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of Germanicus。 He's young and sets a tone of vitality and gaiety in the city。〃
〃And Piso？〃 I asked。
〃Everyone hates him。 Especially the soldiers； and you know what that means in a Roman province。〃
You can look at the crashing； undulating sea from the railing of a deck forever； or just for so long。
That night I had my second blood dream。 It was keenly similar to the first。 I was thirsty for blood。 And enemies were after me； enemies that knew I was a demon and must be destroyed。 I was running。 My own kind had forsaken me； thrust me out unprotected to the superstitions of the people。 Then I saw the desert and knew I would die； I awoke； sitting up and crying out； but covering my mouth quickly so no one heard it。
What disturbed me so terribly was the thirst for blood。 I could not imagine such a thing when I was awake； but in these dreams I was the monster that Romans called the Lamia。 Or so it seemed。 Blood was sweet； blood was all。 Was the old Greek Pythagoras right？ Souls do migrate from body to body？ But my soul in this past life had been that of a monster。
During the day； I dosed my eyes now and then and found myself dangerously on the edge of the dream； as if it were a trap in my mind； waiting to engulf my consciousness。 But at night； that is when they came most strongly。 You have served me before！ What could this mean？ e to me。
Blood thirst。 I closed my eyes； curled up in bed and prayed； 〃Mother Isis； Cleanse my Mind of this Blood madness。〃
Then I resorted to plain old ordinary eroticism。 Get Jacob into bed！ No such luck。 Little did I know that Hebrews had been； and would be forever； the most difficult of men to seduce！
It was all made dear with great grace and tact。
I considered all the slaves。 Out of the question。 First off were the galley slaves； among whom no great 〃Ben Hur〃 was chained； waiting for me to rescue him。 They were just the dregs of the criminal poor； fastened Roman…style； so they would drown if the ship went down； and they were dying； as all galley slaves do from the monotony and the whip。 It wasn't a pleasant sight to go down into the hold of a galley ship and see those men bending their backs。
But my eyes were as cold as those of an American watching color television pictures of the starving babies of Africa； little black skeletons with big heads screaming for water。 News Break； mercial Break； Sound Bite； CNN now switches to Palestine： rock throwing； rubber bullets。 Television blood。
The rest on board were boring sailors； and two old pious merchant Hebrews who stared at me as if I were a whore； or worse； and turned their heads whenever I came out on deck in my long tunic with my long hair swinging free。
Such a disgrace I must have seemed！ But what a fool I was then； really； living in numbness； and how pleasant that voyage … all because true grief and rage had not yet taken hold of me。 Things had happened too fast。
I gloated over my last glimpse of my Father dispatching those soldiers of Tiberius； those cheap assassins sent by a cowardly； indecisive Emperor。 And the rest … I banished it from my mind； affecting the attitude of the hardened Roman man or woman。
A modern Irish poet； Yeats； best characterizes the official Roman attitude towards failure and tragedy。
Cast a cold eye on life； on death。 Horseman； pass by！
There was never a Roman born who would not have agreed with that。
That was my stance … sole survivor of a great house； manded by her Father to 〃live。〃 I didn't dare to dwell on the fate of my brothers； their lovely wives； their little children。 I couldn't envision the slaughter of the children … little boys being run through by broadswords； or babies bashed against the wall。 Oh； Rome； you and your bloody old wisdom。 Be sure to kill the offspring。 Kill the whole family！
Lying alone at night； I found myself amid more horrid blood dreams。 They seemed fragments of a lost life； a lost land。 Deep echoing vibrant tones of music dominated the dreams； as though someone were striking a gong； and others beside him beat solemnly on deep drums with soft coverings。 I saw in a haze a world of stiff and flat alien paintings on the walls。 Painted eyes around me。 I drank blood！ I drank it from a small shuddering human being； who knelt before me as if I were Mother Isis。
I woke to take the big jug of water by my bed and drink all of it down。 I drank water to defy and satisfy this dream thirst。 I was almost sick from drinking water。
I racked my mind。 Had I ever had such dreams as a child？
No。 And now these dreams had the heat of recollection！ Of initiation into the doomed Temple of Isis； when it had been still the fashion。 I had been intoxicated； and drenched in the blood of a bull； and dancing wildly in circles。 My head was filled with the litanies of Isis。 We were promised rebirth！ 〃Never tell； never tell； never tell。。。〃 How could an initiate tell anything of the rites； when you were so drunk you could hardly remember them？
Isis brought me memories now of lovely music of lyres； flutes； timbrels； of the high magical sound of the metal strings of the sistrum； which the Mother Herself held in her hand。 There were only fleeting recollections of that naked blood dance； that night of rising into the stars； of seeing the scope of life in its cycles； of accepting perfectly just for a little while that the moon would always be changing； and the sun would set as it always rose。 Embraces of other women。 Soft cheeks and kissing and bodies rocking in unison。 〃Life； death； rebirth； it's no series of miracles；〃 said the Priestess。 〃To understand it and accept it； that is the miracle。 Make the miracle within your own breast。〃
Surely we had not drunk blood！ And the bull … it was a sacrifice only for the initiation。 We did not bring helpless animals to her flower…laden altars； no； our Blessed Mother did not ask that of us。
Now； at sea； alone； I lay awake to avoid these blood dreams。
When exhaustion won out； a dream came with sleep as if it had been waiting for my eyes to close。
I lay in a gold chamber。 I was drinking blood； blood from the throat of a god； or so it seemed； and choruses were singing or chanting … it was a dull； repetitive sound not quite worthy of being called music； and when I had had my fill of blood； this god or whoever this was； this silken…skinned proud thing； lifted me and placed me on an altar。
Vividly； I could feel the cold marble beneath me。 I realized I wore no clothes。 I felt no modesty。
Somewhere far off echoing through these great halls； came the weeping of a woman。 I was full of blood。 Those who chanted approached with little clay oil lamps。 Faces around me were dark； dark enough to be from far faraway Ethiopia or India。 Or Egypt。 Look。 Painted eyes！ I looked at my hands and arms。 They were dark。 But I was this person who lay on the altar； and I say person now because it had e clear to me with no disturbance during the dream itself that I was a man lying there。 Pain tore at me。 The god said； 〃This is merely the passage。 You will now drink from each of us； only a little blood。〃
Only when I woke did the brief transition in the masculine gender leave me as puzzled as everything else。 I was drenched with a sense of Egyptian art； Egyptian mystery … as I'd seen it in golden statues for sale in the marketplace； or when the Egyptian dancers performed at a banquet； like walking sculptures with their black…lined eyes； and black plaited wigs； whispering in that mysterious tongue。 What had they thought of our Isis in Roman dress？
A mystery taunted me； something attacked my reason。 The very thing the Roman Emperors had so feared in Egyptian cults and Oriental cults swept over me： mystery and emotion which claim a superiority to reason and law。
My Isis had been a Roman goddess； really； a universal goddess； the Mother of us all； her worship spreading out in a Greek and Roman world long before it had e into Rome itself。 Our Priests were Greeks and Roman； poor men。 We the congregation were all Greeks and Romans。
Something scratched at the back of my mind。 It said； 〃Remember。〃 It was a tiny desperate voice within my own brain that urged me to 〃remember〃 for my own sake。
But remembering only led to confused and jumbled thou