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Authors: Richard Garfinkle
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falsehoods in her home, though I believe I do now. I begged Kleio’s forgiveness and opened my mouth to pour forth in thunderous rendition the legend of two heroes and their divine vision of science and military working together for the good of all.
When I ceased my oration, the scholars and students rose as one and thanked me for showing them the value of history. Even old Pisistratos apologized for his earlier behavior.
I turned away from them, and from the shadowed woods I saw Captain Yellow Hare glaring at me with the look of disgust Spartans reserved for cowards. But then something settled on her shoulders and her expression softened to one of puzzlement. Did she know I had betrayed the goddess I had promised to serve, and what spirit spoke to her and removed her anger? Never having dared to ask, I still do not know the answer to that; I can only guess that she too saw history’s Muse in Athena’s grove and shared something of my inspiration.
Yellow Hare led me back to the visiting scholars’ quarters and stalked out of the room to stand guard.
A slave brought me a bowl of wine which I poured out on the marble floor, a libation to Kleio. Then I lay down on the couch, and as I fell asleep I fancied I heard the two goddesses conferring. Both sounded pleased. Why? I wondered as ’Upnos clutched me. Why were neither Wisdom nor History angry?
γ
I was pulled from a welter of unrecalled dreams by the undertones of a whispered argument that drifted through the curtains of my quarters like the first late autumn breeze that hinted of winter.
“What is going on here?” demanded a voice with an Indian accent. It took me a moment to recognize it: Ramonojon! Thank the gods, he was safe. “Where is Aias?”
“Commander Aias is inside,” I heard Captain Yellow Hare say. “You may not go in.”
I sat upright on my sleeping couch, tossed the linen blanket to the floor, threw on the robes I had worn the night before, and stepped through the curtain. Yellow Hare instantly placed herself between me and Ramonojon and waved her hand to keep me from coming too close.
“Aias,” Ramonojon said. “What is all this? Why are you under guard?”
Ramonojon had become much thinner during his month’s absence; his short Indian tunic and skirt hung very loosely on his wiry frame. There was a haggard look in his eyes, as if he hadn’t slept in ages. His skin had become hard, as if he had been put through a tannery. And his voice and face had a strange placidity, as if he had not spent every one of the fifty years of life in constant thought.
“It’s all right, Captain,” I said to Yellow Hare. “I vouch for Senior Dynamicist Ramonojon.” I turned to my Indian friend. “Come into my quarters and I’ll explain.”
My bodyguard stood to the side and ushered Ramonojon past me through the hanging draperies. She followed us in, keeping her piercing golden gaze fixed on my friend.
Ramonojon tilted his head and looked at me expectantly.
“I was attacked on the way back to Athens.”
His eyes widened and his face took on the look of startlement that had made many a superficial judge of character think him simple. Then he blinked as if he realized what his face looked like; he took four slow, deep breaths and his expression melted back into this mysterious new passivity.
“Attacked?” he asked, as if I had just told him a snippet of innocuous gossip.
“A battle kite appeared in the Mediterranean skies and tried to sink the merchantman I was traveling on.”
“A battle kite? Here? That’s—” He cut himself off and took four more breaths. “How can that be?” he said.
I could not muster up an answer. The distance he was trying to maintain between us was hard to fathom. All I could do was study his face going through its cycles of astonishment, breath, and control. It was like watching an actor prepare for a role he was not yet comfortable with.
“Has something happened to you?” I asked. “Did you have any
When I ceased my oration, the scholars and students rose as one and thanked me for showing them the value of history. Even old Pisistratos apologized for his earlier behavior.
I turned away from them, and from the shadowed woods I saw Captain Yellow Hare glaring at me with the look of disgust Spartans reserved for cowards. But then something settled on her shoulders and her expression softened to one of puzzlement. Did she know I had betrayed the goddess I had promised to serve, and what spirit spoke to her and removed her anger? Never having dared to ask, I still do not know the answer to that; I can only guess that she too saw history’s Muse in Athena’s grove and shared something of my inspiration.
Yellow Hare led me back to the visiting scholars’ quarters and stalked out of the room to stand guard.
A slave brought me a bowl of wine which I poured out on the marble floor, a libation to Kleio. Then I lay down on the couch, and as I fell asleep I fancied I heard the two goddesses conferring. Both sounded pleased. Why? I wondered as ’Upnos clutched me. Why were neither Wisdom nor History angry?
γ
I was pulled from a welter of unrecalled dreams by the undertones of a whispered argument that drifted through the curtains of my quarters like the first late autumn breeze that hinted of winter.
“What is going on here?” demanded a voice with an Indian accent. It took me a moment to recognize it: Ramonojon! Thank the gods, he was safe. “Where is Aias?”
“Commander Aias is inside,” I heard Captain Yellow Hare say. “You may not go in.”
I sat upright on my sleeping couch, tossed the linen blanket to the floor, threw on the robes I had worn the night before, and stepped through the curtain. Yellow Hare instantly placed herself between me and Ramonojon and waved her hand to keep me from coming too close.
“Aias,” Ramonojon said. “What is all this? Why are you under guard?”
Ramonojon had become much thinner during his month’s absence; his short Indian tunic and skirt hung very loosely on his wiry frame. There was a haggard look in his eyes, as if he hadn’t slept in ages. His skin had become hard, as if he had been put through a tannery. And his voice and face had a strange placidity, as if he had not spent every one of the fifty years of life in constant thought.
“It’s all right, Captain,” I said to Yellow Hare. “I vouch for Senior Dynamicist Ramonojon.” I turned to my Indian friend. “Come into my quarters and I’ll explain.”
My bodyguard stood to the side and ushered Ramonojon past me through the hanging draperies. She followed us in, keeping her piercing golden gaze fixed on my friend.
Ramonojon tilted his head and looked at me expectantly.
“I was attacked on the way back to Athens.”
His eyes widened and his face took on the look of startlement that had made many a superficial judge of character think him simple. Then he blinked as if he realized what his face looked like; he took four slow, deep breaths and his expression melted back into this mysterious new passivity.
“Attacked?” he asked, as if I had just told him a snippet of innocuous gossip.
“A battle kite appeared in the Mediterranean skies and tried to sink the merchantman I was traveling on.”
“A battle kite? Here? That’s—” He cut himself off and took four more breaths. “How can that be?” he said.
I could not muster up an answer. The distance he was trying to maintain between us was hard to fathom. All I could do was study his face going through its cycles of astonishment, breath, and control. It was like watching an actor prepare for a role he was not yet comfortable with.
“Has something happened to you?” I asked. “Did you have any
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