone in the large room.

Slowly, he began to make small circles in the air with his right forefinger. Out on the floor, Hera lifted a few centimeters off the ground and began to spin lazily. Faster and faster the official twirled and faster Hera spun; just as she was becoming a blue blur, the official clenched his hand and Hera dropped to the floor, the energy of her spinning sending her sprawling across the tiny, intricate mosaic tiles.

“
Ohp!
” she cried as her eyes flew open. She lay motionless for a second, not realizing where she was.

“Next!” called the official.

All eyes went to the large mass of blue robes on the floor. Hera lifted her head, still partially covered by the hood of her cloak, and stared back, dazed.

“Is that me?”

“Yes!”

“It's you, lady.”

“Has been for a while now.”

Hera tried to pick herself up off the floor gracefully but instead stepped on a corner of her robe and everyone within earshot heard a soft
riiiiiiip.

“All right, then,” Hera said nonchalantly, lifting her robe and walking, as stately as she could, up to the counter.

The official didn't even glance up.

“I would like to—,” Hera began.

“Name?” the official cut in.

“Oh, yes, of course. Hera. Wife of—”

“Excuse me?” the official said, now gazing up at her. “What was that?”

Hera was caught off guard and did what she normally did when caught off guard: she became impatient and even more imperious.

“I
said
, ‘Hera, wife of—' ”

“Zeus?” asked the official. “King of the Gods of Greece?”

“Naturally you heard of him—and me.”

The official began to chuckle softly.

“Oh, we've heard of you,” the official said, then he called off to his left. “Haven't we, Saad?”

“Haven't we what?” Saad called back.

“Haven't we heard of Hera, wife of Zeus?”

“You're kidding?” Saad said, ignoring his own visa petitioner for a moment. “Don't tell me she's …”

“Standing right in front of me, big as life. Bigger!” said the official.

“I find it impolite to talk about—,” Hera said.

“First of all, you're gonna lose the
attitude
. Let's not forget why you're here,
Hera
. Do we know you? I should say we do, wife of Zeus. Queen of Heaven.”

The official left his stool and walked back a few paces to a wall with several portraits drawn on papyrus sheets hanging on it. Never taking his eyes off of her, he tapped at a decidedly unflattering charcoal sketch of Hera hanging in between a sketch of Loki, the Norse trickster, and the Hindu goddess Kali, the murderous destroyer.

“Chosen One,” he continued as he moved back to the counter, rattling off Hera's other nicknames in a voice that sounded as if he had crushed, dried leaves in the back of his throat. “Cow-eyed, Big-eyed, Peacock Lady, Pea-brain,
Bird-brain
.”

“No one would venture to call me that! How do you dare … ,” Hera cried.

“No attitude! Now, around here, we have another name for you. Can you read what it says underneath your picture? No? I'll tell you. It says: ‘
WARNING!
Hera aka Queen of the Gods, wanted in Egypt for questioning in connection with misuse of immortal powers regarding the setting of traps, deadfalls, pits, and other assorted schemes without permission from the local deistic authorities.' ”

“What?” asked Hera, trying her best to act innocent.

“Oh, you're fun, you are, Sandtrap. That's what we call you around here. And now you're actually applying for a permit? Well, this is gonna take some time. Lots of paperwork. We have a special room for difficult customers. Follow me.”

CHAPTER SIX
The Caravan

“What are they doing?” Pandy asked softly, staring at the crest of the large dune as she untied the length of rope from her waist and slipped it into her pouch.

“They're studying us,” Homer said. “Seeing if we're dangerous.”

“As if,” Pandy said, echoing one of Alcie's favorite phrases.

The five men, three on camels, two on horseback, had not moved for a long time. Snippets of conversation had been carried on a light wind down the dune, but neither Pandy nor Homer could understand what was being said. Suddenly, the three men on camelback and one on a horse broke away and began galloping toward them down the dune.

“Homer?” Pandy's whispered voice shot up in pitch. “
Homer?
”

“Don't move,” Homer said firmly. “Stand still.”

Dido barked ferociously.

“Dido! Sit!” Pandy ordered. “Not another sound!”

He looked at her, panting, but remained silent.

“Why aren't they all coming?” Pandy asked.

“They're leaving one as a marker,” Homer said. “So they'll know where they came from.”

There was absolute silence from the men, all dressed alike, with neatly trimmed black beards, each one alert and scowling. The only sound was the heavy breathing of the animals.

“Their weapons are drawn, but not raised,” Homer said, his voice still even.

Pandy noticed the scimitars flashing in the sunlight, almost as bright as the single giant rubies studding each man's turban.

Two men stopped their mounts only a meter away from Homer and Pandy, the other two circled behind.

“Yeah, right,” thought Pandy, “as if we could escape.”

“Your names?” said the man on horseback to Homer.

“I am Homer of Crisa. This is Pandora of Athens. We have a friend with us who is very sick.”

“They are but children,” said another man to the horse rider. “They are harmless, certainly.”

“They are old enough to cause trouble,” replied the man on the horse, clearly the one in charge. “They might be spies. They might be a decoy. Who knows what tricks the Physician might use?”

“But,” said one of the men behind Pandy, “we would never have found them if not for losing our way in the storm. As guards, we would not have been sent to scout. We should not have seen them.”

“They might have been on their way
to
us. To free the Physician,” said the man in charge. “You say someone is sick?”

“Very sick,” answered Homer, pointing to Iole. “She's there.”

“She might be dying!” Pandy cried.

One of the men on camels dismounted and knelt over Iole.

“They do not lie,” he said, looking up.

“How convenient,” said the horse rider. “When we have the Physician with us.”

“This child's illness is not a ruse,” said the man, feeling Iole's forehead. “Her fever is great. She does not have much longer.”

“How would you want your child treated in a foreign land?” another man asked quietly of the one in charge.

“Is not the generosity and hospitality of Persia known everywhere, even if we are, at present, stuck in this terrible Arabian desert?” questioned a third. “As representatives of that gracious country, are we to let these children die in such a place?”

The man spun his horse around in a circle, thinking a long moment.

“Please!” Pandy cried out at last, not caring what would happen to her, as long as they could help Iole.

The man in charge, looking from Iole's prone form to Homer, then to Pandy, finally sheathed his scimitar.

“Bring them,” he said, turning his horse.

The man standing over Iole quickly remounted, then called to Homer.

“Hand her to me.”

Homer gently lifted Iole into the man's arms, and he cradled her, unconscious, in front of himself. Pandy saw the magic rope, still around Iole's waist, now dragging in the sand.

“Rope,” she mouthed, hoping the severed section was still enchanted, and more importantly, that it would do as she asked. “Circle Iole's waist only.”

In less than the blink of an eye, the rope shrunk itself to the point where Pandy thought it was going to slice Iole in two. Pandy nearly shrieked as Iole moaned. Then the rope expanded to just the right size and actually took on a decorative sheen, as if it were part of Iole's clothing.

“Please, I don't know what's going on,” Pandy thought to the rope. “But please don't kill Iole.”

Pandy and Homer, quickly checking their belongings, mounted the two remaining camels and, surrounded by the rest of the guards, galloped up the dune as Dido ran easily alongside. Reaching the crest, Pandy peered down into a deep valley that she would have sworn had not been there before the storm. Now, instead of a view of the endless desert, she saw a camp of many differently sized tents in various stages of assembly, some undergoing repair from the effects of the storm. Each was constructed of multicolored stripes of brightly dyed canvas. She could also see a long line of camels tethered together, and columns of smoke from several fires as people scurried about, shaking sand from carpets, cooking pots, and clothing.

As he raced his horse toward the caravan, a shout went up from the man in charge, now in the lead and heading toward a half-erected gold and white tent. The other guards took it up and the air was filled with short, high, loud cries, as if they were laughing deliberately. At once, other guards came to the perimeter of the camp, scimitars drawn, and answered back. Pandy could see a few women join the crowd, staring at the approaching strangers over thin veils covering their noses and mouths. As the group reached the tent and began to dismount, a large man approached the horse rider. He was wearing the same garments as the other guards but more richly embellished. There was gold trim on his sleeves and gold fabric woven through his turban, and instead of a ruby, it was held together with a giant emerald. Pandy watched all five guards give a formal salute and greeting to this man as he began to question them about the new arrivals.

Suddenly, a shout went up from somewhere in the growing crowd.

“Pandora!”

Pandy was so startled that she didn't know where to look. Two guards instinctively drew their blades.

“Let me through. Pandora! I know her! I know them!”

Pandy finally spotted a head of black hair close to the edge of the crowd and moving fast, but she couldn't see the face. The woman was waving her arms and would have fallen upon Pandy's feet, since Pandy was still on her camel, if several guards had not stopped her and were about to roughly throw her back.

“Pandora, it is Mahfouza!”

Pandy's mind went blank. Did she know this woman? How?

“Wang Chun Lo! I taught you to dance!”

Instantly, Pandy remembered everything: Wang Chun Lo's Caravan of Wonders, a gathering of strange and wonderful living oddities that had stopped for the evening just outside of the abandoned temple in Egypt when Pandy was hunting for Vanity. All members of the troupe had put on their show especially for Pandy and her friends, and that performance had included one of the most stunning things Pandy had ever seen: Mahfouza and three other Arabian girls, all of incomparable beauty, dancing as if each one had her own personal muse on her shoulder. Their movements, the music they made with tinkly bells on the ends of their fingers had overwhelmed Pandy. But then, at the very end of the performance, they had invited (dragged, in Alcie's case) Pandy and the others onto the floor and had taught them each to “belly” dance—or had tried to at least. Pandy did remember spinning and falling down a lot.

“Mahfouza?”

“Yes! Yes!” the girl cried, then she pushed her way past the guards. “She knows me! Let me through, you donkeys!”

Pandy was off her camel in a heartbeat, and she flew into Mahfouza's arms. Although she really didn't know this girl at all, to Pandy she was a touchstone, something even slightly familiar in an unknown world.

“Why are you here? Where are the other dancers? Is Wang Chun …?” Pandy asked when they finally let each other go.

“No, no. We will talk of me later,” Mahfouza answered quickly. “The guards have told their captain that one of you is sick?”

“Iole,” Pandy said.

“And only three of you came off the desert, but I see the youth. Where is … oh, her name? I have forgotten her name!”

“Alcie.”

“Alcie! Of course. Where is Alcie?” Mahfouza asked.

Pandy took a deep breath and felt the tears well up.

“Alcie is dead,” Pandy choked out.

Mahfouza's shoulders dropped and her face went slack as she stared at Pandy.

“Stay here a moment,” she said, then she marched toward the captain of the guard. Pandy saw Mahfouza gesturing toward her and Homer, then back into the caravan. At last she saw the captain nod and wave her off as if Mahfouza's words were insignificant and a bother.

“Come,” Mahfouza said, racing back to Pandy. “You will all stay in my tent. Tell the youth. I will have them bring Iole.”

As Pandy and Homer collected their things off the camels, she told him of their coincidental, unimagined link to the caravan in the form of the beautiful dancing girl.

“Pandora, this way!”

They saw a guard carrying Iole in his arms, following Mahfouza.

“This way!” Mahfouza called back to Pandy and Homer as they hurried to keep up. Dido wove his way after them, his pure whiteness causing whispers and stares.

Passing many tents, Pandy could not help but notice the wild color combinations: black and olive and cloud gray, lemon and blue and silver, bloodred and lime and brown. They came to a large tent, striped in colors of plum and cherry, and found Mahfouza inside, commanding the guard to be careful as he placed Iole on a pile of floor cushions. Pandy motioned Dido to a spot on the floor out of the way, indicating he should lie down and stay.

“I know a little medicine,” Mahfouza said, bending over Iole as the guard left. “We shall see.”

Several minutes later, after much gazing and gentle poking, Mahfouza looked up, stricken.

“It is beyond me. Any potions or elixirs I know would be useless. I am sorry.”

“Do you know what she has?” Homer asked. “Why she's so—”

“Wait just one tick on the sundial!” Pandy interrupted. “There's someone here called ‘the Physician,' right? Some big shot, ooby-dooby guy, right?”

Mahfouza gasped slightly.

“Right?” Pandy went on insistently. “Well, let's go get him, for Apollo's sake!”

“The captain would never allow it,” Mahfouza whispered.

“We don't know that until we ask!” Pandy said.

“The Physician is under constant guard.”

“I don't care!”
Pandy said through gritted teeth. She stormed out of the tent with Mahfouza on her heels.

“Dido,
stay
! Homer, please look after Iole,” Pandy said over her shoulder. “Which way?”

“Come,” said Mahfouza, heading toward the front of the caravan. When they reached the two guards at the entrance to the gold and white tent, Mahfouza began to speak, but Pandy put a hand on her arm, silencing her.

“Let me,” she said. “It might mean more if everyone thinks that a stranger, even a maiden, has respect enough to learn their language.”

“Save that for the captain,” Mahfouza said. “I will get us past the guards.”

Mahfouza expertly negotiated their entrance into the captain's tent by explaining that Pandora, as leader of her group (an extremely rare position for a woman in Arabia), wished to pay her respects and express her gratitude to the captain for allowing them into the caravan. Once inside, she did this with several other groups of guards until at last she and Pandy stood in front of the captain, who remained silent and motionless.

“Exalted is He,” Mahfouza said, making a gesture of greeting and respect.

“Exalted is He,” Pandora quickly echoed, attempting the same movements.

The captain of the guard looked surprised at hearing a young girl, dressed in strange garments, obviously from far away, speaking his language.

“Your Persian is flawless,” he said. “How is this so?”

Pandy began to lie on the spot. She didn't consider it a large lie, but rather a necessary bit of cunning: part of that set of powers that included a growing intellect fueled by a bad situation, which her father alluded to the night before she left her home.

“The power to think things through, to see the big picture, not just the small scene. To use your wonderful mind to its absolute fullest. And don't forget, sweetheart, you're semi-immortal … so the power of your mind might manifest itself in interesting ways … You'll ask, you'll ponder, you'll learn.”

Pandy heard her father's words clearly in her head.

So instead of telling the captain that she'd drunk the ashes of the evil magician Calchas in an abandoned temple in Egypt, she said respectfully, “I attended an excellent school in … in my native homeland, of Greece. I am Pandora Atheneus Andromaeche Helena of the House of Prometheus. It is, um, well known in Greece, as it is everywhere, that Persian is a beautiful language, but not easily mastered. Therefore, I made it my personal goal to speak it as well as possible. I am honored that you find me …”

What
was
the word? She'd heard Iole use it a hundred times!

“…
adept,
sir.”

“I do,” he replied. “Now what is it you wish? Although, I think I already know.”

“One of my companions is very ill and there is in this camp a physician.”

“No,” said the captain flatly.

Pandy took a deep breath and pleaded her case again and again, using various stratagems, fabricating a rich tale of Iole being of great importance, the daughter of a statesman and very wealthy. The captain remained resolute. Finally Pandy, seeing Iole's life slip from her grasp, stopped the lie. She looked at the captain, a small sag in her shoulders.