some distant field, I would have a place, Lord of Falkenau, now and ever.
"I will take your bargain," I said, and took Izabela's hands in mine. "And together we will weather every storm."
Her eyes glittered. "Like carrion birds," she said. "We stoop to conquer."
I kissed her there amid the falling snow that swirled about the towers of Falkenau.
Dion Ex Machina
4 BC
Dion is one of my favorite characters in the Numinous World. Needless to say, Dion wanted a story of his own about his life after Hand of Isis and its tragic end. This story takes place many years later and is, oddly enough, inspired by a story I've never read. I've tried to get my hands on Mary Renault's short story "According to Celsus" for twenty years now, but I've never found it. Still, I like to think this story is perhaps related, and that were she living she might like it.
It was Roman September, as the official news proclaimed all over town, the September after the Grand Conjunction, September when the terrible anniversaries of August were come and gone. Twenty four years, Dion thought as he made his way through the markets near the Canopic Gate in early morning, the sun still slanting sideways over the walls of Alexandria. The gates had been opened less than an hour, but the farmers bringing in things from the countryside were already doing a brisk business. He liked the mornings. Once he had seen them from the other side, the end of a day that involved all night at the Observatory, or in wine and conversation, or in love.
Twenty four years, my darling, Dion thought. And who would have imagined it? Still here and still hale, and like to be a great grandfather soon, the way that scamp Alexander is going. There will be some girl's father calling on me, the way he's seventeen going on thirty. He'll bring it to me, knowing Demetria will be less sympathetic.
Dion strolled around a stall full of chickens clacking and clucking in their cages, raising a hand to forestall the seller. As though he looked like he was buying chickens! Surely his respectable dark robe over a finely worked chiton proclaimed him what he was, a scholar of discernment. He was not the sort of man to buy chickens!
In a quiet corner behind the stall, a young girl was standing with a baby on her shoulder, her wide dark eyes taking in all of the crowd, the horologers returning from the temple outside the gates with their gilded staffs and pleated linens, the busy drovers bringing in cattle from the countryside, the Roman guards on the gates standing at ease in their steel and scarlet, a doctor passing by in her litter with her white hair pinned severely close to her head, schoolboys rushing by yelling in the middle of some game, all the bustle and beauty of the City. The girl waited beside a tired donkey, its head down. On her shoulder, the baby craned to look, raising pudgy hands in delight at the spectacle. He, at least looked well fed, but his mother had a thin, pinched look, as though worry and travel and care had eaten from her.
For a moment he hesitated, but then he thought, do I look like a pimp or procurer? "Are you looking for someone, child?" he asked.
She looked at him uncomprehendingly and answered instead in Aramaic. "I'm sorry. I don't understand Greek."
Dion switched smoothly. "I asked if you were looking for someone, child. I am a Jew too, so we can speak Aramaic instead."
Relief flooded her eyes, and Dion thought she was very young, no more than fifteen or so. "Thank you, sir. My husband will be back soon, I'm sure. We've just gotten here, and we're looking for my cousin but I don't know where he lives and it seemed so much easier when we were coming to say we would find him in Alexandria but now the city is so big and we couldn't find anyone who looked like they spoke Aramaic…"
"You've come in through the wrong gate for that," Dion said. "The Jewish quarter is that way, but you'd find a kosher grocery or six in all the other markets,
"I will take your bargain," I said, and took Izabela's hands in mine. "And together we will weather every storm."
Her eyes glittered. "Like carrion birds," she said. "We stoop to conquer."
I kissed her there amid the falling snow that swirled about the towers of Falkenau.
Dion Ex Machina
4 BC
Dion is one of my favorite characters in the Numinous World. Needless to say, Dion wanted a story of his own about his life after Hand of Isis and its tragic end. This story takes place many years later and is, oddly enough, inspired by a story I've never read. I've tried to get my hands on Mary Renault's short story "According to Celsus" for twenty years now, but I've never found it. Still, I like to think this story is perhaps related, and that were she living she might like it.
It was Roman September, as the official news proclaimed all over town, the September after the Grand Conjunction, September when the terrible anniversaries of August were come and gone. Twenty four years, Dion thought as he made his way through the markets near the Canopic Gate in early morning, the sun still slanting sideways over the walls of Alexandria. The gates had been opened less than an hour, but the farmers bringing in things from the countryside were already doing a brisk business. He liked the mornings. Once he had seen them from the other side, the end of a day that involved all night at the Observatory, or in wine and conversation, or in love.
Twenty four years, my darling, Dion thought. And who would have imagined it? Still here and still hale, and like to be a great grandfather soon, the way that scamp Alexander is going. There will be some girl's father calling on me, the way he's seventeen going on thirty. He'll bring it to me, knowing Demetria will be less sympathetic.
Dion strolled around a stall full of chickens clacking and clucking in their cages, raising a hand to forestall the seller. As though he looked like he was buying chickens! Surely his respectable dark robe over a finely worked chiton proclaimed him what he was, a scholar of discernment. He was not the sort of man to buy chickens!
In a quiet corner behind the stall, a young girl was standing with a baby on her shoulder, her wide dark eyes taking in all of the crowd, the horologers returning from the temple outside the gates with their gilded staffs and pleated linens, the busy drovers bringing in cattle from the countryside, the Roman guards on the gates standing at ease in their steel and scarlet, a doctor passing by in her litter with her white hair pinned severely close to her head, schoolboys rushing by yelling in the middle of some game, all the bustle and beauty of the City. The girl waited beside a tired donkey, its head down. On her shoulder, the baby craned to look, raising pudgy hands in delight at the spectacle. He, at least looked well fed, but his mother had a thin, pinched look, as though worry and travel and care had eaten from her.
For a moment he hesitated, but then he thought, do I look like a pimp or procurer? "Are you looking for someone, child?" he asked.
She looked at him uncomprehendingly and answered instead in Aramaic. "I'm sorry. I don't understand Greek."
Dion switched smoothly. "I asked if you were looking for someone, child. I am a Jew too, so we can speak Aramaic instead."
Relief flooded her eyes, and Dion thought she was very young, no more than fifteen or so. "Thank you, sir. My husband will be back soon, I'm sure. We've just gotten here, and we're looking for my cousin but I don't know where he lives and it seemed so much easier when we were coming to say we would find him in Alexandria but now the city is so big and we couldn't find anyone who looked like they spoke Aramaic…"
"You've come in through the wrong gate for that," Dion said. "The Jewish quarter is that way, but you'd find a kosher grocery or six in all the other markets,
Similar Books
