standing aside and saying to the soldiers, "Search. You will find nothing."
As the legionaries conducted a quick sweep of the tent's interior, Ulrika wrung her hands. Sebastianus had never seen her so agitated. "You're worried about your father's family," he said, wishing he could offer something more. Sebastianus knew few details of the legions newly garrisoned at Colonia. He had heard conflicting reports, information being based more upon imagination and wishful thinking than fact.
Ulrika's eyes met his, and he saw fear there. "I must warn them," she whispered.
"Warn them—?"
The legionaries emerged from the tent, and Ulrika, without another word, quickly went inside. Sebastianus stood there for a moment, puzzled, then he turned on his heel and called out for Timonides.
A S SOON AS HE had seen his master enter the camp to stop and talk with the centurion, Timonides had tossed aside his unfinished lamb chop and rushed to the tent he shared with his son, Nestor, to prepare himself for the morning's astral reading. It was the first thing his master saw to when he returned to camp, before breakfasting even. When Sebastianus called for him, Timonides would be ready with the horoscope.
As he pored over his charts, using his instruments by lamplight, scribbling equations on a scrap of papyrus, Timonides felt a pang of guilt over the falsehoods he had uttered in the past few weeks. But he had wanted to keep the girl with them, in case his jaw acted up again, or another ailment befell
him. He tried to assuage his conscience by reminding himself that in all his years of serving the gods and the stars, he had never asked for anything in return. Surely they would not mind this one small reward for faithful service, but the feelings of guilt—
He froze. Something was wrong.
He read his notes again, reset his protractor, made certain of degrees and houses and ascendants. And felt his blood run to ice. Great Zeus. There was no doubt. Yesterday, his master's horoscope had been as clear and uneventful as a summer's day. But now, unexpectedly...
A catastrophe lay ahead. Something great and fearsome that had not been there in prior days. Timonides licked his lips. Why now? What had changed? Had it something to do with the soldiers searching the camp?
Or is it my punishment for falsifying readings?
Timonides broke out in a sweat. He knew that when he reported this new reading, Sebastianus would demand an explanation as to why his horoscope had suddenly changed. If Timonides told him the truth, that he had lied back in Rome about bringing the girl along, what would Sebastianus do to punish him? Timonides did not mind for himself—he was an old man and had lived a good life and would accept any punishment within reason. It was Nestor he worried about. For his son's sake he must stay in his master's good graces. Pudgy and pie-faced, with the sweet temper of angels and the innocence of doves, Nestor would be helpless on his own.
Timonides wrestled with his conscience and indecision.
The day the newborn had been placed in his arms, the look of disgust on the midwife's face, the sisters and cousins all declaring it would be best for the child to leave him exposed on a garbage heap ... Timonides had almost agreed, until he had felt that tender flesh, the tiny bones, the utter helplessness of the creature. His heart had turned upside down in that moment and Timonides had known he could not do to this infant what had been done to him. And so he had kept the son who had come late in life to the Greek and his wife, a surprise really, as Damaris had thought herself beyond childbearing age. And when Damaris had died when Nestor was only ten, Timonides had pledged himself anew to care for the boy at any cost.
Now, twenty years later, Timonides was being put to the test. And there
was no question. He could not tell his master
As the legionaries conducted a quick sweep of the tent's interior, Ulrika wrung her hands. Sebastianus had never seen her so agitated. "You're worried about your father's family," he said, wishing he could offer something more. Sebastianus knew few details of the legions newly garrisoned at Colonia. He had heard conflicting reports, information being based more upon imagination and wishful thinking than fact.
Ulrika's eyes met his, and he saw fear there. "I must warn them," she whispered.
"Warn them—?"
The legionaries emerged from the tent, and Ulrika, without another word, quickly went inside. Sebastianus stood there for a moment, puzzled, then he turned on his heel and called out for Timonides.
A S SOON AS HE had seen his master enter the camp to stop and talk with the centurion, Timonides had tossed aside his unfinished lamb chop and rushed to the tent he shared with his son, Nestor, to prepare himself for the morning's astral reading. It was the first thing his master saw to when he returned to camp, before breakfasting even. When Sebastianus called for him, Timonides would be ready with the horoscope.
As he pored over his charts, using his instruments by lamplight, scribbling equations on a scrap of papyrus, Timonides felt a pang of guilt over the falsehoods he had uttered in the past few weeks. But he had wanted to keep the girl with them, in case his jaw acted up again, or another ailment befell
him. He tried to assuage his conscience by reminding himself that in all his years of serving the gods and the stars, he had never asked for anything in return. Surely they would not mind this one small reward for faithful service, but the feelings of guilt—
He froze. Something was wrong.
He read his notes again, reset his protractor, made certain of degrees and houses and ascendants. And felt his blood run to ice. Great Zeus. There was no doubt. Yesterday, his master's horoscope had been as clear and uneventful as a summer's day. But now, unexpectedly...
A catastrophe lay ahead. Something great and fearsome that had not been there in prior days. Timonides licked his lips. Why now? What had changed? Had it something to do with the soldiers searching the camp?
Or is it my punishment for falsifying readings?
Timonides broke out in a sweat. He knew that when he reported this new reading, Sebastianus would demand an explanation as to why his horoscope had suddenly changed. If Timonides told him the truth, that he had lied back in Rome about bringing the girl along, what would Sebastianus do to punish him? Timonides did not mind for himself—he was an old man and had lived a good life and would accept any punishment within reason. It was Nestor he worried about. For his son's sake he must stay in his master's good graces. Pudgy and pie-faced, with the sweet temper of angels and the innocence of doves, Nestor would be helpless on his own.
Timonides wrestled with his conscience and indecision.
The day the newborn had been placed in his arms, the look of disgust on the midwife's face, the sisters and cousins all declaring it would be best for the child to leave him exposed on a garbage heap ... Timonides had almost agreed, until he had felt that tender flesh, the tiny bones, the utter helplessness of the creature. His heart had turned upside down in that moment and Timonides had known he could not do to this infant what had been done to him. And so he had kept the son who had come late in life to the Greek and his wife, a surprise really, as Damaris had thought herself beyond childbearing age. And when Damaris had died when Nestor was only ten, Timonides had pledged himself anew to care for the boy at any cost.
Now, twenty years later, Timonides was being put to the test. And there
was no question. He could not tell his master
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