cabinetry from my cousin. That's a good trade."
"It is," Dion said. The baby looked up at him, curious no doubt, his eye drawn by the bright borders on Dion's robe. "But a boy should have school too, even if he's to be a tradesman. You need to read and write to get by in Alexandria, read and write in Koine as well as Hebrew. And you've got to keep accounts. And a firm grounding in the sciences and literature even if you don't intend to go farther. Everyone ought to be familiar with schools of philosophy and understand how big the world is."
"I think he will understand that," she said, bending her face to plant a kiss on the top of his head.
"So let us wait for that husband of yours," Dion said. "Where did he go, anyway?"
"To see if he could find anyone who spoke Aramaic," she said.
"Well, you've found someone. We'll wait for him, and then I will find you some breakfast and we'll start asking about this cousin of yours. There are some Jewish cabinetmakers in the Old Market. If he's not there, they probably know him."
"I couldn't possibly put you to all that trouble," she protested. "We're strangers to you, not even kin. And you must be an important man with business to attend to."
"I don't teach today until late afternoon," Dion said. "It would be my pleasure." Besides, he thought, looking at the baby, fresh from the country as they were they'd be an easy mark for anyone unscrupulous. He'd hate to see that. Though he thought the girl had a toughness underneath, a steel center she was only beginning to discover. He grinned at her. "Just call me Dion ex machina ."
Maryam blinked. "I don't understand."
"It's a Latin joke," Dion said. "Never mind. When the gods throw something into one's path out of the blue."
"Oh." Her eyes widened, and she smiled, a beautiful smile that lit her entire face, naïve and wise at the same time. "Do you believe in angels then, who come to you in dreams?"
"Yes," said Dion gently, "I do."
Cold Frontier
505 AD
This short piece was written for my oldest friend, Robert Waters. Everyone has to tackle the story of King Arthur sooner or later, don't they? This is the story of Gull/ Lydias / Charmian's life then.
My father held this land for Ambrosius, and held it well these twenty years, without strife or doubt. Yes, there was the scandal and the whispers when he married a witch, but my mother died long ago, proving that she was mortal after all, leaving nothing behind her except my gray eyes and a breath of the sea that swept through our rooms. My father, in his mourning, married no other and got no son, leaving no heir except me to a crumbling villa and a hill fort on a crag overlooking the sea, where we watched for Saxon raiders.
Three times they had come, and three times my father had pushed them back. So far we had been lucky. We had not seen more than one ship at a time, as many places had.
The villa had mosaiced floors, one with Perseus on winged Pegasus, holding Medusa's head before him, and a stone altar of Mithras inscribed on one side Valeria Victrix, and Sol Invictus on the other. It was for that he named me Valeria, seeking some tie to those men who were gone. Macsen took the legions over the sea long ago. We are not Roman now, except my father, who will never let Rome die in his heart. For him I must read Latin, and write in neat letters, copy every word in our few books, traveler's tales of places distant as the moon. And if there was any whisper of my mother in me, it did not make itself felt, save that sometimes the things that happened in books seemed more real to me than the world I stood in.
In the winter I could read. In the summer we labored and waited for the Saxons to make our toil in vain.
They rode in on a spring day, after Beltain but before Pentecost, eighty young men on scrubby horses, and the dust of their passage lingered in the air.
"The Saxons will come to Caer Leon," their leader said, "And we will be here before them. When they beach their ships
"It is," Dion said. The baby looked up at him, curious no doubt, his eye drawn by the bright borders on Dion's robe. "But a boy should have school too, even if he's to be a tradesman. You need to read and write to get by in Alexandria, read and write in Koine as well as Hebrew. And you've got to keep accounts. And a firm grounding in the sciences and literature even if you don't intend to go farther. Everyone ought to be familiar with schools of philosophy and understand how big the world is."
"I think he will understand that," she said, bending her face to plant a kiss on the top of his head.
"So let us wait for that husband of yours," Dion said. "Where did he go, anyway?"
"To see if he could find anyone who spoke Aramaic," she said.
"Well, you've found someone. We'll wait for him, and then I will find you some breakfast and we'll start asking about this cousin of yours. There are some Jewish cabinetmakers in the Old Market. If he's not there, they probably know him."
"I couldn't possibly put you to all that trouble," she protested. "We're strangers to you, not even kin. And you must be an important man with business to attend to."
"I don't teach today until late afternoon," Dion said. "It would be my pleasure." Besides, he thought, looking at the baby, fresh from the country as they were they'd be an easy mark for anyone unscrupulous. He'd hate to see that. Though he thought the girl had a toughness underneath, a steel center she was only beginning to discover. He grinned at her. "Just call me Dion ex machina ."
Maryam blinked. "I don't understand."
"It's a Latin joke," Dion said. "Never mind. When the gods throw something into one's path out of the blue."
"Oh." Her eyes widened, and she smiled, a beautiful smile that lit her entire face, naïve and wise at the same time. "Do you believe in angels then, who come to you in dreams?"
"Yes," said Dion gently, "I do."
Cold Frontier
505 AD
This short piece was written for my oldest friend, Robert Waters. Everyone has to tackle the story of King Arthur sooner or later, don't they? This is the story of Gull/ Lydias / Charmian's life then.
My father held this land for Ambrosius, and held it well these twenty years, without strife or doubt. Yes, there was the scandal and the whispers when he married a witch, but my mother died long ago, proving that she was mortal after all, leaving nothing behind her except my gray eyes and a breath of the sea that swept through our rooms. My father, in his mourning, married no other and got no son, leaving no heir except me to a crumbling villa and a hill fort on a crag overlooking the sea, where we watched for Saxon raiders.
Three times they had come, and three times my father had pushed them back. So far we had been lucky. We had not seen more than one ship at a time, as many places had.
The villa had mosaiced floors, one with Perseus on winged Pegasus, holding Medusa's head before him, and a stone altar of Mithras inscribed on one side Valeria Victrix, and Sol Invictus on the other. It was for that he named me Valeria, seeking some tie to those men who were gone. Macsen took the legions over the sea long ago. We are not Roman now, except my father, who will never let Rome die in his heart. For him I must read Latin, and write in neat letters, copy every word in our few books, traveler's tales of places distant as the moon. And if there was any whisper of my mother in me, it did not make itself felt, save that sometimes the things that happened in books seemed more real to me than the world I stood in.
In the winter I could read. In the summer we labored and waited for the Saxons to make our toil in vain.
They rode in on a spring day, after Beltain but before Pentecost, eighty young men on scrubby horses, and the dust of their passage lingered in the air.
"The Saxons will come to Caer Leon," their leader said, "And we will be here before them. When they beach their ships
Similar Books
