Patron of the Arts

“And what will you want tomorrow?” she asked. “Not to be?”

I pulled her down to me and kissed her. “You don’t seem to understand, my dear. I am a very powerful man and what I want, I get.”

She looked at me through slitted eyes. “Oh? Really? Do I have anything to say about that?”

“Anything you want.”

“In that case, I say yes.”

We were married atop the Temple of the Magicians, in Uxmal, Yucatan, two weeks later. It was sunset and the temple faces east. We had torches, and a few close friends. There was no particular reason for the Mayan pyramid setting, it was just that they had closed the monument for a month to handle the new digs and there were no tourists there. We drank and feasted half the night, toasting the ancients and getting toasted. Madelon’s father was there, a wiry tough man of fifty, who said little and saw much. He and I stood on the sheer western edge of the stone, looking down at the wide, steep steps, and listened to the song that Alison had written, coming from the other side of the temple. We looked out over the dark jungle, seeing the faint bulk of the rains to our right, and the white tent covering the new tomb finds.

“Thorne,” said Sam Morgana, “if you hurt her, I’ll slice you to dogmeat.”

I turned to look at him, a lean, hard face in the night. He took a swallow from his wineglass and looked at me without expression “I don’t like threats, Sam,” I said. “Not even that kind.”

He nodded “Yeah, neither do I.” He finished his wine and went back around the temple, leaving me alone. After a little time Madelon came, and put her arm around me.

“How do you feel about virgin sacrifices,” I asked.

“I’m disqualified.”

“Oh, drat, I knew we should have waited.”

“It’s not too late to call Rent-A-Virgin.”

We stood there for a time and the world was still: There was night and jungle, starlight and the crescent moon silvering a path across the glossy dark leaves below. The people started leaving, laughing and calling out good wishes, going down the steps, but holding onto the safety chain. Sam was the last to leave. He stood a moment, looking at us, then waved and started down. Madelon broke free and ran to him to kiss him goodbye, and then we were alone.

Madelon and I walked back around to the eastern side of the temple and found that our friends had created a pagan couch for us just within the rectangular door. It was covered with fur and a gorgeous shimmercloth canopy hung down over and behind us. There were several large candles flickering in the cool predawn breeze, bowls of fresh fruit and a carafe of wine. The air was scented with exotic flowers and primeval jungle.

As the first light of dawn lightened the east we made love in the spot where Mayan chiefs had stood, hundreds of years before, greeting their sun god.

After our marriage Madelon Morgana became, not Madelon Thorne, but Madelon Morgana. She blossomed in a marvelous and delightful way. The instant status that was hers was something she handled well, and with dignity and tact. Being the wife or companion of someone rich, or famous, or powerful is often a troublesome position. It was interesting watching her test her wings. At first I was a convenient and attractive aid, a refuge, a teacher, a shoulder, an open door, a defender. She liked what I was, then later, even more, who I was.

We became friends as well as lovers.

In time, of course, she had other lovers, just as I knew women who interested me, in their own way.

No one owned Madelon, not even I. Her other lovers were infrequent, but quite real. I never kept count, though I knew Control could retrieve the data from the surveillance section’s computers. It was not that I had her watched, but that she must be watched for her own protection. It is all part of being rich and how better to extract a few million from me than by the ancient and dishonorable means of kidnapping. Guarding against an assassin was almost impossible, if the man was intelligent and determined, but the watch teams gave me comfort when she was not close. Meanwhile. I studied mazeru with Shigeta, when I could, and target shooting with Wesley. Your own reflexes are your best protection.

In four years Madelon had only two lovers that I thought were beneath her. One was a rough miner who had struck it big in the Martian mines near Bradbury and was expending a certain animal vitality along with his new wealth. The second was a tape star, quite charming and beautiful, but essentially hollow. They were momentary liaisons and when she perceived that I was distressed she broke off immediately, something that neither man could understand.