Tiger, Tiger Tiger, Tiger

  “Does the young lady make all this fuss when you visit her?”

  “Mata! Of course not. She's Caesar's daughter! It's simply amazing, her coming here!”

  “Of course it's a great honor. Nevertheless, enough is enough.” She clapped her hands and dismissed the servants. “Now, Marcus, I want you not to be servile. No exaggerated humbleness. Behave to her just as usual. That's what she will want.”

  “Yes. All right. But Mata—why do you think she's coming?”

  “She's missed you, I expect. You've been her closest friend.”

  “Me? I don't think so,” he said, flattered but doubtful. “She always treats me like a big nuisance.”

  “That was when you were little,” said his mother firmly. “You're growing up now—you're nearly eleven. You can expect to be more nearly her equal now. Just behave yourself properly and don't tease or make silly jokes. Be a man. She'll respect you for it.”

  She looked at her son critically, trying to detach herself and see him as others might. He was a handsome enough boy, with his curly black hair, strong teeth, and lustrous eyes. Though he lacked height, he was beginning to fill out a little, around the shoulders. Was it remotely possible that one day … ? There were only two years between them— well, two and a bit. That wasn't much. Many boys were pledged or even married in their early teens, and some, where the uniting of high-class families was at issue, to older girls. A match between the cousins was not entirely impossible. Her ambitious heart almost stopped beating as this notion occurred to her.

  Both Aurelia and Marcus grew secretly excited and nervous as the day of the visit approached. Julius was ordered to ready himself and his charge. He realized the importance of the occasion, and, after doing his best with his own appearance, concentrated on brushing Boots's beautiful striped coat (which the tiger loved), polishing his “boots,” and even combing his whiskers. But there was one vital matter he overlooked.

  Julius had long ago learned to feed Boots at appropriate times so that there would be no “accidents” in front of the princess. This time, however, he miscalculated, so the first thing that happened after they arrived and Boots had been let out of his cage was that he squatted, there on the scrupulously washed and polished mosaic floor of Marcus's private apartment.

  The two youngsters didn't know where to put themselves, and nor did Julius, at this embarrassing mishap. Boots scratched at the floor with his muffled front paws, as instinct directed. Then he straightened himself. Something in his manner—looking about him as if waiting confidently for applause for his performance—suddenly broke the nervous strain both host and guest were under. They glanced at each other and then exploded with laughter. Soon they were so beyond control that they collapsed onto two couches, shrieking and hiccupping and holding their noses. Julius had to turn his face away to control his own nervous laughter.

  Slaves were summoned to clear away the mess, and soon the youngsters were chatting and amusing themselves happily as if no break in visits had happened, and, more, as if they really were friends and not just enforced companions. Julius watched them, noting a difference in Marcus. He wasn't so childish. It was as if the incident at the circus, which had so shamed him, had brought him on in some subtle way.

  When the collation was brought in and set out on a low table, Julius noticed how Marcus directed the slave to serve Aurelia her drink first, and how with his own hands he cut a small bunch of purple grapes from the big bunch, laid it on a gold plate, and handed the plate to Aurelia. He'll be popping them into her mouth next, Julius thought furiously, and then was shocked at himself. What, was he on the verge of jealousy of this—this beardless boy?

  Boots luxuriated in the company of his mistress and her friend, and enjoyed being made much of. It was too hot for any of them to play. The young people sat or lay on couches, like grown-ups, and talked. The tiger lay for much of the hot afternoon at full length, with his back and front legs stretched out so that as much of him as possible could press against the cool stone floor, well aware that he was being admired and talked about. Every now and then he would yawn and stretch, get up, and go to sit with his great bi-colored head on Aurelia's lap. This was heavy for her, in all the heat, but she didn't push him away. She fondled his ears and put her face down on the top of his head, and after a while Marcus, encouraged by Aurelia, timidly stroked his back and offered him pieces of quail (at the extreme length of his arm). When the tiger accepted them, the great teeth closing near his fingers, Marcus steeled himself not to snatch his hand away.

  His courage was coming back, and the hateful happening at the circus was fading. He began to feel extraordinarily happy. He behaved well and didn't once tease or say anything that might annoy Aurelia. When his mother glanced in once or twice, early on, to see that all was well, she was satisfied with her son.

  Aurelia was too well fed and content to notice consciously that Marcus was different. But as the sun began to sink behind the red-tiled roof on the west side of the atrium, casting long shadows of the flowering vine that partly roofed the open space, she was aware of feeling a reluctance to leave.

  Julius, as usual, sat in a shady corner. He didn't stay as alert as he normally did. There was no danger. He closed his eyes as a way of keeping them from gazing at Aurelia. He dozed, and allowed himself a foolish dream of her. It was a very hot afternoon.

  Marcus kept glancing at him. He was not consciously planning mischief. He was glad enough not to have the keeper's eyes watching him all the time. But it was wrong that a slave should carelessly drop off to sleep when he was supposed to be on duty.

  And also, Marcus didn't want the afternoon's happiness to end.

  So when, reluctantly, Aurelia stood up and said it was probably time she went home, Marcus suddenly dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper.

  “Don't go yet. Let's play a trick on Julius!” He pointed to him and mimed sleep.

  “Oh, I don't think we should—”

  “Shhh! Nothing bad! Just a joke, to teach him not to fall asleep when he's supposed to be guarding you.”

  “But what?”

  “His job's to look after Boots, right? So let's pretend he's escaped!”

  The words were out of his mouth before he realized what he was thinking.

  Aurelia looked doubtfully at Julius. It was true enough. He shouldn't be asleep. She glanced through an archway that led to a patio still in full sunlight. There stood Boots's cage, and there were the four slaves who carried it—all fast asleep too, sitting on the floor with their backs against the bars. Annoyance at their laziness pricked her. No, but this was too much, it was wrong! She looked back at Marcus's eager face. Her own broke into a grin like his, her eyes brightened with excitement; her nod said Let's do it!

  Silently they rose to their feet. Boots was lying in the shadow of the table, his tail gently twitching—his whiskers, too, when a fly settled on them. Aurelia stooped and stroked his face. He opened his golden eyes lazily. She softly clicked her fingers. He rolled over and stood up. She whispered in his pricked ear, “Come, Boots. Good boy!” And put her hand on his collar.

  Marcus's brain was now racing. This was fun—this was a lark! But how to carry it through? Where could Boots be hidden for the few minutes—well, say half an hour—that would be needed to throw Julius into a panic, before they triumphantly produced the missing tiger? But the answers were there, ready, as if he'd been planning this for a long time.

  He ran ahead on tiptoe, turning over his shoulder to grin and beckon. Aurelia followed with Boots at her side. Neither, in their soft leather footwear, made the slightest sound. They went through an opposite archway and into a covered passage. This led to the servants’ quarters at the back of the villa. Marcus's servants had had orders to make themselves scarce after they'd served the collation. There was no one about … no one who could have stopped what was about to happen.

  Boots, as he felt the dimness close around him, stopped and looked back once at the sleeping Julius. But Aurelia'
s hand was round his collar, and he followed her as tamely as any dog into the unknown.

  The Catastrophe

  AURELIA'S HOME was a magnificent palace right in the heart of the city. The senator's villa, much more modest, of course, but still spacious and luxurious, had been recently built, and was on the outskirts. Its terraces, all on one side, commanded a view of the white city of Rome spread out over its hills—one could see the Colosseum slightly to the right, the Appian Way, the great landmark of the Circus Maximus where the chariot races were run, the arch of triumph built for Ptolemy centuries before when he returned from his historic successes in India. This was where the sen-ator took his guests after dinner to watch the sun set over the glories of Roman architecture, every building telling a story of its heroic and triumphal past, its unique and aston-ishing present dominating the known world.

  But behind the villa was raw, stony, scrub-covered countryside. There were no terraces here, because there was no vista—Romans saw no point in gazing at nature. The hill the villa was built on rose quite steeply behind it, and all that could be seen from the back of the house were a few distant olive groves, clawed out of the hillside, and the hill itself, reaching up and casting a morning shadow over the whole edifice.

  Marcus led Aurelia and Boots to the back of the villa where the servants lived and where there were many storerooms and cavelike vaults for storing wine, olive oil, smoked meats, and other goods. One of these was reserved for the very finest wines, stored in amphorae, great earthenware jars with pointed bases, resting in metal stands. Marcus chose this one because it was the biggest and most nearly empty. He thought there was plenty of room here for the placid tiger to make himself comfortable on the cool brick floor.

  Aurelia, when she saw it, wasn't so sure.

  She looked around the dim vault. The only light that entered came through some slits up near the ceiling, at ground level—the storerooms were dug into the ground for greater coolness.

  “Will he be all right in here?” she said anxiously. “How long are we going to leave him?”

  “Of course he'll be all right! He'll just lie down and go to sleep. We'll be back for him very soon.”

  “Yes … I don't want Julius to get into any trouble.”

  “Of course he won't! We won't tell anyone, only him, that Boots has escaped.”

  “Shall we do that now?” Aurelia, who was not given to pranks, was beginning to feel some unease about this one.

  “Yes, let's. I can't wait to see his face!”

  They shut Boots in the wine vault, closing the door behind them, and walked back through the villa to Marcus's apartment.

  Left alone, Boots took stock of this strange new place. He padded around the chilly room, sniffing at things and smelling the odd smells, trying to understand where he was. He was not used to cool, dark places. There was something interesting hanging above his head. He stood on his back legs and reached for it with his front paws. If he had had the use of his claws he could have dragged it down easily, but with the leather foot covers it was not so simple. Eventually he managed it by leaping up, getting one paw over the top of the thing, and with his weight, snapping the twine that held it to the roof. It was a joint of smoked goat and he was soon gnawing at it—not very hungrily because he was still fairly full of quail. He ate a few mouthfuls and then continued his explorations.

  He was thirsty now, and he could smell something like sour water. He nosed one of the jars. He pushed it—it tilted slightly and he heard the sound of liquid sloshing about in it. He put his head under the jar and pushed it upward. It fell out of its stand with a crash.

  The precious wine flooded out and spread its dark pool amid the broken shards of the earthenware pot. Boots leaped away in fright, shaking his ears against the loud echo of the crash.

  Nothing else happened and he returned cautiously to see what the liquid was. He lapped up some of it. He didn't like it much but it was thirst-quenching so he drank more of it. He began to feel strange. He shook his head again, and went on lapping.

  He was getting a taste for it when something new happened. The door opened and several two-legs came in.

  The tiger looked up. The two-legs stopped dead in the entry. There was a pause. A breath of fresh air with some other interesting smells wafted in past them. It seemed a good idea to the tiger to follow these smells, and he left the pool of sour stuff and began to walk toward the entry.

  The two-legs disappeared as if they had never stood there, leaving a trail of noises. By the time Boots emerged into the passage, they had gone.

  The attractive smell he'd noticed had not been the smell of human flesh—he had no interest in that. No man-eater, he! It had been the piercing, compelling scents of the countryside outside the villa. He was very familiar with these, of course. As he traveled back and forth to visit his mistress he had often smelled them. But never, somehow, so keenly. They had never seemed so … available.

  He looked along the passage, and saw, up some steps and through another open door, the side of the hill with the shadow of oncoming night on it. The strong evening odors of green things and living things were in his distended nostrils, drawing him toward them more powerfully than the smell of goat or wine.

  He became aware that he was alone. That there were no bars. No two-legs to restrain him. No impediment at all. Nothing between him and that tantalizing bouquet of aromas.

  The smell of the natural world. The smell of freedom.

  He hesitated no longer. He turned toward the opening, ran forward, took the steps in one spring, and when he reached the outer portal, bounded through it.

  Meanwhile, Aurelia and Marcus, blithely ignorant of what was happening, hurried back to the atrium, to find the former sleepers wide awake and one, at least, in a state close to panic.

  Julius stood in the middle of the open space, his face drained of blood, his arms oddly stretched in front of him as if he had fallen asleep with Boots in his hands and awoken to find them empty.

  “Where is he?” he cried. “Where's he gone?”

  “I'm sorry, Julius,” Marcus said in a voice full of concern. “I'm afraid he's escaped.”

  Julius looked as if he might fall over. Aurelia felt an impulse to rush to his side. Marcus could barely hide his glee.

  “Escaped!” The catastrophe was so great that for several moments no other sound escaped the keeper. Then he choked out: “Where? How? How could he escape? Where did he go?”

  Marcus looked at Aurelia. But she was speechless. He had to think of something, and his tongue didn't fail him.

  “I'm afraid we—we fell asleep in the sun and … he just—when we woke up—he just wasn't there. We looked for him,” he added quickly. “That's where we've been. Looking for him all over the villa. I'm afraid—he may have got out.”

  “Got out?” Julius gasped. “You mean, he's out there somewhere—free?”

  Marcus hung his head as if in shame and nodded.

  Then a thing happened that shocked all of them, especially Aurelia. Julius broke down, fell to his knees, and began to weep.

  “I'm a dead man,” he groaned. “Oh, my mother! Forgive me!”

  Marcus looked at him in contempt. A grown man— crying like a baby! At least Marcus would never do that in front of anyone! He threw a glance of disgust at Aurelia, expecting her to echo it, but she was not looking at him. Instead, she flung herself forward and clutched Julius's arm.

  “No, Julius, don't! Get up, please, it's all right! He's not really lost, it was a joke, a joke!”

  Julius, who had been beating his head and twisting from side to side in his anguish of mind, became perfectly still. After a moment he raised his tearstained face and looked into Aurelia's eyes.

  “What are you saying to me?” he whispered.

  “I'm so sorry, Julius! It was very wrong of us. It was a trick, to—to punish you for falling asleep. We took him….” She looked over her shoulder at Marcus, who was scowling at her furiously. She longed to point to him,
to say It was all his idea, but she was too honest. She had agreed to it. She had shut a door on her imagination and played this cruel game. No one was more to blame than she.

  “We took him into the house. We shut him in a storeroom. We can go and get him out right this minute! Please, Julius! It's all right! Oh, get up, please get up, and forgive me if you can!”

  Julius got to his feet. He wiped his face. No healthy color had returned to it. He was still in a state of shock—relief so strong can also drain the blood. She was still holding his arm. He moved back from her.

  “Show me,” he said out of a dry throat.

  Marcus whirled, sat on one of the couches, and folded his arms. His mouth trembled. His joke had failed, Aurelia had gone over to the “enemy,” and Marcus had, for the moment, returned to his spoiled, childish self. He wouldn't help. Let Aurelia do it. At the same time, a frightening thought came to him. What would happen when his mother found out what he'd done? Abruptly, he felt close to tears himself.

  Aurelia didn't look at him. She took Julius's hand and pulled him through the archway and down the maze of passages. She remembered the way. Her relief was almost as strong as his. It was close to joy. She could reprieve him from the cataclysm he thought had befallen him. He wouldn't have to be afraid now, or be disgraced! He wasn't a “dead man” now!

  They were halfway down the last passage when she stopped in her tracks. Her heart seemed to stop too, but it hadn't, because a moment after the first horrible realization, it began to beat against her chest like the drums announcing some ghastly scene of slaughter in the Colosseum. The door to the storeroom stood open, and beyond it, there was another—through which she could see the open country behind the villa. Their jesting lie had turned into nightmare truth. Boots had really escaped. He had really gone.

  As she stood there, breath-stopped and sick, she tried to tell herself she'd forgotten which door was the right one, but she knew it wasn't so, and just at that moment hideous confirmation came. Along the passage behind them ran two of the senator's servants. They panted up, white-faced, and began gibbering out their tale of terror.