He opened his eyes. Another vision, only this one was real. Formosus at the foot of his bed, holding his notebook.

"Have I been sleeping long?" Marius asked drowsily as he rose on his elbows.

"Only an hour," Formosus answered softly. "You were dreaming."

"I was in Antioch." He saw the house, the boys, Flavius, the book in his hands.

Formosus nodded. "I know." He had seen into Marius' mind as he waited for him to wake. "You were thinking of my poems."

"Speaking of which…" Marius gestured for him to begin when suddenly he remembered something. He held up his hand. "Wait a moment!" He went to a cabinet. He turned and held in his hands a lyre.

Formosus was stunned. Did Marius have any idea how dear this instrument was to his heart?

"Yes, I know," Marius said, placing it in the poet's hands. "I know that without it, you feel your poems are incomplete. I feel this, too. So two weeks ago I searched and searched and found one. Or rather, I had it custom made. Such instruments are no longer available in their original form."

Formosus held the lyre in his hands and examined it with a look of wonder. He set it in his arms and drew out the sweet notes. "I… cannot thank you enough." Tears formed in his eyes. More notes. His heart swelled. Marius was back on the bed. He thought of his master, those lost nights, how it had been so much the same.

Finally he shook the past from his mind. He was in New Orleans. It was 2000 later. He was no mortal slave boy. But he did have a lyre, he did have poems*** to read. He drew the paper before him and began, accompanying himself on the lyre:

An ancient temple, a temple
Older than I, older than Rome,
Crumbling to dust, amid the
Desert sands of Egypt

I saw it then, I see it now,
Clear in the mind's eye,
Two millennia gone by now.
I see it standing

As least as tall as those
Ruined temples of Rome
Of Carthage, of every city
That was glorious

Now gone or fallen
To ruin, to museums, to books
And now longer used
For worship or prayer or festival

It is all the same, I think,
The ancient was new,
The new becomes ancient,
And all go to dust.

"That was splendid," said a voice from behind, at the door.

Formosus spun around. Marius was at his feet.

"Pandora!" he cried. Rushing forward to hold her in his arms. She had been gone for several months. He wasn't sure if she had returned or was merely visiting, but for now, he held her tight.

"Thank you," Formosus replied, bowing as he spoke the old Latin. "Lady Pandora, I presume."

"Yes, Formosus," she said, voice smooth as silk. "That poem… only a vampire could have written it."

"Perhaps." Formosus strummed the lyre, not nervously, but for pleasure.

Marius drew back and looked Pandora in the face. "You know."

"Yes, Marius, I have been informed," she said matter-of-factly. "Armand told me." She eyed Formosus. "He is very beautiful. And now you have a companion… who doesn't fight with you."

"Oh, Pandora, why dwell on the bad? We had our good times." Marius sank his face into her hair.

"That was a long time ago. But you're right, why dwell on the bad. I realized that when I wrote my own story out for David. I love you. I wish you had been able to see beyond your optimism, your reason, but still I loved you."

Formosus rose for the bed with the lyre and the notebook. "Should I go now?" he asked, polite but not afraid.

"No, splendid boy, continue with your poetry. Are we not Romans? Who else in the world could possibly appreciate them in their full measure?"

No one, no one, sighed Marius and Formosus silently. The first chords were struck.

The End

And now for the sequel, Carmen Historiale!

*** Note
This poem was influenced by the breathtaking poetry of Horace. To learn more about Horace and read samples of his poetry, see The Poetry of Horace.