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Isaiah grunted around the last of his laffa in his mouth, helping his brother lift the last of the oil jars into the back of the wagon. The wood creaked as the earthenware container slid into place, joining its brethren, all bound for deliveries to various places in the sprawling city of Israel. Benjamin huffed, stepping back from their work to survey it fondly, as though the jars of red clay were his own children, whom he never looked at with quite that level of fondness, in Isaiah’s opinion. “That’s done, then,” Benjamin said and turned to him.
Isaiah chewed through the laffa, still able to taste the falafel and zhoug left over from the hummus that had been on the bread. His mouth was too full when his brother decided to dump the morning’s worst news and he was half sure that Benjamin had been waiting for just this moment to tell him. With his cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk's, mouth thick with food, unable to do more than make huffing grumbles, Isaiah watched Benjamin look back to the doorway of the house, where Rebekah, Benjamin’s pregnant wife stood. She was as big as the entire world, even before pregnancy and she eyed his brother with an evil stare now.
”I am sorry but you’ll have to do the deliveries on your own this morning,” Benjamin said, attempting to look apologetic but not actually achieving his goal.
“No!” Isaiah’s protest came out more like ‘mo’ than the word he meant, but the sentiment and tone were there. Benjamin drew himself up and gestured to his brother.
”You’re young and strong! Servants will help you with the heavier ones-”
”They’re all heavy,” Isaiah interjected with an attempted at measured patience, now that he’d swallowed his food. He did not swing his wide brown eyes around to Rebekah like he wanted to, and instead kept them on the wagon just over his brother’s rounded shoulder. Ever since Benjamin married, he’d seemed to grow heavier with each passing month and Isaiah was growing more certain that his brother would start to roll down the streets of Israel, rather than walk, if he wasn’t careful. The thought that Rebekah was fattening his brother up like a calf for a feast was a thought he’d had before but he pushed the image away. It wasn’t nice and to spread her unpleasant nature would be to taint both himself and the world. Better to leave her at home whenever he could and not think of her.
”She might give birth today,” Benjamin gave him a pleading look and Isaiah sighed, making the mistake of looking full into his brother’s face. The pudgy, round eyed baby look, designed to make him give in worked. He was powerless against that sort of pleading. Besides, maybe he was being a little selfish. Benjamin was right; servants could assist him. It was just a pain to have to beg, especially from the Greeks, whom he would have to service today. Alone.
“You’re right,” he kept his eyes on the ears of the mule at the head of the cart and let himself be pushed forward and patted on the back by Benjamin. With his brother’s “thank you’s” and “I will make it up to you’s” ringing in his ears, Isaiah took his place on the wagon’s seat and flicked the reins. The entire cart groaned and the wooden wheels creaked loudly over the cobblestones but they were moving.
Though it was early morning, the city was coming alive. Voices rose and fell in greeting as he passed into the marketplace first. Always the deliveries went to vendors and food stalls first, else the merchants would be without their necessary wares or crucial ingredient to prepare the rest of the day’s supply. For the most part, his dire prediction of having to beg did not come to pass. Most of these men were his friends and took pity on him, putting up no protest in helping to offload their precious olive oil. Coins exchanged hands and his mood was pretty buoyant by the time he rolled into what he thought of as ‘The Greek Side’ of the city.
The buildings were no different here than anywhere else in the city. They were all built with design and aesthetically pleasing architecture in mind. In everything a hand chose to do, it must do to please both oneself and Yahweh. The builders of this lovely city, long dead, had evidently held this belief to heart, as every stone was lovingly and laboriously lain to form tall, symmetrical structures that were as useful as they were beautiful.
The house in which he was to make one of his last deliveries belonged to a Greek Captain or Commander, he could never remember which. Since the man had taken residence, he’d refitted the house to more resemble what Isaiah imagined his homeland to look like. There were lemon trees out in the courtyard, set in huge painted clay vessels. Statues of gods stood in the courtyard, in blatant, though non-threatening display of his pagan ways. It was an offense to the senses, but, as the Commander-Captain had never been mean to him, personally, he chose to overlook the man’s insistence on his heathen ways. It was easier than carrying a grudge.
Isaiah pulled on the reins, encouraging the mule to come to a slow, gentle stop, rather than an abrupt one. The last thing he wanted was for one of the clay jars to tip over and spill or even smash. It was almost like splattering liquid gold over the stones and, unfortunately, it had happened before, which was why he was so careful about it now. He could still feel the tanning his father had given his back end that day and for three days afterward.
He dismounted from the wagon and swept across the cobbles, up to the Commander-Captain’s side gate, where servants and merchants and the like who had business with the steward, rather than the commander himself, went to. There was no need to bother the master of the house with the running of his household. By now it was mid morning, closer to noon than not, and he was eager to be done with delivering. There was still so much to do at home and, even if he disliked his sister-in-law, he did want to be there for the birth of his niece or nephew.
Smacking his palm against the metal gate, he made enough racket to alert whoever was in the house to his presence, and then he stepped back, crossing his arms and looking off toward the wagon. The mule swung its long face around to give him a doleful look. He imagined that the mule, too, was begging to go home. “Soon,” he murmured to it and the animal flicked its silly ears as if to answer alright, but hurry. He was still looking away when his summons was answered.
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Isaiah grunted around the last of his laffa in his mouth, helping his brother lift the last of the oil jars into the back of the wagon. The wood creaked as the earthenware container slid into place, joining its brethren, all bound for deliveries to various places in the sprawling city of Israel. Benjamin huffed, stepping back from their work to survey it fondly, as though the jars of red clay were his own children, whom he never looked at with quite that level of fondness, in Isaiah’s opinion. “That’s done, then,” Benjamin said and turned to him.
Isaiah chewed through the laffa, still able to taste the falafel and zhoug left over from the hummus that had been on the bread. His mouth was too full when his brother decided to dump the morning’s worst news and he was half sure that Benjamin had been waiting for just this moment to tell him. With his cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk's, mouth thick with food, unable to do more than make huffing grumbles, Isaiah watched Benjamin look back to the doorway of the house, where Rebekah, Benjamin’s pregnant wife stood. She was as big as the entire world, even before pregnancy and she eyed his brother with an evil stare now.
”I am sorry but you’ll have to do the deliveries on your own this morning,” Benjamin said, attempting to look apologetic but not actually achieving his goal.
“No!” Isaiah’s protest came out more like ‘mo’ than the word he meant, but the sentiment and tone were there. Benjamin drew himself up and gestured to his brother.
”You’re young and strong! Servants will help you with the heavier ones-”
”They’re all heavy,” Isaiah interjected with an attempted at measured patience, now that he’d swallowed his food. He did not swing his wide brown eyes around to Rebekah like he wanted to, and instead kept them on the wagon just over his brother’s rounded shoulder. Ever since Benjamin married, he’d seemed to grow heavier with each passing month and Isaiah was growing more certain that his brother would start to roll down the streets of Israel, rather than walk, if he wasn’t careful. The thought that Rebekah was fattening his brother up like a calf for a feast was a thought he’d had before but he pushed the image away. It wasn’t nice and to spread her unpleasant nature would be to taint both himself and the world. Better to leave her at home whenever he could and not think of her.
”She might give birth today,” Benjamin gave him a pleading look and Isaiah sighed, making the mistake of looking full into his brother’s face. The pudgy, round eyed baby look, designed to make him give in worked. He was powerless against that sort of pleading. Besides, maybe he was being a little selfish. Benjamin was right; servants could assist him. It was just a pain to have to beg, especially from the Greeks, whom he would have to service today. Alone.
“You’re right,” he kept his eyes on the ears of the mule at the head of the cart and let himself be pushed forward and patted on the back by Benjamin. With his brother’s “thank you’s” and “I will make it up to you’s” ringing in his ears, Isaiah took his place on the wagon’s seat and flicked the reins. The entire cart groaned and the wooden wheels creaked loudly over the cobblestones but they were moving.
Though it was early morning, the city was coming alive. Voices rose and fell in greeting as he passed into the marketplace first. Always the deliveries went to vendors and food stalls first, else the merchants would be without their necessary wares or crucial ingredient to prepare the rest of the day’s supply. For the most part, his dire prediction of having to beg did not come to pass. Most of these men were his friends and took pity on him, putting up no protest in helping to offload their precious olive oil. Coins exchanged hands and his mood was pretty buoyant by the time he rolled into what he thought of as ‘The Greek Side’ of the city.
The buildings were no different here than anywhere else in the city. They were all built with design and aesthetically pleasing architecture in mind. In everything a hand chose to do, it must do to please both oneself and Yahweh. The builders of this lovely city, long dead, had evidently held this belief to heart, as every stone was lovingly and laboriously lain to form tall, symmetrical structures that were as useful as they were beautiful.
The house in which he was to make one of his last deliveries belonged to a Greek Captain or Commander, he could never remember which. Since the man had taken residence, he’d refitted the house to more resemble what Isaiah imagined his homeland to look like. There were lemon trees out in the courtyard, set in huge painted clay vessels. Statues of gods stood in the courtyard, in blatant, though non-threatening display of his pagan ways. It was an offense to the senses, but, as the Commander-Captain had never been mean to him, personally, he chose to overlook the man’s insistence on his heathen ways. It was easier than carrying a grudge.
Isaiah pulled on the reins, encouraging the mule to come to a slow, gentle stop, rather than an abrupt one. The last thing he wanted was for one of the clay jars to tip over and spill or even smash. It was almost like splattering liquid gold over the stones and, unfortunately, it had happened before, which was why he was so careful about it now. He could still feel the tanning his father had given his back end that day and for three days afterward.
He dismounted from the wagon and swept across the cobbles, up to the Commander-Captain’s side gate, where servants and merchants and the like who had business with the steward, rather than the commander himself, went to. There was no need to bother the master of the house with the running of his household. By now it was mid morning, closer to noon than not, and he was eager to be done with delivering. There was still so much to do at home and, even if he disliked his sister-in-law, he did want to be there for the birth of his niece or nephew.
Smacking his palm against the metal gate, he made enough racket to alert whoever was in the house to his presence, and then he stepped back, crossing his arms and looking off toward the wagon. The mule swung its long face around to give him a doleful look. He imagined that the mule, too, was begging to go home. “Soon,” he murmured to it and the animal flicked its silly ears as if to answer alright, but hurry. He was still looking away when his summons was answered.
Isaiah grunted around the last of his laffa in his mouth, helping his brother lift the last of the oil jars into the back of the wagon. The wood creaked as the earthenware container slid into place, joining its brethren, all bound for deliveries to various places in the sprawling city of Israel. Benjamin huffed, stepping back from their work to survey it fondly, as though the jars of red clay were his own children, whom he never looked at with quite that level of fondness, in Isaiah’s opinion. “That’s done, then,” Benjamin said and turned to him.
Isaiah chewed through the laffa, still able to taste the falafel and zhoug left over from the hummus that had been on the bread. His mouth was too full when his brother decided to dump the morning’s worst news and he was half sure that Benjamin had been waiting for just this moment to tell him. With his cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk's, mouth thick with food, unable to do more than make huffing grumbles, Isaiah watched Benjamin look back to the doorway of the house, where Rebekah, Benjamin’s pregnant wife stood. She was as big as the entire world, even before pregnancy and she eyed his brother with an evil stare now.
”I am sorry but you’ll have to do the deliveries on your own this morning,” Benjamin said, attempting to look apologetic but not actually achieving his goal.
“No!” Isaiah’s protest came out more like ‘mo’ than the word he meant, but the sentiment and tone were there. Benjamin drew himself up and gestured to his brother.
”You’re young and strong! Servants will help you with the heavier ones-”
”They’re all heavy,” Isaiah interjected with an attempted at measured patience, now that he’d swallowed his food. He did not swing his wide brown eyes around to Rebekah like he wanted to, and instead kept them on the wagon just over his brother’s rounded shoulder. Ever since Benjamin married, he’d seemed to grow heavier with each passing month and Isaiah was growing more certain that his brother would start to roll down the streets of Israel, rather than walk, if he wasn’t careful. The thought that Rebekah was fattening his brother up like a calf for a feast was a thought he’d had before but he pushed the image away. It wasn’t nice and to spread her unpleasant nature would be to taint both himself and the world. Better to leave her at home whenever he could and not think of her.
”She might give birth today,” Benjamin gave him a pleading look and Isaiah sighed, making the mistake of looking full into his brother’s face. The pudgy, round eyed baby look, designed to make him give in worked. He was powerless against that sort of pleading. Besides, maybe he was being a little selfish. Benjamin was right; servants could assist him. It was just a pain to have to beg, especially from the Greeks, whom he would have to service today. Alone.
“You’re right,” he kept his eyes on the ears of the mule at the head of the cart and let himself be pushed forward and patted on the back by Benjamin. With his brother’s “thank you’s” and “I will make it up to you’s” ringing in his ears, Isaiah took his place on the wagon’s seat and flicked the reins. The entire cart groaned and the wooden wheels creaked loudly over the cobblestones but they were moving.
Though it was early morning, the city was coming alive. Voices rose and fell in greeting as he passed into the marketplace first. Always the deliveries went to vendors and food stalls first, else the merchants would be without their necessary wares or crucial ingredient to prepare the rest of the day’s supply. For the most part, his dire prediction of having to beg did not come to pass. Most of these men were his friends and took pity on him, putting up no protest in helping to offload their precious olive oil. Coins exchanged hands and his mood was pretty buoyant by the time he rolled into what he thought of as ‘The Greek Side’ of the city.
The buildings were no different here than anywhere else in the city. They were all built with design and aesthetically pleasing architecture in mind. In everything a hand chose to do, it must do to please both oneself and Yahweh. The builders of this lovely city, long dead, had evidently held this belief to heart, as every stone was lovingly and laboriously lain to form tall, symmetrical structures that were as useful as they were beautiful.
The house in which he was to make one of his last deliveries belonged to a Greek Captain or Commander, he could never remember which. Since the man had taken residence, he’d refitted the house to more resemble what Isaiah imagined his homeland to look like. There were lemon trees out in the courtyard, set in huge painted clay vessels. Statues of gods stood in the courtyard, in blatant, though non-threatening display of his pagan ways. It was an offense to the senses, but, as the Commander-Captain had never been mean to him, personally, he chose to overlook the man’s insistence on his heathen ways. It was easier than carrying a grudge.
Isaiah pulled on the reins, encouraging the mule to come to a slow, gentle stop, rather than an abrupt one. The last thing he wanted was for one of the clay jars to tip over and spill or even smash. It was almost like splattering liquid gold over the stones and, unfortunately, it had happened before, which was why he was so careful about it now. He could still feel the tanning his father had given his back end that day and for three days afterward.
He dismounted from the wagon and swept across the cobbles, up to the Commander-Captain’s side gate, where servants and merchants and the like who had business with the steward, rather than the commander himself, went to. There was no need to bother the master of the house with the running of his household. By now it was mid morning, closer to noon than not, and he was eager to be done with delivering. There was still so much to do at home and, even if he disliked his sister-in-law, he did want to be there for the birth of his niece or nephew.
Smacking his palm against the metal gate, he made enough racket to alert whoever was in the house to his presence, and then he stepped back, crossing his arms and looking off toward the wagon. The mule swung its long face around to give him a doleful look. He imagined that the mule, too, was begging to go home. “Soon,” he murmured to it and the animal flicked its silly ears as if to answer alright, but hurry. He was still looking away when his summons was answered.
Hypatia had never been so profusely as bored as she had that morning. Back home there was always something to attend to if one wished or yet miles of open fields and empty rooms where she could find a sense of solitude and allow the daylight hours to pass her by in a dreamy haze of forgetful serenity. The choice had forever been hers. Lessons in writing, arithmetic, language and etiquette, in music and artwork, politics and trade... They had all been mental and intellectual escapes that she could access if she wished but besides the tutorship most suited to that of husband claiming, she had never been pushed to attend and learn each and every distraction offered by the tutors who tended to her elder sister Eurydice.
As fifth child within her family, it was hardly necessary nor expected that she would achieve anything of great significance. Instead, she was groomed more to ensure that she brought in a man of great power and advantage to her so desperate-to-be-noble family.
Yet, even that was limited.
For no matter how great her choice of husband was to be, he could not outshine that of Eurydice's eventual choice. She was to have her life very carefully calculated as being just a little higher than average.
Not that she was concerned. That was the challenge that fell upon her mother. Her challenge in life was to never offend her parents and to accept the roles and duties that were given to her.
As she had done when she had followed her mother to Judea without question, with the intention of marriage to a widely respected Taengean commander. The fact that she neither knew the man, nor had spent enough time with him as yet as to like him didn't matter. It was what her family wanted. What she had been born to be useful in doing. And it would ensure that she had a safe and secure life in the future. Filled with ways of occupying her day and securing her mind in the pursuit of distraction.
Unlike now.
As a guest within the homes of Commander Alexios, Hypatia had been given the finest rooms available, besides that of her mother's and the master suite itself. Assured that it was the suite in which his own sister spent her nights when visiting, Hypatia had been granted the benefit and respect of a chamber that most usually housed family. Of that she was highly aware and thankful. And it set a little warm glow in her lower chest that suggested a preference and pleasure at such attentions.
It was nice to be considered the most important within a household. Even if she did have to share such a rare opportunity with her mother.
Yet with her advent in the home being three days passed already, the chamber in which she stayed had become familiar enough to hold limited interest.
Finely decorated and detailed with gorgeous silks, classically carved furniture and built on large dimensions that gave the impression of space, despite being a single room regardless of size, Hypatia had whiled away the last few days mostly within its walls.
There was a case of books that she had enjoyed looking through but one could only read for so long before muscles ached and heads grew heavy...
Then there were the fine gowns that Alexios had provided for her stay, but once they had all been tried on a few times and her figure spun in the silver reflecting glass, what more was there to do with them, than wait for the opportunity for her to be witnessed in them by another? Opportunities that were thin on the ground when the Commander was busy with militant duties for the duration of each day.
Hypatia's most exciting moments between sunrise and sunset were in the very earliest moments of the morning, when she was awoken with a meal at her bedside and then encouraged to dress and become presentable in the most leisurely of paces that oozed luxury and languor. This was only seconded in distraction by the hours immediately before the evening repast when the entire process was repeated after an afternoon nap, to ensure that those fine silks were given the chance to grace the Commander's presence and perusal.
The hours of the late morning and early afternoon? It was these in which she attempted to distract herself with books that could only be read for so long and gowns that could not hold repeatable interest.
The Commander had offered Hypatia an escort and a horse for whenever she wished to leave the manor, but her mother Europa had graciously accepted the offer in public and forbidden it in private. For Hypatia, she was assured, was an adequate rider for any low-born husband but would only damage her value in the eyes of a military commander with her less than perfect seat and efforts. Not to mention the fact that the native Judeans were primitive in their morals and understanding of respectable human behaviour and she would risk disgracing herself with one of them should she succumb to the Judean streets.
And how would such a crime against her reflect upon her worth as a bride, then?
The same was to be said of the servants’ wings in the manor, where several Judeans were housed for their cleaning duties, the stables, for the men who tended them, and any area within the manor that was not solely reserved for the educated and wealthy within the compound.
Unfortunately, most of such rooms were closed off or kept out of use when not needed for their explicit purpose. And Hypatia had had quite enough of wandering open and drafty chambers lined with dust clothes upon the furniture.
The only room she actually enjoyed returning to in order to explore was that of the dining chamber. Where the doorframes were made of wood and carved with such an intricate and masterful hand that she could not return to the structures of the doorways without noticing another finer element that had missed her notice before.
Hypatia found herself drawn to such things that had been made with such love, care and effort.
What must it be like to care for something so intensely that was only to be given away to another and your own work begun all over again? Would be feel rewarding or give a sense of purposelessness?
By the third day, restrictions within the manor imposed upon her by her mother were beginning to wear thin in terms of their validity. Several of the servants that she had passed in corridors had been nothing but polite (in that they had kept their gazes to the floor and ignored her very presence), regardless of origin and race. And she had witnessed nothing dangerous in any of the chambers. She could only suppose that the Commander's weaponry or other deadly implements were kept behind one of the many doors that were locked and barred to her entrance.
Ergo, as her mother was kept to her bed that morning upon the purpose of recovering from a headache, Hypatia ventured to be just a little rebellious. Under the firm knowledge that Europa would never discover the trespass and the confidence that such an overstep would not result in any form of catastrophe, she dared to defy the lines in the sand drawn for her since her arrival in Judea.
She ventured to the kitchens.
It was late morning by the time she was permitted to leave her chambers thanks to the attentions of the Grecian girls that had been assigned as her slaves. It had taken them almost three hours to ensure her appearance was to their liking, and as she rarely awoke until the sun was high enough in the sky to break through the open window of her chambers on the higher floor of the manor, it was close to noon by the time her attire was complete.
Dressed in a classically Grecian style gown of lightest peach, the chiffon of her dress was pulled into flurries of smooth gossamer waves. Cinched at the waist and then pulled up and over the shoulder, where the thinnest spun gold had been wound into a delicate, feather-shaped fibulae to hold the fabric in place. The item was fragile in the least but it had been many years since her mother had instructed her on how to walk in a way that would not disturb the clasp so as to expose herself to ridicule.
Over the gown was a winding chain of rose gold that looped around her slim hips, tied over one thigh and then trained down beside a slit in the skirts that offered a strip of thin, alabaster leg.
Gold sandals wrapped around her feet and calves.
With her natural frame being so thin and ethereal she was almost skinny, Hypatia offered a waiflike quality of grace and elegance that usually went almost unnoticed beside her sister's bold and defiant beauty. But now, out of the shadow of Eurydice and grown into the cupids bow of her mouth and wide, large eyes, she was able to offer an inquisitive sort of loveliness; delicate, fragile and curiously open.
Her face and hair had been constructed with just as much care and detail. With the softest definition to her eyes, a paint upon her lips that turned them dewy and almost prepubescent in softness, Hypatia's cheekbones had been emphasised and her little pointed chin allowed to be seen. Her tawny hair - neither gold, nor quartz in colour, had been curled with rigid and angry precision, then pinned to her head in perfect positions of wayward elegance before being tugged out of their corkscrews into an effortless set of curls that gave an angelic halo to her appearance. Decorations of gold hung in her ears and strips of peach ribbon - the same shade as her gown - had been woven into her hair, creating two bands around her skull from the top of her head to the nape of her neck. Several curls fell at her temples and behind her ears.
She wore no epiblema, no outward covering, for the Judean climate was warm and she despised the extra layers that got in her way whenever she decided to break the habit of a lifetime and perform some useful task or other. Instead, she moved along the corridors of Commander Alexios' manor with a languid and easy pace that suggested little care and zero haste, her skirts drifting behind her first one way and then the other, encouraged into a lulling dance that shifted with the soft and subtle sway of her non-existent hips. Her bare arms remained elegantly still at her siders and her shoulders were shifted back in a pristine posture that her mother had ensured her to possess naturally from a young age.
Finding her way to the kitchens was easy enough, for it appeared the culinary servants were already preparing the noonday feast and she had only to follow her nose. But, upon descending three shallow steps into the chamber, she came to discover that it was empty. For whatever reason, the servants had left the meals unattended for now and she was exposed to her own devices and desires to explore...
Moving around the room, Hypatia was careful not to touch anything. She had no means of knowing what was dangerous, nor what might stain her clothing or skin. She simply leant down to inspect items closer or moved onto her toes to peer at a pot on a shelf marked in a language she could not read.
Whilst Hypatia had learnt a few words and phrases in Hebrew - enough to understand a general topic of the conversations she heard around her but barely adequate to express her own thoughts - she had never learnt to read it at all and whilst she considered the calligraphy in question very pretty, it meant nothing to her.
It was as she was settling her heels towards the ground once more and looking to find something else to occupy her inquisitive mind that Hypatia noticed a contraption set up upon a work counter to one side of the room. Moving to stand beside the bench, the outer layer of her chiffon gown brushing and catching a little on the roughly hewn wooden edge, Hypatia moved to bat the fabric free and then bent low to peer at the mechanism, her eyes alert and considering.
Made of a combination of wood and stone, with a bowl beneath that offered traces of a light and fine powder, the piece possessed what looked to be a handle or crank upon its right-hand side. Curious, Hypatia reached out and, with more effort that she was expecting and causing a little furrow to break between her brows, she was able to tug the handle around in one arching circle.
Immediately a large slab of rock shifted inside the wooden scaffold and dusted grain fell into the awaiting bowl beneath. Some of it caught upon the non-existent breeze and drifted onto her dress. She paused long enough to bat the particles away and then waited for the harsh crunching of stone on stone to leave her ears before reaching for the handle again, her interest piqued enough that she did not notice the soft step of a man with a heavy load moving slowly and carefully down the steps into the kitchen behind her. Instead, her focus was on the item before her, which she was realising was a grinder for some kind of bread grain.
With the corner of her rosebud lips pulling into a soft curl at one side of her mouth, Hypatia turned the handle again, and managed a full rotation of the crank before the arm came to an abrupt halt and, with a juddering sound, refused to move.
Immediately letting go of the mechanism and afeared that she had broken it, Hypatia paused for a second before bending low and peering to see what might have obstructed the performance of the appliance. Upon seeing nothing obvious, she took the handle again and pushed down hard, hoping to urge the item to work so as not to be forced to report its malfunction to a servant - or worse, to Commander Alexios himself.
Terror gripped her heart for a moment, as Hypatia realised that worse still would be to report the misstep to her mother - including the admittance of her entry to the kitchens at all.
Looking around for a solution to her problem, Hypatia took up what appeared to be a heavy mallet sort of instrument that she had no idea was used for tenderising meat and, with nervous and carefully cleaned and polished hands set about giving the handle a forceful whack with the tool, in order to encourage it more forcefully to return to its status as fully operational.
Needless to say with her inactive lifestyle and the general state of ease with which she had always existed from day to day, Hypatia had neither the accuracy nor the strength with which to use the tool in such a manner and any strikes she managed to successfully land upon the handle, sent judders up her forearms in a way that had her shifting more than the stubborn contraption did.
Useless in terms of physical excess but not unintelligent, Hypatia instantly recognised that if she could not provide the strength to induce the item to move, she would need weight to work in her favour instead.
Glancing around for something heavier than that of the small mallet she set back upon the surface she had collected it from, Hypatia would have noticed herself to no longer be alone in the kitchen it if wasn't for the noise she had been making hitting at the crank arm, or the murmurings she grumbled in Greek, between strikes. She was also not required to look around completely before she spotted something that might be heavy enough to force the handle to move, rectify her crime in breaking it, and ensure that her mother never had to discover her trespass to the most dangerous of places; the commonfolk areas. Had she been forced to look beyond the immediate vicinity in front of her and a little to her right, she might have been aware that another was present. But, alas, she did not.
Not heeding her audience, Hypatia was quick to notice a large and flat stone that laid upon the top of what appeared to be a cupboard. Given the heat of the room, the manor, the entire kingdom, Hypatia was not aware that such a cupboard housed a flame.
A new invention from the Persian lands, and used in the larger manors or official buildings in Judea - or even by some of the lower classes able to construct it for themselves - the cupboard that she assumed to contain crockery or cooking supplies, was actually a kurn, a kiln like oven that held within its stonework belly, a fire, so that it might heat and singe the flat stone that rested above an outlet the rock itself hid from view. The cooking stone was searing to the touch and burnt any who so much as brushed it, let alone reached out with an eager hand to latch hold of it with a firm grasp, in order to use it as a recovery device for a broken grinder.
Hypatia was reaching out with a soft and speedy grace, fuelled by her desire to right her mistake, when she first heard the noise from behind her. Yet the disturbance was too late for her motion and intent; her mind and realisation not fast enough to halt the gesture of reaching to secure a hold upon a stone that she had no idea would burn her slight, little fingers to the bone...
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Hypatia had never been so profusely as bored as she had that morning. Back home there was always something to attend to if one wished or yet miles of open fields and empty rooms where she could find a sense of solitude and allow the daylight hours to pass her by in a dreamy haze of forgetful serenity. The choice had forever been hers. Lessons in writing, arithmetic, language and etiquette, in music and artwork, politics and trade... They had all been mental and intellectual escapes that she could access if she wished but besides the tutorship most suited to that of husband claiming, she had never been pushed to attend and learn each and every distraction offered by the tutors who tended to her elder sister Eurydice.
As fifth child within her family, it was hardly necessary nor expected that she would achieve anything of great significance. Instead, she was groomed more to ensure that she brought in a man of great power and advantage to her so desperate-to-be-noble family.
Yet, even that was limited.
For no matter how great her choice of husband was to be, he could not outshine that of Eurydice's eventual choice. She was to have her life very carefully calculated as being just a little higher than average.
Not that she was concerned. That was the challenge that fell upon her mother. Her challenge in life was to never offend her parents and to accept the roles and duties that were given to her.
As she had done when she had followed her mother to Judea without question, with the intention of marriage to a widely respected Taengean commander. The fact that she neither knew the man, nor had spent enough time with him as yet as to like him didn't matter. It was what her family wanted. What she had been born to be useful in doing. And it would ensure that she had a safe and secure life in the future. Filled with ways of occupying her day and securing her mind in the pursuit of distraction.
Unlike now.
As a guest within the homes of Commander Alexios, Hypatia had been given the finest rooms available, besides that of her mother's and the master suite itself. Assured that it was the suite in which his own sister spent her nights when visiting, Hypatia had been granted the benefit and respect of a chamber that most usually housed family. Of that she was highly aware and thankful. And it set a little warm glow in her lower chest that suggested a preference and pleasure at such attentions.
It was nice to be considered the most important within a household. Even if she did have to share such a rare opportunity with her mother.
Yet with her advent in the home being three days passed already, the chamber in which she stayed had become familiar enough to hold limited interest.
Finely decorated and detailed with gorgeous silks, classically carved furniture and built on large dimensions that gave the impression of space, despite being a single room regardless of size, Hypatia had whiled away the last few days mostly within its walls.
There was a case of books that she had enjoyed looking through but one could only read for so long before muscles ached and heads grew heavy...
Then there were the fine gowns that Alexios had provided for her stay, but once they had all been tried on a few times and her figure spun in the silver reflecting glass, what more was there to do with them, than wait for the opportunity for her to be witnessed in them by another? Opportunities that were thin on the ground when the Commander was busy with militant duties for the duration of each day.
Hypatia's most exciting moments between sunrise and sunset were in the very earliest moments of the morning, when she was awoken with a meal at her bedside and then encouraged to dress and become presentable in the most leisurely of paces that oozed luxury and languor. This was only seconded in distraction by the hours immediately before the evening repast when the entire process was repeated after an afternoon nap, to ensure that those fine silks were given the chance to grace the Commander's presence and perusal.
The hours of the late morning and early afternoon? It was these in which she attempted to distract herself with books that could only be read for so long and gowns that could not hold repeatable interest.
The Commander had offered Hypatia an escort and a horse for whenever she wished to leave the manor, but her mother Europa had graciously accepted the offer in public and forbidden it in private. For Hypatia, she was assured, was an adequate rider for any low-born husband but would only damage her value in the eyes of a military commander with her less than perfect seat and efforts. Not to mention the fact that the native Judeans were primitive in their morals and understanding of respectable human behaviour and she would risk disgracing herself with one of them should she succumb to the Judean streets.
And how would such a crime against her reflect upon her worth as a bride, then?
The same was to be said of the servants’ wings in the manor, where several Judeans were housed for their cleaning duties, the stables, for the men who tended them, and any area within the manor that was not solely reserved for the educated and wealthy within the compound.
Unfortunately, most of such rooms were closed off or kept out of use when not needed for their explicit purpose. And Hypatia had had quite enough of wandering open and drafty chambers lined with dust clothes upon the furniture.
The only room she actually enjoyed returning to in order to explore was that of the dining chamber. Where the doorframes were made of wood and carved with such an intricate and masterful hand that she could not return to the structures of the doorways without noticing another finer element that had missed her notice before.
Hypatia found herself drawn to such things that had been made with such love, care and effort.
What must it be like to care for something so intensely that was only to be given away to another and your own work begun all over again? Would be feel rewarding or give a sense of purposelessness?
By the third day, restrictions within the manor imposed upon her by her mother were beginning to wear thin in terms of their validity. Several of the servants that she had passed in corridors had been nothing but polite (in that they had kept their gazes to the floor and ignored her very presence), regardless of origin and race. And she had witnessed nothing dangerous in any of the chambers. She could only suppose that the Commander's weaponry or other deadly implements were kept behind one of the many doors that were locked and barred to her entrance.
Ergo, as her mother was kept to her bed that morning upon the purpose of recovering from a headache, Hypatia ventured to be just a little rebellious. Under the firm knowledge that Europa would never discover the trespass and the confidence that such an overstep would not result in any form of catastrophe, she dared to defy the lines in the sand drawn for her since her arrival in Judea.
She ventured to the kitchens.
It was late morning by the time she was permitted to leave her chambers thanks to the attentions of the Grecian girls that had been assigned as her slaves. It had taken them almost three hours to ensure her appearance was to their liking, and as she rarely awoke until the sun was high enough in the sky to break through the open window of her chambers on the higher floor of the manor, it was close to noon by the time her attire was complete.
Dressed in a classically Grecian style gown of lightest peach, the chiffon of her dress was pulled into flurries of smooth gossamer waves. Cinched at the waist and then pulled up and over the shoulder, where the thinnest spun gold had been wound into a delicate, feather-shaped fibulae to hold the fabric in place. The item was fragile in the least but it had been many years since her mother had instructed her on how to walk in a way that would not disturb the clasp so as to expose herself to ridicule.
Over the gown was a winding chain of rose gold that looped around her slim hips, tied over one thigh and then trained down beside a slit in the skirts that offered a strip of thin, alabaster leg.
Gold sandals wrapped around her feet and calves.
With her natural frame being so thin and ethereal she was almost skinny, Hypatia offered a waiflike quality of grace and elegance that usually went almost unnoticed beside her sister's bold and defiant beauty. But now, out of the shadow of Eurydice and grown into the cupids bow of her mouth and wide, large eyes, she was able to offer an inquisitive sort of loveliness; delicate, fragile and curiously open.
Her face and hair had been constructed with just as much care and detail. With the softest definition to her eyes, a paint upon her lips that turned them dewy and almost prepubescent in softness, Hypatia's cheekbones had been emphasised and her little pointed chin allowed to be seen. Her tawny hair - neither gold, nor quartz in colour, had been curled with rigid and angry precision, then pinned to her head in perfect positions of wayward elegance before being tugged out of their corkscrews into an effortless set of curls that gave an angelic halo to her appearance. Decorations of gold hung in her ears and strips of peach ribbon - the same shade as her gown - had been woven into her hair, creating two bands around her skull from the top of her head to the nape of her neck. Several curls fell at her temples and behind her ears.
She wore no epiblema, no outward covering, for the Judean climate was warm and she despised the extra layers that got in her way whenever she decided to break the habit of a lifetime and perform some useful task or other. Instead, she moved along the corridors of Commander Alexios' manor with a languid and easy pace that suggested little care and zero haste, her skirts drifting behind her first one way and then the other, encouraged into a lulling dance that shifted with the soft and subtle sway of her non-existent hips. Her bare arms remained elegantly still at her siders and her shoulders were shifted back in a pristine posture that her mother had ensured her to possess naturally from a young age.
Finding her way to the kitchens was easy enough, for it appeared the culinary servants were already preparing the noonday feast and she had only to follow her nose. But, upon descending three shallow steps into the chamber, she came to discover that it was empty. For whatever reason, the servants had left the meals unattended for now and she was exposed to her own devices and desires to explore...
Moving around the room, Hypatia was careful not to touch anything. She had no means of knowing what was dangerous, nor what might stain her clothing or skin. She simply leant down to inspect items closer or moved onto her toes to peer at a pot on a shelf marked in a language she could not read.
Whilst Hypatia had learnt a few words and phrases in Hebrew - enough to understand a general topic of the conversations she heard around her but barely adequate to express her own thoughts - she had never learnt to read it at all and whilst she considered the calligraphy in question very pretty, it meant nothing to her.
It was as she was settling her heels towards the ground once more and looking to find something else to occupy her inquisitive mind that Hypatia noticed a contraption set up upon a work counter to one side of the room. Moving to stand beside the bench, the outer layer of her chiffon gown brushing and catching a little on the roughly hewn wooden edge, Hypatia moved to bat the fabric free and then bent low to peer at the mechanism, her eyes alert and considering.
Made of a combination of wood and stone, with a bowl beneath that offered traces of a light and fine powder, the piece possessed what looked to be a handle or crank upon its right-hand side. Curious, Hypatia reached out and, with more effort that she was expecting and causing a little furrow to break between her brows, she was able to tug the handle around in one arching circle.
Immediately a large slab of rock shifted inside the wooden scaffold and dusted grain fell into the awaiting bowl beneath. Some of it caught upon the non-existent breeze and drifted onto her dress. She paused long enough to bat the particles away and then waited for the harsh crunching of stone on stone to leave her ears before reaching for the handle again, her interest piqued enough that she did not notice the soft step of a man with a heavy load moving slowly and carefully down the steps into the kitchen behind her. Instead, her focus was on the item before her, which she was realising was a grinder for some kind of bread grain.
With the corner of her rosebud lips pulling into a soft curl at one side of her mouth, Hypatia turned the handle again, and managed a full rotation of the crank before the arm came to an abrupt halt and, with a juddering sound, refused to move.
Immediately letting go of the mechanism and afeared that she had broken it, Hypatia paused for a second before bending low and peering to see what might have obstructed the performance of the appliance. Upon seeing nothing obvious, she took the handle again and pushed down hard, hoping to urge the item to work so as not to be forced to report its malfunction to a servant - or worse, to Commander Alexios himself.
Terror gripped her heart for a moment, as Hypatia realised that worse still would be to report the misstep to her mother - including the admittance of her entry to the kitchens at all.
Looking around for a solution to her problem, Hypatia took up what appeared to be a heavy mallet sort of instrument that she had no idea was used for tenderising meat and, with nervous and carefully cleaned and polished hands set about giving the handle a forceful whack with the tool, in order to encourage it more forcefully to return to its status as fully operational.
Needless to say with her inactive lifestyle and the general state of ease with which she had always existed from day to day, Hypatia had neither the accuracy nor the strength with which to use the tool in such a manner and any strikes she managed to successfully land upon the handle, sent judders up her forearms in a way that had her shifting more than the stubborn contraption did.
Useless in terms of physical excess but not unintelligent, Hypatia instantly recognised that if she could not provide the strength to induce the item to move, she would need weight to work in her favour instead.
Glancing around for something heavier than that of the small mallet she set back upon the surface she had collected it from, Hypatia would have noticed herself to no longer be alone in the kitchen it if wasn't for the noise she had been making hitting at the crank arm, or the murmurings she grumbled in Greek, between strikes. She was also not required to look around completely before she spotted something that might be heavy enough to force the handle to move, rectify her crime in breaking it, and ensure that her mother never had to discover her trespass to the most dangerous of places; the commonfolk areas. Had she been forced to look beyond the immediate vicinity in front of her and a little to her right, she might have been aware that another was present. But, alas, she did not.
Not heeding her audience, Hypatia was quick to notice a large and flat stone that laid upon the top of what appeared to be a cupboard. Given the heat of the room, the manor, the entire kingdom, Hypatia was not aware that such a cupboard housed a flame.
A new invention from the Persian lands, and used in the larger manors or official buildings in Judea - or even by some of the lower classes able to construct it for themselves - the cupboard that she assumed to contain crockery or cooking supplies, was actually a kurn, a kiln like oven that held within its stonework belly, a fire, so that it might heat and singe the flat stone that rested above an outlet the rock itself hid from view. The cooking stone was searing to the touch and burnt any who so much as brushed it, let alone reached out with an eager hand to latch hold of it with a firm grasp, in order to use it as a recovery device for a broken grinder.
Hypatia was reaching out with a soft and speedy grace, fuelled by her desire to right her mistake, when she first heard the noise from behind her. Yet the disturbance was too late for her motion and intent; her mind and realisation not fast enough to halt the gesture of reaching to secure a hold upon a stone that she had no idea would burn her slight, little fingers to the bone...
Hypatia had never been so profusely as bored as she had that morning. Back home there was always something to attend to if one wished or yet miles of open fields and empty rooms where she could find a sense of solitude and allow the daylight hours to pass her by in a dreamy haze of forgetful serenity. The choice had forever been hers. Lessons in writing, arithmetic, language and etiquette, in music and artwork, politics and trade... They had all been mental and intellectual escapes that she could access if she wished but besides the tutorship most suited to that of husband claiming, she had never been pushed to attend and learn each and every distraction offered by the tutors who tended to her elder sister Eurydice.
As fifth child within her family, it was hardly necessary nor expected that she would achieve anything of great significance. Instead, she was groomed more to ensure that she brought in a man of great power and advantage to her so desperate-to-be-noble family.
Yet, even that was limited.
For no matter how great her choice of husband was to be, he could not outshine that of Eurydice's eventual choice. She was to have her life very carefully calculated as being just a little higher than average.
Not that she was concerned. That was the challenge that fell upon her mother. Her challenge in life was to never offend her parents and to accept the roles and duties that were given to her.
As she had done when she had followed her mother to Judea without question, with the intention of marriage to a widely respected Taengean commander. The fact that she neither knew the man, nor had spent enough time with him as yet as to like him didn't matter. It was what her family wanted. What she had been born to be useful in doing. And it would ensure that she had a safe and secure life in the future. Filled with ways of occupying her day and securing her mind in the pursuit of distraction.
Unlike now.
As a guest within the homes of Commander Alexios, Hypatia had been given the finest rooms available, besides that of her mother's and the master suite itself. Assured that it was the suite in which his own sister spent her nights when visiting, Hypatia had been granted the benefit and respect of a chamber that most usually housed family. Of that she was highly aware and thankful. And it set a little warm glow in her lower chest that suggested a preference and pleasure at such attentions.
It was nice to be considered the most important within a household. Even if she did have to share such a rare opportunity with her mother.
Yet with her advent in the home being three days passed already, the chamber in which she stayed had become familiar enough to hold limited interest.
Finely decorated and detailed with gorgeous silks, classically carved furniture and built on large dimensions that gave the impression of space, despite being a single room regardless of size, Hypatia had whiled away the last few days mostly within its walls.
There was a case of books that she had enjoyed looking through but one could only read for so long before muscles ached and heads grew heavy...
Then there were the fine gowns that Alexios had provided for her stay, but once they had all been tried on a few times and her figure spun in the silver reflecting glass, what more was there to do with them, than wait for the opportunity for her to be witnessed in them by another? Opportunities that were thin on the ground when the Commander was busy with militant duties for the duration of each day.
Hypatia's most exciting moments between sunrise and sunset were in the very earliest moments of the morning, when she was awoken with a meal at her bedside and then encouraged to dress and become presentable in the most leisurely of paces that oozed luxury and languor. This was only seconded in distraction by the hours immediately before the evening repast when the entire process was repeated after an afternoon nap, to ensure that those fine silks were given the chance to grace the Commander's presence and perusal.
The hours of the late morning and early afternoon? It was these in which she attempted to distract herself with books that could only be read for so long and gowns that could not hold repeatable interest.
The Commander had offered Hypatia an escort and a horse for whenever she wished to leave the manor, but her mother Europa had graciously accepted the offer in public and forbidden it in private. For Hypatia, she was assured, was an adequate rider for any low-born husband but would only damage her value in the eyes of a military commander with her less than perfect seat and efforts. Not to mention the fact that the native Judeans were primitive in their morals and understanding of respectable human behaviour and she would risk disgracing herself with one of them should she succumb to the Judean streets.
And how would such a crime against her reflect upon her worth as a bride, then?
The same was to be said of the servants’ wings in the manor, where several Judeans were housed for their cleaning duties, the stables, for the men who tended them, and any area within the manor that was not solely reserved for the educated and wealthy within the compound.
Unfortunately, most of such rooms were closed off or kept out of use when not needed for their explicit purpose. And Hypatia had had quite enough of wandering open and drafty chambers lined with dust clothes upon the furniture.
The only room she actually enjoyed returning to in order to explore was that of the dining chamber. Where the doorframes were made of wood and carved with such an intricate and masterful hand that she could not return to the structures of the doorways without noticing another finer element that had missed her notice before.
Hypatia found herself drawn to such things that had been made with such love, care and effort.
What must it be like to care for something so intensely that was only to be given away to another and your own work begun all over again? Would be feel rewarding or give a sense of purposelessness?
By the third day, restrictions within the manor imposed upon her by her mother were beginning to wear thin in terms of their validity. Several of the servants that she had passed in corridors had been nothing but polite (in that they had kept their gazes to the floor and ignored her very presence), regardless of origin and race. And she had witnessed nothing dangerous in any of the chambers. She could only suppose that the Commander's weaponry or other deadly implements were kept behind one of the many doors that were locked and barred to her entrance.
Ergo, as her mother was kept to her bed that morning upon the purpose of recovering from a headache, Hypatia ventured to be just a little rebellious. Under the firm knowledge that Europa would never discover the trespass and the confidence that such an overstep would not result in any form of catastrophe, she dared to defy the lines in the sand drawn for her since her arrival in Judea.
She ventured to the kitchens.
It was late morning by the time she was permitted to leave her chambers thanks to the attentions of the Grecian girls that had been assigned as her slaves. It had taken them almost three hours to ensure her appearance was to their liking, and as she rarely awoke until the sun was high enough in the sky to break through the open window of her chambers on the higher floor of the manor, it was close to noon by the time her attire was complete.
Dressed in a classically Grecian style gown of lightest peach, the chiffon of her dress was pulled into flurries of smooth gossamer waves. Cinched at the waist and then pulled up and over the shoulder, where the thinnest spun gold had been wound into a delicate, feather-shaped fibulae to hold the fabric in place. The item was fragile in the least but it had been many years since her mother had instructed her on how to walk in a way that would not disturb the clasp so as to expose herself to ridicule.
Over the gown was a winding chain of rose gold that looped around her slim hips, tied over one thigh and then trained down beside a slit in the skirts that offered a strip of thin, alabaster leg.
Gold sandals wrapped around her feet and calves.
With her natural frame being so thin and ethereal she was almost skinny, Hypatia offered a waiflike quality of grace and elegance that usually went almost unnoticed beside her sister's bold and defiant beauty. But now, out of the shadow of Eurydice and grown into the cupids bow of her mouth and wide, large eyes, she was able to offer an inquisitive sort of loveliness; delicate, fragile and curiously open.
Her face and hair had been constructed with just as much care and detail. With the softest definition to her eyes, a paint upon her lips that turned them dewy and almost prepubescent in softness, Hypatia's cheekbones had been emphasised and her little pointed chin allowed to be seen. Her tawny hair - neither gold, nor quartz in colour, had been curled with rigid and angry precision, then pinned to her head in perfect positions of wayward elegance before being tugged out of their corkscrews into an effortless set of curls that gave an angelic halo to her appearance. Decorations of gold hung in her ears and strips of peach ribbon - the same shade as her gown - had been woven into her hair, creating two bands around her skull from the top of her head to the nape of her neck. Several curls fell at her temples and behind her ears.
She wore no epiblema, no outward covering, for the Judean climate was warm and she despised the extra layers that got in her way whenever she decided to break the habit of a lifetime and perform some useful task or other. Instead, she moved along the corridors of Commander Alexios' manor with a languid and easy pace that suggested little care and zero haste, her skirts drifting behind her first one way and then the other, encouraged into a lulling dance that shifted with the soft and subtle sway of her non-existent hips. Her bare arms remained elegantly still at her siders and her shoulders were shifted back in a pristine posture that her mother had ensured her to possess naturally from a young age.
Finding her way to the kitchens was easy enough, for it appeared the culinary servants were already preparing the noonday feast and she had only to follow her nose. But, upon descending three shallow steps into the chamber, she came to discover that it was empty. For whatever reason, the servants had left the meals unattended for now and she was exposed to her own devices and desires to explore...
Moving around the room, Hypatia was careful not to touch anything. She had no means of knowing what was dangerous, nor what might stain her clothing or skin. She simply leant down to inspect items closer or moved onto her toes to peer at a pot on a shelf marked in a language she could not read.
Whilst Hypatia had learnt a few words and phrases in Hebrew - enough to understand a general topic of the conversations she heard around her but barely adequate to express her own thoughts - she had never learnt to read it at all and whilst she considered the calligraphy in question very pretty, it meant nothing to her.
It was as she was settling her heels towards the ground once more and looking to find something else to occupy her inquisitive mind that Hypatia noticed a contraption set up upon a work counter to one side of the room. Moving to stand beside the bench, the outer layer of her chiffon gown brushing and catching a little on the roughly hewn wooden edge, Hypatia moved to bat the fabric free and then bent low to peer at the mechanism, her eyes alert and considering.
Made of a combination of wood and stone, with a bowl beneath that offered traces of a light and fine powder, the piece possessed what looked to be a handle or crank upon its right-hand side. Curious, Hypatia reached out and, with more effort that she was expecting and causing a little furrow to break between her brows, she was able to tug the handle around in one arching circle.
Immediately a large slab of rock shifted inside the wooden scaffold and dusted grain fell into the awaiting bowl beneath. Some of it caught upon the non-existent breeze and drifted onto her dress. She paused long enough to bat the particles away and then waited for the harsh crunching of stone on stone to leave her ears before reaching for the handle again, her interest piqued enough that she did not notice the soft step of a man with a heavy load moving slowly and carefully down the steps into the kitchen behind her. Instead, her focus was on the item before her, which she was realising was a grinder for some kind of bread grain.
With the corner of her rosebud lips pulling into a soft curl at one side of her mouth, Hypatia turned the handle again, and managed a full rotation of the crank before the arm came to an abrupt halt and, with a juddering sound, refused to move.
Immediately letting go of the mechanism and afeared that she had broken it, Hypatia paused for a second before bending low and peering to see what might have obstructed the performance of the appliance. Upon seeing nothing obvious, she took the handle again and pushed down hard, hoping to urge the item to work so as not to be forced to report its malfunction to a servant - or worse, to Commander Alexios himself.
Terror gripped her heart for a moment, as Hypatia realised that worse still would be to report the misstep to her mother - including the admittance of her entry to the kitchens at all.
Looking around for a solution to her problem, Hypatia took up what appeared to be a heavy mallet sort of instrument that she had no idea was used for tenderising meat and, with nervous and carefully cleaned and polished hands set about giving the handle a forceful whack with the tool, in order to encourage it more forcefully to return to its status as fully operational.
Needless to say with her inactive lifestyle and the general state of ease with which she had always existed from day to day, Hypatia had neither the accuracy nor the strength with which to use the tool in such a manner and any strikes she managed to successfully land upon the handle, sent judders up her forearms in a way that had her shifting more than the stubborn contraption did.
Useless in terms of physical excess but not unintelligent, Hypatia instantly recognised that if she could not provide the strength to induce the item to move, she would need weight to work in her favour instead.
Glancing around for something heavier than that of the small mallet she set back upon the surface she had collected it from, Hypatia would have noticed herself to no longer be alone in the kitchen it if wasn't for the noise she had been making hitting at the crank arm, or the murmurings she grumbled in Greek, between strikes. She was also not required to look around completely before she spotted something that might be heavy enough to force the handle to move, rectify her crime in breaking it, and ensure that her mother never had to discover her trespass to the most dangerous of places; the commonfolk areas. Had she been forced to look beyond the immediate vicinity in front of her and a little to her right, she might have been aware that another was present. But, alas, she did not.
Not heeding her audience, Hypatia was quick to notice a large and flat stone that laid upon the top of what appeared to be a cupboard. Given the heat of the room, the manor, the entire kingdom, Hypatia was not aware that such a cupboard housed a flame.
A new invention from the Persian lands, and used in the larger manors or official buildings in Judea - or even by some of the lower classes able to construct it for themselves - the cupboard that she assumed to contain crockery or cooking supplies, was actually a kurn, a kiln like oven that held within its stonework belly, a fire, so that it might heat and singe the flat stone that rested above an outlet the rock itself hid from view. The cooking stone was searing to the touch and burnt any who so much as brushed it, let alone reached out with an eager hand to latch hold of it with a firm grasp, in order to use it as a recovery device for a broken grinder.
Hypatia was reaching out with a soft and speedy grace, fuelled by her desire to right her mistake, when she first heard the noise from behind her. Yet the disturbance was too late for her motion and intent; her mind and realisation not fast enough to halt the gesture of reaching to secure a hold upon a stone that she had no idea would burn her slight, little fingers to the bone...
Despite the fact that he knew he should not, he enjoyed seeing the interior of the Commander’s house. He did not have to wait long at the gate for someone to come, see him, and admit him entry. As he’d suspected earlier, he did have a bit of trouble managing to convince someone to assist him. None of the Judean servants were free and the Greek ones thought it beneath them to aid a merchant who should have thought ahead to bring his own help. Privately, Isaiah agreed with them. Benjamin was usually with him for this very reason. Alas that Rebekah was the way she was and so heavy with child. The servant who led him into the house left Isaiah at the service entrance, off to see who could or would be willing to help.
Isaiah glanced around, clasping his hands behind his back and bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet to stave off boredom. This house was a fantastic example of what his father called the ‘grotesque mixing’ of Greek and Hebrew cultures. The stones making up the walls were distinctly Judean in layout, as was the sandy hued plaster that smoothly coated the walls. He wondered if Greek craftsmen were so fine with their architecture as his own people. Surely the Commander could have no complaints? But, beyond the makeup of the building, with its straight walls and level floors, the rest was Greek.
Statues of what he assumed to be half dressed gods stared down at him and he held their gazes, reminding himself that these were merely carved images of fictional beings. They did not exist, and if they did not exist, then their presence could not be offensive, right? It was a little irksome, but he didn’t live here and only had to put up with it for a little while. Tapestries depicting stories he didn’t think were entirely appropriate hung on the walls and he purposefully didn’t look at them. The naked form might be celebrated in Greece, but it was not displayed in such a vulgar manner in Judea.
At last the servant came back to tell him that no, no one in the house could possibly help him. There was simply no time and he should have thought about this before burdening them with his problems. This news was not a shock and did not rouse his temper. Instead, he nodded. “I know it is inconvenient, but it is impossible for me to lift that jar off the wagon by myself. If your master does not want his oil-”
”It will be your fault,” the Greek servant cut across him. Isaiah smiled, trying to remain polite.
“Undoubtedly, and I know it does not reflect well on my lowly person. I would add, forgive me, that it is not I who will suffer this evening when food is not properly made?”[/i]
This gave the servant pause. Isaiah tried not to smile too wide, or too little. Just enough to be friendly and not enough to be offensive or, worse, condescending. Eventually, the Greek servant saw the logic in this and groused that he would help with nothing more than to lift off the jar. The rest would be on Isaiah to complete. Surely he could drag the jar on his own, correct? This was a deal that Isaiah could live with, though he didn’t like the thought of having to lug the whole clay vessel through the house and risk it either scratching the floor or tipping over to spill its contents. Either way, he wouldn’t be paid and would be berated for creating such a horrid mess.
He’d just have to take extra care.
Together they hefted the giant oil jar down. As soon as its base crunched against the dirt, the servant spun on his heel and stalked back into the house. Isaiah stared after him, sighed, then began the precarious and highly boring task of wiggling the jar into the house by twisting it first to the left, then the right, and using the jar’s own momentum to essentially ‘walk’ it forward. This worked well, though was time consuming, until he entered the house again. Using his foot, he hooked his sandal around the door handle and eased the door closed behind him, encasing him in the shadow of the hall. Just ahead of him was a small mat that he assumed was used for keeping dirt to a minimum.
Bending to remove his sandals, he placed them in the corner and then wiggled the jar onto the mat. “Now we’re in business,” he whispered to himself. With the mat under the jar, he could simply push and cruise across the floor with very little trouble and no danger of scraping the floor. The only caveat he found was that he had to bend and place his hands on either side of the jar to keep it from pitching forward.
This worked amazingly well. All of a sudden, he heard a commotion in the inner courtyard. A chicken cawed and several people were chasing it and being chased by an angry rooster in return. This he saw from the tiny window overlooking the comical scene. Grinning to himself and shaking his head, he made his way, sliding step by sliding step, to the kitchens. As he’d suspected they might be, the kitchen was empty. All of the servants that should be in here were dealing with that odd chicken incident.
He did not immediately notice Hypatia, for he’d entered the kitchens when she was in one of her silent moments. As soon as he did notice her, he gawked for a moment. What was the lady of the house doing down here? And then he frowned. He’d been under the impression there was no lady of the house. Not, of course, that he and the Commander ever had tea or chatted about the Commander’s private life. It was simply an observation Isaiah had made over the past few months or so.
Easing the jar as safely and quietly as he could down each step, he couldn’t make himself entirely silent. The clay scraped over the stone, emitting a soft grinding sound, but it wasn’t enough to bother the lady, as she never looked up from whatever it was that she was doing. He kept stealing glances at her, whenever he could look away from the jar. Plenty of Greek women visited the market places, but he was always so busy, that he never really paid much attention to them. Except the ones with light hair, which this woman had. It was so different from any girl’s hair in Judea, who all had varying degrees of dark brown to midnight black.
Once the jar was safely on the kitchen floor, he took the opportunity to straighten up, pressing both hands against his lower back, casting a sidelong glance at Hypatia as he did it, but he did a double take. “Stop!” he leaped across the kitchen, closing the distance between them in three bounds, grasping her delicate wrist and forcibly taking it away from the stone she’d just about closed her fingers around. His eyes were wide and his lips parted in alarm as he stared into her face. “No, my lady,” his brows drew down in confusion and concern.
He looked down at his hand still closed around her wrist and abruptly let go, stepped back, and bowed, keeping his face toward the floor. His face was hot and he realized that, even though he’d just saved her from burning her hand and fingers potentially to the bone within seconds, he was likely in a great deal of trouble. He shouldn’t have touched her at all and she would be mortally offended and not understand why he’d done it.
“Forgive me,” he said quickly, his gaze sweeping the floor at his bare feet. “You would have been severely injured.” If she gave him leave, he’d explain what she was about to have done, but he didn’t presume to speak to her more than he already had. Which was still too much.
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Despite the fact that he knew he should not, he enjoyed seeing the interior of the Commander’s house. He did not have to wait long at the gate for someone to come, see him, and admit him entry. As he’d suspected earlier, he did have a bit of trouble managing to convince someone to assist him. None of the Judean servants were free and the Greek ones thought it beneath them to aid a merchant who should have thought ahead to bring his own help. Privately, Isaiah agreed with them. Benjamin was usually with him for this very reason. Alas that Rebekah was the way she was and so heavy with child. The servant who led him into the house left Isaiah at the service entrance, off to see who could or would be willing to help.
Isaiah glanced around, clasping his hands behind his back and bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet to stave off boredom. This house was a fantastic example of what his father called the ‘grotesque mixing’ of Greek and Hebrew cultures. The stones making up the walls were distinctly Judean in layout, as was the sandy hued plaster that smoothly coated the walls. He wondered if Greek craftsmen were so fine with their architecture as his own people. Surely the Commander could have no complaints? But, beyond the makeup of the building, with its straight walls and level floors, the rest was Greek.
Statues of what he assumed to be half dressed gods stared down at him and he held their gazes, reminding himself that these were merely carved images of fictional beings. They did not exist, and if they did not exist, then their presence could not be offensive, right? It was a little irksome, but he didn’t live here and only had to put up with it for a little while. Tapestries depicting stories he didn’t think were entirely appropriate hung on the walls and he purposefully didn’t look at them. The naked form might be celebrated in Greece, but it was not displayed in such a vulgar manner in Judea.
At last the servant came back to tell him that no, no one in the house could possibly help him. There was simply no time and he should have thought about this before burdening them with his problems. This news was not a shock and did not rouse his temper. Instead, he nodded. “I know it is inconvenient, but it is impossible for me to lift that jar off the wagon by myself. If your master does not want his oil-”
”It will be your fault,” the Greek servant cut across him. Isaiah smiled, trying to remain polite.
“Undoubtedly, and I know it does not reflect well on my lowly person. I would add, forgive me, that it is not I who will suffer this evening when food is not properly made?”[/i]
This gave the servant pause. Isaiah tried not to smile too wide, or too little. Just enough to be friendly and not enough to be offensive or, worse, condescending. Eventually, the Greek servant saw the logic in this and groused that he would help with nothing more than to lift off the jar. The rest would be on Isaiah to complete. Surely he could drag the jar on his own, correct? This was a deal that Isaiah could live with, though he didn’t like the thought of having to lug the whole clay vessel through the house and risk it either scratching the floor or tipping over to spill its contents. Either way, he wouldn’t be paid and would be berated for creating such a horrid mess.
He’d just have to take extra care.
Together they hefted the giant oil jar down. As soon as its base crunched against the dirt, the servant spun on his heel and stalked back into the house. Isaiah stared after him, sighed, then began the precarious and highly boring task of wiggling the jar into the house by twisting it first to the left, then the right, and using the jar’s own momentum to essentially ‘walk’ it forward. This worked well, though was time consuming, until he entered the house again. Using his foot, he hooked his sandal around the door handle and eased the door closed behind him, encasing him in the shadow of the hall. Just ahead of him was a small mat that he assumed was used for keeping dirt to a minimum.
Bending to remove his sandals, he placed them in the corner and then wiggled the jar onto the mat. “Now we’re in business,” he whispered to himself. With the mat under the jar, he could simply push and cruise across the floor with very little trouble and no danger of scraping the floor. The only caveat he found was that he had to bend and place his hands on either side of the jar to keep it from pitching forward.
This worked amazingly well. All of a sudden, he heard a commotion in the inner courtyard. A chicken cawed and several people were chasing it and being chased by an angry rooster in return. This he saw from the tiny window overlooking the comical scene. Grinning to himself and shaking his head, he made his way, sliding step by sliding step, to the kitchens. As he’d suspected they might be, the kitchen was empty. All of the servants that should be in here were dealing with that odd chicken incident.
He did not immediately notice Hypatia, for he’d entered the kitchens when she was in one of her silent moments. As soon as he did notice her, he gawked for a moment. What was the lady of the house doing down here? And then he frowned. He’d been under the impression there was no lady of the house. Not, of course, that he and the Commander ever had tea or chatted about the Commander’s private life. It was simply an observation Isaiah had made over the past few months or so.
Easing the jar as safely and quietly as he could down each step, he couldn’t make himself entirely silent. The clay scraped over the stone, emitting a soft grinding sound, but it wasn’t enough to bother the lady, as she never looked up from whatever it was that she was doing. He kept stealing glances at her, whenever he could look away from the jar. Plenty of Greek women visited the market places, but he was always so busy, that he never really paid much attention to them. Except the ones with light hair, which this woman had. It was so different from any girl’s hair in Judea, who all had varying degrees of dark brown to midnight black.
Once the jar was safely on the kitchen floor, he took the opportunity to straighten up, pressing both hands against his lower back, casting a sidelong glance at Hypatia as he did it, but he did a double take. “Stop!” he leaped across the kitchen, closing the distance between them in three bounds, grasping her delicate wrist and forcibly taking it away from the stone she’d just about closed her fingers around. His eyes were wide and his lips parted in alarm as he stared into her face. “No, my lady,” his brows drew down in confusion and concern.
He looked down at his hand still closed around her wrist and abruptly let go, stepped back, and bowed, keeping his face toward the floor. His face was hot and he realized that, even though he’d just saved her from burning her hand and fingers potentially to the bone within seconds, he was likely in a great deal of trouble. He shouldn’t have touched her at all and she would be mortally offended and not understand why he’d done it.
“Forgive me,” he said quickly, his gaze sweeping the floor at his bare feet. “You would have been severely injured.” If she gave him leave, he’d explain what she was about to have done, but he didn’t presume to speak to her more than he already had. Which was still too much.
Despite the fact that he knew he should not, he enjoyed seeing the interior of the Commander’s house. He did not have to wait long at the gate for someone to come, see him, and admit him entry. As he’d suspected earlier, he did have a bit of trouble managing to convince someone to assist him. None of the Judean servants were free and the Greek ones thought it beneath them to aid a merchant who should have thought ahead to bring his own help. Privately, Isaiah agreed with them. Benjamin was usually with him for this very reason. Alas that Rebekah was the way she was and so heavy with child. The servant who led him into the house left Isaiah at the service entrance, off to see who could or would be willing to help.
Isaiah glanced around, clasping his hands behind his back and bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet to stave off boredom. This house was a fantastic example of what his father called the ‘grotesque mixing’ of Greek and Hebrew cultures. The stones making up the walls were distinctly Judean in layout, as was the sandy hued plaster that smoothly coated the walls. He wondered if Greek craftsmen were so fine with their architecture as his own people. Surely the Commander could have no complaints? But, beyond the makeup of the building, with its straight walls and level floors, the rest was Greek.
Statues of what he assumed to be half dressed gods stared down at him and he held their gazes, reminding himself that these were merely carved images of fictional beings. They did not exist, and if they did not exist, then their presence could not be offensive, right? It was a little irksome, but he didn’t live here and only had to put up with it for a little while. Tapestries depicting stories he didn’t think were entirely appropriate hung on the walls and he purposefully didn’t look at them. The naked form might be celebrated in Greece, but it was not displayed in such a vulgar manner in Judea.
At last the servant came back to tell him that no, no one in the house could possibly help him. There was simply no time and he should have thought about this before burdening them with his problems. This news was not a shock and did not rouse his temper. Instead, he nodded. “I know it is inconvenient, but it is impossible for me to lift that jar off the wagon by myself. If your master does not want his oil-”
”It will be your fault,” the Greek servant cut across him. Isaiah smiled, trying to remain polite.
“Undoubtedly, and I know it does not reflect well on my lowly person. I would add, forgive me, that it is not I who will suffer this evening when food is not properly made?”[/i]
This gave the servant pause. Isaiah tried not to smile too wide, or too little. Just enough to be friendly and not enough to be offensive or, worse, condescending. Eventually, the Greek servant saw the logic in this and groused that he would help with nothing more than to lift off the jar. The rest would be on Isaiah to complete. Surely he could drag the jar on his own, correct? This was a deal that Isaiah could live with, though he didn’t like the thought of having to lug the whole clay vessel through the house and risk it either scratching the floor or tipping over to spill its contents. Either way, he wouldn’t be paid and would be berated for creating such a horrid mess.
He’d just have to take extra care.
Together they hefted the giant oil jar down. As soon as its base crunched against the dirt, the servant spun on his heel and stalked back into the house. Isaiah stared after him, sighed, then began the precarious and highly boring task of wiggling the jar into the house by twisting it first to the left, then the right, and using the jar’s own momentum to essentially ‘walk’ it forward. This worked well, though was time consuming, until he entered the house again. Using his foot, he hooked his sandal around the door handle and eased the door closed behind him, encasing him in the shadow of the hall. Just ahead of him was a small mat that he assumed was used for keeping dirt to a minimum.
Bending to remove his sandals, he placed them in the corner and then wiggled the jar onto the mat. “Now we’re in business,” he whispered to himself. With the mat under the jar, he could simply push and cruise across the floor with very little trouble and no danger of scraping the floor. The only caveat he found was that he had to bend and place his hands on either side of the jar to keep it from pitching forward.
This worked amazingly well. All of a sudden, he heard a commotion in the inner courtyard. A chicken cawed and several people were chasing it and being chased by an angry rooster in return. This he saw from the tiny window overlooking the comical scene. Grinning to himself and shaking his head, he made his way, sliding step by sliding step, to the kitchens. As he’d suspected they might be, the kitchen was empty. All of the servants that should be in here were dealing with that odd chicken incident.
He did not immediately notice Hypatia, for he’d entered the kitchens when she was in one of her silent moments. As soon as he did notice her, he gawked for a moment. What was the lady of the house doing down here? And then he frowned. He’d been under the impression there was no lady of the house. Not, of course, that he and the Commander ever had tea or chatted about the Commander’s private life. It was simply an observation Isaiah had made over the past few months or so.
Easing the jar as safely and quietly as he could down each step, he couldn’t make himself entirely silent. The clay scraped over the stone, emitting a soft grinding sound, but it wasn’t enough to bother the lady, as she never looked up from whatever it was that she was doing. He kept stealing glances at her, whenever he could look away from the jar. Plenty of Greek women visited the market places, but he was always so busy, that he never really paid much attention to them. Except the ones with light hair, which this woman had. It was so different from any girl’s hair in Judea, who all had varying degrees of dark brown to midnight black.
Once the jar was safely on the kitchen floor, he took the opportunity to straighten up, pressing both hands against his lower back, casting a sidelong glance at Hypatia as he did it, but he did a double take. “Stop!” he leaped across the kitchen, closing the distance between them in three bounds, grasping her delicate wrist and forcibly taking it away from the stone she’d just about closed her fingers around. His eyes were wide and his lips parted in alarm as he stared into her face. “No, my lady,” his brows drew down in confusion and concern.
He looked down at his hand still closed around her wrist and abruptly let go, stepped back, and bowed, keeping his face toward the floor. His face was hot and he realized that, even though he’d just saved her from burning her hand and fingers potentially to the bone within seconds, he was likely in a great deal of trouble. He shouldn’t have touched her at all and she would be mortally offended and not understand why he’d done it.
“Forgive me,” he said quickly, his gaze sweeping the floor at his bare feet. “You would have been severely injured.” If she gave him leave, he’d explain what she was about to have done, but he didn’t presume to speak to her more than he already had. Which was still too much.
Having not heard the young man enter the kitchen, Hypatia was understandably started by his sudden shout and appearance. Be it the noise the grinder made as she tried to work it, masking any sound of his heavy jar and progress down the stairs, the occasionally shout and noise from a nearby outside courtyard that Hypatia knew nothing of regarding the cause, or simply the fact that she was used to ignoring servants and slaves working around her for she could, as a noble lady, never be offensively in their way... whatever the reason, Hypatia consciously knew nothing of the young man's presence until he startled her with his cry,
As she had been reaching out to take hold of the stone that she needed to bash the grinder's handle crank into a cyclical motion once more, the gesture had already been communicated to her fingers. There was such a short half-second of time between the frightened command to cease and the securing of fingers around her wrist, that Hypatia had not the time to follow the issued order, her digits still moving towards the surface she did not know to be extremely hot, when the young servant turned physical in his efforts to still her intention.
Hypatia's reaction to the intrusion was as one might expect from so sudden an appearance of a stranger, issuing yells of shock in words of a language she was not familiar.
With a startled noise of her own - holding the timbre but not the volume of a cry of fear - Hypatia's surprise was easily apparent in the way her frame avoided colliding with his and her eyes turned wide at the invasion of her personal space. Her shoulders turned her away from the man, moving her into a position that faced him front-on and while shock initially paralysed her arm, she immediately snatched it back in surprise as soon as he permitted it liberty.
With her delicate fingers curling into a loose fist that she held up against her collarbone, where her peach-hued chiton cut in a diagonal line across her chest, Hypatia's curls shook and bounced at her motion and swayed in their framing of her stunned features. Large eyes even larger, her cheeks rapidly turning a dusky shade of rose, and her budding lips parting just slightly in a confused daze… the image was spectacularly akin to a fawn discovering itself to be the target of a hunter. Her pale skin and tawny hair – not to mention light eyes would likely only emphasise the fragility of her appearance to one used to bolder and more stoic colours in their people.
As her throat dipped in a soft swallow and the tips of her fingers uncurled from her palm to brush nervously against her décolletage, large orbs of soft blue followed the man’s gestures and formal bow. Her brows rose as she took in his appearance. Clearly a Judean in every sense of the word, his black hair, dark palette and poor and simple clothing confirmed him to clearly be a member of the Hebrew people. If the words from his mouth were not further confirmation of the same belief.
Oddly, Hypatia noticed that the man seemed to be as surprised as she; dazed by his actions and clearly regretful of having touched her. She did not need to share a language with him to recognise the submissiveness of his gestures or the way in which he let her go and seemed determined to reverse his intrusion to her natural boundaries.
Her immediate fear and panic dissipated by a large degree, leaving only a nervous sort of curiosity.
When the man spoke, the words were unfamiliar to her but the tone and twist of the language reminiscent of the few, simple lessons she had insisted on taking before coming to Judea. Despite her mother persisting that she would not be required to speak to the native people and that any attempt to do so in their language would be seen as a diminishing of her own rights and powers as a Greek woman, Hypatia had appealed to Europa’s ambition. Knowing her mother as she did, there were a few times in her life where Hypatia had managed to use that knowledge to her advantage.
Admitting that she wished to be the most wonderful wife to Commander Alexios and that she would only be able to win him over as a potential suitor were she able to prove her abilities as the controlled of a household – as Europa did for her own husband – Hypatia had suggested that she would win far greater favour with the Taengean Commander if she were able to immediately show her worth. Which would require being able to order and command the entirety of her future staff – including the Judeans – from the beginning, not simply waiting for the native slaves within the home to learn her manners and ideas through trial and error.
It had been a weak argument in conflict with her mother’s secure and rather xenophobic opinions, but it had won her out at least in terms of allowing Hypatia to learn the very, very basics of the Hebrew language.
Now able to understand simple, common phrases and basic sentence structure, the words that poured like a pretty little tapestry from this young man’s lips were easy enough to comprehend in terms of grammar. But her vocabulary was far too small to comprehend his meaning. He spoke of something regarding her, he spoke of forgiveness… His eyes, glancing towards the stone, made an indication of what he was talking about.
Uncertain, but curious enough to offer him a moment of her inquisition, Hypatia watched the young man and, very slowly – so as to communicate that she was trusting of his words and not simply ignoring him – moved her and back towards the heavy rock she had been attempting to kidnap for her purposes. With an incremental speed she had not employed before, Hypatia kept her glances straying to the young man – so that he knew she wasn’t simply overriding his warnings – and straightened out her fingers. The nails were carefully cared for and buffed so that they shone purest white and pink in the sunshine streaking through the little window above. Now with the flat of her hand suspended above the stone in question, Hypatia lowered it closer to its surface, her features displaying a sense of realisation and understanding as she now felt the impressive heat rising from the stone.
With a quick grace, she moved her hand away once more and to her side, comprehending now that ‘נִפגָע’ must have meant ‘pain’ or ‘injury’. Perhaps ‘burn’? The panicked cry of the man when he had first stepped forward to take her hand away from the rock made more sense now and his immediate regret was tender.
Hypatia turned to consider him, her head tilted just a little and one of her longer curls falling to brush upon her skin, burnished and moisturised to a fine gleam.
The Judean man clearly feared punishment for his breaking of boundaries and yet it had not stopped him from doing so in the first place, in order to ensure she was not harmed. Naïve she might be, but Hypatia considered that to be all the proof she needed of a good heart.
Allowing her hands to come to rest together before her, the tip of Hypatia’s tongue appeared upon her lower lip – a physical symptom of her uncertainty – as she decided to attempt the language she had only ever learnt in limited theory. She indicated an upward motion with her hands to encourage the man to full standing, eager to see a clearer image of his full face, given she had barely had the chance to note it before he had bent at the waist.
“Thank you.” She offered the man in broken Hebrew. She was fairly certain that she had the words right though goodness knew if she had any form of foreign accent to them. She gestured to the stone just to be clear, then placed the pads of her fingertips to the palm of the other. The touch upon herself indicated the softness of her skin and therefore the risk of ‘נִפגָע’ that he had saved her from.
Her gaze was distracted for a moment, as she glanced towards a large jar that had not been within the room a few moments prior, instantly piecing together why the face of this young man was not familiar and why he did not wear the appropriate robes of the other slaves and servants within the household the Commander kept.
“You…” Hypatia lifted a hand to gesture to the jar. “You are trade?” She wasn’t sure if she was trying to say, ‘are you a trader’, or ‘do you trade’ but the words seemed to work nonetheless. “You trade… err… here?” She tried pointing at the ground with the light up and down motion of both hands, like she was trying to fly with the tiniest of wings. She tried to change her tone to ensure it sounded polite and curious. “What you trade?”
Now, that didn’t sound accurate at all to even her unpractised ear. Worried that she wouldn’t be coming across clearly, Hypatia pointed once more to the jar and then tried to form some sort of mime as to querying what was inside. She didn’t manage to finish the mime, however, as she shocked herself with its inappropriateness. In trying to carve the shape of the jar – the wide top, the slim neck and the full body of the ceramic mould – she immediately realised that she was, from thin air, constructing the voluptuous figure of a woman. One of her hands instantly snapped back to press her fingertips to her lips in shame and her cheeks blushed scarlet.
Goodness knows what she was communicating to the young and good man now…
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Having not heard the young man enter the kitchen, Hypatia was understandably started by his sudden shout and appearance. Be it the noise the grinder made as she tried to work it, masking any sound of his heavy jar and progress down the stairs, the occasionally shout and noise from a nearby outside courtyard that Hypatia knew nothing of regarding the cause, or simply the fact that she was used to ignoring servants and slaves working around her for she could, as a noble lady, never be offensively in their way... whatever the reason, Hypatia consciously knew nothing of the young man's presence until he startled her with his cry,
As she had been reaching out to take hold of the stone that she needed to bash the grinder's handle crank into a cyclical motion once more, the gesture had already been communicated to her fingers. There was such a short half-second of time between the frightened command to cease and the securing of fingers around her wrist, that Hypatia had not the time to follow the issued order, her digits still moving towards the surface she did not know to be extremely hot, when the young servant turned physical in his efforts to still her intention.
Hypatia's reaction to the intrusion was as one might expect from so sudden an appearance of a stranger, issuing yells of shock in words of a language she was not familiar.
With a startled noise of her own - holding the timbre but not the volume of a cry of fear - Hypatia's surprise was easily apparent in the way her frame avoided colliding with his and her eyes turned wide at the invasion of her personal space. Her shoulders turned her away from the man, moving her into a position that faced him front-on and while shock initially paralysed her arm, she immediately snatched it back in surprise as soon as he permitted it liberty.
With her delicate fingers curling into a loose fist that she held up against her collarbone, where her peach-hued chiton cut in a diagonal line across her chest, Hypatia's curls shook and bounced at her motion and swayed in their framing of her stunned features. Large eyes even larger, her cheeks rapidly turning a dusky shade of rose, and her budding lips parting just slightly in a confused daze… the image was spectacularly akin to a fawn discovering itself to be the target of a hunter. Her pale skin and tawny hair – not to mention light eyes would likely only emphasise the fragility of her appearance to one used to bolder and more stoic colours in their people.
As her throat dipped in a soft swallow and the tips of her fingers uncurled from her palm to brush nervously against her décolletage, large orbs of soft blue followed the man’s gestures and formal bow. Her brows rose as she took in his appearance. Clearly a Judean in every sense of the word, his black hair, dark palette and poor and simple clothing confirmed him to clearly be a member of the Hebrew people. If the words from his mouth were not further confirmation of the same belief.
Oddly, Hypatia noticed that the man seemed to be as surprised as she; dazed by his actions and clearly regretful of having touched her. She did not need to share a language with him to recognise the submissiveness of his gestures or the way in which he let her go and seemed determined to reverse his intrusion to her natural boundaries.
Her immediate fear and panic dissipated by a large degree, leaving only a nervous sort of curiosity.
When the man spoke, the words were unfamiliar to her but the tone and twist of the language reminiscent of the few, simple lessons she had insisted on taking before coming to Judea. Despite her mother persisting that she would not be required to speak to the native people and that any attempt to do so in their language would be seen as a diminishing of her own rights and powers as a Greek woman, Hypatia had appealed to Europa’s ambition. Knowing her mother as she did, there were a few times in her life where Hypatia had managed to use that knowledge to her advantage.
Admitting that she wished to be the most wonderful wife to Commander Alexios and that she would only be able to win him over as a potential suitor were she able to prove her abilities as the controlled of a household – as Europa did for her own husband – Hypatia had suggested that she would win far greater favour with the Taengean Commander if she were able to immediately show her worth. Which would require being able to order and command the entirety of her future staff – including the Judeans – from the beginning, not simply waiting for the native slaves within the home to learn her manners and ideas through trial and error.
It had been a weak argument in conflict with her mother’s secure and rather xenophobic opinions, but it had won her out at least in terms of allowing Hypatia to learn the very, very basics of the Hebrew language.
Now able to understand simple, common phrases and basic sentence structure, the words that poured like a pretty little tapestry from this young man’s lips were easy enough to comprehend in terms of grammar. But her vocabulary was far too small to comprehend his meaning. He spoke of something regarding her, he spoke of forgiveness… His eyes, glancing towards the stone, made an indication of what he was talking about.
Uncertain, but curious enough to offer him a moment of her inquisition, Hypatia watched the young man and, very slowly – so as to communicate that she was trusting of his words and not simply ignoring him – moved her and back towards the heavy rock she had been attempting to kidnap for her purposes. With an incremental speed she had not employed before, Hypatia kept her glances straying to the young man – so that he knew she wasn’t simply overriding his warnings – and straightened out her fingers. The nails were carefully cared for and buffed so that they shone purest white and pink in the sunshine streaking through the little window above. Now with the flat of her hand suspended above the stone in question, Hypatia lowered it closer to its surface, her features displaying a sense of realisation and understanding as she now felt the impressive heat rising from the stone.
With a quick grace, she moved her hand away once more and to her side, comprehending now that ‘נִפגָע’ must have meant ‘pain’ or ‘injury’. Perhaps ‘burn’? The panicked cry of the man when he had first stepped forward to take her hand away from the rock made more sense now and his immediate regret was tender.
Hypatia turned to consider him, her head tilted just a little and one of her longer curls falling to brush upon her skin, burnished and moisturised to a fine gleam.
The Judean man clearly feared punishment for his breaking of boundaries and yet it had not stopped him from doing so in the first place, in order to ensure she was not harmed. Naïve she might be, but Hypatia considered that to be all the proof she needed of a good heart.
Allowing her hands to come to rest together before her, the tip of Hypatia’s tongue appeared upon her lower lip – a physical symptom of her uncertainty – as she decided to attempt the language she had only ever learnt in limited theory. She indicated an upward motion with her hands to encourage the man to full standing, eager to see a clearer image of his full face, given she had barely had the chance to note it before he had bent at the waist.
“Thank you.” She offered the man in broken Hebrew. She was fairly certain that she had the words right though goodness knew if she had any form of foreign accent to them. She gestured to the stone just to be clear, then placed the pads of her fingertips to the palm of the other. The touch upon herself indicated the softness of her skin and therefore the risk of ‘נִפגָע’ that he had saved her from.
Her gaze was distracted for a moment, as she glanced towards a large jar that had not been within the room a few moments prior, instantly piecing together why the face of this young man was not familiar and why he did not wear the appropriate robes of the other slaves and servants within the household the Commander kept.
“You…” Hypatia lifted a hand to gesture to the jar. “You are trade?” She wasn’t sure if she was trying to say, ‘are you a trader’, or ‘do you trade’ but the words seemed to work nonetheless. “You trade… err… here?” She tried pointing at the ground with the light up and down motion of both hands, like she was trying to fly with the tiniest of wings. She tried to change her tone to ensure it sounded polite and curious. “What you trade?”
Now, that didn’t sound accurate at all to even her unpractised ear. Worried that she wouldn’t be coming across clearly, Hypatia pointed once more to the jar and then tried to form some sort of mime as to querying what was inside. She didn’t manage to finish the mime, however, as she shocked herself with its inappropriateness. In trying to carve the shape of the jar – the wide top, the slim neck and the full body of the ceramic mould – she immediately realised that she was, from thin air, constructing the voluptuous figure of a woman. One of her hands instantly snapped back to press her fingertips to her lips in shame and her cheeks blushed scarlet.
Goodness knows what she was communicating to the young and good man now…
Having not heard the young man enter the kitchen, Hypatia was understandably started by his sudden shout and appearance. Be it the noise the grinder made as she tried to work it, masking any sound of his heavy jar and progress down the stairs, the occasionally shout and noise from a nearby outside courtyard that Hypatia knew nothing of regarding the cause, or simply the fact that she was used to ignoring servants and slaves working around her for she could, as a noble lady, never be offensively in their way... whatever the reason, Hypatia consciously knew nothing of the young man's presence until he startled her with his cry,
As she had been reaching out to take hold of the stone that she needed to bash the grinder's handle crank into a cyclical motion once more, the gesture had already been communicated to her fingers. There was such a short half-second of time between the frightened command to cease and the securing of fingers around her wrist, that Hypatia had not the time to follow the issued order, her digits still moving towards the surface she did not know to be extremely hot, when the young servant turned physical in his efforts to still her intention.
Hypatia's reaction to the intrusion was as one might expect from so sudden an appearance of a stranger, issuing yells of shock in words of a language she was not familiar.
With a startled noise of her own - holding the timbre but not the volume of a cry of fear - Hypatia's surprise was easily apparent in the way her frame avoided colliding with his and her eyes turned wide at the invasion of her personal space. Her shoulders turned her away from the man, moving her into a position that faced him front-on and while shock initially paralysed her arm, she immediately snatched it back in surprise as soon as he permitted it liberty.
With her delicate fingers curling into a loose fist that she held up against her collarbone, where her peach-hued chiton cut in a diagonal line across her chest, Hypatia's curls shook and bounced at her motion and swayed in their framing of her stunned features. Large eyes even larger, her cheeks rapidly turning a dusky shade of rose, and her budding lips parting just slightly in a confused daze… the image was spectacularly akin to a fawn discovering itself to be the target of a hunter. Her pale skin and tawny hair – not to mention light eyes would likely only emphasise the fragility of her appearance to one used to bolder and more stoic colours in their people.
As her throat dipped in a soft swallow and the tips of her fingers uncurled from her palm to brush nervously against her décolletage, large orbs of soft blue followed the man’s gestures and formal bow. Her brows rose as she took in his appearance. Clearly a Judean in every sense of the word, his black hair, dark palette and poor and simple clothing confirmed him to clearly be a member of the Hebrew people. If the words from his mouth were not further confirmation of the same belief.
Oddly, Hypatia noticed that the man seemed to be as surprised as she; dazed by his actions and clearly regretful of having touched her. She did not need to share a language with him to recognise the submissiveness of his gestures or the way in which he let her go and seemed determined to reverse his intrusion to her natural boundaries.
Her immediate fear and panic dissipated by a large degree, leaving only a nervous sort of curiosity.
When the man spoke, the words were unfamiliar to her but the tone and twist of the language reminiscent of the few, simple lessons she had insisted on taking before coming to Judea. Despite her mother persisting that she would not be required to speak to the native people and that any attempt to do so in their language would be seen as a diminishing of her own rights and powers as a Greek woman, Hypatia had appealed to Europa’s ambition. Knowing her mother as she did, there were a few times in her life where Hypatia had managed to use that knowledge to her advantage.
Admitting that she wished to be the most wonderful wife to Commander Alexios and that she would only be able to win him over as a potential suitor were she able to prove her abilities as the controlled of a household – as Europa did for her own husband – Hypatia had suggested that she would win far greater favour with the Taengean Commander if she were able to immediately show her worth. Which would require being able to order and command the entirety of her future staff – including the Judeans – from the beginning, not simply waiting for the native slaves within the home to learn her manners and ideas through trial and error.
It had been a weak argument in conflict with her mother’s secure and rather xenophobic opinions, but it had won her out at least in terms of allowing Hypatia to learn the very, very basics of the Hebrew language.
Now able to understand simple, common phrases and basic sentence structure, the words that poured like a pretty little tapestry from this young man’s lips were easy enough to comprehend in terms of grammar. But her vocabulary was far too small to comprehend his meaning. He spoke of something regarding her, he spoke of forgiveness… His eyes, glancing towards the stone, made an indication of what he was talking about.
Uncertain, but curious enough to offer him a moment of her inquisition, Hypatia watched the young man and, very slowly – so as to communicate that she was trusting of his words and not simply ignoring him – moved her and back towards the heavy rock she had been attempting to kidnap for her purposes. With an incremental speed she had not employed before, Hypatia kept her glances straying to the young man – so that he knew she wasn’t simply overriding his warnings – and straightened out her fingers. The nails were carefully cared for and buffed so that they shone purest white and pink in the sunshine streaking through the little window above. Now with the flat of her hand suspended above the stone in question, Hypatia lowered it closer to its surface, her features displaying a sense of realisation and understanding as she now felt the impressive heat rising from the stone.
With a quick grace, she moved her hand away once more and to her side, comprehending now that ‘נִפגָע’ must have meant ‘pain’ or ‘injury’. Perhaps ‘burn’? The panicked cry of the man when he had first stepped forward to take her hand away from the rock made more sense now and his immediate regret was tender.
Hypatia turned to consider him, her head tilted just a little and one of her longer curls falling to brush upon her skin, burnished and moisturised to a fine gleam.
The Judean man clearly feared punishment for his breaking of boundaries and yet it had not stopped him from doing so in the first place, in order to ensure she was not harmed. Naïve she might be, but Hypatia considered that to be all the proof she needed of a good heart.
Allowing her hands to come to rest together before her, the tip of Hypatia’s tongue appeared upon her lower lip – a physical symptom of her uncertainty – as she decided to attempt the language she had only ever learnt in limited theory. She indicated an upward motion with her hands to encourage the man to full standing, eager to see a clearer image of his full face, given she had barely had the chance to note it before he had bent at the waist.
“Thank you.” She offered the man in broken Hebrew. She was fairly certain that she had the words right though goodness knew if she had any form of foreign accent to them. She gestured to the stone just to be clear, then placed the pads of her fingertips to the palm of the other. The touch upon herself indicated the softness of her skin and therefore the risk of ‘נִפגָע’ that he had saved her from.
Her gaze was distracted for a moment, as she glanced towards a large jar that had not been within the room a few moments prior, instantly piecing together why the face of this young man was not familiar and why he did not wear the appropriate robes of the other slaves and servants within the household the Commander kept.
“You…” Hypatia lifted a hand to gesture to the jar. “You are trade?” She wasn’t sure if she was trying to say, ‘are you a trader’, or ‘do you trade’ but the words seemed to work nonetheless. “You trade… err… here?” She tried pointing at the ground with the light up and down motion of both hands, like she was trying to fly with the tiniest of wings. She tried to change her tone to ensure it sounded polite and curious. “What you trade?”
Now, that didn’t sound accurate at all to even her unpractised ear. Worried that she wouldn’t be coming across clearly, Hypatia pointed once more to the jar and then tried to form some sort of mime as to querying what was inside. She didn’t manage to finish the mime, however, as she shocked herself with its inappropriateness. In trying to carve the shape of the jar – the wide top, the slim neck and the full body of the ceramic mould – she immediately realised that she was, from thin air, constructing the voluptuous figure of a woman. One of her hands instantly snapped back to press her fingertips to her lips in shame and her cheeks blushed scarlet.
Goodness knows what she was communicating to the young and good man now…
Just as she hadn’t been able to get an adequate appraisal of him, so he, too, had no more than the merest hint of an idea of what she looked like. He’d formed the impression of a pale face and a wide eyed, open mouthed terror before he’d dropped her hand and made a much better summation of the floor. In doing so, he had time to see that the gorgeous, delicate fabric of her dress meant that he was in a world of peril. Obviously there hadn’t been a lady of the house before, but there most certainly was now. She could be no one else. Whether she was the Commander’s wife or his sister or niece, it didn’t matter. He’d touched the Commander’s property and squeezed his eyes shut, praying.
The gossamer fabric of her dress whispered as she moved back a step over the stone floor. He opened his eyes, uncertain as to what she was doing, and dared to flick them up at her. His eyes went round as she moved backward, her small hand hovering over the very thing he’d just saved her from. Was she mad? Though, she was placing her palm over it slowly and he realized she was simply assessing the heat, rather than blatantly attempting to defy his attempt to help.
Though her gaze kept drifting to him, she would also avert it and look elsewhere. He took that que and didn’t stare at her like he wanted to. The few times he’d been able to get a glance at her face, he found it a pleasing one, but he still wasn’t completely sure what she looked like. Again, there was only an impression, as though she was being described to him by someone else and he’d have to imagine her. What he could tell was that her eyes were strikingly blue, like the sky reflected against clear water and all of her features were tiny. Whether or not this was a good thing, he couldn’t quite tell, yet, since he couldn’t study her further. Sometimes, small noses were as useful to a face as a sparrow’s beak might be to a dog. They just didn’t fit. Depending on the face in question, of course.
He shouldn’t have kept it up, but his eyes had taken on a will of their own. Every few seconds, they’d dart toward her as he tried to form an impression, before he’d master himself and tear them away. Thankfully, she put an end to that torture by turning toward him again and motioning for him to stand. Pressing his lips together until they disappeared into a line, he straightened up, keeping his hands clasped behind his back and his shoulders down. He raised up only enough to do as she wanted, but not enough to tower over her, as there was a considerable height difference between them. His aim was to be as non-threatening to her as possible, as contrite and subservient as necessary. To live to eat supper and to see his family and his horrid sister-in-law. If he was not thrown into prison, he internally vowed, he’d give Rebekah a kiss on her pudgy cheek when he made it home.
Right at first, he’d determined that he still wouldn’t look directly at her. Being a man of self preservation and determined politeness, he settled for her chin, and such a delicate chin it was. Probably the perfect point to an oval face. The chin was set beneath full, alluring lips from which a soft, heavily accented ”Thank you” gifted him the sound of her voice. From just those two words, it was difficult to tell exactly what she sounded like but her voice was high and feminine. Her nose, far from being the beak for a dog, was an adorable, perfectly proportioned one. His gaze drifted up and he found himself staring into eyes that weren’t sky blue at all. They were blue glass, clear and luminescent with the sunlight drifting through the window above. Her hair looked like spun gold from the beam of buttery sunbeam she happened to be standing in.
Isaiah’s lips parted and he stared at her with a blank expression that he couldn’t quite form into anything more appropriate. She was the most delicate human being he’d ever seen; pale and exquisite and he couldn’t focus on what she was saying until he realized, with a jolt, that she was asking him a question.
Reason crashed down on him and he jolted back to reality, cheeks flushed, and totally confused as she asked if he was trade. “Am I trade?” he blinked, rubbing the back of his head and frowning, then understanding dawned on his face and he smiled as an “Ooooh,” breathed out of his mouth. “Am I a merchant? Yes.” His brain was scrambling to repair itself, because, for some reason, he was a little stupified in her presence and couldn’t truly be relied upon to know his own name. This was such an odd experience and he couldn’t liken it to anything in his life except for one other girl that he’d had no chance in the entire world of marrying. He’d noticed her, she’d taken exactly no notice of him and neither had her father. That was that. And, he realized with a new sense of relief, this was the same situation. Just an idiot little bit of befuddlement. He was fine. There was absolutely no reason to be so in awe of this woman because he was an ordinary, awkward duck, and she was a graceful swan. Separate ponds and he found that comforting, for some reason.
“Yes, I do, I trade here,” he found her little gestures charming and, now aware that her Hebrew was atrocious, found her attempts at conversation charming. Or, more probably, she wasn’t ‘conversating’ so much as trying to figure out what in the blue blazes he was doing in the kitchen of her home. She pantomimed something about his jar and he couldn’t quite make out what she was doing with it, except that she meant woman, judging by those curves she was making.
“No,” he held up a hand and moved backward, in careful, slow steps so as not to startle this doe of a creature, and he grasped the neck of the jar. “This isn’t for a woman. It’s oil. See?” He took out the wooden stopper that was rimmed with wax, and waited for her to see the clear, golden liquid inside. “Oil,” he repeated with a smile that he hoped was reassuring, rather than stupid. “I am an oil merchant.”
Replacing the stopper, he decided that he ought to get on with his job, rather than stare at this woman some more. He’d taken an extreme liberty to quickly glance at her form as she moved toward him. Was there anything imperfect about her? Probably not. Nothing he could see, anyway, and he turned his face away from her as heat flared in his cheeks. It was best to abandon the path his thoughts threatened to travel.
“I’m going to store this for you,” he said, keeping his back to her and struggling to regain some of his dignity. Really, he could kick himself. Pretty girls were as plentiful as flowers. He’d seen hundreds of them. Why this woman was making him a moron, he wasn’t entirely sure, but the feeling could go away at any time, as far as he was concerned. The faster he got this oil stored and could get out of this house, the better.
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Just as she hadn’t been able to get an adequate appraisal of him, so he, too, had no more than the merest hint of an idea of what she looked like. He’d formed the impression of a pale face and a wide eyed, open mouthed terror before he’d dropped her hand and made a much better summation of the floor. In doing so, he had time to see that the gorgeous, delicate fabric of her dress meant that he was in a world of peril. Obviously there hadn’t been a lady of the house before, but there most certainly was now. She could be no one else. Whether she was the Commander’s wife or his sister or niece, it didn’t matter. He’d touched the Commander’s property and squeezed his eyes shut, praying.
The gossamer fabric of her dress whispered as she moved back a step over the stone floor. He opened his eyes, uncertain as to what she was doing, and dared to flick them up at her. His eyes went round as she moved backward, her small hand hovering over the very thing he’d just saved her from. Was she mad? Though, she was placing her palm over it slowly and he realized she was simply assessing the heat, rather than blatantly attempting to defy his attempt to help.
Though her gaze kept drifting to him, she would also avert it and look elsewhere. He took that que and didn’t stare at her like he wanted to. The few times he’d been able to get a glance at her face, he found it a pleasing one, but he still wasn’t completely sure what she looked like. Again, there was only an impression, as though she was being described to him by someone else and he’d have to imagine her. What he could tell was that her eyes were strikingly blue, like the sky reflected against clear water and all of her features were tiny. Whether or not this was a good thing, he couldn’t quite tell, yet, since he couldn’t study her further. Sometimes, small noses were as useful to a face as a sparrow’s beak might be to a dog. They just didn’t fit. Depending on the face in question, of course.
He shouldn’t have kept it up, but his eyes had taken on a will of their own. Every few seconds, they’d dart toward her as he tried to form an impression, before he’d master himself and tear them away. Thankfully, she put an end to that torture by turning toward him again and motioning for him to stand. Pressing his lips together until they disappeared into a line, he straightened up, keeping his hands clasped behind his back and his shoulders down. He raised up only enough to do as she wanted, but not enough to tower over her, as there was a considerable height difference between them. His aim was to be as non-threatening to her as possible, as contrite and subservient as necessary. To live to eat supper and to see his family and his horrid sister-in-law. If he was not thrown into prison, he internally vowed, he’d give Rebekah a kiss on her pudgy cheek when he made it home.
Right at first, he’d determined that he still wouldn’t look directly at her. Being a man of self preservation and determined politeness, he settled for her chin, and such a delicate chin it was. Probably the perfect point to an oval face. The chin was set beneath full, alluring lips from which a soft, heavily accented ”Thank you” gifted him the sound of her voice. From just those two words, it was difficult to tell exactly what she sounded like but her voice was high and feminine. Her nose, far from being the beak for a dog, was an adorable, perfectly proportioned one. His gaze drifted up and he found himself staring into eyes that weren’t sky blue at all. They were blue glass, clear and luminescent with the sunlight drifting through the window above. Her hair looked like spun gold from the beam of buttery sunbeam she happened to be standing in.
Isaiah’s lips parted and he stared at her with a blank expression that he couldn’t quite form into anything more appropriate. She was the most delicate human being he’d ever seen; pale and exquisite and he couldn’t focus on what she was saying until he realized, with a jolt, that she was asking him a question.
Reason crashed down on him and he jolted back to reality, cheeks flushed, and totally confused as she asked if he was trade. “Am I trade?” he blinked, rubbing the back of his head and frowning, then understanding dawned on his face and he smiled as an “Ooooh,” breathed out of his mouth. “Am I a merchant? Yes.” His brain was scrambling to repair itself, because, for some reason, he was a little stupified in her presence and couldn’t truly be relied upon to know his own name. This was such an odd experience and he couldn’t liken it to anything in his life except for one other girl that he’d had no chance in the entire world of marrying. He’d noticed her, she’d taken exactly no notice of him and neither had her father. That was that. And, he realized with a new sense of relief, this was the same situation. Just an idiot little bit of befuddlement. He was fine. There was absolutely no reason to be so in awe of this woman because he was an ordinary, awkward duck, and she was a graceful swan. Separate ponds and he found that comforting, for some reason.
“Yes, I do, I trade here,” he found her little gestures charming and, now aware that her Hebrew was atrocious, found her attempts at conversation charming. Or, more probably, she wasn’t ‘conversating’ so much as trying to figure out what in the blue blazes he was doing in the kitchen of her home. She pantomimed something about his jar and he couldn’t quite make out what she was doing with it, except that she meant woman, judging by those curves she was making.
“No,” he held up a hand and moved backward, in careful, slow steps so as not to startle this doe of a creature, and he grasped the neck of the jar. “This isn’t for a woman. It’s oil. See?” He took out the wooden stopper that was rimmed with wax, and waited for her to see the clear, golden liquid inside. “Oil,” he repeated with a smile that he hoped was reassuring, rather than stupid. “I am an oil merchant.”
Replacing the stopper, he decided that he ought to get on with his job, rather than stare at this woman some more. He’d taken an extreme liberty to quickly glance at her form as she moved toward him. Was there anything imperfect about her? Probably not. Nothing he could see, anyway, and he turned his face away from her as heat flared in his cheeks. It was best to abandon the path his thoughts threatened to travel.
“I’m going to store this for you,” he said, keeping his back to her and struggling to regain some of his dignity. Really, he could kick himself. Pretty girls were as plentiful as flowers. He’d seen hundreds of them. Why this woman was making him a moron, he wasn’t entirely sure, but the feeling could go away at any time, as far as he was concerned. The faster he got this oil stored and could get out of this house, the better.
Just as she hadn’t been able to get an adequate appraisal of him, so he, too, had no more than the merest hint of an idea of what she looked like. He’d formed the impression of a pale face and a wide eyed, open mouthed terror before he’d dropped her hand and made a much better summation of the floor. In doing so, he had time to see that the gorgeous, delicate fabric of her dress meant that he was in a world of peril. Obviously there hadn’t been a lady of the house before, but there most certainly was now. She could be no one else. Whether she was the Commander’s wife or his sister or niece, it didn’t matter. He’d touched the Commander’s property and squeezed his eyes shut, praying.
The gossamer fabric of her dress whispered as she moved back a step over the stone floor. He opened his eyes, uncertain as to what she was doing, and dared to flick them up at her. His eyes went round as she moved backward, her small hand hovering over the very thing he’d just saved her from. Was she mad? Though, she was placing her palm over it slowly and he realized she was simply assessing the heat, rather than blatantly attempting to defy his attempt to help.
Though her gaze kept drifting to him, she would also avert it and look elsewhere. He took that que and didn’t stare at her like he wanted to. The few times he’d been able to get a glance at her face, he found it a pleasing one, but he still wasn’t completely sure what she looked like. Again, there was only an impression, as though she was being described to him by someone else and he’d have to imagine her. What he could tell was that her eyes were strikingly blue, like the sky reflected against clear water and all of her features were tiny. Whether or not this was a good thing, he couldn’t quite tell, yet, since he couldn’t study her further. Sometimes, small noses were as useful to a face as a sparrow’s beak might be to a dog. They just didn’t fit. Depending on the face in question, of course.
He shouldn’t have kept it up, but his eyes had taken on a will of their own. Every few seconds, they’d dart toward her as he tried to form an impression, before he’d master himself and tear them away. Thankfully, she put an end to that torture by turning toward him again and motioning for him to stand. Pressing his lips together until they disappeared into a line, he straightened up, keeping his hands clasped behind his back and his shoulders down. He raised up only enough to do as she wanted, but not enough to tower over her, as there was a considerable height difference between them. His aim was to be as non-threatening to her as possible, as contrite and subservient as necessary. To live to eat supper and to see his family and his horrid sister-in-law. If he was not thrown into prison, he internally vowed, he’d give Rebekah a kiss on her pudgy cheek when he made it home.
Right at first, he’d determined that he still wouldn’t look directly at her. Being a man of self preservation and determined politeness, he settled for her chin, and such a delicate chin it was. Probably the perfect point to an oval face. The chin was set beneath full, alluring lips from which a soft, heavily accented ”Thank you” gifted him the sound of her voice. From just those two words, it was difficult to tell exactly what she sounded like but her voice was high and feminine. Her nose, far from being the beak for a dog, was an adorable, perfectly proportioned one. His gaze drifted up and he found himself staring into eyes that weren’t sky blue at all. They were blue glass, clear and luminescent with the sunlight drifting through the window above. Her hair looked like spun gold from the beam of buttery sunbeam she happened to be standing in.
Isaiah’s lips parted and he stared at her with a blank expression that he couldn’t quite form into anything more appropriate. She was the most delicate human being he’d ever seen; pale and exquisite and he couldn’t focus on what she was saying until he realized, with a jolt, that she was asking him a question.
Reason crashed down on him and he jolted back to reality, cheeks flushed, and totally confused as she asked if he was trade. “Am I trade?” he blinked, rubbing the back of his head and frowning, then understanding dawned on his face and he smiled as an “Ooooh,” breathed out of his mouth. “Am I a merchant? Yes.” His brain was scrambling to repair itself, because, for some reason, he was a little stupified in her presence and couldn’t truly be relied upon to know his own name. This was such an odd experience and he couldn’t liken it to anything in his life except for one other girl that he’d had no chance in the entire world of marrying. He’d noticed her, she’d taken exactly no notice of him and neither had her father. That was that. And, he realized with a new sense of relief, this was the same situation. Just an idiot little bit of befuddlement. He was fine. There was absolutely no reason to be so in awe of this woman because he was an ordinary, awkward duck, and she was a graceful swan. Separate ponds and he found that comforting, for some reason.
“Yes, I do, I trade here,” he found her little gestures charming and, now aware that her Hebrew was atrocious, found her attempts at conversation charming. Or, more probably, she wasn’t ‘conversating’ so much as trying to figure out what in the blue blazes he was doing in the kitchen of her home. She pantomimed something about his jar and he couldn’t quite make out what she was doing with it, except that she meant woman, judging by those curves she was making.
“No,” he held up a hand and moved backward, in careful, slow steps so as not to startle this doe of a creature, and he grasped the neck of the jar. “This isn’t for a woman. It’s oil. See?” He took out the wooden stopper that was rimmed with wax, and waited for her to see the clear, golden liquid inside. “Oil,” he repeated with a smile that he hoped was reassuring, rather than stupid. “I am an oil merchant.”
Replacing the stopper, he decided that he ought to get on with his job, rather than stare at this woman some more. He’d taken an extreme liberty to quickly glance at her form as she moved toward him. Was there anything imperfect about her? Probably not. Nothing he could see, anyway, and he turned his face away from her as heat flared in his cheeks. It was best to abandon the path his thoughts threatened to travel.
“I’m going to store this for you,” he said, keeping his back to her and struggling to regain some of his dignity. Really, he could kick himself. Pretty girls were as plentiful as flowers. He’d seen hundreds of them. Why this woman was making him a moron, he wasn’t entirely sure, but the feeling could go away at any time, as far as he was concerned. The faster he got this oil stored and could get out of this house, the better.
Used to being watched by the lower classes - not with particular focus but with a certain level of nervous attention - Hypatia was ignorant of the young man's stolen glances. When one was noble, it was common for those around you to attempt a stare that would allow them to interpret your next movement, your next command. And whilst Hypatia's family were not yet of noble stock, her mother had enough aspirations to ensure that their household ran with the same style and methods of one owned by royalty. Servants were abound and decorum maintained. Europa had always been lucky that she had found a husband with whom a combined fortune of income and dowry had permitted her to live in such luxury without bankrupting the family.
As such, regardless of the lack of noble blood in Hypatia's veins, her mind was already experienced with how to relegate those of lower rank to her peripheral vision - to a standard of neglect that would not intercede upon her thoughts and actions. As such, when her eyes and mind were preoccupied with testing the young man's warnings over the rock, she was entirely absent of notice of his quick looks from beneath bended brow.
Instead, it wasn't until the man obeyed her instruction to straighten upright that she was able to properly assess his appearance and turn said concentration upon him. For, whilst Hypatia had been raised with a clear understanding of human worth and the importance of rank preservation, she had not yet morphed fully into her mother's mentality of complete dismissal for those established to be beneath her. Yes, they were ignored when she was fixated elsewhere... but when conversation was brought to hover between she and another, regardless of who that person was, Hypatia's lessons for decorum and politeness won out over xenophobia she had not ingrained into her psyche as her mother had and she gave her full attention to the matter at hand.
The man who had delivered the jar and saved her hand from a painful burning, was hard to witness the visage of when he was bent low, in so faithful a gesture of respect.
With hair longer than she had seen on most Grecians - enough so to hug the sides of his neck - the top half of his tresses had been tied back with a short piece of leather in a design more practical than it was stylish. The lower half, from his ears downwards, had been left to brush softly at the column of his neck. Amusingly - as if they held a determination all their own - two locks had freed themselves from constraint, seeking liberty at the young man's temples. Whether through their own stout determination or - more likely - the rigours of the manual labour of that day as the man had delivered his wares from house to estate- they had failed to stay in sync in their escape; one side still half caught, looping to kiss his cheekbone before finding anchor once more near his ear. The other hung with a light waving shape, pointing down towards the ground.
For a woman who spent the entirety of her waking moments trimmed, curled, polished and curtailed into the image of what others decided was the perfect; an image designed to appease and pleasure others over herself or her true nature, Hypatia found the charming disorder of the man's attempted and failed control of his hair bizarrely endearing.
But regardless of strange sentiments, rebellious or otherwise, his hair interrupted his profile and masked the sides of his face with enough regularity that only the barest information of his image was able to be noted when he hovered bent at the middle, refusing the stand straight once more until she beckoned him upright.
As he stood, however, the rest of his features came into clearer view. As well as his height!
When the Judean had stepped forward with a call of restraint, his hand taking hold of her arm, Hypatia had been given a brief impression of size but he had relegated himself into submission so quickly, slicing his height in half, that she had not realised his frame and shape as she was able to do now.
Whilst he was nearly ten inches taller than she, Hypatia was not fearful of his stature. Her father was a tall and slim man – not dissimilar to the tradesman before her – and she had three older brothers whom had always towered over her. Given the size of Commander Alexios, this man's slighter frame was far less intimidating. The fact that he was trying to actively be less threatening before her was entirely lost to her.
Instead, her concentration was upon his face.
Like other Judeans she had seen on the carriage ride from the ports to the manor and the servants she had noticed since arriving, this young trader was of olive skin and hair so dark it couldn't seem to determine itself as either brown or black, but was a shade somewhere in the region of bitterest cocoa.
Unlike the popular, clean-shaven style of young Grecian men, this man sported a light beard that, when coupled with his unruly hair made him look positively barbarian to her inexperienced and overtly civilised eye. His eyes and his features had a softness to them that made him appealing but also nondescript enough that she suspected he could meander through crowds without much notice being thrown his way. A typical Judean in a typically working-class role.
Too concerned with her own appraisal of his appearance, and too used to being looked at as a foreign Greek woman in a Judean land - even if she had only been here a few days - Hypatia remained obtusely unaware of Isaiah's stares and was instead interested in the words that his lips formed with a naturalness she was sure she would never be able to achieve in his language.
Hebrew was such a pretty spoken word - flowing together in a natural and lingering lilt that was throaty and based in the chest. As if it came from the very soul of its people. Even as he spoke what she was sure were casual words of conversation, he seemed to be speaking the opulent praises to his God that she had read and learnt so much about before attending to his country.
When her query over whether he was a trader appeared to confuse him, Hypatia became worried at their language barrier and considered running to find a Judean slave to translate between them, but with a simple rub to the back of his head - one that knocked the looped lock at his ear to hang downwards like its partner - he was smiling a little in shy understanding and moving backwards towards the jar to explain his words carefully. She didn't understand what he was saying, but when he took the stopper off and smiled up at her, she was lost to his words anyway. She blinked in clear surprise at the man.
The Judean smiled with his whole face.
It was an odd phenomenon that turned his features from simply pleasant to entirely distracting.
It hadn't been the case upon his first, soft smile - one that was designed to be polite and relieve tension. But this one... the one he offered her when he showed her the fruits of his labours; the purpose of his work and life... there was such pride in what he offered to show her and such confident certainty in the quality of what he sold (or so she assumed), that his grin was open, broad, and infinitely lovely.
Though, she realised belatedly, that a man probably didn't like to have any of his features or habits referred to as 'lovely' – even inside the head of another. Such a word was a feminine turn of phrase after all. 'Handsome' or 'attractive' were probably better. Yet, the fact that she could speak none of them in Hebrew anyway made the entire topic a moot point. The fact that she would never be so bold as to openly admit the notice made it all the more redundant.
Blinking as if breaking free of a momentary daze that the combination of the young man's white teeth and tan skin seemed to inflict upon her, Hypatia took two steps forward and leaned a little, in order to look upon the contents of the large jar that he so proudly offered up for her inspection. The tips of his well-crafted hands supported the rim of the vessel, as he tipped it closer to her eyeline.
Not knowing the words that he was using to describe it, Hypatia noted the gelatinous liquid and the golden colour, despite the shadows the neck of the jar cast upon the interior. Her rounded, nubile lips pulled back into a smile of decadent arches and rosy curves.
"Honey!" She exclaimed in genuine pleasure; the word spoken in Greek. She adored honey - specifically glazed upon fruit such a pears or apples.
Before their conversation could go further, there was a noise behind them that had Hypatia spinning in a gracious whirl of chiffon silks but any worry dissipated when she realised the intruder was neither her mother nor her future betrothed. Instead, a young Grecian servant had entered the room looking hot and bothered and decorated in the occasional chicken feather. A bizarre choice of attire, to be sure.
The young man was plucking at the pieces of fowl foliage as he stepped inside, already three steps in before he noticed the two of them standing at the other end of the kitchen work table. Hypatia moved to straighten her spine, only to note that her posture was already at its most accurate and, instead, simply raised her chin with a regal and imperial angle and style.
"Please help this young man." She instructed in fluent Greek that displayed her soft but femininely mature tone of voice. "He is a honey trader who has come to offer some of his wares." The jar was, she could only assume, very heavy, and he would need to know where it went in the kitchen's pantries. Something she had no idea upon herself. “Ensure that it is stored correctly, so as not to spoil.”
With a quick nod and ceremonious bow that was more lavish than was necessary, the middle-aged Greek was quick to wipe hastily at the last of his chicken feathers, brush at his ruddy cheeks and then bend low to inspect the vase and its contents.
What followed was an uncertain look from the servant to the young lady in question, clearly as inexperienced at Hebrew as she - or simply acquiescing to the highest-ranking individual in the room. He spoke with a tone of concern for the viscosity of the liquid inside the jar... its lack of sweet smell. His tone was harsh in how he suggested that the honey was of poor quality and perhaps the Lady might wish to wait for the head of the kitchens to inspect it before she committed to accepting a delivery of subpar goods.
Hypatia offered no frown or frustration at the suggestions. This young man didn’t seem the sort to offer poor quality materials but then she knew him as well as she knew the servant and whether he might lie. Removing all such thoughts from her mind, Hypatia took the simpler and more logical route. A young woman who was slow to frustration and anger, she simply sought the simple answers to problems others made far more complex than they needed to be. Perhaps she was naive, or overtly optimistic but it had not yet served her wrong.
"Why is your honey different?" She asked the Judean, forgetting to switch from Greek to Hebrew, but then knowing she couldn't piece such a sentence together in the tongue of the Jews anyway. Perhaps she would be in luck and he would understand some basic Greek in return for her attempts at his own tongue."It is honey, yes?" She asked - again in Greek - but more on point of the issue, as she considered alternative misunderstandings.
In the hopes of reaching an easy to understand communication, Hypatia ignored the surprised glances from her engaged’s Grecian servant, at her attempts to speak the language of the natives and simply pointed towards the neck of the jar and its contents. She then pinched the tips of her fingers together, to indicate something small. A moment later, her hand was zipping softly in the air in light waves and gracious sweeps, whilst her lips pursed and she made a buzzing sound. She tilted her head graciously to one side; a physical expression of inquiry or uncertainty. Her indication of the jar and her mimicry of a bee, she would hope would be enough to get her point across...
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Check out their information page here.
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Used to being watched by the lower classes - not with particular focus but with a certain level of nervous attention - Hypatia was ignorant of the young man's stolen glances. When one was noble, it was common for those around you to attempt a stare that would allow them to interpret your next movement, your next command. And whilst Hypatia's family were not yet of noble stock, her mother had enough aspirations to ensure that their household ran with the same style and methods of one owned by royalty. Servants were abound and decorum maintained. Europa had always been lucky that she had found a husband with whom a combined fortune of income and dowry had permitted her to live in such luxury without bankrupting the family.
As such, regardless of the lack of noble blood in Hypatia's veins, her mind was already experienced with how to relegate those of lower rank to her peripheral vision - to a standard of neglect that would not intercede upon her thoughts and actions. As such, when her eyes and mind were preoccupied with testing the young man's warnings over the rock, she was entirely absent of notice of his quick looks from beneath bended brow.
Instead, it wasn't until the man obeyed her instruction to straighten upright that she was able to properly assess his appearance and turn said concentration upon him. For, whilst Hypatia had been raised with a clear understanding of human worth and the importance of rank preservation, she had not yet morphed fully into her mother's mentality of complete dismissal for those established to be beneath her. Yes, they were ignored when she was fixated elsewhere... but when conversation was brought to hover between she and another, regardless of who that person was, Hypatia's lessons for decorum and politeness won out over xenophobia she had not ingrained into her psyche as her mother had and she gave her full attention to the matter at hand.
The man who had delivered the jar and saved her hand from a painful burning, was hard to witness the visage of when he was bent low, in so faithful a gesture of respect.
With hair longer than she had seen on most Grecians - enough so to hug the sides of his neck - the top half of his tresses had been tied back with a short piece of leather in a design more practical than it was stylish. The lower half, from his ears downwards, had been left to brush softly at the column of his neck. Amusingly - as if they held a determination all their own - two locks had freed themselves from constraint, seeking liberty at the young man's temples. Whether through their own stout determination or - more likely - the rigours of the manual labour of that day as the man had delivered his wares from house to estate- they had failed to stay in sync in their escape; one side still half caught, looping to kiss his cheekbone before finding anchor once more near his ear. The other hung with a light waving shape, pointing down towards the ground.
For a woman who spent the entirety of her waking moments trimmed, curled, polished and curtailed into the image of what others decided was the perfect; an image designed to appease and pleasure others over herself or her true nature, Hypatia found the charming disorder of the man's attempted and failed control of his hair bizarrely endearing.
But regardless of strange sentiments, rebellious or otherwise, his hair interrupted his profile and masked the sides of his face with enough regularity that only the barest information of his image was able to be noted when he hovered bent at the middle, refusing the stand straight once more until she beckoned him upright.
As he stood, however, the rest of his features came into clearer view. As well as his height!
When the Judean had stepped forward with a call of restraint, his hand taking hold of her arm, Hypatia had been given a brief impression of size but he had relegated himself into submission so quickly, slicing his height in half, that she had not realised his frame and shape as she was able to do now.
Whilst he was nearly ten inches taller than she, Hypatia was not fearful of his stature. Her father was a tall and slim man – not dissimilar to the tradesman before her – and she had three older brothers whom had always towered over her. Given the size of Commander Alexios, this man's slighter frame was far less intimidating. The fact that he was trying to actively be less threatening before her was entirely lost to her.
Instead, her concentration was upon his face.
Like other Judeans she had seen on the carriage ride from the ports to the manor and the servants she had noticed since arriving, this young trader was of olive skin and hair so dark it couldn't seem to determine itself as either brown or black, but was a shade somewhere in the region of bitterest cocoa.
Unlike the popular, clean-shaven style of young Grecian men, this man sported a light beard that, when coupled with his unruly hair made him look positively barbarian to her inexperienced and overtly civilised eye. His eyes and his features had a softness to them that made him appealing but also nondescript enough that she suspected he could meander through crowds without much notice being thrown his way. A typical Judean in a typically working-class role.
Too concerned with her own appraisal of his appearance, and too used to being looked at as a foreign Greek woman in a Judean land - even if she had only been here a few days - Hypatia remained obtusely unaware of Isaiah's stares and was instead interested in the words that his lips formed with a naturalness she was sure she would never be able to achieve in his language.
Hebrew was such a pretty spoken word - flowing together in a natural and lingering lilt that was throaty and based in the chest. As if it came from the very soul of its people. Even as he spoke what she was sure were casual words of conversation, he seemed to be speaking the opulent praises to his God that she had read and learnt so much about before attending to his country.
When her query over whether he was a trader appeared to confuse him, Hypatia became worried at their language barrier and considered running to find a Judean slave to translate between them, but with a simple rub to the back of his head - one that knocked the looped lock at his ear to hang downwards like its partner - he was smiling a little in shy understanding and moving backwards towards the jar to explain his words carefully. She didn't understand what he was saying, but when he took the stopper off and smiled up at her, she was lost to his words anyway. She blinked in clear surprise at the man.
The Judean smiled with his whole face.
It was an odd phenomenon that turned his features from simply pleasant to entirely distracting.
It hadn't been the case upon his first, soft smile - one that was designed to be polite and relieve tension. But this one... the one he offered her when he showed her the fruits of his labours; the purpose of his work and life... there was such pride in what he offered to show her and such confident certainty in the quality of what he sold (or so she assumed), that his grin was open, broad, and infinitely lovely.
Though, she realised belatedly, that a man probably didn't like to have any of his features or habits referred to as 'lovely' – even inside the head of another. Such a word was a feminine turn of phrase after all. 'Handsome' or 'attractive' were probably better. Yet, the fact that she could speak none of them in Hebrew anyway made the entire topic a moot point. The fact that she would never be so bold as to openly admit the notice made it all the more redundant.
Blinking as if breaking free of a momentary daze that the combination of the young man's white teeth and tan skin seemed to inflict upon her, Hypatia took two steps forward and leaned a little, in order to look upon the contents of the large jar that he so proudly offered up for her inspection. The tips of his well-crafted hands supported the rim of the vessel, as he tipped it closer to her eyeline.
Not knowing the words that he was using to describe it, Hypatia noted the gelatinous liquid and the golden colour, despite the shadows the neck of the jar cast upon the interior. Her rounded, nubile lips pulled back into a smile of decadent arches and rosy curves.
"Honey!" She exclaimed in genuine pleasure; the word spoken in Greek. She adored honey - specifically glazed upon fruit such a pears or apples.
Before their conversation could go further, there was a noise behind them that had Hypatia spinning in a gracious whirl of chiffon silks but any worry dissipated when she realised the intruder was neither her mother nor her future betrothed. Instead, a young Grecian servant had entered the room looking hot and bothered and decorated in the occasional chicken feather. A bizarre choice of attire, to be sure.
The young man was plucking at the pieces of fowl foliage as he stepped inside, already three steps in before he noticed the two of them standing at the other end of the kitchen work table. Hypatia moved to straighten her spine, only to note that her posture was already at its most accurate and, instead, simply raised her chin with a regal and imperial angle and style.
"Please help this young man." She instructed in fluent Greek that displayed her soft but femininely mature tone of voice. "He is a honey trader who has come to offer some of his wares." The jar was, she could only assume, very heavy, and he would need to know where it went in the kitchen's pantries. Something she had no idea upon herself. “Ensure that it is stored correctly, so as not to spoil.”
With a quick nod and ceremonious bow that was more lavish than was necessary, the middle-aged Greek was quick to wipe hastily at the last of his chicken feathers, brush at his ruddy cheeks and then bend low to inspect the vase and its contents.
What followed was an uncertain look from the servant to the young lady in question, clearly as inexperienced at Hebrew as she - or simply acquiescing to the highest-ranking individual in the room. He spoke with a tone of concern for the viscosity of the liquid inside the jar... its lack of sweet smell. His tone was harsh in how he suggested that the honey was of poor quality and perhaps the Lady might wish to wait for the head of the kitchens to inspect it before she committed to accepting a delivery of subpar goods.
Hypatia offered no frown or frustration at the suggestions. This young man didn’t seem the sort to offer poor quality materials but then she knew him as well as she knew the servant and whether he might lie. Removing all such thoughts from her mind, Hypatia took the simpler and more logical route. A young woman who was slow to frustration and anger, she simply sought the simple answers to problems others made far more complex than they needed to be. Perhaps she was naive, or overtly optimistic but it had not yet served her wrong.
"Why is your honey different?" She asked the Judean, forgetting to switch from Greek to Hebrew, but then knowing she couldn't piece such a sentence together in the tongue of the Jews anyway. Perhaps she would be in luck and he would understand some basic Greek in return for her attempts at his own tongue."It is honey, yes?" She asked - again in Greek - but more on point of the issue, as she considered alternative misunderstandings.
In the hopes of reaching an easy to understand communication, Hypatia ignored the surprised glances from her engaged’s Grecian servant, at her attempts to speak the language of the natives and simply pointed towards the neck of the jar and its contents. She then pinched the tips of her fingers together, to indicate something small. A moment later, her hand was zipping softly in the air in light waves and gracious sweeps, whilst her lips pursed and she made a buzzing sound. She tilted her head graciously to one side; a physical expression of inquiry or uncertainty. Her indication of the jar and her mimicry of a bee, she would hope would be enough to get her point across...
Used to being watched by the lower classes - not with particular focus but with a certain level of nervous attention - Hypatia was ignorant of the young man's stolen glances. When one was noble, it was common for those around you to attempt a stare that would allow them to interpret your next movement, your next command. And whilst Hypatia's family were not yet of noble stock, her mother had enough aspirations to ensure that their household ran with the same style and methods of one owned by royalty. Servants were abound and decorum maintained. Europa had always been lucky that she had found a husband with whom a combined fortune of income and dowry had permitted her to live in such luxury without bankrupting the family.
As such, regardless of the lack of noble blood in Hypatia's veins, her mind was already experienced with how to relegate those of lower rank to her peripheral vision - to a standard of neglect that would not intercede upon her thoughts and actions. As such, when her eyes and mind were preoccupied with testing the young man's warnings over the rock, she was entirely absent of notice of his quick looks from beneath bended brow.
Instead, it wasn't until the man obeyed her instruction to straighten upright that she was able to properly assess his appearance and turn said concentration upon him. For, whilst Hypatia had been raised with a clear understanding of human worth and the importance of rank preservation, she had not yet morphed fully into her mother's mentality of complete dismissal for those established to be beneath her. Yes, they were ignored when she was fixated elsewhere... but when conversation was brought to hover between she and another, regardless of who that person was, Hypatia's lessons for decorum and politeness won out over xenophobia she had not ingrained into her psyche as her mother had and she gave her full attention to the matter at hand.
The man who had delivered the jar and saved her hand from a painful burning, was hard to witness the visage of when he was bent low, in so faithful a gesture of respect.
With hair longer than she had seen on most Grecians - enough so to hug the sides of his neck - the top half of his tresses had been tied back with a short piece of leather in a design more practical than it was stylish. The lower half, from his ears downwards, had been left to brush softly at the column of his neck. Amusingly - as if they held a determination all their own - two locks had freed themselves from constraint, seeking liberty at the young man's temples. Whether through their own stout determination or - more likely - the rigours of the manual labour of that day as the man had delivered his wares from house to estate- they had failed to stay in sync in their escape; one side still half caught, looping to kiss his cheekbone before finding anchor once more near his ear. The other hung with a light waving shape, pointing down towards the ground.
For a woman who spent the entirety of her waking moments trimmed, curled, polished and curtailed into the image of what others decided was the perfect; an image designed to appease and pleasure others over herself or her true nature, Hypatia found the charming disorder of the man's attempted and failed control of his hair bizarrely endearing.
But regardless of strange sentiments, rebellious or otherwise, his hair interrupted his profile and masked the sides of his face with enough regularity that only the barest information of his image was able to be noted when he hovered bent at the middle, refusing the stand straight once more until she beckoned him upright.
As he stood, however, the rest of his features came into clearer view. As well as his height!
When the Judean had stepped forward with a call of restraint, his hand taking hold of her arm, Hypatia had been given a brief impression of size but he had relegated himself into submission so quickly, slicing his height in half, that she had not realised his frame and shape as she was able to do now.
Whilst he was nearly ten inches taller than she, Hypatia was not fearful of his stature. Her father was a tall and slim man – not dissimilar to the tradesman before her – and she had three older brothers whom had always towered over her. Given the size of Commander Alexios, this man's slighter frame was far less intimidating. The fact that he was trying to actively be less threatening before her was entirely lost to her.
Instead, her concentration was upon his face.
Like other Judeans she had seen on the carriage ride from the ports to the manor and the servants she had noticed since arriving, this young trader was of olive skin and hair so dark it couldn't seem to determine itself as either brown or black, but was a shade somewhere in the region of bitterest cocoa.
Unlike the popular, clean-shaven style of young Grecian men, this man sported a light beard that, when coupled with his unruly hair made him look positively barbarian to her inexperienced and overtly civilised eye. His eyes and his features had a softness to them that made him appealing but also nondescript enough that she suspected he could meander through crowds without much notice being thrown his way. A typical Judean in a typically working-class role.
Too concerned with her own appraisal of his appearance, and too used to being looked at as a foreign Greek woman in a Judean land - even if she had only been here a few days - Hypatia remained obtusely unaware of Isaiah's stares and was instead interested in the words that his lips formed with a naturalness she was sure she would never be able to achieve in his language.
Hebrew was such a pretty spoken word - flowing together in a natural and lingering lilt that was throaty and based in the chest. As if it came from the very soul of its people. Even as he spoke what she was sure were casual words of conversation, he seemed to be speaking the opulent praises to his God that she had read and learnt so much about before attending to his country.
When her query over whether he was a trader appeared to confuse him, Hypatia became worried at their language barrier and considered running to find a Judean slave to translate between them, but with a simple rub to the back of his head - one that knocked the looped lock at his ear to hang downwards like its partner - he was smiling a little in shy understanding and moving backwards towards the jar to explain his words carefully. She didn't understand what he was saying, but when he took the stopper off and smiled up at her, she was lost to his words anyway. She blinked in clear surprise at the man.
The Judean smiled with his whole face.
It was an odd phenomenon that turned his features from simply pleasant to entirely distracting.
It hadn't been the case upon his first, soft smile - one that was designed to be polite and relieve tension. But this one... the one he offered her when he showed her the fruits of his labours; the purpose of his work and life... there was such pride in what he offered to show her and such confident certainty in the quality of what he sold (or so she assumed), that his grin was open, broad, and infinitely lovely.
Though, she realised belatedly, that a man probably didn't like to have any of his features or habits referred to as 'lovely' – even inside the head of another. Such a word was a feminine turn of phrase after all. 'Handsome' or 'attractive' were probably better. Yet, the fact that she could speak none of them in Hebrew anyway made the entire topic a moot point. The fact that she would never be so bold as to openly admit the notice made it all the more redundant.
Blinking as if breaking free of a momentary daze that the combination of the young man's white teeth and tan skin seemed to inflict upon her, Hypatia took two steps forward and leaned a little, in order to look upon the contents of the large jar that he so proudly offered up for her inspection. The tips of his well-crafted hands supported the rim of the vessel, as he tipped it closer to her eyeline.
Not knowing the words that he was using to describe it, Hypatia noted the gelatinous liquid and the golden colour, despite the shadows the neck of the jar cast upon the interior. Her rounded, nubile lips pulled back into a smile of decadent arches and rosy curves.
"Honey!" She exclaimed in genuine pleasure; the word spoken in Greek. She adored honey - specifically glazed upon fruit such a pears or apples.
Before their conversation could go further, there was a noise behind them that had Hypatia spinning in a gracious whirl of chiffon silks but any worry dissipated when she realised the intruder was neither her mother nor her future betrothed. Instead, a young Grecian servant had entered the room looking hot and bothered and decorated in the occasional chicken feather. A bizarre choice of attire, to be sure.
The young man was plucking at the pieces of fowl foliage as he stepped inside, already three steps in before he noticed the two of them standing at the other end of the kitchen work table. Hypatia moved to straighten her spine, only to note that her posture was already at its most accurate and, instead, simply raised her chin with a regal and imperial angle and style.
"Please help this young man." She instructed in fluent Greek that displayed her soft but femininely mature tone of voice. "He is a honey trader who has come to offer some of his wares." The jar was, she could only assume, very heavy, and he would need to know where it went in the kitchen's pantries. Something she had no idea upon herself. “Ensure that it is stored correctly, so as not to spoil.”
With a quick nod and ceremonious bow that was more lavish than was necessary, the middle-aged Greek was quick to wipe hastily at the last of his chicken feathers, brush at his ruddy cheeks and then bend low to inspect the vase and its contents.
What followed was an uncertain look from the servant to the young lady in question, clearly as inexperienced at Hebrew as she - or simply acquiescing to the highest-ranking individual in the room. He spoke with a tone of concern for the viscosity of the liquid inside the jar... its lack of sweet smell. His tone was harsh in how he suggested that the honey was of poor quality and perhaps the Lady might wish to wait for the head of the kitchens to inspect it before she committed to accepting a delivery of subpar goods.
Hypatia offered no frown or frustration at the suggestions. This young man didn’t seem the sort to offer poor quality materials but then she knew him as well as she knew the servant and whether he might lie. Removing all such thoughts from her mind, Hypatia took the simpler and more logical route. A young woman who was slow to frustration and anger, she simply sought the simple answers to problems others made far more complex than they needed to be. Perhaps she was naive, or overtly optimistic but it had not yet served her wrong.
"Why is your honey different?" She asked the Judean, forgetting to switch from Greek to Hebrew, but then knowing she couldn't piece such a sentence together in the tongue of the Jews anyway. Perhaps she would be in luck and he would understand some basic Greek in return for her attempts at his own tongue."It is honey, yes?" She asked - again in Greek - but more on point of the issue, as she considered alternative misunderstandings.
In the hopes of reaching an easy to understand communication, Hypatia ignored the surprised glances from her engaged’s Grecian servant, at her attempts to speak the language of the natives and simply pointed towards the neck of the jar and its contents. She then pinched the tips of her fingers together, to indicate something small. A moment later, her hand was zipping softly in the air in light waves and gracious sweeps, whilst her lips pursed and she made a buzzing sound. She tilted her head graciously to one side; a physical expression of inquiry or uncertainty. Her indication of the jar and her mimicry of a bee, she would hope would be enough to get her point across...
In the moment he took her arm, getting close enough that her body heat could be felt, he hadn’t noticed her delicate perfume that followed her wherever she stepped. Now, as she stood just as close in order to look down into the sizeable jar, the scent of flowers wafted on the still air with her, pluming around them in a fragile cloud. Isaiah tried not to stare but it was as though this woman had been designed to befuddle his senses. His eyes drank her in, from the delightful way she peered quizzically into the jar to the cute wispy curl of hair beside her ear. He was in real danger of being caught staring again, but her sudden excitement broke the spell and he blinked.
“Méli!” she cried and he frowned, turning his head the other way as he thought. He didn’t know how to speak Greek but he did know a few words and the word for oil in Greek was something different. Or, at least he thought it was, wasn’t it? Though, now as he stood there, trying to remember what it was, it slipped away from him as though he was trying to catch a fish by hand. Whatever the word happened to be, he was growing ever more certain that she hadn’t said oil. Removing the stopper again, he glanced inside, just to assure himself that she saw clear, golden liquid.
From where they stood in the kitchen, there were shadows and he tugged the bottle to the right in order to catch the sunlight, and there, yes, unmistakable glorious oil. The woman was speaking to someone and he glanced up, realizing that they weren’t alone. The appearance of another servant fractured the woman’s pull over him and he silently thanked Yahweh for it. Acting like a dolt was foolish. The servant’s dour expression moved over Isaiah and the jar, and Isaiah looked back at him, eyes still a little wider than he’d normally have kept them. This man was covered in chicken feathers and looked ridiculous but it was not as amusing as he might have found it if this angelic creature wasn’t in the room.
The man swiped the last of the feathers from his person and swept toward Isaiah, feathers curling and flowing across the floor behind him. Isaiah moved aside a little and let the servant look into the jar. The man gave exactly the kind of expression that filled Isaiah with new uncertainty. What was the matter with this oil? Why did they have a problem with it? He frowned and looked in the jar himself, just to make sure, again, that there wasn’t some mouse floating in it. There wasn’t. All that met his eye was clear, gold liquid, the way it should be.
And then he knew what this was; they were going to insist on keeping this and not paying him. Or they would try, at any rate. Merchants and buyers alike had tried that sort of tactic before, but these two obviously did not realize who they were dealing with. He squared his shoulders and cleared his throat, ready to defend his desire to be paid for his product, when the girl, whose name he still did not know, was speaking to him again. Her voice flowed from her mouth in a string of fluid, soft sounds and he stared at her, uncomprehending what she was trying to say.
This was not the first time he’d encountered someone who did not know how to speak Hebrew, but usually there was a translator or some other way around the problem. His attention slid to the servant at their side, seeking exactly that translator that truly should be here, only to find the servant giving him the same kind of expectant look that the lady of the house was now giving. It dawned on him that they didn’t speak Hebrew, he didn’t speak Greek, and he wasn’t getting paid. His shoulders dropped and he raked his fingers through his hair, blowing out a frustrated breath, before her movements caught his attention again.
Flicking only his eyes at her, his brows drew together as she pointed to the jar and indicated that it was small. Isaiah glanced at the jar and then back to her. The jar wasn’t small. It was massive. “You want a bigger one?” he asked but she was now buzzing and darting her hand through the air. The servant at his side didn’t look half as confused as Isaiah assumed the man should be. “Bees?” Isaiah clarified, trying to figure out what on Yahweh’s green earth this woman was on about. And then it finally clicked. “Honey? You think this is honey?” Everything he said was in Hebrew and obviously neither of these two were going to understand him. But just to be sure, he drew in a deep breath, and strode across the kitchen seeking the utensil that would clear all of this up once and for all.
The kitchen was a wide room with wide counters upon which for the cooks to do their work. Several loaves of bread sat down and ready to be sliced. Fruit was laid out, ready to be cut for the evening meal, he presumed. Meat sizzled on the spit in a giant fireplace and he wondered who was going to turn it, because it would surely need done soon. If this servant was free from the chicken terror in the courtyard, then they were soon going to be set upon by the rest of the kitchen staff, who would take up their duties. There wasn’t much time to prove to these two clearly inexperienced people that he wasn’t giving them their own weight in honey.
“Spoon, spoon, spoon,” he muttered to himself but one wasn’t readily set out. Likely this wasn’t even where they were kept. There was probably a giant room somewhere filled with spoons and plates and bowls, all ready and out of his reach. His eyes swept the counters and still he came up with nothing except a long wooden dowel. It looked clean and he snatched up the wooden cylinder, sweeping back over to the jar and the waiting servant and lady. Sticking the end of the dowel into the jar, he withdrew it and held it for them to see. “Oil,” he repeated and gestured for the two of them to taste or smell or inspect it. As soon as they touched it, if that’s what they chose, they would know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he was not demanding a king’s ransom for a colossal jar of honey that large.
Isaiah had never seen honey in this kind of quantity but he was guessing that this beautiful, naive girl did not know all that much of the world, and it was abundantly clear that her servant didn’t either. That was to be expected of both of them, Isaiah reflected. The servant’s job was to see to her needs, and hers was to be a good wife and mother to her husband. These Greeks kept their women very sheltered, he decided, and it was a disservice.
He waited for them to look, and then put the stopper back in place on the jar for good this time. “May I store it now?” he asked, giving her a respectful bow and casting a glance at the servant. Then he rubbed his fingers and thumb together in the universal sign for ‘money’.
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In the moment he took her arm, getting close enough that her body heat could be felt, he hadn’t noticed her delicate perfume that followed her wherever she stepped. Now, as she stood just as close in order to look down into the sizeable jar, the scent of flowers wafted on the still air with her, pluming around them in a fragile cloud. Isaiah tried not to stare but it was as though this woman had been designed to befuddle his senses. His eyes drank her in, from the delightful way she peered quizzically into the jar to the cute wispy curl of hair beside her ear. He was in real danger of being caught staring again, but her sudden excitement broke the spell and he blinked.
“Méli!” she cried and he frowned, turning his head the other way as he thought. He didn’t know how to speak Greek but he did know a few words and the word for oil in Greek was something different. Or, at least he thought it was, wasn’t it? Though, now as he stood there, trying to remember what it was, it slipped away from him as though he was trying to catch a fish by hand. Whatever the word happened to be, he was growing ever more certain that she hadn’t said oil. Removing the stopper again, he glanced inside, just to assure himself that she saw clear, golden liquid.
From where they stood in the kitchen, there were shadows and he tugged the bottle to the right in order to catch the sunlight, and there, yes, unmistakable glorious oil. The woman was speaking to someone and he glanced up, realizing that they weren’t alone. The appearance of another servant fractured the woman’s pull over him and he silently thanked Yahweh for it. Acting like a dolt was foolish. The servant’s dour expression moved over Isaiah and the jar, and Isaiah looked back at him, eyes still a little wider than he’d normally have kept them. This man was covered in chicken feathers and looked ridiculous but it was not as amusing as he might have found it if this angelic creature wasn’t in the room.
The man swiped the last of the feathers from his person and swept toward Isaiah, feathers curling and flowing across the floor behind him. Isaiah moved aside a little and let the servant look into the jar. The man gave exactly the kind of expression that filled Isaiah with new uncertainty. What was the matter with this oil? Why did they have a problem with it? He frowned and looked in the jar himself, just to make sure, again, that there wasn’t some mouse floating in it. There wasn’t. All that met his eye was clear, gold liquid, the way it should be.
And then he knew what this was; they were going to insist on keeping this and not paying him. Or they would try, at any rate. Merchants and buyers alike had tried that sort of tactic before, but these two obviously did not realize who they were dealing with. He squared his shoulders and cleared his throat, ready to defend his desire to be paid for his product, when the girl, whose name he still did not know, was speaking to him again. Her voice flowed from her mouth in a string of fluid, soft sounds and he stared at her, uncomprehending what she was trying to say.
This was not the first time he’d encountered someone who did not know how to speak Hebrew, but usually there was a translator or some other way around the problem. His attention slid to the servant at their side, seeking exactly that translator that truly should be here, only to find the servant giving him the same kind of expectant look that the lady of the house was now giving. It dawned on him that they didn’t speak Hebrew, he didn’t speak Greek, and he wasn’t getting paid. His shoulders dropped and he raked his fingers through his hair, blowing out a frustrated breath, before her movements caught his attention again.
Flicking only his eyes at her, his brows drew together as she pointed to the jar and indicated that it was small. Isaiah glanced at the jar and then back to her. The jar wasn’t small. It was massive. “You want a bigger one?” he asked but she was now buzzing and darting her hand through the air. The servant at his side didn’t look half as confused as Isaiah assumed the man should be. “Bees?” Isaiah clarified, trying to figure out what on Yahweh’s green earth this woman was on about. And then it finally clicked. “Honey? You think this is honey?” Everything he said was in Hebrew and obviously neither of these two were going to understand him. But just to be sure, he drew in a deep breath, and strode across the kitchen seeking the utensil that would clear all of this up once and for all.
The kitchen was a wide room with wide counters upon which for the cooks to do their work. Several loaves of bread sat down and ready to be sliced. Fruit was laid out, ready to be cut for the evening meal, he presumed. Meat sizzled on the spit in a giant fireplace and he wondered who was going to turn it, because it would surely need done soon. If this servant was free from the chicken terror in the courtyard, then they were soon going to be set upon by the rest of the kitchen staff, who would take up their duties. There wasn’t much time to prove to these two clearly inexperienced people that he wasn’t giving them their own weight in honey.
“Spoon, spoon, spoon,” he muttered to himself but one wasn’t readily set out. Likely this wasn’t even where they were kept. There was probably a giant room somewhere filled with spoons and plates and bowls, all ready and out of his reach. His eyes swept the counters and still he came up with nothing except a long wooden dowel. It looked clean and he snatched up the wooden cylinder, sweeping back over to the jar and the waiting servant and lady. Sticking the end of the dowel into the jar, he withdrew it and held it for them to see. “Oil,” he repeated and gestured for the two of them to taste or smell or inspect it. As soon as they touched it, if that’s what they chose, they would know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he was not demanding a king’s ransom for a colossal jar of honey that large.
Isaiah had never seen honey in this kind of quantity but he was guessing that this beautiful, naive girl did not know all that much of the world, and it was abundantly clear that her servant didn’t either. That was to be expected of both of them, Isaiah reflected. The servant’s job was to see to her needs, and hers was to be a good wife and mother to her husband. These Greeks kept their women very sheltered, he decided, and it was a disservice.
He waited for them to look, and then put the stopper back in place on the jar for good this time. “May I store it now?” he asked, giving her a respectful bow and casting a glance at the servant. Then he rubbed his fingers and thumb together in the universal sign for ‘money’.
In the moment he took her arm, getting close enough that her body heat could be felt, he hadn’t noticed her delicate perfume that followed her wherever she stepped. Now, as she stood just as close in order to look down into the sizeable jar, the scent of flowers wafted on the still air with her, pluming around them in a fragile cloud. Isaiah tried not to stare but it was as though this woman had been designed to befuddle his senses. His eyes drank her in, from the delightful way she peered quizzically into the jar to the cute wispy curl of hair beside her ear. He was in real danger of being caught staring again, but her sudden excitement broke the spell and he blinked.
“Méli!” she cried and he frowned, turning his head the other way as he thought. He didn’t know how to speak Greek but he did know a few words and the word for oil in Greek was something different. Or, at least he thought it was, wasn’t it? Though, now as he stood there, trying to remember what it was, it slipped away from him as though he was trying to catch a fish by hand. Whatever the word happened to be, he was growing ever more certain that she hadn’t said oil. Removing the stopper again, he glanced inside, just to assure himself that she saw clear, golden liquid.
From where they stood in the kitchen, there were shadows and he tugged the bottle to the right in order to catch the sunlight, and there, yes, unmistakable glorious oil. The woman was speaking to someone and he glanced up, realizing that they weren’t alone. The appearance of another servant fractured the woman’s pull over him and he silently thanked Yahweh for it. Acting like a dolt was foolish. The servant’s dour expression moved over Isaiah and the jar, and Isaiah looked back at him, eyes still a little wider than he’d normally have kept them. This man was covered in chicken feathers and looked ridiculous but it was not as amusing as he might have found it if this angelic creature wasn’t in the room.
The man swiped the last of the feathers from his person and swept toward Isaiah, feathers curling and flowing across the floor behind him. Isaiah moved aside a little and let the servant look into the jar. The man gave exactly the kind of expression that filled Isaiah with new uncertainty. What was the matter with this oil? Why did they have a problem with it? He frowned and looked in the jar himself, just to make sure, again, that there wasn’t some mouse floating in it. There wasn’t. All that met his eye was clear, gold liquid, the way it should be.
And then he knew what this was; they were going to insist on keeping this and not paying him. Or they would try, at any rate. Merchants and buyers alike had tried that sort of tactic before, but these two obviously did not realize who they were dealing with. He squared his shoulders and cleared his throat, ready to defend his desire to be paid for his product, when the girl, whose name he still did not know, was speaking to him again. Her voice flowed from her mouth in a string of fluid, soft sounds and he stared at her, uncomprehending what she was trying to say.
This was not the first time he’d encountered someone who did not know how to speak Hebrew, but usually there was a translator or some other way around the problem. His attention slid to the servant at their side, seeking exactly that translator that truly should be here, only to find the servant giving him the same kind of expectant look that the lady of the house was now giving. It dawned on him that they didn’t speak Hebrew, he didn’t speak Greek, and he wasn’t getting paid. His shoulders dropped and he raked his fingers through his hair, blowing out a frustrated breath, before her movements caught his attention again.
Flicking only his eyes at her, his brows drew together as she pointed to the jar and indicated that it was small. Isaiah glanced at the jar and then back to her. The jar wasn’t small. It was massive. “You want a bigger one?” he asked but she was now buzzing and darting her hand through the air. The servant at his side didn’t look half as confused as Isaiah assumed the man should be. “Bees?” Isaiah clarified, trying to figure out what on Yahweh’s green earth this woman was on about. And then it finally clicked. “Honey? You think this is honey?” Everything he said was in Hebrew and obviously neither of these two were going to understand him. But just to be sure, he drew in a deep breath, and strode across the kitchen seeking the utensil that would clear all of this up once and for all.
The kitchen was a wide room with wide counters upon which for the cooks to do their work. Several loaves of bread sat down and ready to be sliced. Fruit was laid out, ready to be cut for the evening meal, he presumed. Meat sizzled on the spit in a giant fireplace and he wondered who was going to turn it, because it would surely need done soon. If this servant was free from the chicken terror in the courtyard, then they were soon going to be set upon by the rest of the kitchen staff, who would take up their duties. There wasn’t much time to prove to these two clearly inexperienced people that he wasn’t giving them their own weight in honey.
“Spoon, spoon, spoon,” he muttered to himself but one wasn’t readily set out. Likely this wasn’t even where they were kept. There was probably a giant room somewhere filled with spoons and plates and bowls, all ready and out of his reach. His eyes swept the counters and still he came up with nothing except a long wooden dowel. It looked clean and he snatched up the wooden cylinder, sweeping back over to the jar and the waiting servant and lady. Sticking the end of the dowel into the jar, he withdrew it and held it for them to see. “Oil,” he repeated and gestured for the two of them to taste or smell or inspect it. As soon as they touched it, if that’s what they chose, they would know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he was not demanding a king’s ransom for a colossal jar of honey that large.
Isaiah had never seen honey in this kind of quantity but he was guessing that this beautiful, naive girl did not know all that much of the world, and it was abundantly clear that her servant didn’t either. That was to be expected of both of them, Isaiah reflected. The servant’s job was to see to her needs, and hers was to be a good wife and mother to her husband. These Greeks kept their women very sheltered, he decided, and it was a disservice.
He waited for them to look, and then put the stopper back in place on the jar for good this time. “May I store it now?” he asked, giving her a respectful bow and casting a glance at the servant. Then he rubbed his fingers and thumb together in the universal sign for ‘money’.
None of what the man was saying was in a language that Hypatia understood and yet still she enjoyed hearing him say it. He had a timbre to his voice that was low enough for a man but soft enough to be soothing rather than rough on the ears. And she had always found Hebrew to be such a pretty language, despite her limited understanding of its meaning. The words - hidden in purpose to her - drifted from this man's lips in a way that was wholly natural, entirely full-bodied and wove a soft tapestry in the air.
Each time he looked at her to try and communicate, to understand her meaning and offer up words of his own, Hypatia frowned in a manner she did not reason to be so very pretty, as she tried to dissect his meaning from the syllables and momentary words that she understood.
Quick to realise from a shake of his head that she had misinterpreted the contents of the container and what he was offering to sell them - for she was hardly of a stature and rank that she would realise honey was expensive and unlikely to be sold in such vast amounts - Hypatia simply stepped aside and allowed the man to pootle around the kitchen, more of that language flowing from beneath his breath, as he inspected the kitchen with a determination that implied a goal. Whatever he was looking for - the singular word he kept repeating over and other - he seemed to find, selecting a thin oblong of wood that was for purposes entirely unknown to her and then moving to once more uncork the jar he had brought into the kitchen.
It was as he tilted the jar in order to dip the rod inside, that Hypatia noted with a new realisation the size and weight of the container. For whilst the man was tall, he was slim and yet must have possessed more strength than was apparently obvious if he had managed to carry such a large and heavy vessel through the corridors of her intended's manor.
Either strength or determination had to have gotten him thus far in securing the sale of his product; both of which were valiant and note-worthy traits to have. Kind, would be another that she felt sure she could add to such a list, given the way in which he had risked reprimand to save the innocent of her fingers from the mutation they would have been forced to endure if she had touch that hot plate. Burns were ugly, nasty and painful as far as she could work out and she wondered if her gratitude for his actions sparing her of such a future was the leading cause for this growing bubble of trust that she held in the man. A trust that permitted her to lean forwards and inspect the liquid upon the dowel as he offered it for her inspection.
Reaching out, Hypatia touched the tip of her finger to the golden concoction that she now simply new as not honey and raised it to her lips. Waiting a moment to see if the trader would stop her - for how was she to know it to be edible if it was not in fact her preferred spread upon toasted bread - and then offered the tip of her tongue to press against her fingers. Tasting the smooth texture and feeling the silkiness between the pad of her thumb and that of her first digit, Hypatia realised quickly her mistake.
"It is oil." She said allowed, in Greek, and turning to the servant, as she made her next instructions. "Help this man to store his goods. Do you have authority pay him?" She paused only long enough to allow the Greek servant to nod. "Then give him whatever he insists is the fair price for the vase."
For she could not place any value high enough upon the compassion and help he had offered her earlier... The least she could do was ensure that he was paid whatever he wished for goods he had been so dogged in bringing to the kitchens.
Hypatia smiled softly as she raised her hand once more, licking the oil from her finger and then sucking clean her thumb with the innocence of a young child cleaning sugar from the hands and the delicate elegance of a noble woman's taught gestures. She then stepped back in order to offer space for the vase to be relocated to the storage rooms and turned quickly at a noise from the back door where more servants now entered the kitchens, their chasing of poultry finally at an end and a midday repast due to be prepared.
Eager to be out of the way before a slave or servant could not her presence with too suspicious an eye, Hypatia took two steps towards the door that led to the rest of the estate, pausing only momentarily to glance back at the Judean trader who had helped her.
“שָׁלוֹם עֲלֵיכֶם” She said as carefully as she could, hoping that the pronunciation was right. Shalom aleichem. Peace be upon you. Such a nice phrase, she had always thought. And with a pleasant smile that lit up her face and brought a light to her soft eyes, Hypatia turned and mounted the steps with the dancing and light grace that her mother had taught her and headed back to attend to the formal activities that Europa had arranged for her to complete that day.
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This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
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None of what the man was saying was in a language that Hypatia understood and yet still she enjoyed hearing him say it. He had a timbre to his voice that was low enough for a man but soft enough to be soothing rather than rough on the ears. And she had always found Hebrew to be such a pretty language, despite her limited understanding of its meaning. The words - hidden in purpose to her - drifted from this man's lips in a way that was wholly natural, entirely full-bodied and wove a soft tapestry in the air.
Each time he looked at her to try and communicate, to understand her meaning and offer up words of his own, Hypatia frowned in a manner she did not reason to be so very pretty, as she tried to dissect his meaning from the syllables and momentary words that she understood.
Quick to realise from a shake of his head that she had misinterpreted the contents of the container and what he was offering to sell them - for she was hardly of a stature and rank that she would realise honey was expensive and unlikely to be sold in such vast amounts - Hypatia simply stepped aside and allowed the man to pootle around the kitchen, more of that language flowing from beneath his breath, as he inspected the kitchen with a determination that implied a goal. Whatever he was looking for - the singular word he kept repeating over and other - he seemed to find, selecting a thin oblong of wood that was for purposes entirely unknown to her and then moving to once more uncork the jar he had brought into the kitchen.
It was as he tilted the jar in order to dip the rod inside, that Hypatia noted with a new realisation the size and weight of the container. For whilst the man was tall, he was slim and yet must have possessed more strength than was apparently obvious if he had managed to carry such a large and heavy vessel through the corridors of her intended's manor.
Either strength or determination had to have gotten him thus far in securing the sale of his product; both of which were valiant and note-worthy traits to have. Kind, would be another that she felt sure she could add to such a list, given the way in which he had risked reprimand to save the innocent of her fingers from the mutation they would have been forced to endure if she had touch that hot plate. Burns were ugly, nasty and painful as far as she could work out and she wondered if her gratitude for his actions sparing her of such a future was the leading cause for this growing bubble of trust that she held in the man. A trust that permitted her to lean forwards and inspect the liquid upon the dowel as he offered it for her inspection.
Reaching out, Hypatia touched the tip of her finger to the golden concoction that she now simply new as not honey and raised it to her lips. Waiting a moment to see if the trader would stop her - for how was she to know it to be edible if it was not in fact her preferred spread upon toasted bread - and then offered the tip of her tongue to press against her fingers. Tasting the smooth texture and feeling the silkiness between the pad of her thumb and that of her first digit, Hypatia realised quickly her mistake.
"It is oil." She said allowed, in Greek, and turning to the servant, as she made her next instructions. "Help this man to store his goods. Do you have authority pay him?" She paused only long enough to allow the Greek servant to nod. "Then give him whatever he insists is the fair price for the vase."
For she could not place any value high enough upon the compassion and help he had offered her earlier... The least she could do was ensure that he was paid whatever he wished for goods he had been so dogged in bringing to the kitchens.
Hypatia smiled softly as she raised her hand once more, licking the oil from her finger and then sucking clean her thumb with the innocence of a young child cleaning sugar from the hands and the delicate elegance of a noble woman's taught gestures. She then stepped back in order to offer space for the vase to be relocated to the storage rooms and turned quickly at a noise from the back door where more servants now entered the kitchens, their chasing of poultry finally at an end and a midday repast due to be prepared.
Eager to be out of the way before a slave or servant could not her presence with too suspicious an eye, Hypatia took two steps towards the door that led to the rest of the estate, pausing only momentarily to glance back at the Judean trader who had helped her.
“שָׁלוֹם עֲלֵיכֶם” She said as carefully as she could, hoping that the pronunciation was right. Shalom aleichem. Peace be upon you. Such a nice phrase, she had always thought. And with a pleasant smile that lit up her face and brought a light to her soft eyes, Hypatia turned and mounted the steps with the dancing and light grace that her mother had taught her and headed back to attend to the formal activities that Europa had arranged for her to complete that day.
None of what the man was saying was in a language that Hypatia understood and yet still she enjoyed hearing him say it. He had a timbre to his voice that was low enough for a man but soft enough to be soothing rather than rough on the ears. And she had always found Hebrew to be such a pretty language, despite her limited understanding of its meaning. The words - hidden in purpose to her - drifted from this man's lips in a way that was wholly natural, entirely full-bodied and wove a soft tapestry in the air.
Each time he looked at her to try and communicate, to understand her meaning and offer up words of his own, Hypatia frowned in a manner she did not reason to be so very pretty, as she tried to dissect his meaning from the syllables and momentary words that she understood.
Quick to realise from a shake of his head that she had misinterpreted the contents of the container and what he was offering to sell them - for she was hardly of a stature and rank that she would realise honey was expensive and unlikely to be sold in such vast amounts - Hypatia simply stepped aside and allowed the man to pootle around the kitchen, more of that language flowing from beneath his breath, as he inspected the kitchen with a determination that implied a goal. Whatever he was looking for - the singular word he kept repeating over and other - he seemed to find, selecting a thin oblong of wood that was for purposes entirely unknown to her and then moving to once more uncork the jar he had brought into the kitchen.
It was as he tilted the jar in order to dip the rod inside, that Hypatia noted with a new realisation the size and weight of the container. For whilst the man was tall, he was slim and yet must have possessed more strength than was apparently obvious if he had managed to carry such a large and heavy vessel through the corridors of her intended's manor.
Either strength or determination had to have gotten him thus far in securing the sale of his product; both of which were valiant and note-worthy traits to have. Kind, would be another that she felt sure she could add to such a list, given the way in which he had risked reprimand to save the innocent of her fingers from the mutation they would have been forced to endure if she had touch that hot plate. Burns were ugly, nasty and painful as far as she could work out and she wondered if her gratitude for his actions sparing her of such a future was the leading cause for this growing bubble of trust that she held in the man. A trust that permitted her to lean forwards and inspect the liquid upon the dowel as he offered it for her inspection.
Reaching out, Hypatia touched the tip of her finger to the golden concoction that she now simply new as not honey and raised it to her lips. Waiting a moment to see if the trader would stop her - for how was she to know it to be edible if it was not in fact her preferred spread upon toasted bread - and then offered the tip of her tongue to press against her fingers. Tasting the smooth texture and feeling the silkiness between the pad of her thumb and that of her first digit, Hypatia realised quickly her mistake.
"It is oil." She said allowed, in Greek, and turning to the servant, as she made her next instructions. "Help this man to store his goods. Do you have authority pay him?" She paused only long enough to allow the Greek servant to nod. "Then give him whatever he insists is the fair price for the vase."
For she could not place any value high enough upon the compassion and help he had offered her earlier... The least she could do was ensure that he was paid whatever he wished for goods he had been so dogged in bringing to the kitchens.
Hypatia smiled softly as she raised her hand once more, licking the oil from her finger and then sucking clean her thumb with the innocence of a young child cleaning sugar from the hands and the delicate elegance of a noble woman's taught gestures. She then stepped back in order to offer space for the vase to be relocated to the storage rooms and turned quickly at a noise from the back door where more servants now entered the kitchens, their chasing of poultry finally at an end and a midday repast due to be prepared.
Eager to be out of the way before a slave or servant could not her presence with too suspicious an eye, Hypatia took two steps towards the door that led to the rest of the estate, pausing only momentarily to glance back at the Judean trader who had helped her.
“שָׁלוֹם עֲלֵיכֶם” She said as carefully as she could, hoping that the pronunciation was right. Shalom aleichem. Peace be upon you. Such a nice phrase, she had always thought. And with a pleasant smile that lit up her face and brought a light to her soft eyes, Hypatia turned and mounted the steps with the dancing and light grace that her mother had taught her and headed back to attend to the formal activities that Europa had arranged for her to complete that day.
He watched with total conviction as she slid her finger along the dowel that this entire misunderstanding would be fixed. It was only with valiant effort that he kept his thoughts in check as she sucked on her fingers, her lips forming a perfect O shape as she did so. Isaiah licked his lower lip and jerked his gaze to the floor, where is should be. Because his attention was back on the ground, he didn’t see the slow dawning of understanding cross her pretty features, but he heard it in her voice. Rather than look at her again, he chose to look to the Greek servant beside her for confirmation of what he hoped was happening; payment.
His eyes kept wandering to the man’s Greek mistress as she threw out commands whilst walking on flowing skirts. Her movements reminded him of someone walking through clouds and he found himself staring stupidly after her again. When she glanced over her shoulder and caught him, as though the intensity of his staring hard drawn her notice, he nodded at her, and then she was gone. With her absence, his sanity returned and he was a little mortified by his own behavior. This Greek might not speak Hebrew, but the cook who’d just walked in the door did and it was through him that Isaiah was finally able to tell him all that had transpired, with the other servant filling in the details as they went along.
The lady’s orders were not quite obeyed, however. The greek servant neglected to mention that Isaiah’s first high price should be the one to be paid, and so the regular haggling began, ending with Isaiah happy enough, and not knowing that he could have had more. A promise on his part was made to return for the jar when he was sent for to replace the oil, and then he left the kitchens. As he walked through the halls, he was on high alert for the woman, half hoping, half afraid that she would be waiting for him somewhere...but she wasn’t, and he felt like an utter fool.
He chuckled to himself under his breath, running his fingers through his hair and shaking his head. “Yeah right,” he whispered to himself. Once he exited the house and back into the unending brightness of the sun, he spotted his cart and mule, right where he’d left them. “At least you love me,” he said in a sing song voice to the animal. The mule swung her head around, perked her long, goofy ears at him, and snorted. “Or tolerate,” Isaiah amended. “Let’s go home,” he said to her and climbed up onto the seat of the cart. “I have to give Rebekah a kiss, because I am alive to loathe doing it!” A flick of the reins and the cart rolled in the direction of home.
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This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
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He watched with total conviction as she slid her finger along the dowel that this entire misunderstanding would be fixed. It was only with valiant effort that he kept his thoughts in check as she sucked on her fingers, her lips forming a perfect O shape as she did so. Isaiah licked his lower lip and jerked his gaze to the floor, where is should be. Because his attention was back on the ground, he didn’t see the slow dawning of understanding cross her pretty features, but he heard it in her voice. Rather than look at her again, he chose to look to the Greek servant beside her for confirmation of what he hoped was happening; payment.
His eyes kept wandering to the man’s Greek mistress as she threw out commands whilst walking on flowing skirts. Her movements reminded him of someone walking through clouds and he found himself staring stupidly after her again. When she glanced over her shoulder and caught him, as though the intensity of his staring hard drawn her notice, he nodded at her, and then she was gone. With her absence, his sanity returned and he was a little mortified by his own behavior. This Greek might not speak Hebrew, but the cook who’d just walked in the door did and it was through him that Isaiah was finally able to tell him all that had transpired, with the other servant filling in the details as they went along.
The lady’s orders were not quite obeyed, however. The greek servant neglected to mention that Isaiah’s first high price should be the one to be paid, and so the regular haggling began, ending with Isaiah happy enough, and not knowing that he could have had more. A promise on his part was made to return for the jar when he was sent for to replace the oil, and then he left the kitchens. As he walked through the halls, he was on high alert for the woman, half hoping, half afraid that she would be waiting for him somewhere...but she wasn’t, and he felt like an utter fool.
He chuckled to himself under his breath, running his fingers through his hair and shaking his head. “Yeah right,” he whispered to himself. Once he exited the house and back into the unending brightness of the sun, he spotted his cart and mule, right where he’d left them. “At least you love me,” he said in a sing song voice to the animal. The mule swung her head around, perked her long, goofy ears at him, and snorted. “Or tolerate,” Isaiah amended. “Let’s go home,” he said to her and climbed up onto the seat of the cart. “I have to give Rebekah a kiss, because I am alive to loathe doing it!” A flick of the reins and the cart rolled in the direction of home.
He watched with total conviction as she slid her finger along the dowel that this entire misunderstanding would be fixed. It was only with valiant effort that he kept his thoughts in check as she sucked on her fingers, her lips forming a perfect O shape as she did so. Isaiah licked his lower lip and jerked his gaze to the floor, where is should be. Because his attention was back on the ground, he didn’t see the slow dawning of understanding cross her pretty features, but he heard it in her voice. Rather than look at her again, he chose to look to the Greek servant beside her for confirmation of what he hoped was happening; payment.
His eyes kept wandering to the man’s Greek mistress as she threw out commands whilst walking on flowing skirts. Her movements reminded him of someone walking through clouds and he found himself staring stupidly after her again. When she glanced over her shoulder and caught him, as though the intensity of his staring hard drawn her notice, he nodded at her, and then she was gone. With her absence, his sanity returned and he was a little mortified by his own behavior. This Greek might not speak Hebrew, but the cook who’d just walked in the door did and it was through him that Isaiah was finally able to tell him all that had transpired, with the other servant filling in the details as they went along.
The lady’s orders were not quite obeyed, however. The greek servant neglected to mention that Isaiah’s first high price should be the one to be paid, and so the regular haggling began, ending with Isaiah happy enough, and not knowing that he could have had more. A promise on his part was made to return for the jar when he was sent for to replace the oil, and then he left the kitchens. As he walked through the halls, he was on high alert for the woman, half hoping, half afraid that she would be waiting for him somewhere...but she wasn’t, and he felt like an utter fool.
He chuckled to himself under his breath, running his fingers through his hair and shaking his head. “Yeah right,” he whispered to himself. Once he exited the house and back into the unending brightness of the sun, he spotted his cart and mule, right where he’d left them. “At least you love me,” he said in a sing song voice to the animal. The mule swung her head around, perked her long, goofy ears at him, and snorted. “Or tolerate,” Isaiah amended. “Let’s go home,” he said to her and climbed up onto the seat of the cart. “I have to give Rebekah a kiss, because I am alive to loathe doing it!” A flick of the reins and the cart rolled in the direction of home.