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By all rights of time and human sense, Hypatia should have been tired. After the excitement over the well incident the previous day - the exploration of the manor, the collision with a servant and the ensuing physical and mental trial of almost falling into an open well before conversing in a language that she was not familiar - it would have been all too natural for Hypatia to have taken to her bed. Her mother was always very clear on such things; a woman was delicate. She was to rest whenever tired, sleep whenever foggy of mind, and close her eyes whenever she felt the beginnings of pressure behind her lids. A woman was not made of the same constitution as that of men. And whilst they had many abilities and roles and duties that could not be performed by the rougher sex, a difference of equal measure was that of their limitations.
Had Europa known of Hypatia's little adventure, she would have insisted upon her daughter sleeping several hours before the evening repast was due and her next meeting with her intended betrothed was upon them. Had she known that it had been experienced beside that of a young Jew, she would have likely not been permitted to leave her chamber until such and meal and only then to be eyed and escorted by a watchful servant in her mother's employ. For Europa took no chances in the great game of politics that was marriage and political matches.
Luckily, however, Hypatia's sweet enjoyment of the afternoon's distraction was neither noticed nor explained.
Instead, Hypatia turned to her bedchambers immediately, with the obvious excuse of changing her gown (yet not after a long and detailed scolding regarding watching where she was going in the future), and without undressing headed first for the little and ornate desk that had been supplied in her rooms.
With small sheaths of parchment and available ink, Hypatia was able to write a notation in Greek and ensure that it was folded and sealed before her mother could read it. Then she handed it to one of her provided ladies’ maids with an instruction to hurry.
Within the hour, Hypatia had redressed herself into a gown of silvery dove grey, her hair had been re-pinned and streams of tiny pearls hung about her head. She waited for the arrival of a tutor who was immediately interrogated by her mother when he arrived at the door. Hypatia was quick to correct the circumstance -
"It is alright, Mama." She told the woman, her hand reaching out to still that of Europa's where it had been extended in order to shut the door. "Yosef is here to tutor me before dinner."
Knowing her mother well enough to read the look in her eyes with accuracy, Hypatia knew that she had made the right decision not to involve her maternal parent in her decision for the later afternoon's activities. Europa had never liked the idea of any of her children marrying abroad and had only considered this particular unity because it was with a Grecian who held a title above his station of birth; an achievement to be sure. But she had no patience for the idea of Hypatia learning Hebrew and 'practically turning native!' as she called it.
And while Hypatia had never absorbed her mother's xenophobia, she had never seemed to mind it or be annoyed by it either. It was simply how her mother thought and there was surely little that one such as she could do about it?
Turning, instead, to greet Yosef, offering him a cup of water and a seat in the living quarters that Commander Alexios had so kindly provided for them during their stay, Hypatia was quick to make clear her request of the man.
As soon as her mother left to room, determined to find a better use of her time, no doubt, Hypatia set to work in only the way a noble woman used to the ease of life would do.
"This is a list of phrases and questions that I would like you to translate and teach to me." She insisted, holding out a second sheath of Greek. "And I will need to be able to understand whatever answer is returned. And I must be able to by tomorrow morning."
Yosef was understandably surprised at such a thing and quantified that he would not be able to teach her every possible answer to her questions in a single afternoon. Yet, nevertheless, the two of them set about mastering at least some of the possible means of communication that Hypatia was eager to have with her new Judean friend.
Even after Yosef was gone, the evening meal completed and a conversation and society that lingered over final glasses of wine passed, Hypatia was still considering her plans for the next day. In bed, removed of her raiment and dressings, she read over the notes of Hebrew that Yosef had given her and practiced the sounds to herself before she fell asleep with writing in hand and thought of bright smiles upon her mind...
The next morning, Hypatia should have mentally drained. She had never studied anything as she had the previous day, finding a desire to learn that had not existed before then. Perhaps it was the lack of a specific goal. Upon the learning and classes that she was given back home, her mother had always assured her that it would be 'useful' in the future. Yet never seemed able to specify in what way it be of use and how far into her life such a future would come to pass. This time, with evidence before her and real-life application a means of validation, she was able to apply herself with interest and a sense of determination.
And while, realistically, she was no more masterful at the language on this sunrise than the last, she now at least had some ways of asking that which she was curious of. And say the things that she wished to say. At least in the short term.
With an eagerness that belied her long afternoon and late night, Hypatia was up, awake and ready to begin her day with the breaking of dawn. She dressed quickly, called for her maids to do her hair and was settling down to her desk to prepare herself to be tended to when it was her mother and not her servants that came to the door.
A single look upon her daughter's face took all plan that Hypatia had made for the morning and discarded them like confetti. She was ordered to her bed, where a few more hours of sleep would remove the pink from her eyes and the softest of shadows beneath her lashes.
Unable to argue with her mother, Hypatia stewed in resentment, not using the time in her darkened room to sleep but to worry that Judean market's might not remain open longer than Grecian ones. Back home, in Taengea, most communal sales of such a sort began at daybreak and continued only until business was run dry. Which could be any time from a few hours to over half a day.
And yet she could not convince her mother to send her her lady’s maids until she had taken a least two more hours of rest.
When finally permitted her liberty, Hypatia wasted still more time suddenly concerned for what she might wear. Never had such a worry come to mind for her before and yet now she was uncertain. She was to attend a Judean market, so what if only Jewish people were permitted? Did she have to dress like one? Cover her head as she had seen women of the faith do?
She dismissed this thought as nonsensical. For if it were the case, Isaiah would have said so. He had invited her without any conditions or boundaries to the offer and so she had to assume that she was welcome as a Greek. And as that was exactly what she was, that was how she would dress.
Avoiding anything that was too light - for the sand beyond the walls of the manor would stain fabric she was sure - but limited in her options of dark clothing, for her mother had always assured her that soft tones fit her palette better, Hypatia was forced to choose a gown somewhere in between. Silver in shade across the single shoulder and body, then fading into the brightest of oranges, Hypatia donned the gown with little attention to its fine make, the cut that slanted down towards the breasts at the front or the manner in which the skirts had been carefully pinned by her maids to sway and rippled in the soft breeze of her step as she walked.
Her hair was left down and given the volume and curl of her rank, the tawny shade set to look almost copper against the orange of her shirts. Around one of her wrists was a solid band of white gold that sported orange quartz piece around its length and she wore only the softest pieces of gold in her ears.
It was another hour before her appearance - powders, kohl, rouges and the minutiae of an aspiring noble woman's appearance was finally settled and sandals of gold were strapped to her feet, her toes dainty and buffed to a sweet shine.
It wasn't until then that Hypatia broached the topic of where she wished to go that day, horror-struck at the answer given.
"The market is soon to close, my Lady." A young Judean servant that had been assigned to her rooms confirmed. She glanced out of the window. "There is perhaps only two hours before the merchants will return home?"
"And how long would it take us to reach the market?" Hypatia asked in Greek, her tone urgent enough that it was too convoluted for the woman to understand and she was forced to swallow and repeat herself slower.
"Perhaps half an hour on foot, my Lady?" She asked, soothing the moment of worry at least a little.
"Then we shall leave immediately and catch the end of it." She assured the girl, blithely rushing to collect a small money pouch of embroidered silk and rolling the parchment of language notes she had been given into a little tube that she slipped inside its soft folds.
"My Lady, I believe the Lady Europa wished to speak with you once you were awake." The Jewish girl tried to inform her but Hypatia only smiled, her compassion and friendly manners instantly dissuading the girl of any concerns of conflict.
"I shall visit unto my mother when I am back. There is no need for her to know that I awoke an hour or so before my time."
And before the girl could protest further, Hypatia was out of her suite and headed down the corridors of the Commander Alexios' home, intent on finding the front door...
Just over a half hour later and she and Sarah - for that was her name, she had discovered - arrived at the market place. Despite the young woman's assurance that such an event would be drawing to a close with only one more angle upon the sun's arc, there were people everywhere.
They bustled, they moved, they swayed and they yelled. They rushed about to stalls that were closing and then turned languid and slow over the traders who they knew would wait for their purchases. Some of the stall owners looked set to remain all day and others were finishing up their work with no more product to sell. Everything was a jumble without organisation or plan. And yet everyone still seemed to know what they were doing.
Bright colours assaulted the eyes in the form of stalls and signs, of fabrics and fruit. Smells of roasting meat and fresh vegetables and incense mingled in the air. Calls of prices, of deals, of instance for change and haggling permeated every moment general hubbub. It all assaulted the senses in a rush of madness that made Hypatia uncertain where to look first.
Round in eye and her little rosebud of a mouth opening a little in wonder, she stared from stall to stall, row to row and began to walk here and there, never really able to integrate herself or look too closely at the stalls for other would turn and stare. Unsure what to do beyond swallow and smile, the young girl carried on, avoiding the bumping of shoulders and jolting only once when her gown's shirts were trodden on. She caught them up and shook them loose of the sand and then held the fabric so that hems hung close to her feet. Dodging out of the way of another, Hypatia's smile disappeared and she glanced around for Sarah, realising that she was gone and wondering what she was supposed to do now...?
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By all rights of time and human sense, Hypatia should have been tired. After the excitement over the well incident the previous day - the exploration of the manor, the collision with a servant and the ensuing physical and mental trial of almost falling into an open well before conversing in a language that she was not familiar - it would have been all too natural for Hypatia to have taken to her bed. Her mother was always very clear on such things; a woman was delicate. She was to rest whenever tired, sleep whenever foggy of mind, and close her eyes whenever she felt the beginnings of pressure behind her lids. A woman was not made of the same constitution as that of men. And whilst they had many abilities and roles and duties that could not be performed by the rougher sex, a difference of equal measure was that of their limitations.
Had Europa known of Hypatia's little adventure, she would have insisted upon her daughter sleeping several hours before the evening repast was due and her next meeting with her intended betrothed was upon them. Had she known that it had been experienced beside that of a young Jew, she would have likely not been permitted to leave her chamber until such and meal and only then to be eyed and escorted by a watchful servant in her mother's employ. For Europa took no chances in the great game of politics that was marriage and political matches.
Luckily, however, Hypatia's sweet enjoyment of the afternoon's distraction was neither noticed nor explained.
Instead, Hypatia turned to her bedchambers immediately, with the obvious excuse of changing her gown (yet not after a long and detailed scolding regarding watching where she was going in the future), and without undressing headed first for the little and ornate desk that had been supplied in her rooms.
With small sheaths of parchment and available ink, Hypatia was able to write a notation in Greek and ensure that it was folded and sealed before her mother could read it. Then she handed it to one of her provided ladies’ maids with an instruction to hurry.
Within the hour, Hypatia had redressed herself into a gown of silvery dove grey, her hair had been re-pinned and streams of tiny pearls hung about her head. She waited for the arrival of a tutor who was immediately interrogated by her mother when he arrived at the door. Hypatia was quick to correct the circumstance -
"It is alright, Mama." She told the woman, her hand reaching out to still that of Europa's where it had been extended in order to shut the door. "Yosef is here to tutor me before dinner."
Knowing her mother well enough to read the look in her eyes with accuracy, Hypatia knew that she had made the right decision not to involve her maternal parent in her decision for the later afternoon's activities. Europa had never liked the idea of any of her children marrying abroad and had only considered this particular unity because it was with a Grecian who held a title above his station of birth; an achievement to be sure. But she had no patience for the idea of Hypatia learning Hebrew and 'practically turning native!' as she called it.
And while Hypatia had never absorbed her mother's xenophobia, she had never seemed to mind it or be annoyed by it either. It was simply how her mother thought and there was surely little that one such as she could do about it?
Turning, instead, to greet Yosef, offering him a cup of water and a seat in the living quarters that Commander Alexios had so kindly provided for them during their stay, Hypatia was quick to make clear her request of the man.
As soon as her mother left to room, determined to find a better use of her time, no doubt, Hypatia set to work in only the way a noble woman used to the ease of life would do.
"This is a list of phrases and questions that I would like you to translate and teach to me." She insisted, holding out a second sheath of Greek. "And I will need to be able to understand whatever answer is returned. And I must be able to by tomorrow morning."
Yosef was understandably surprised at such a thing and quantified that he would not be able to teach her every possible answer to her questions in a single afternoon. Yet, nevertheless, the two of them set about mastering at least some of the possible means of communication that Hypatia was eager to have with her new Judean friend.
Even after Yosef was gone, the evening meal completed and a conversation and society that lingered over final glasses of wine passed, Hypatia was still considering her plans for the next day. In bed, removed of her raiment and dressings, she read over the notes of Hebrew that Yosef had given her and practiced the sounds to herself before she fell asleep with writing in hand and thought of bright smiles upon her mind...
The next morning, Hypatia should have mentally drained. She had never studied anything as she had the previous day, finding a desire to learn that had not existed before then. Perhaps it was the lack of a specific goal. Upon the learning and classes that she was given back home, her mother had always assured her that it would be 'useful' in the future. Yet never seemed able to specify in what way it be of use and how far into her life such a future would come to pass. This time, with evidence before her and real-life application a means of validation, she was able to apply herself with interest and a sense of determination.
And while, realistically, she was no more masterful at the language on this sunrise than the last, she now at least had some ways of asking that which she was curious of. And say the things that she wished to say. At least in the short term.
With an eagerness that belied her long afternoon and late night, Hypatia was up, awake and ready to begin her day with the breaking of dawn. She dressed quickly, called for her maids to do her hair and was settling down to her desk to prepare herself to be tended to when it was her mother and not her servants that came to the door.
A single look upon her daughter's face took all plan that Hypatia had made for the morning and discarded them like confetti. She was ordered to her bed, where a few more hours of sleep would remove the pink from her eyes and the softest of shadows beneath her lashes.
Unable to argue with her mother, Hypatia stewed in resentment, not using the time in her darkened room to sleep but to worry that Judean market's might not remain open longer than Grecian ones. Back home, in Taengea, most communal sales of such a sort began at daybreak and continued only until business was run dry. Which could be any time from a few hours to over half a day.
And yet she could not convince her mother to send her her lady’s maids until she had taken a least two more hours of rest.
When finally permitted her liberty, Hypatia wasted still more time suddenly concerned for what she might wear. Never had such a worry come to mind for her before and yet now she was uncertain. She was to attend a Judean market, so what if only Jewish people were permitted? Did she have to dress like one? Cover her head as she had seen women of the faith do?
She dismissed this thought as nonsensical. For if it were the case, Isaiah would have said so. He had invited her without any conditions or boundaries to the offer and so she had to assume that she was welcome as a Greek. And as that was exactly what she was, that was how she would dress.
Avoiding anything that was too light - for the sand beyond the walls of the manor would stain fabric she was sure - but limited in her options of dark clothing, for her mother had always assured her that soft tones fit her palette better, Hypatia was forced to choose a gown somewhere in between. Silver in shade across the single shoulder and body, then fading into the brightest of oranges, Hypatia donned the gown with little attention to its fine make, the cut that slanted down towards the breasts at the front or the manner in which the skirts had been carefully pinned by her maids to sway and rippled in the soft breeze of her step as she walked.
Her hair was left down and given the volume and curl of her rank, the tawny shade set to look almost copper against the orange of her shirts. Around one of her wrists was a solid band of white gold that sported orange quartz piece around its length and she wore only the softest pieces of gold in her ears.
It was another hour before her appearance - powders, kohl, rouges and the minutiae of an aspiring noble woman's appearance was finally settled and sandals of gold were strapped to her feet, her toes dainty and buffed to a sweet shine.
It wasn't until then that Hypatia broached the topic of where she wished to go that day, horror-struck at the answer given.
"The market is soon to close, my Lady." A young Judean servant that had been assigned to her rooms confirmed. She glanced out of the window. "There is perhaps only two hours before the merchants will return home?"
"And how long would it take us to reach the market?" Hypatia asked in Greek, her tone urgent enough that it was too convoluted for the woman to understand and she was forced to swallow and repeat herself slower.
"Perhaps half an hour on foot, my Lady?" She asked, soothing the moment of worry at least a little.
"Then we shall leave immediately and catch the end of it." She assured the girl, blithely rushing to collect a small money pouch of embroidered silk and rolling the parchment of language notes she had been given into a little tube that she slipped inside its soft folds.
"My Lady, I believe the Lady Europa wished to speak with you once you were awake." The Jewish girl tried to inform her but Hypatia only smiled, her compassion and friendly manners instantly dissuading the girl of any concerns of conflict.
"I shall visit unto my mother when I am back. There is no need for her to know that I awoke an hour or so before my time."
And before the girl could protest further, Hypatia was out of her suite and headed down the corridors of the Commander Alexios' home, intent on finding the front door...
Just over a half hour later and she and Sarah - for that was her name, she had discovered - arrived at the market place. Despite the young woman's assurance that such an event would be drawing to a close with only one more angle upon the sun's arc, there were people everywhere.
They bustled, they moved, they swayed and they yelled. They rushed about to stalls that were closing and then turned languid and slow over the traders who they knew would wait for their purchases. Some of the stall owners looked set to remain all day and others were finishing up their work with no more product to sell. Everything was a jumble without organisation or plan. And yet everyone still seemed to know what they were doing.
Bright colours assaulted the eyes in the form of stalls and signs, of fabrics and fruit. Smells of roasting meat and fresh vegetables and incense mingled in the air. Calls of prices, of deals, of instance for change and haggling permeated every moment general hubbub. It all assaulted the senses in a rush of madness that made Hypatia uncertain where to look first.
Round in eye and her little rosebud of a mouth opening a little in wonder, she stared from stall to stall, row to row and began to walk here and there, never really able to integrate herself or look too closely at the stalls for other would turn and stare. Unsure what to do beyond swallow and smile, the young girl carried on, avoiding the bumping of shoulders and jolting only once when her gown's shirts were trodden on. She caught them up and shook them loose of the sand and then held the fabric so that hems hung close to her feet. Dodging out of the way of another, Hypatia's smile disappeared and she glanced around for Sarah, realising that she was gone and wondering what she was supposed to do now...?
By all rights of time and human sense, Hypatia should have been tired. After the excitement over the well incident the previous day - the exploration of the manor, the collision with a servant and the ensuing physical and mental trial of almost falling into an open well before conversing in a language that she was not familiar - it would have been all too natural for Hypatia to have taken to her bed. Her mother was always very clear on such things; a woman was delicate. She was to rest whenever tired, sleep whenever foggy of mind, and close her eyes whenever she felt the beginnings of pressure behind her lids. A woman was not made of the same constitution as that of men. And whilst they had many abilities and roles and duties that could not be performed by the rougher sex, a difference of equal measure was that of their limitations.
Had Europa known of Hypatia's little adventure, she would have insisted upon her daughter sleeping several hours before the evening repast was due and her next meeting with her intended betrothed was upon them. Had she known that it had been experienced beside that of a young Jew, she would have likely not been permitted to leave her chamber until such and meal and only then to be eyed and escorted by a watchful servant in her mother's employ. For Europa took no chances in the great game of politics that was marriage and political matches.
Luckily, however, Hypatia's sweet enjoyment of the afternoon's distraction was neither noticed nor explained.
Instead, Hypatia turned to her bedchambers immediately, with the obvious excuse of changing her gown (yet not after a long and detailed scolding regarding watching where she was going in the future), and without undressing headed first for the little and ornate desk that had been supplied in her rooms.
With small sheaths of parchment and available ink, Hypatia was able to write a notation in Greek and ensure that it was folded and sealed before her mother could read it. Then she handed it to one of her provided ladies’ maids with an instruction to hurry.
Within the hour, Hypatia had redressed herself into a gown of silvery dove grey, her hair had been re-pinned and streams of tiny pearls hung about her head. She waited for the arrival of a tutor who was immediately interrogated by her mother when he arrived at the door. Hypatia was quick to correct the circumstance -
"It is alright, Mama." She told the woman, her hand reaching out to still that of Europa's where it had been extended in order to shut the door. "Yosef is here to tutor me before dinner."
Knowing her mother well enough to read the look in her eyes with accuracy, Hypatia knew that she had made the right decision not to involve her maternal parent in her decision for the later afternoon's activities. Europa had never liked the idea of any of her children marrying abroad and had only considered this particular unity because it was with a Grecian who held a title above his station of birth; an achievement to be sure. But she had no patience for the idea of Hypatia learning Hebrew and 'practically turning native!' as she called it.
And while Hypatia had never absorbed her mother's xenophobia, she had never seemed to mind it or be annoyed by it either. It was simply how her mother thought and there was surely little that one such as she could do about it?
Turning, instead, to greet Yosef, offering him a cup of water and a seat in the living quarters that Commander Alexios had so kindly provided for them during their stay, Hypatia was quick to make clear her request of the man.
As soon as her mother left to room, determined to find a better use of her time, no doubt, Hypatia set to work in only the way a noble woman used to the ease of life would do.
"This is a list of phrases and questions that I would like you to translate and teach to me." She insisted, holding out a second sheath of Greek. "And I will need to be able to understand whatever answer is returned. And I must be able to by tomorrow morning."
Yosef was understandably surprised at such a thing and quantified that he would not be able to teach her every possible answer to her questions in a single afternoon. Yet, nevertheless, the two of them set about mastering at least some of the possible means of communication that Hypatia was eager to have with her new Judean friend.
Even after Yosef was gone, the evening meal completed and a conversation and society that lingered over final glasses of wine passed, Hypatia was still considering her plans for the next day. In bed, removed of her raiment and dressings, she read over the notes of Hebrew that Yosef had given her and practiced the sounds to herself before she fell asleep with writing in hand and thought of bright smiles upon her mind...
The next morning, Hypatia should have mentally drained. She had never studied anything as she had the previous day, finding a desire to learn that had not existed before then. Perhaps it was the lack of a specific goal. Upon the learning and classes that she was given back home, her mother had always assured her that it would be 'useful' in the future. Yet never seemed able to specify in what way it be of use and how far into her life such a future would come to pass. This time, with evidence before her and real-life application a means of validation, she was able to apply herself with interest and a sense of determination.
And while, realistically, she was no more masterful at the language on this sunrise than the last, she now at least had some ways of asking that which she was curious of. And say the things that she wished to say. At least in the short term.
With an eagerness that belied her long afternoon and late night, Hypatia was up, awake and ready to begin her day with the breaking of dawn. She dressed quickly, called for her maids to do her hair and was settling down to her desk to prepare herself to be tended to when it was her mother and not her servants that came to the door.
A single look upon her daughter's face took all plan that Hypatia had made for the morning and discarded them like confetti. She was ordered to her bed, where a few more hours of sleep would remove the pink from her eyes and the softest of shadows beneath her lashes.
Unable to argue with her mother, Hypatia stewed in resentment, not using the time in her darkened room to sleep but to worry that Judean market's might not remain open longer than Grecian ones. Back home, in Taengea, most communal sales of such a sort began at daybreak and continued only until business was run dry. Which could be any time from a few hours to over half a day.
And yet she could not convince her mother to send her her lady’s maids until she had taken a least two more hours of rest.
When finally permitted her liberty, Hypatia wasted still more time suddenly concerned for what she might wear. Never had such a worry come to mind for her before and yet now she was uncertain. She was to attend a Judean market, so what if only Jewish people were permitted? Did she have to dress like one? Cover her head as she had seen women of the faith do?
She dismissed this thought as nonsensical. For if it were the case, Isaiah would have said so. He had invited her without any conditions or boundaries to the offer and so she had to assume that she was welcome as a Greek. And as that was exactly what she was, that was how she would dress.
Avoiding anything that was too light - for the sand beyond the walls of the manor would stain fabric she was sure - but limited in her options of dark clothing, for her mother had always assured her that soft tones fit her palette better, Hypatia was forced to choose a gown somewhere in between. Silver in shade across the single shoulder and body, then fading into the brightest of oranges, Hypatia donned the gown with little attention to its fine make, the cut that slanted down towards the breasts at the front or the manner in which the skirts had been carefully pinned by her maids to sway and rippled in the soft breeze of her step as she walked.
Her hair was left down and given the volume and curl of her rank, the tawny shade set to look almost copper against the orange of her shirts. Around one of her wrists was a solid band of white gold that sported orange quartz piece around its length and she wore only the softest pieces of gold in her ears.
It was another hour before her appearance - powders, kohl, rouges and the minutiae of an aspiring noble woman's appearance was finally settled and sandals of gold were strapped to her feet, her toes dainty and buffed to a sweet shine.
It wasn't until then that Hypatia broached the topic of where she wished to go that day, horror-struck at the answer given.
"The market is soon to close, my Lady." A young Judean servant that had been assigned to her rooms confirmed. She glanced out of the window. "There is perhaps only two hours before the merchants will return home?"
"And how long would it take us to reach the market?" Hypatia asked in Greek, her tone urgent enough that it was too convoluted for the woman to understand and she was forced to swallow and repeat herself slower.
"Perhaps half an hour on foot, my Lady?" She asked, soothing the moment of worry at least a little.
"Then we shall leave immediately and catch the end of it." She assured the girl, blithely rushing to collect a small money pouch of embroidered silk and rolling the parchment of language notes she had been given into a little tube that she slipped inside its soft folds.
"My Lady, I believe the Lady Europa wished to speak with you once you were awake." The Jewish girl tried to inform her but Hypatia only smiled, her compassion and friendly manners instantly dissuading the girl of any concerns of conflict.
"I shall visit unto my mother when I am back. There is no need for her to know that I awoke an hour or so before my time."
And before the girl could protest further, Hypatia was out of her suite and headed down the corridors of the Commander Alexios' home, intent on finding the front door...
Just over a half hour later and she and Sarah - for that was her name, she had discovered - arrived at the market place. Despite the young woman's assurance that such an event would be drawing to a close with only one more angle upon the sun's arc, there were people everywhere.
They bustled, they moved, they swayed and they yelled. They rushed about to stalls that were closing and then turned languid and slow over the traders who they knew would wait for their purchases. Some of the stall owners looked set to remain all day and others were finishing up their work with no more product to sell. Everything was a jumble without organisation or plan. And yet everyone still seemed to know what they were doing.
Bright colours assaulted the eyes in the form of stalls and signs, of fabrics and fruit. Smells of roasting meat and fresh vegetables and incense mingled in the air. Calls of prices, of deals, of instance for change and haggling permeated every moment general hubbub. It all assaulted the senses in a rush of madness that made Hypatia uncertain where to look first.
Round in eye and her little rosebud of a mouth opening a little in wonder, she stared from stall to stall, row to row and began to walk here and there, never really able to integrate herself or look too closely at the stalls for other would turn and stare. Unsure what to do beyond swallow and smile, the young girl carried on, avoiding the bumping of shoulders and jolting only once when her gown's shirts were trodden on. She caught them up and shook them loose of the sand and then held the fabric so that hems hung close to her feet. Dodging out of the way of another, Hypatia's smile disappeared and she glanced around for Sarah, realising that she was gone and wondering what she was supposed to do now...?
The afternoon crawled by after Isaiah and Benjamin left the Commander’s house. Sitting beside his brother on the wagon’s seat, Isaiah stared at their mule’s long ears, his eyes unfocused. Benjamin either noticed his brother’s absentmindedness and said nothing or, more likely as the man flicked the reins, didn’t care enough to see that Isaiah was far more quiet than usual. Isaiah glanced at the house and the servant door they’d just exited through, knowing Hypatia wouldn’t be there to watch them leave and wishing it to be so anyway. The doorway remained void of Hypatia or anyone else, for that matter, and Isaiah finally turned back around when Benjamin jabbed him in the side.
“You’re making the wagon squeak,” his brother complained. It was true. With his weight unevenly distributed, the wagon leaned a fraction more heavily on the right wheels than the left, and the wheels on that side groaned louder.
“Sorry,” he said in a low voice and turned back around. Isaiah shot Benjamin a side glance and rubbed his side but did not complain. Though he was eighteen and his brother twenty, if Isaiah admitted aloud that his brother’s poke to the ribs still burned a little bit in his muscle, then he’d earn himself another jab and have to hear Benjamin’s bellowing laugh for the next three or four streets. Being that he and his brother had managed to get on fairly well since his brother became a man and got married, Isaiah thought that bringing up old tendencies would only be putting the two of them backward.
That night, as he sat in the kitchen by the smoldering coals of the cooking fire his mother was using to heat water for the dishes, he stared wistfully into the shadowed ceiling corner. Their house was not overly large, and even though it was custom for Benjamin and Rebekkah to move out to their own home, that hadn’t happened. Benjamin was saving money to move to buy his own vineyard and planned to build a house there. Normally, Rebekkah would be the one keeping his mother company, but she was off nursing the baby and while Isaiah didn’t have his arms wrist deep in the wide lipped bucket, his mother preferred not to be alone.
“You’re quiet this evening,” she commented, keeping her eyes on her task. Isaiah said nothing and she waited for a few more seconds before looking up to find him still staring off into nothing. “Isaiah,” she said sharply.
He started and twisted from his place against the wall to look at her. Suddenly becoming aware of the cold of the floor seeping into his backside, Isaiah shifted to sit with his legs crossed beneath himself and observed his mother. The bucket she was using doubled as a tub and he’d sat in it many times as a child. Now that he was an adult, he went to the bathhouses like normal people. Steam rose from the top of the water and red crept up his mother’s forearms, her wrists and hands invisible from this vantage point. Wooden plates and bowls stuck up near the sides of the bucket and he noted the damp towel slung over her shoulder. Its dingy hue enhanced the pink blotches on her soft cheeks. Strands of wiry hair escaped the fabric tie she’d used to affix her hair at the nape of her neck.
“Let me dry those for you,” he pointed to the little pile she’d set just outside the bucket. A dark ring of water sat on the stone beneath the smooth wooden plates, acting like a shadow. Abigail gave a single shrug of her rounded shoulder and stayed still while Isaiah moved across the kitchen to sit at her side. When he was little, he’d begged to do this very chore with her. Children love mimicking and Isaiah had been no different. Dish drying was not something his father approved of after Isaiah had reached the age of ten; close enough to being a man that to debase himself further that way was giving him ‘soft’ ideas. For a long while after, he’d felt elated and guilty at not helping with the dishes. Now that he was eighteen, and much more out of his father’s control, he took up the chore tonight without a single thought of what his father might say, should the man walk into the kitchen.
But Matthias was not likely to do so. He was too busy keeping a fond eye on his new grandson in the house’s main room, where Benjamin and Rebekkah had been sitting. Though, now that Rebekkah had removed herself to go feed the baby, Matthias and Benjamin were lounging back on the cushions, discussing tomorrow’s business. Their voices drifted through the doorway and Isaiah half listened to them, and half listened to his mother’s sighing as she rubbed her washcloth in impatient, jerking strokes against a particularly stubborn piece of grit on the bowl in her hands.
“You’re far away,” she said abruptly. For the second time in the space of a few minutes, Isaiah was jolted back to the present.
“What do you mean?” he asked distantly as he finished drying his first plate and looked down to figure out what to do with it now. For an idiotic second, he thought about getting up to put it away and coming back to take the next one but as soon as the notion entered his head, he pushed it away. That was the most inefficient way to do something, even if it did prevent the floor from being cluttered with dishes. They’d pick them up soon enough and he set down the plate at his side, reaching for another in the same movement.
“I mean you’re far away,” she repeated and took one of her glistening hands out of the water to give him a wet tap against his temple. Isaiah shied away from the movement, lifting his shoulder to get her to stop, and leaned away until she gave him a wan smile, returning her hands to the bucket. He said nothing to that, his thoughts scrambling. There was no way in this life or the next that he could admit the reason he was acting strange. However kind and generous his mother was, she would not encourage him to make friends with a Greek girl. He wondered if she’d remove her sandal and slap his head with it if she found out that he liked Hypatia, despite the brevity of their encounters, far better than any Judean girl he’d met.
When he thought of Hypatia, she was taller in his mind’s eye. Tall, elegant, with long, slender limbs, and gentle, soft hands. He eyed his mother’s hands and resisted making a face. Abigail’s fingers were short and wide, tapering at the ends into a feminine point, but they were not the graceful, artistic ones of the Greek girl. The backs of his mother’s hands were veined and scarred with faint marks from burns or cuts. They were honest hands. Poor hands. Hands he’d never ask Hypatia’s to become, but that didn’t stop Isaiah from the selfish wish to get to know her better. Besides, he told himself, it wasn’t like he had designs on her. She was nice. That was all. It wasn’t a crime to get to know someone? To be friends?
“There’s that look again,” Abigail gave him a glowing smile, the corners of her mouth taking on a knowing twist.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Isaiah’s face grew hot and he pulled at the neck of his robe. The cloth was suddenly too close and he wished the heat in this kitchen could be better ventilated.
“What’s her name?” Abigail looked back down into the water, infinite patience returning to her movements. She wouldn’t have left this washbasin for all the gold in Israel. Not now that she’d caught her son so thoroughly distracted with thoughts of a woman. The pink in his cheeks and his avoidance in looking at her was all the proof she needed to know she was right.
The lie sat on the tip of his tongue. It would be easy; to lie and say there was no one. Or, to lie and give a false name. If he did that, she’d make inquiries and what happened if she did find a girl with the same name? The confusion would be too great. Besides, Yahweh commanded them not to lie. It was a sin. No matter how tempted, he must not. Guile and cunning were not things that Isaiah was in possession of. If he was, he could have figured out a way to slither out of the question, even without lying. Instead, he threw her a smile and a warm look in return, resting his chin on his shoulder until his mother flicked water at him.
“Hey!” he lifted his shoulder to shield himself and to rub his face in order to dry off.
“I’ll find out whether you tell me or not,” Abigail warned, relishing this challenge and happy that her youngest now had a secret. She trusted him too much to think it anything wrong and chose to believe that he wasn’t telling her because he was shy. It pleased her to think that he’d fallen in love with some doe-eyed, dark haired girl at Temple. Already she was picturing her future daughter-in-law and both elated and dreading her sweet son moving to his own home, to start his own life. It was what every parent wanted for their children and also hated - the leaving. It must happen and it would have grieved her deep in her spirit if Isaiah never got to experience true marital bliss on earth. Never mind that her marriage to Matthias was far from a legendary tale of romance and affection...but they got on.
“There’s nothing to tell!” he held out his hand for a plate, towel at the ready, and concentrated on drying the plate as he spoke. “There’s no marriage on the horizon, mama,” he promised.
“We will see,” Abigail gleefully scrubbed away, her face as light as when she looked down at his nephew in her arms.
Later, as Isaiah crawled beneath the covers of his bed, he lay on his back and stared at the shadowed ceiling. He should not be this excited to see someone at the marketplace. Really, the whole experience was going to be awkward, with him speaking nonsense to her and her struggling to understand. Not to mention all the noise and constant jostling of people would make conversation next to impossible. Why had he asked her to come to the market?
He flipped over onto his side and frowned at the opposite wall, reasons clamoring to ease his idiot choice. The market was neutral, for one. It was out in the open, for another. His aim in asking her to go there was that he’d already be there, and it would be away from the Commander’s home. The whole intention would be to see him but he didn’t expect anything from it; not really. Just a chance to be near her for a few moments for expressly that purpose. If he kept thinking that, that meant it was true. Besides, what he’d noticed about his mother’s hands downstairs was true. His mother wasn’t a great beauty. She was short and stocky, her features plain, and her manner stolid. His mother did not blush at any kind word said to her, she didn’t get herself into odd situations and needed rescuing. She was a commoner - made for this sort of life. Isaiah sighed and rested his cheek on the back of his hand as his palms rested together on his pillow.
Hypatia would never do for his world. A world where they rose just before dawn and made their own food. There were no servants to help. A world where his mother washed everyone’s clothes, did the dishes, scraped out the fireplace herself, cooked all of the meals, kept the house immaculately clean - honestly he wasn’t certain how his mother managed any of it at all. If he stopped and thought about it, she seemed magical in the way she went about her life, and still, even with all that, his mother had friends, and time to leave the house to go to Temple. There was another problem; Temple. Possibly the biggest problem of all. Hypatia, though she walked in the clouds and looked like his vision of an angel, with her golden hair and bright blue eyes - she was pagan.
His lip curled in the first true bit of revulsion. Their gods were disgusting, and so were their followers. Having to shave the center of their heads for their sun god, or having to constantly appease this death god, or cut themselves for that war god. He’d heard stories, too, of the exploits of their pantheon. The stories were told in hushed whispers outside the Temple courtyard by children - things they weren’t to know or discuss but made all the more tempting because of it. Their lead god, the god of storms, was the worst. They followed gods who raped women and lay with men. Some of the gods even forbade their followers to enjoy the marriage bed, and their priests used their leverage over the people to exact terrible tributes and laws. He shuddered. It was so far removed from his own religion, so foreign and alien, that he couldn’t imagine Hypatia believing, or following such practices.
He’d heard that there was one cult where the followers drugged themselves and ran naked through the streets, drunk on their own immorality. And of another for their love goddess where a priest and priestess fornicated on an altar before the masses. Still another, something about the harvest, where a virgin sat under a grate, where a living bull was forced to lie down and had to suffer being slit from its chest to its groin so that its blood could rain down on the poor girl below. Hypatia...would she have done that? Gone to those sorts of things? Did she believe those to be right? Or just? Or good?
Isaiah hugged his pillow and buried his face. No good would come of befriending this girl and yet, when he’d spoken to her today...his hold loosened on the pillow and his body relaxed as he thought of her adorable features contorting into a frown as she searched for her words. The pink flush of her skin, the innocence behind her eyes, the softness of her tone and manner, all pointed to someone young, naive, and - he thought of the councilman in Ammun who’d set tongues wagging when he’d married someone not Judean. Surely...but it wasn’t the same. She was mixed and Hypatia was fully Greek. Not that he intended to marry Hypatia, he thought again and flipped onto his stomach, burying his face in his pillow.
“Sleep,” he told himself, his voice coming out in a muffled groan. Forcing his thoughts to calm, he wormed back onto his other side and faced the door this time. “She wouldn’t marry you anyway,” he mumbled, yawning. That thought was comforting. Hypatia was just being kind. He was just being kind. They had a bond now that would be rude to ignore, and with that self deceiving lie thoroughly entrenched in his mind, Isaiah finally closed his eyes. It took a few minutes, but finally his breathing slowed, deepened, and evened out in the rhythm of sleep.
Habitual early waking saw Isaiah up without a hint of trouble before daybreak. He threw back the covers, never so eager in his life than he was in this moment to get to the market. The second his bare feet hit the stone floor, he stopped and put his hands out, palms up as though he was warding away someone, and he took several deep, calming breaths. There was nothing to be this excited about. They would speak, and she would go. That was all.
Isaiah’s room was hardly bigger than the bedroll he slept on and everything he owned was able to be fitted onto shelves affixed to the walls. They were well off enough to have three changes of clothes. Slipping his feet into his sandals, Isaiah reached up and took down the little bundle of clothes, tucked it into a sackcloth. He opened his door and stepped into the shallow hallway, immediately bumping into his father, who was attempting to get around the bulk of Benjamin.
“Move,” Matthias complained to both his sons. “Let old bones through first.”
Isaiah stepped backward into his room, Benjamin squished himself against the wall as much as his body would allow, and Matthias edged around him. All three men had sackcloth bags under their arms and followed each other, single file and by age, through the single story house and out into the dark street. The cold morning air pressed itself against Isaiah’s face and he tipped his head back to look up at the fading stars as they made their way through the narrow streets. Bath Houses were so common and so necessary that there was one for practically every neighborhood.
They were not the earliest, nor the latest, and they did have to wait for a few minutes for their turn in the pool. Isaiah leaned against the white plastered wall, letting the warm humidity of the steam make him drowsy again. There was no sense in being in such a hurry. If he got to the market as soon as he’d wanted to a few minutes ago, he would have the distinct displeasure of having hours to ‘hurry up and wait’. Hypatia was a high ranking woman of quality. He’d have been shocked if she was up before noon and she definitely wouldn’t be there when they first got to the stalls. Isaiah was not often at the market. Today was special. His father would be the one riding with his brother, heading out of the city towards one of the larger, more prosperous farmers outside the gates. The house was sprawling and his father hoped to make some sort of deal with the man in order to raise their own station a bit.
As their turn finally came to sink into the heated water, Isaiah only half listened to his father and brother discussing the trip. Their voices were far away rumbles and only distinct, hard words stuck out to him. He focused on his own cleanliness but since he was not going with them, he did not need to wait for them to be finished and walk back to the house with him. He was free to pull himself up the pool’s side and towel off. The under robe he pulled on was a drab white in color, but matched well with the deep blue and black striped over robe that draped over him like a coat. Judean clothes gave the wearers a heavy appearance, but though the fabric was thick, it kept the heat away and prevented the sun from turning them too dark. He placed his plain blue kippah over his head and looked down at his father and brother.
“I’m going home,” he said as he scooped up the bundle of his dirty clothes.
“Don’t hide behind mama’s skirts while you’re at market,” Benjamin teased. Isaiah didn’t bristle anymore at what was now a joke but had rubbed him the wrong way when they were younger.
“Don’t stray under father’s foot,” he teased in return and turned on his heel, leaving his brother and father to their washing. By the time he was back out in the street, the stars were gone and the patches of sky that he could see were a stunning gray, lightening with every second into a soft blue. It rained so very rarely that he had no doubt that by the time his mother and he reached the market, the sun would take its place inside a gorgeous expanse of cerulean sky. As he walked, he fell into step with the neighbor, a boy two years his junior. With Matthias and Benjamin taking the mule and wagon this morning, he and his mother were placing their wares on the back of their neighbor’s wagon and were all riding together to market.
The business was labor intensive and by the time they were done moving the pots oil into the flatbed of the wagon, Isaiah’s brow was damp. He brushed his hair to the side of his forehead, accidentally causing a few strands to stand up in odd shoots of black. Abigail reached up and tucked them back into place as she took her place at the end of the wagon. Isaiah sat beside her and called towards the front that they were ready. With a flick of the reins, the neighbor boy set their mule walking. The wagon jolted over the uneven stones of the street and the lids of the pots clinked together in a little chorus.
People walked along beside the wagon, speaking either to himself, his mother, or their neighbors. One could hardly go anywhere in the city of Israel without running into one’s friends, acquaintances, or enemies. The streets were too narrow, the houses too close together, and everyone’s business converging in the same location to ever be truly alone. This was something that Isaiah liked about his life and he was rarely, if ever, lonely, though he did wish there were fewer people around him today. Though he was comfortable speaking to a pagan girl like she was a human being, he didn’t exactly want everyone to know that. People could be oddly cold even to their own kin and brethren where Greeks were involved. He’d heard a cautionary tale of one of the bookmaker’s sons having married a Greek girl who’d refused to convert before the wedding and definitely didn’t afterward. Their children were not welcome in the Temple until they converted and they’d have to wait until they were twelve in order to be taken seriously on those vows.
“Isaiah!” Abigail’s exasperated voice broke through his thoughts and he looked over into her frowning face. She shook her head at him. “I will need to meet this girl,” she said, which made him sit bolt upright.
“Mama, not everything has to do with a girl,” he grabbed a olive oil pot for each arm, sliding off the wagon before it came to a complete stop. Potlids clinked together again as the neighbor boy dismounted from the wagon too. The whole thing groaned as Abigail mirrored Isaiah’s movements, taking a pot in each arm and giving him a stern glare.
“We need to sell all of these today, my son. Keep your thoughts on the here and now. Daydream at home.”
“I’m not a child,” he muttered under his breath. Abigail pretended not to hear. Together they made their way into the market to where their permanent stall stood. It was well made and one of the few that could boast of a wooden table and fabric shade. Because the stalls were all built by the owners, some were merely blankets on the ground, while others were nearly like tents with bright walls made of fabric that gave buyer and seller a little bit of privacy to do their business. This one was in between. There was a worn rug covering the stones that the table was set up on, and the way that they’d affixed the poles made it so that they could drop fabric down the stall like a curtain to block out the worst of the sun at any given time of day. The curtain that served as a roof was a coveted green color and a family heirloom from his grandfather’s time on his mother’s side. Their family had been doing business together but had consolidated the business with the marriage of his parents, growing it large enough for them to afford to keep a mule and a wagon in order to make deliveries.
As they brought the jars to the stall and set them attractively on the table, Isaiah kept looking over his shoulder for Hypatia. His plan was to intercept her before she could make it all the way here. When he’d invited her yesterday, he hadn’t given a single thought to what his family would think. Now, he was pretty sure that his mother would get a hint of his unholy interest and put an end to it by being incredibly rude to Hypatia, scaring her away. No good Judean mother would allow a pagan to get between her son and the Holy Kingdom. Though, when Abigail griped at him again to keep his mind in the here and now, Isaiah avoided looking up every few seconds and concentrated on unloading the cart in its entirety.
For the first hour, his head snapped up at any hint of blonde hair that wandered through the market. None of them was Hypatia and slowly, as the heat of the day crept higher and higher, he lost the jittery anxiety that had kept him on pins and needles the entire morning. With the first few sales of olive oil, he managed to forget that he was supposed to be keeping a keen look out for her. By mid morning, he’d given up completely looking out for her. If she was going to come, she’d have done it by now. Part of him felt relieved that he didn’t have to hide this from his family, but on the other hand, she’d seemed like she wanted to come? Maybe she’d been prevented by family reasons. Or, most likely of all, she’d been being polite yesterday and time and distance had made her see reason. Their friendship, such as it was, was still so new and fragile that any harsh wind could break it. He wouldn’t blame her if she decided to keep their interactions to what they should be; nothing.
The sun climbed high and his stomach rumbled loudly. Abigail announced that she would go buy them food and left the stall. They only had two jars of olive oil left to sell. Soon they would pack up the sitting cushions they’d brought with them and go home. He had to make the last of the sales while his mother was gone and was just placing the coins into the leather pouch at his belt when his mother returned with latkes and tomatoes and cucumbers slathered on flatbread. Isaiah stood eating his first meal of the day, casually sucking olive oil off his thumb and turning his head, eyes wandering over the people of the market, when he nearly choked.
“Isaiah?” Abigail slapped his back as he tried to breathe and simultaneously swallow the mouthful of flatbread.
“I’m fine,” he gasped, drumming his fist against his chest as he fought for breath. “I’m fine,” he repeated. “Just choked,” he made a gesture with his finger up and down his throat and then glanced over his shoulder again. There she stood in all her pagan glory, the sun glinting off the jezebel amount of jewelry she had on. She looked, in short, amazing. Beautiful with the kohl bringing out the blue of her eyes even from this distance. Just as the rabbis promised, this bejeweled woman with her fair hair and makeup was leading his mind in all the places it shouldn’t go. There was no lying to himself at this moment; he definitely wanted more than just friendship.
“Weren’t you going to visit Mary of Dinah today?” he asked suddenly of his mother.
“Yes,” she said, finishing off her latke. “But I’m going to help you get the cushions home first.”
“No,” he said, waving her off. “Go. Father and Benjamin won’t be home for a long time. I’m sure Rebekkah will like having the house to herself for a while. I’m going to stay here and check if Simon has that book I asked to borrow.”
Abigail hesitated, and her son took her by the shoulders, giving her a good natured push. “I love you, mama. Go take time for yourself. When have you had the entire afternoon to yourself?”
“You’re trying to get rid of me,” she laughed and he grinned.
“Is it working?”
“Yes. I will meet this girl one day, Isaiah of Matthias. You mark my words.”
“Yes, mama,” he checked over his shoulder and didn’t move from the stall until he was positive she was gone. Only then did he take the rest of his latkes and flatbread and approach Hypatia. She looked like such a small, lost little soul. Even dressed in glittering perfection, she still appeared, to him, at least, like she needed someone to show her what to do. He’d never seen someone so timid with no reason to be. He thought she was like one of those perfect, snowy lambs that they led to Temple. Although, from what happened to the lamb, maybe that comparison was a bad one.
“You came,” he said, edging into her line of sight. The last thing he’d wanted to do was startle her. It had been easy enough to remain hidden for as long as he’d wanted. They were surrounded by people. Some were busy packing up their stalls, as he had been, and some where shouting out their wares. “I was beginning to think you’d had second thoughts about coming,” and then, belatedly, he remembered that she didn’t understand him and felt like a prized idiot. Again. So, he offered her one of his latkes and said, slower, “Good afternoon,” something that he was sure she’d have heard by now, though he wasn’t totally sure what Hebrew she knew and what she didn’t. Going off their conversation yesterday, she seemed, to him at least, to be a fast learner. His eyes wandered her made up face, the rouge and the kohl, and while she was devastatingly gorgeous right now, he felt that he preferred her when her face had less makeup. She was beautiful without it and better suited to the simplicity of her own features, though he knew enough never to say such a thing.
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This character is currently a work in progress.
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The afternoon crawled by after Isaiah and Benjamin left the Commander’s house. Sitting beside his brother on the wagon’s seat, Isaiah stared at their mule’s long ears, his eyes unfocused. Benjamin either noticed his brother’s absentmindedness and said nothing or, more likely as the man flicked the reins, didn’t care enough to see that Isaiah was far more quiet than usual. Isaiah glanced at the house and the servant door they’d just exited through, knowing Hypatia wouldn’t be there to watch them leave and wishing it to be so anyway. The doorway remained void of Hypatia or anyone else, for that matter, and Isaiah finally turned back around when Benjamin jabbed him in the side.
“You’re making the wagon squeak,” his brother complained. It was true. With his weight unevenly distributed, the wagon leaned a fraction more heavily on the right wheels than the left, and the wheels on that side groaned louder.
“Sorry,” he said in a low voice and turned back around. Isaiah shot Benjamin a side glance and rubbed his side but did not complain. Though he was eighteen and his brother twenty, if Isaiah admitted aloud that his brother’s poke to the ribs still burned a little bit in his muscle, then he’d earn himself another jab and have to hear Benjamin’s bellowing laugh for the next three or four streets. Being that he and his brother had managed to get on fairly well since his brother became a man and got married, Isaiah thought that bringing up old tendencies would only be putting the two of them backward.
That night, as he sat in the kitchen by the smoldering coals of the cooking fire his mother was using to heat water for the dishes, he stared wistfully into the shadowed ceiling corner. Their house was not overly large, and even though it was custom for Benjamin and Rebekkah to move out to their own home, that hadn’t happened. Benjamin was saving money to move to buy his own vineyard and planned to build a house there. Normally, Rebekkah would be the one keeping his mother company, but she was off nursing the baby and while Isaiah didn’t have his arms wrist deep in the wide lipped bucket, his mother preferred not to be alone.
“You’re quiet this evening,” she commented, keeping her eyes on her task. Isaiah said nothing and she waited for a few more seconds before looking up to find him still staring off into nothing. “Isaiah,” she said sharply.
He started and twisted from his place against the wall to look at her. Suddenly becoming aware of the cold of the floor seeping into his backside, Isaiah shifted to sit with his legs crossed beneath himself and observed his mother. The bucket she was using doubled as a tub and he’d sat in it many times as a child. Now that he was an adult, he went to the bathhouses like normal people. Steam rose from the top of the water and red crept up his mother’s forearms, her wrists and hands invisible from this vantage point. Wooden plates and bowls stuck up near the sides of the bucket and he noted the damp towel slung over her shoulder. Its dingy hue enhanced the pink blotches on her soft cheeks. Strands of wiry hair escaped the fabric tie she’d used to affix her hair at the nape of her neck.
“Let me dry those for you,” he pointed to the little pile she’d set just outside the bucket. A dark ring of water sat on the stone beneath the smooth wooden plates, acting like a shadow. Abigail gave a single shrug of her rounded shoulder and stayed still while Isaiah moved across the kitchen to sit at her side. When he was little, he’d begged to do this very chore with her. Children love mimicking and Isaiah had been no different. Dish drying was not something his father approved of after Isaiah had reached the age of ten; close enough to being a man that to debase himself further that way was giving him ‘soft’ ideas. For a long while after, he’d felt elated and guilty at not helping with the dishes. Now that he was eighteen, and much more out of his father’s control, he took up the chore tonight without a single thought of what his father might say, should the man walk into the kitchen.
But Matthias was not likely to do so. He was too busy keeping a fond eye on his new grandson in the house’s main room, where Benjamin and Rebekkah had been sitting. Though, now that Rebekkah had removed herself to go feed the baby, Matthias and Benjamin were lounging back on the cushions, discussing tomorrow’s business. Their voices drifted through the doorway and Isaiah half listened to them, and half listened to his mother’s sighing as she rubbed her washcloth in impatient, jerking strokes against a particularly stubborn piece of grit on the bowl in her hands.
“You’re far away,” she said abruptly. For the second time in the space of a few minutes, Isaiah was jolted back to the present.
“What do you mean?” he asked distantly as he finished drying his first plate and looked down to figure out what to do with it now. For an idiotic second, he thought about getting up to put it away and coming back to take the next one but as soon as the notion entered his head, he pushed it away. That was the most inefficient way to do something, even if it did prevent the floor from being cluttered with dishes. They’d pick them up soon enough and he set down the plate at his side, reaching for another in the same movement.
“I mean you’re far away,” she repeated and took one of her glistening hands out of the water to give him a wet tap against his temple. Isaiah shied away from the movement, lifting his shoulder to get her to stop, and leaned away until she gave him a wan smile, returning her hands to the bucket. He said nothing to that, his thoughts scrambling. There was no way in this life or the next that he could admit the reason he was acting strange. However kind and generous his mother was, she would not encourage him to make friends with a Greek girl. He wondered if she’d remove her sandal and slap his head with it if she found out that he liked Hypatia, despite the brevity of their encounters, far better than any Judean girl he’d met.
When he thought of Hypatia, she was taller in his mind’s eye. Tall, elegant, with long, slender limbs, and gentle, soft hands. He eyed his mother’s hands and resisted making a face. Abigail’s fingers were short and wide, tapering at the ends into a feminine point, but they were not the graceful, artistic ones of the Greek girl. The backs of his mother’s hands were veined and scarred with faint marks from burns or cuts. They were honest hands. Poor hands. Hands he’d never ask Hypatia’s to become, but that didn’t stop Isaiah from the selfish wish to get to know her better. Besides, he told himself, it wasn’t like he had designs on her. She was nice. That was all. It wasn’t a crime to get to know someone? To be friends?
“There’s that look again,” Abigail gave him a glowing smile, the corners of her mouth taking on a knowing twist.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Isaiah’s face grew hot and he pulled at the neck of his robe. The cloth was suddenly too close and he wished the heat in this kitchen could be better ventilated.
“What’s her name?” Abigail looked back down into the water, infinite patience returning to her movements. She wouldn’t have left this washbasin for all the gold in Israel. Not now that she’d caught her son so thoroughly distracted with thoughts of a woman. The pink in his cheeks and his avoidance in looking at her was all the proof she needed to know she was right.
The lie sat on the tip of his tongue. It would be easy; to lie and say there was no one. Or, to lie and give a false name. If he did that, she’d make inquiries and what happened if she did find a girl with the same name? The confusion would be too great. Besides, Yahweh commanded them not to lie. It was a sin. No matter how tempted, he must not. Guile and cunning were not things that Isaiah was in possession of. If he was, he could have figured out a way to slither out of the question, even without lying. Instead, he threw her a smile and a warm look in return, resting his chin on his shoulder until his mother flicked water at him.
“Hey!” he lifted his shoulder to shield himself and to rub his face in order to dry off.
“I’ll find out whether you tell me or not,” Abigail warned, relishing this challenge and happy that her youngest now had a secret. She trusted him too much to think it anything wrong and chose to believe that he wasn’t telling her because he was shy. It pleased her to think that he’d fallen in love with some doe-eyed, dark haired girl at Temple. Already she was picturing her future daughter-in-law and both elated and dreading her sweet son moving to his own home, to start his own life. It was what every parent wanted for their children and also hated - the leaving. It must happen and it would have grieved her deep in her spirit if Isaiah never got to experience true marital bliss on earth. Never mind that her marriage to Matthias was far from a legendary tale of romance and affection...but they got on.
“There’s nothing to tell!” he held out his hand for a plate, towel at the ready, and concentrated on drying the plate as he spoke. “There’s no marriage on the horizon, mama,” he promised.
“We will see,” Abigail gleefully scrubbed away, her face as light as when she looked down at his nephew in her arms.
Later, as Isaiah crawled beneath the covers of his bed, he lay on his back and stared at the shadowed ceiling. He should not be this excited to see someone at the marketplace. Really, the whole experience was going to be awkward, with him speaking nonsense to her and her struggling to understand. Not to mention all the noise and constant jostling of people would make conversation next to impossible. Why had he asked her to come to the market?
He flipped over onto his side and frowned at the opposite wall, reasons clamoring to ease his idiot choice. The market was neutral, for one. It was out in the open, for another. His aim in asking her to go there was that he’d already be there, and it would be away from the Commander’s home. The whole intention would be to see him but he didn’t expect anything from it; not really. Just a chance to be near her for a few moments for expressly that purpose. If he kept thinking that, that meant it was true. Besides, what he’d noticed about his mother’s hands downstairs was true. His mother wasn’t a great beauty. She was short and stocky, her features plain, and her manner stolid. His mother did not blush at any kind word said to her, she didn’t get herself into odd situations and needed rescuing. She was a commoner - made for this sort of life. Isaiah sighed and rested his cheek on the back of his hand as his palms rested together on his pillow.
Hypatia would never do for his world. A world where they rose just before dawn and made their own food. There were no servants to help. A world where his mother washed everyone’s clothes, did the dishes, scraped out the fireplace herself, cooked all of the meals, kept the house immaculately clean - honestly he wasn’t certain how his mother managed any of it at all. If he stopped and thought about it, she seemed magical in the way she went about her life, and still, even with all that, his mother had friends, and time to leave the house to go to Temple. There was another problem; Temple. Possibly the biggest problem of all. Hypatia, though she walked in the clouds and looked like his vision of an angel, with her golden hair and bright blue eyes - she was pagan.
His lip curled in the first true bit of revulsion. Their gods were disgusting, and so were their followers. Having to shave the center of their heads for their sun god, or having to constantly appease this death god, or cut themselves for that war god. He’d heard stories, too, of the exploits of their pantheon. The stories were told in hushed whispers outside the Temple courtyard by children - things they weren’t to know or discuss but made all the more tempting because of it. Their lead god, the god of storms, was the worst. They followed gods who raped women and lay with men. Some of the gods even forbade their followers to enjoy the marriage bed, and their priests used their leverage over the people to exact terrible tributes and laws. He shuddered. It was so far removed from his own religion, so foreign and alien, that he couldn’t imagine Hypatia believing, or following such practices.
He’d heard that there was one cult where the followers drugged themselves and ran naked through the streets, drunk on their own immorality. And of another for their love goddess where a priest and priestess fornicated on an altar before the masses. Still another, something about the harvest, where a virgin sat under a grate, where a living bull was forced to lie down and had to suffer being slit from its chest to its groin so that its blood could rain down on the poor girl below. Hypatia...would she have done that? Gone to those sorts of things? Did she believe those to be right? Or just? Or good?
Isaiah hugged his pillow and buried his face. No good would come of befriending this girl and yet, when he’d spoken to her today...his hold loosened on the pillow and his body relaxed as he thought of her adorable features contorting into a frown as she searched for her words. The pink flush of her skin, the innocence behind her eyes, the softness of her tone and manner, all pointed to someone young, naive, and - he thought of the councilman in Ammun who’d set tongues wagging when he’d married someone not Judean. Surely...but it wasn’t the same. She was mixed and Hypatia was fully Greek. Not that he intended to marry Hypatia, he thought again and flipped onto his stomach, burying his face in his pillow.
“Sleep,” he told himself, his voice coming out in a muffled groan. Forcing his thoughts to calm, he wormed back onto his other side and faced the door this time. “She wouldn’t marry you anyway,” he mumbled, yawning. That thought was comforting. Hypatia was just being kind. He was just being kind. They had a bond now that would be rude to ignore, and with that self deceiving lie thoroughly entrenched in his mind, Isaiah finally closed his eyes. It took a few minutes, but finally his breathing slowed, deepened, and evened out in the rhythm of sleep.
Habitual early waking saw Isaiah up without a hint of trouble before daybreak. He threw back the covers, never so eager in his life than he was in this moment to get to the market. The second his bare feet hit the stone floor, he stopped and put his hands out, palms up as though he was warding away someone, and he took several deep, calming breaths. There was nothing to be this excited about. They would speak, and she would go. That was all.
Isaiah’s room was hardly bigger than the bedroll he slept on and everything he owned was able to be fitted onto shelves affixed to the walls. They were well off enough to have three changes of clothes. Slipping his feet into his sandals, Isaiah reached up and took down the little bundle of clothes, tucked it into a sackcloth. He opened his door and stepped into the shallow hallway, immediately bumping into his father, who was attempting to get around the bulk of Benjamin.
“Move,” Matthias complained to both his sons. “Let old bones through first.”
Isaiah stepped backward into his room, Benjamin squished himself against the wall as much as his body would allow, and Matthias edged around him. All three men had sackcloth bags under their arms and followed each other, single file and by age, through the single story house and out into the dark street. The cold morning air pressed itself against Isaiah’s face and he tipped his head back to look up at the fading stars as they made their way through the narrow streets. Bath Houses were so common and so necessary that there was one for practically every neighborhood.
They were not the earliest, nor the latest, and they did have to wait for a few minutes for their turn in the pool. Isaiah leaned against the white plastered wall, letting the warm humidity of the steam make him drowsy again. There was no sense in being in such a hurry. If he got to the market as soon as he’d wanted to a few minutes ago, he would have the distinct displeasure of having hours to ‘hurry up and wait’. Hypatia was a high ranking woman of quality. He’d have been shocked if she was up before noon and she definitely wouldn’t be there when they first got to the stalls. Isaiah was not often at the market. Today was special. His father would be the one riding with his brother, heading out of the city towards one of the larger, more prosperous farmers outside the gates. The house was sprawling and his father hoped to make some sort of deal with the man in order to raise their own station a bit.
As their turn finally came to sink into the heated water, Isaiah only half listened to his father and brother discussing the trip. Their voices were far away rumbles and only distinct, hard words stuck out to him. He focused on his own cleanliness but since he was not going with them, he did not need to wait for them to be finished and walk back to the house with him. He was free to pull himself up the pool’s side and towel off. The under robe he pulled on was a drab white in color, but matched well with the deep blue and black striped over robe that draped over him like a coat. Judean clothes gave the wearers a heavy appearance, but though the fabric was thick, it kept the heat away and prevented the sun from turning them too dark. He placed his plain blue kippah over his head and looked down at his father and brother.
“I’m going home,” he said as he scooped up the bundle of his dirty clothes.
“Don’t hide behind mama’s skirts while you’re at market,” Benjamin teased. Isaiah didn’t bristle anymore at what was now a joke but had rubbed him the wrong way when they were younger.
“Don’t stray under father’s foot,” he teased in return and turned on his heel, leaving his brother and father to their washing. By the time he was back out in the street, the stars were gone and the patches of sky that he could see were a stunning gray, lightening with every second into a soft blue. It rained so very rarely that he had no doubt that by the time his mother and he reached the market, the sun would take its place inside a gorgeous expanse of cerulean sky. As he walked, he fell into step with the neighbor, a boy two years his junior. With Matthias and Benjamin taking the mule and wagon this morning, he and his mother were placing their wares on the back of their neighbor’s wagon and were all riding together to market.
The business was labor intensive and by the time they were done moving the pots oil into the flatbed of the wagon, Isaiah’s brow was damp. He brushed his hair to the side of his forehead, accidentally causing a few strands to stand up in odd shoots of black. Abigail reached up and tucked them back into place as she took her place at the end of the wagon. Isaiah sat beside her and called towards the front that they were ready. With a flick of the reins, the neighbor boy set their mule walking. The wagon jolted over the uneven stones of the street and the lids of the pots clinked together in a little chorus.
People walked along beside the wagon, speaking either to himself, his mother, or their neighbors. One could hardly go anywhere in the city of Israel without running into one’s friends, acquaintances, or enemies. The streets were too narrow, the houses too close together, and everyone’s business converging in the same location to ever be truly alone. This was something that Isaiah liked about his life and he was rarely, if ever, lonely, though he did wish there were fewer people around him today. Though he was comfortable speaking to a pagan girl like she was a human being, he didn’t exactly want everyone to know that. People could be oddly cold even to their own kin and brethren where Greeks were involved. He’d heard a cautionary tale of one of the bookmaker’s sons having married a Greek girl who’d refused to convert before the wedding and definitely didn’t afterward. Their children were not welcome in the Temple until they converted and they’d have to wait until they were twelve in order to be taken seriously on those vows.
“Isaiah!” Abigail’s exasperated voice broke through his thoughts and he looked over into her frowning face. She shook her head at him. “I will need to meet this girl,” she said, which made him sit bolt upright.
“Mama, not everything has to do with a girl,” he grabbed a olive oil pot for each arm, sliding off the wagon before it came to a complete stop. Potlids clinked together again as the neighbor boy dismounted from the wagon too. The whole thing groaned as Abigail mirrored Isaiah’s movements, taking a pot in each arm and giving him a stern glare.
“We need to sell all of these today, my son. Keep your thoughts on the here and now. Daydream at home.”
“I’m not a child,” he muttered under his breath. Abigail pretended not to hear. Together they made their way into the market to where their permanent stall stood. It was well made and one of the few that could boast of a wooden table and fabric shade. Because the stalls were all built by the owners, some were merely blankets on the ground, while others were nearly like tents with bright walls made of fabric that gave buyer and seller a little bit of privacy to do their business. This one was in between. There was a worn rug covering the stones that the table was set up on, and the way that they’d affixed the poles made it so that they could drop fabric down the stall like a curtain to block out the worst of the sun at any given time of day. The curtain that served as a roof was a coveted green color and a family heirloom from his grandfather’s time on his mother’s side. Their family had been doing business together but had consolidated the business with the marriage of his parents, growing it large enough for them to afford to keep a mule and a wagon in order to make deliveries.
As they brought the jars to the stall and set them attractively on the table, Isaiah kept looking over his shoulder for Hypatia. His plan was to intercept her before she could make it all the way here. When he’d invited her yesterday, he hadn’t given a single thought to what his family would think. Now, he was pretty sure that his mother would get a hint of his unholy interest and put an end to it by being incredibly rude to Hypatia, scaring her away. No good Judean mother would allow a pagan to get between her son and the Holy Kingdom. Though, when Abigail griped at him again to keep his mind in the here and now, Isaiah avoided looking up every few seconds and concentrated on unloading the cart in its entirety.
For the first hour, his head snapped up at any hint of blonde hair that wandered through the market. None of them was Hypatia and slowly, as the heat of the day crept higher and higher, he lost the jittery anxiety that had kept him on pins and needles the entire morning. With the first few sales of olive oil, he managed to forget that he was supposed to be keeping a keen look out for her. By mid morning, he’d given up completely looking out for her. If she was going to come, she’d have done it by now. Part of him felt relieved that he didn’t have to hide this from his family, but on the other hand, she’d seemed like she wanted to come? Maybe she’d been prevented by family reasons. Or, most likely of all, she’d been being polite yesterday and time and distance had made her see reason. Their friendship, such as it was, was still so new and fragile that any harsh wind could break it. He wouldn’t blame her if she decided to keep their interactions to what they should be; nothing.
The sun climbed high and his stomach rumbled loudly. Abigail announced that she would go buy them food and left the stall. They only had two jars of olive oil left to sell. Soon they would pack up the sitting cushions they’d brought with them and go home. He had to make the last of the sales while his mother was gone and was just placing the coins into the leather pouch at his belt when his mother returned with latkes and tomatoes and cucumbers slathered on flatbread. Isaiah stood eating his first meal of the day, casually sucking olive oil off his thumb and turning his head, eyes wandering over the people of the market, when he nearly choked.
“Isaiah?” Abigail slapped his back as he tried to breathe and simultaneously swallow the mouthful of flatbread.
“I’m fine,” he gasped, drumming his fist against his chest as he fought for breath. “I’m fine,” he repeated. “Just choked,” he made a gesture with his finger up and down his throat and then glanced over his shoulder again. There she stood in all her pagan glory, the sun glinting off the jezebel amount of jewelry she had on. She looked, in short, amazing. Beautiful with the kohl bringing out the blue of her eyes even from this distance. Just as the rabbis promised, this bejeweled woman with her fair hair and makeup was leading his mind in all the places it shouldn’t go. There was no lying to himself at this moment; he definitely wanted more than just friendship.
“Weren’t you going to visit Mary of Dinah today?” he asked suddenly of his mother.
“Yes,” she said, finishing off her latke. “But I’m going to help you get the cushions home first.”
“No,” he said, waving her off. “Go. Father and Benjamin won’t be home for a long time. I’m sure Rebekkah will like having the house to herself for a while. I’m going to stay here and check if Simon has that book I asked to borrow.”
Abigail hesitated, and her son took her by the shoulders, giving her a good natured push. “I love you, mama. Go take time for yourself. When have you had the entire afternoon to yourself?”
“You’re trying to get rid of me,” she laughed and he grinned.
“Is it working?”
“Yes. I will meet this girl one day, Isaiah of Matthias. You mark my words.”
“Yes, mama,” he checked over his shoulder and didn’t move from the stall until he was positive she was gone. Only then did he take the rest of his latkes and flatbread and approach Hypatia. She looked like such a small, lost little soul. Even dressed in glittering perfection, she still appeared, to him, at least, like she needed someone to show her what to do. He’d never seen someone so timid with no reason to be. He thought she was like one of those perfect, snowy lambs that they led to Temple. Although, from what happened to the lamb, maybe that comparison was a bad one.
“You came,” he said, edging into her line of sight. The last thing he’d wanted to do was startle her. It had been easy enough to remain hidden for as long as he’d wanted. They were surrounded by people. Some were busy packing up their stalls, as he had been, and some where shouting out their wares. “I was beginning to think you’d had second thoughts about coming,” and then, belatedly, he remembered that she didn’t understand him and felt like a prized idiot. Again. So, he offered her one of his latkes and said, slower, “Good afternoon,” something that he was sure she’d have heard by now, though he wasn’t totally sure what Hebrew she knew and what she didn’t. Going off their conversation yesterday, she seemed, to him at least, to be a fast learner. His eyes wandered her made up face, the rouge and the kohl, and while she was devastatingly gorgeous right now, he felt that he preferred her when her face had less makeup. She was beautiful without it and better suited to the simplicity of her own features, though he knew enough never to say such a thing.
The afternoon crawled by after Isaiah and Benjamin left the Commander’s house. Sitting beside his brother on the wagon’s seat, Isaiah stared at their mule’s long ears, his eyes unfocused. Benjamin either noticed his brother’s absentmindedness and said nothing or, more likely as the man flicked the reins, didn’t care enough to see that Isaiah was far more quiet than usual. Isaiah glanced at the house and the servant door they’d just exited through, knowing Hypatia wouldn’t be there to watch them leave and wishing it to be so anyway. The doorway remained void of Hypatia or anyone else, for that matter, and Isaiah finally turned back around when Benjamin jabbed him in the side.
“You’re making the wagon squeak,” his brother complained. It was true. With his weight unevenly distributed, the wagon leaned a fraction more heavily on the right wheels than the left, and the wheels on that side groaned louder.
“Sorry,” he said in a low voice and turned back around. Isaiah shot Benjamin a side glance and rubbed his side but did not complain. Though he was eighteen and his brother twenty, if Isaiah admitted aloud that his brother’s poke to the ribs still burned a little bit in his muscle, then he’d earn himself another jab and have to hear Benjamin’s bellowing laugh for the next three or four streets. Being that he and his brother had managed to get on fairly well since his brother became a man and got married, Isaiah thought that bringing up old tendencies would only be putting the two of them backward.
That night, as he sat in the kitchen by the smoldering coals of the cooking fire his mother was using to heat water for the dishes, he stared wistfully into the shadowed ceiling corner. Their house was not overly large, and even though it was custom for Benjamin and Rebekkah to move out to their own home, that hadn’t happened. Benjamin was saving money to move to buy his own vineyard and planned to build a house there. Normally, Rebekkah would be the one keeping his mother company, but she was off nursing the baby and while Isaiah didn’t have his arms wrist deep in the wide lipped bucket, his mother preferred not to be alone.
“You’re quiet this evening,” she commented, keeping her eyes on her task. Isaiah said nothing and she waited for a few more seconds before looking up to find him still staring off into nothing. “Isaiah,” she said sharply.
He started and twisted from his place against the wall to look at her. Suddenly becoming aware of the cold of the floor seeping into his backside, Isaiah shifted to sit with his legs crossed beneath himself and observed his mother. The bucket she was using doubled as a tub and he’d sat in it many times as a child. Now that he was an adult, he went to the bathhouses like normal people. Steam rose from the top of the water and red crept up his mother’s forearms, her wrists and hands invisible from this vantage point. Wooden plates and bowls stuck up near the sides of the bucket and he noted the damp towel slung over her shoulder. Its dingy hue enhanced the pink blotches on her soft cheeks. Strands of wiry hair escaped the fabric tie she’d used to affix her hair at the nape of her neck.
“Let me dry those for you,” he pointed to the little pile she’d set just outside the bucket. A dark ring of water sat on the stone beneath the smooth wooden plates, acting like a shadow. Abigail gave a single shrug of her rounded shoulder and stayed still while Isaiah moved across the kitchen to sit at her side. When he was little, he’d begged to do this very chore with her. Children love mimicking and Isaiah had been no different. Dish drying was not something his father approved of after Isaiah had reached the age of ten; close enough to being a man that to debase himself further that way was giving him ‘soft’ ideas. For a long while after, he’d felt elated and guilty at not helping with the dishes. Now that he was eighteen, and much more out of his father’s control, he took up the chore tonight without a single thought of what his father might say, should the man walk into the kitchen.
But Matthias was not likely to do so. He was too busy keeping a fond eye on his new grandson in the house’s main room, where Benjamin and Rebekkah had been sitting. Though, now that Rebekkah had removed herself to go feed the baby, Matthias and Benjamin were lounging back on the cushions, discussing tomorrow’s business. Their voices drifted through the doorway and Isaiah half listened to them, and half listened to his mother’s sighing as she rubbed her washcloth in impatient, jerking strokes against a particularly stubborn piece of grit on the bowl in her hands.
“You’re far away,” she said abruptly. For the second time in the space of a few minutes, Isaiah was jolted back to the present.
“What do you mean?” he asked distantly as he finished drying his first plate and looked down to figure out what to do with it now. For an idiotic second, he thought about getting up to put it away and coming back to take the next one but as soon as the notion entered his head, he pushed it away. That was the most inefficient way to do something, even if it did prevent the floor from being cluttered with dishes. They’d pick them up soon enough and he set down the plate at his side, reaching for another in the same movement.
“I mean you’re far away,” she repeated and took one of her glistening hands out of the water to give him a wet tap against his temple. Isaiah shied away from the movement, lifting his shoulder to get her to stop, and leaned away until she gave him a wan smile, returning her hands to the bucket. He said nothing to that, his thoughts scrambling. There was no way in this life or the next that he could admit the reason he was acting strange. However kind and generous his mother was, she would not encourage him to make friends with a Greek girl. He wondered if she’d remove her sandal and slap his head with it if she found out that he liked Hypatia, despite the brevity of their encounters, far better than any Judean girl he’d met.
When he thought of Hypatia, she was taller in his mind’s eye. Tall, elegant, with long, slender limbs, and gentle, soft hands. He eyed his mother’s hands and resisted making a face. Abigail’s fingers were short and wide, tapering at the ends into a feminine point, but they were not the graceful, artistic ones of the Greek girl. The backs of his mother’s hands were veined and scarred with faint marks from burns or cuts. They were honest hands. Poor hands. Hands he’d never ask Hypatia’s to become, but that didn’t stop Isaiah from the selfish wish to get to know her better. Besides, he told himself, it wasn’t like he had designs on her. She was nice. That was all. It wasn’t a crime to get to know someone? To be friends?
“There’s that look again,” Abigail gave him a glowing smile, the corners of her mouth taking on a knowing twist.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Isaiah’s face grew hot and he pulled at the neck of his robe. The cloth was suddenly too close and he wished the heat in this kitchen could be better ventilated.
“What’s her name?” Abigail looked back down into the water, infinite patience returning to her movements. She wouldn’t have left this washbasin for all the gold in Israel. Not now that she’d caught her son so thoroughly distracted with thoughts of a woman. The pink in his cheeks and his avoidance in looking at her was all the proof she needed to know she was right.
The lie sat on the tip of his tongue. It would be easy; to lie and say there was no one. Or, to lie and give a false name. If he did that, she’d make inquiries and what happened if she did find a girl with the same name? The confusion would be too great. Besides, Yahweh commanded them not to lie. It was a sin. No matter how tempted, he must not. Guile and cunning were not things that Isaiah was in possession of. If he was, he could have figured out a way to slither out of the question, even without lying. Instead, he threw her a smile and a warm look in return, resting his chin on his shoulder until his mother flicked water at him.
“Hey!” he lifted his shoulder to shield himself and to rub his face in order to dry off.
“I’ll find out whether you tell me or not,” Abigail warned, relishing this challenge and happy that her youngest now had a secret. She trusted him too much to think it anything wrong and chose to believe that he wasn’t telling her because he was shy. It pleased her to think that he’d fallen in love with some doe-eyed, dark haired girl at Temple. Already she was picturing her future daughter-in-law and both elated and dreading her sweet son moving to his own home, to start his own life. It was what every parent wanted for their children and also hated - the leaving. It must happen and it would have grieved her deep in her spirit if Isaiah never got to experience true marital bliss on earth. Never mind that her marriage to Matthias was far from a legendary tale of romance and affection...but they got on.
“There’s nothing to tell!” he held out his hand for a plate, towel at the ready, and concentrated on drying the plate as he spoke. “There’s no marriage on the horizon, mama,” he promised.
“We will see,” Abigail gleefully scrubbed away, her face as light as when she looked down at his nephew in her arms.
Later, as Isaiah crawled beneath the covers of his bed, he lay on his back and stared at the shadowed ceiling. He should not be this excited to see someone at the marketplace. Really, the whole experience was going to be awkward, with him speaking nonsense to her and her struggling to understand. Not to mention all the noise and constant jostling of people would make conversation next to impossible. Why had he asked her to come to the market?
He flipped over onto his side and frowned at the opposite wall, reasons clamoring to ease his idiot choice. The market was neutral, for one. It was out in the open, for another. His aim in asking her to go there was that he’d already be there, and it would be away from the Commander’s home. The whole intention would be to see him but he didn’t expect anything from it; not really. Just a chance to be near her for a few moments for expressly that purpose. If he kept thinking that, that meant it was true. Besides, what he’d noticed about his mother’s hands downstairs was true. His mother wasn’t a great beauty. She was short and stocky, her features plain, and her manner stolid. His mother did not blush at any kind word said to her, she didn’t get herself into odd situations and needed rescuing. She was a commoner - made for this sort of life. Isaiah sighed and rested his cheek on the back of his hand as his palms rested together on his pillow.
Hypatia would never do for his world. A world where they rose just before dawn and made their own food. There were no servants to help. A world where his mother washed everyone’s clothes, did the dishes, scraped out the fireplace herself, cooked all of the meals, kept the house immaculately clean - honestly he wasn’t certain how his mother managed any of it at all. If he stopped and thought about it, she seemed magical in the way she went about her life, and still, even with all that, his mother had friends, and time to leave the house to go to Temple. There was another problem; Temple. Possibly the biggest problem of all. Hypatia, though she walked in the clouds and looked like his vision of an angel, with her golden hair and bright blue eyes - she was pagan.
His lip curled in the first true bit of revulsion. Their gods were disgusting, and so were their followers. Having to shave the center of their heads for their sun god, or having to constantly appease this death god, or cut themselves for that war god. He’d heard stories, too, of the exploits of their pantheon. The stories were told in hushed whispers outside the Temple courtyard by children - things they weren’t to know or discuss but made all the more tempting because of it. Their lead god, the god of storms, was the worst. They followed gods who raped women and lay with men. Some of the gods even forbade their followers to enjoy the marriage bed, and their priests used their leverage over the people to exact terrible tributes and laws. He shuddered. It was so far removed from his own religion, so foreign and alien, that he couldn’t imagine Hypatia believing, or following such practices.
He’d heard that there was one cult where the followers drugged themselves and ran naked through the streets, drunk on their own immorality. And of another for their love goddess where a priest and priestess fornicated on an altar before the masses. Still another, something about the harvest, where a virgin sat under a grate, where a living bull was forced to lie down and had to suffer being slit from its chest to its groin so that its blood could rain down on the poor girl below. Hypatia...would she have done that? Gone to those sorts of things? Did she believe those to be right? Or just? Or good?
Isaiah hugged his pillow and buried his face. No good would come of befriending this girl and yet, when he’d spoken to her today...his hold loosened on the pillow and his body relaxed as he thought of her adorable features contorting into a frown as she searched for her words. The pink flush of her skin, the innocence behind her eyes, the softness of her tone and manner, all pointed to someone young, naive, and - he thought of the councilman in Ammun who’d set tongues wagging when he’d married someone not Judean. Surely...but it wasn’t the same. She was mixed and Hypatia was fully Greek. Not that he intended to marry Hypatia, he thought again and flipped onto his stomach, burying his face in his pillow.
“Sleep,” he told himself, his voice coming out in a muffled groan. Forcing his thoughts to calm, he wormed back onto his other side and faced the door this time. “She wouldn’t marry you anyway,” he mumbled, yawning. That thought was comforting. Hypatia was just being kind. He was just being kind. They had a bond now that would be rude to ignore, and with that self deceiving lie thoroughly entrenched in his mind, Isaiah finally closed his eyes. It took a few minutes, but finally his breathing slowed, deepened, and evened out in the rhythm of sleep.
Habitual early waking saw Isaiah up without a hint of trouble before daybreak. He threw back the covers, never so eager in his life than he was in this moment to get to the market. The second his bare feet hit the stone floor, he stopped and put his hands out, palms up as though he was warding away someone, and he took several deep, calming breaths. There was nothing to be this excited about. They would speak, and she would go. That was all.
Isaiah’s room was hardly bigger than the bedroll he slept on and everything he owned was able to be fitted onto shelves affixed to the walls. They were well off enough to have three changes of clothes. Slipping his feet into his sandals, Isaiah reached up and took down the little bundle of clothes, tucked it into a sackcloth. He opened his door and stepped into the shallow hallway, immediately bumping into his father, who was attempting to get around the bulk of Benjamin.
“Move,” Matthias complained to both his sons. “Let old bones through first.”
Isaiah stepped backward into his room, Benjamin squished himself against the wall as much as his body would allow, and Matthias edged around him. All three men had sackcloth bags under their arms and followed each other, single file and by age, through the single story house and out into the dark street. The cold morning air pressed itself against Isaiah’s face and he tipped his head back to look up at the fading stars as they made their way through the narrow streets. Bath Houses were so common and so necessary that there was one for practically every neighborhood.
They were not the earliest, nor the latest, and they did have to wait for a few minutes for their turn in the pool. Isaiah leaned against the white plastered wall, letting the warm humidity of the steam make him drowsy again. There was no sense in being in such a hurry. If he got to the market as soon as he’d wanted to a few minutes ago, he would have the distinct displeasure of having hours to ‘hurry up and wait’. Hypatia was a high ranking woman of quality. He’d have been shocked if she was up before noon and she definitely wouldn’t be there when they first got to the stalls. Isaiah was not often at the market. Today was special. His father would be the one riding with his brother, heading out of the city towards one of the larger, more prosperous farmers outside the gates. The house was sprawling and his father hoped to make some sort of deal with the man in order to raise their own station a bit.
As their turn finally came to sink into the heated water, Isaiah only half listened to his father and brother discussing the trip. Their voices were far away rumbles and only distinct, hard words stuck out to him. He focused on his own cleanliness but since he was not going with them, he did not need to wait for them to be finished and walk back to the house with him. He was free to pull himself up the pool’s side and towel off. The under robe he pulled on was a drab white in color, but matched well with the deep blue and black striped over robe that draped over him like a coat. Judean clothes gave the wearers a heavy appearance, but though the fabric was thick, it kept the heat away and prevented the sun from turning them too dark. He placed his plain blue kippah over his head and looked down at his father and brother.
“I’m going home,” he said as he scooped up the bundle of his dirty clothes.
“Don’t hide behind mama’s skirts while you’re at market,” Benjamin teased. Isaiah didn’t bristle anymore at what was now a joke but had rubbed him the wrong way when they were younger.
“Don’t stray under father’s foot,” he teased in return and turned on his heel, leaving his brother and father to their washing. By the time he was back out in the street, the stars were gone and the patches of sky that he could see were a stunning gray, lightening with every second into a soft blue. It rained so very rarely that he had no doubt that by the time his mother and he reached the market, the sun would take its place inside a gorgeous expanse of cerulean sky. As he walked, he fell into step with the neighbor, a boy two years his junior. With Matthias and Benjamin taking the mule and wagon this morning, he and his mother were placing their wares on the back of their neighbor’s wagon and were all riding together to market.
The business was labor intensive and by the time they were done moving the pots oil into the flatbed of the wagon, Isaiah’s brow was damp. He brushed his hair to the side of his forehead, accidentally causing a few strands to stand up in odd shoots of black. Abigail reached up and tucked them back into place as she took her place at the end of the wagon. Isaiah sat beside her and called towards the front that they were ready. With a flick of the reins, the neighbor boy set their mule walking. The wagon jolted over the uneven stones of the street and the lids of the pots clinked together in a little chorus.
People walked along beside the wagon, speaking either to himself, his mother, or their neighbors. One could hardly go anywhere in the city of Israel without running into one’s friends, acquaintances, or enemies. The streets were too narrow, the houses too close together, and everyone’s business converging in the same location to ever be truly alone. This was something that Isaiah liked about his life and he was rarely, if ever, lonely, though he did wish there were fewer people around him today. Though he was comfortable speaking to a pagan girl like she was a human being, he didn’t exactly want everyone to know that. People could be oddly cold even to their own kin and brethren where Greeks were involved. He’d heard a cautionary tale of one of the bookmaker’s sons having married a Greek girl who’d refused to convert before the wedding and definitely didn’t afterward. Their children were not welcome in the Temple until they converted and they’d have to wait until they were twelve in order to be taken seriously on those vows.
“Isaiah!” Abigail’s exasperated voice broke through his thoughts and he looked over into her frowning face. She shook her head at him. “I will need to meet this girl,” she said, which made him sit bolt upright.
“Mama, not everything has to do with a girl,” he grabbed a olive oil pot for each arm, sliding off the wagon before it came to a complete stop. Potlids clinked together again as the neighbor boy dismounted from the wagon too. The whole thing groaned as Abigail mirrored Isaiah’s movements, taking a pot in each arm and giving him a stern glare.
“We need to sell all of these today, my son. Keep your thoughts on the here and now. Daydream at home.”
“I’m not a child,” he muttered under his breath. Abigail pretended not to hear. Together they made their way into the market to where their permanent stall stood. It was well made and one of the few that could boast of a wooden table and fabric shade. Because the stalls were all built by the owners, some were merely blankets on the ground, while others were nearly like tents with bright walls made of fabric that gave buyer and seller a little bit of privacy to do their business. This one was in between. There was a worn rug covering the stones that the table was set up on, and the way that they’d affixed the poles made it so that they could drop fabric down the stall like a curtain to block out the worst of the sun at any given time of day. The curtain that served as a roof was a coveted green color and a family heirloom from his grandfather’s time on his mother’s side. Their family had been doing business together but had consolidated the business with the marriage of his parents, growing it large enough for them to afford to keep a mule and a wagon in order to make deliveries.
As they brought the jars to the stall and set them attractively on the table, Isaiah kept looking over his shoulder for Hypatia. His plan was to intercept her before she could make it all the way here. When he’d invited her yesterday, he hadn’t given a single thought to what his family would think. Now, he was pretty sure that his mother would get a hint of his unholy interest and put an end to it by being incredibly rude to Hypatia, scaring her away. No good Judean mother would allow a pagan to get between her son and the Holy Kingdom. Though, when Abigail griped at him again to keep his mind in the here and now, Isaiah avoided looking up every few seconds and concentrated on unloading the cart in its entirety.
For the first hour, his head snapped up at any hint of blonde hair that wandered through the market. None of them was Hypatia and slowly, as the heat of the day crept higher and higher, he lost the jittery anxiety that had kept him on pins and needles the entire morning. With the first few sales of olive oil, he managed to forget that he was supposed to be keeping a keen look out for her. By mid morning, he’d given up completely looking out for her. If she was going to come, she’d have done it by now. Part of him felt relieved that he didn’t have to hide this from his family, but on the other hand, she’d seemed like she wanted to come? Maybe she’d been prevented by family reasons. Or, most likely of all, she’d been being polite yesterday and time and distance had made her see reason. Their friendship, such as it was, was still so new and fragile that any harsh wind could break it. He wouldn’t blame her if she decided to keep their interactions to what they should be; nothing.
The sun climbed high and his stomach rumbled loudly. Abigail announced that she would go buy them food and left the stall. They only had two jars of olive oil left to sell. Soon they would pack up the sitting cushions they’d brought with them and go home. He had to make the last of the sales while his mother was gone and was just placing the coins into the leather pouch at his belt when his mother returned with latkes and tomatoes and cucumbers slathered on flatbread. Isaiah stood eating his first meal of the day, casually sucking olive oil off his thumb and turning his head, eyes wandering over the people of the market, when he nearly choked.
“Isaiah?” Abigail slapped his back as he tried to breathe and simultaneously swallow the mouthful of flatbread.
“I’m fine,” he gasped, drumming his fist against his chest as he fought for breath. “I’m fine,” he repeated. “Just choked,” he made a gesture with his finger up and down his throat and then glanced over his shoulder again. There she stood in all her pagan glory, the sun glinting off the jezebel amount of jewelry she had on. She looked, in short, amazing. Beautiful with the kohl bringing out the blue of her eyes even from this distance. Just as the rabbis promised, this bejeweled woman with her fair hair and makeup was leading his mind in all the places it shouldn’t go. There was no lying to himself at this moment; he definitely wanted more than just friendship.
“Weren’t you going to visit Mary of Dinah today?” he asked suddenly of his mother.
“Yes,” she said, finishing off her latke. “But I’m going to help you get the cushions home first.”
“No,” he said, waving her off. “Go. Father and Benjamin won’t be home for a long time. I’m sure Rebekkah will like having the house to herself for a while. I’m going to stay here and check if Simon has that book I asked to borrow.”
Abigail hesitated, and her son took her by the shoulders, giving her a good natured push. “I love you, mama. Go take time for yourself. When have you had the entire afternoon to yourself?”
“You’re trying to get rid of me,” she laughed and he grinned.
“Is it working?”
“Yes. I will meet this girl one day, Isaiah of Matthias. You mark my words.”
“Yes, mama,” he checked over his shoulder and didn’t move from the stall until he was positive she was gone. Only then did he take the rest of his latkes and flatbread and approach Hypatia. She looked like such a small, lost little soul. Even dressed in glittering perfection, she still appeared, to him, at least, like she needed someone to show her what to do. He’d never seen someone so timid with no reason to be. He thought she was like one of those perfect, snowy lambs that they led to Temple. Although, from what happened to the lamb, maybe that comparison was a bad one.
“You came,” he said, edging into her line of sight. The last thing he’d wanted to do was startle her. It had been easy enough to remain hidden for as long as he’d wanted. They were surrounded by people. Some were busy packing up their stalls, as he had been, and some where shouting out their wares. “I was beginning to think you’d had second thoughts about coming,” and then, belatedly, he remembered that she didn’t understand him and felt like a prized idiot. Again. So, he offered her one of his latkes and said, slower, “Good afternoon,” something that he was sure she’d have heard by now, though he wasn’t totally sure what Hebrew she knew and what she didn’t. Going off their conversation yesterday, she seemed, to him at least, to be a fast learner. His eyes wandered her made up face, the rouge and the kohl, and while she was devastatingly gorgeous right now, he felt that he preferred her when her face had less makeup. She was beautiful without it and better suited to the simplicity of her own features, though he knew enough never to say such a thing.
Hypatia wasn't sure what to make of a Judean marketplace.
Whilst she had occasionally visiting unto the merchant stalls and harvest festivals of Greece, where wine and perishables were plentiful, there was a difference in feel to a place such as this. In Greece, the sellers favoured expelling the grand luxury of their products; the high quality of their yield. In Judea, though she could not understand, the men would encourage the value, the cheapness of their wares. It was as if claiming your craft to be the best was considered insulting to others or arrogant to your own self-esteem. In Greece there was no such modesty or shame.
As well as the sounds around her - the haggling and debating and challenging of prices - were foreign and odd in her ears, the visions were different too. In Greece, colour was vibrant and encouraged. With a bright sun, white stone and a plethora of shades in dress and jewellery - for even the poor wore cloth of colour - gatherings of more than a handful of Greeks was blinding in its rainbow effect. Not to mention more open, or perhaps intimate, in the amount of skin on show. Here, in the dusty and sandy lands to the south east of her home, men and women wore layers of modesty and shrouds of beige. There were colours here and there for those who could afford the dye or the textile work but even then, darker or muted shades were preferred over exotic brightness. Very quickly, Hypatia became aware of how out of place the bold orange at the base of her gown was; how ostentatious she had become in a sea of demure raiment.
Not only that, but all of the women that she could see wore shawls over their heads, some with the ends pulled across their faces, only their eyes visible over the folds of silk. One nervous hand found its way to Hypatia's exposed throat and neck, the tips of her fingers finding the pale softness of her skin and wondering at its exposure.
She felt on show and, in that moment, wondered if she should have turned back; returned to the Commander's home and left all none the wiser at her having left in the first place. Her tongue breached her lips to wet them in indecision and she tasted as well as smelt the musk of roasted vegetables, baked goods and earthen dust.
As all of her senses seemed to rebel upon her, turning in and making her claustrophobic, Hypatia turned around, less confidence now in both her appearance and her presence, only to whirl into the presence of the man she had come to see.
And everything retreated.
Nothing had grown quieter or more familiar to her but the moment that Isaiah smiled brightly at her appearance and Hypatia was helpless to smile back, her mind registered the foreignness of her surroundings as they were, rather than as a fearsome force to slowly impede on her person.
The first words from Isaiah's mouth, Hypatia understood well enough, but he quickly devolved into a longer sentence that she struggled to make out, her carefully crafted brows drawing together a little as she concentrated, her eyes watching the form of his mouth and lips in the hopes that she could better make out what he was saying.
When he said good afternoon and seemed pleased that she had arrived as promised, Hypatia was quick to smile and recite the additional words of greeting that she had repeated to herself in recital the previous day.
"Shalom aleichem, adon Isaiah." She said, her hands coming together at the palms and her torso bending forwards in what was a highly formal greeting for such a moment but what she had learnt to be proper and correct within his faith. Upon straightening, and unsure that she had done such a thing accurately, Hypatia then wasn't sure where to go from there. Her eyes trailed over his appearance. The blue over coat and the little hat he wore on his head which seemed so peculiar to him. It would hardly keep him dry in the rare happenstance of rain and it wouldn't keep the sun off of him much...
Realising that she was staring, Hypatia glanced away quickly and then looked at the small... something, that he offered her. It looked just something fried, with a rough and craggy edge and about the size of her palm. It smelt... warm. Which was a bizarre word to apply but there it was. And her hand held a mind of its open as she lifted her fingers to perhaps take a piece before her mother's voice spoke in her head, reminding her of the rules of eating in public.
Refreshment was only to be consumed if the pieces were small enough to be taken in a single mouthful and dry enough to leave no residue or crumb upon the fingers. Else gown and facial powder risked being disturbed.
Her slim and pale fingers drawing back and her head shaking slightly in a polite decline, Hypatia glanced around them, looking for a topic of conversation that she might know about vocabulary to encourage.
"Where is your..." Hypatia didn't know the word for 'stall' and was frustrated that she hadn't thought to make it one of the words her tutor translated for her. Instead, she pointed a soft indication at the places of business to their left and right, before settling her hands before her again, fingers twisted together in a symptom of nervousness and uncertainty.
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Hypatia wasn't sure what to make of a Judean marketplace.
Whilst she had occasionally visiting unto the merchant stalls and harvest festivals of Greece, where wine and perishables were plentiful, there was a difference in feel to a place such as this. In Greece, the sellers favoured expelling the grand luxury of their products; the high quality of their yield. In Judea, though she could not understand, the men would encourage the value, the cheapness of their wares. It was as if claiming your craft to be the best was considered insulting to others or arrogant to your own self-esteem. In Greece there was no such modesty or shame.
As well as the sounds around her - the haggling and debating and challenging of prices - were foreign and odd in her ears, the visions were different too. In Greece, colour was vibrant and encouraged. With a bright sun, white stone and a plethora of shades in dress and jewellery - for even the poor wore cloth of colour - gatherings of more than a handful of Greeks was blinding in its rainbow effect. Not to mention more open, or perhaps intimate, in the amount of skin on show. Here, in the dusty and sandy lands to the south east of her home, men and women wore layers of modesty and shrouds of beige. There were colours here and there for those who could afford the dye or the textile work but even then, darker or muted shades were preferred over exotic brightness. Very quickly, Hypatia became aware of how out of place the bold orange at the base of her gown was; how ostentatious she had become in a sea of demure raiment.
Not only that, but all of the women that she could see wore shawls over their heads, some with the ends pulled across their faces, only their eyes visible over the folds of silk. One nervous hand found its way to Hypatia's exposed throat and neck, the tips of her fingers finding the pale softness of her skin and wondering at its exposure.
She felt on show and, in that moment, wondered if she should have turned back; returned to the Commander's home and left all none the wiser at her having left in the first place. Her tongue breached her lips to wet them in indecision and she tasted as well as smelt the musk of roasted vegetables, baked goods and earthen dust.
As all of her senses seemed to rebel upon her, turning in and making her claustrophobic, Hypatia turned around, less confidence now in both her appearance and her presence, only to whirl into the presence of the man she had come to see.
And everything retreated.
Nothing had grown quieter or more familiar to her but the moment that Isaiah smiled brightly at her appearance and Hypatia was helpless to smile back, her mind registered the foreignness of her surroundings as they were, rather than as a fearsome force to slowly impede on her person.
The first words from Isaiah's mouth, Hypatia understood well enough, but he quickly devolved into a longer sentence that she struggled to make out, her carefully crafted brows drawing together a little as she concentrated, her eyes watching the form of his mouth and lips in the hopes that she could better make out what he was saying.
When he said good afternoon and seemed pleased that she had arrived as promised, Hypatia was quick to smile and recite the additional words of greeting that she had repeated to herself in recital the previous day.
"Shalom aleichem, adon Isaiah." She said, her hands coming together at the palms and her torso bending forwards in what was a highly formal greeting for such a moment but what she had learnt to be proper and correct within his faith. Upon straightening, and unsure that she had done such a thing accurately, Hypatia then wasn't sure where to go from there. Her eyes trailed over his appearance. The blue over coat and the little hat he wore on his head which seemed so peculiar to him. It would hardly keep him dry in the rare happenstance of rain and it wouldn't keep the sun off of him much...
Realising that she was staring, Hypatia glanced away quickly and then looked at the small... something, that he offered her. It looked just something fried, with a rough and craggy edge and about the size of her palm. It smelt... warm. Which was a bizarre word to apply but there it was. And her hand held a mind of its open as she lifted her fingers to perhaps take a piece before her mother's voice spoke in her head, reminding her of the rules of eating in public.
Refreshment was only to be consumed if the pieces were small enough to be taken in a single mouthful and dry enough to leave no residue or crumb upon the fingers. Else gown and facial powder risked being disturbed.
Her slim and pale fingers drawing back and her head shaking slightly in a polite decline, Hypatia glanced around them, looking for a topic of conversation that she might know about vocabulary to encourage.
"Where is your..." Hypatia didn't know the word for 'stall' and was frustrated that she hadn't thought to make it one of the words her tutor translated for her. Instead, she pointed a soft indication at the places of business to their left and right, before settling her hands before her again, fingers twisted together in a symptom of nervousness and uncertainty.
Hypatia wasn't sure what to make of a Judean marketplace.
Whilst she had occasionally visiting unto the merchant stalls and harvest festivals of Greece, where wine and perishables were plentiful, there was a difference in feel to a place such as this. In Greece, the sellers favoured expelling the grand luxury of their products; the high quality of their yield. In Judea, though she could not understand, the men would encourage the value, the cheapness of their wares. It was as if claiming your craft to be the best was considered insulting to others or arrogant to your own self-esteem. In Greece there was no such modesty or shame.
As well as the sounds around her - the haggling and debating and challenging of prices - were foreign and odd in her ears, the visions were different too. In Greece, colour was vibrant and encouraged. With a bright sun, white stone and a plethora of shades in dress and jewellery - for even the poor wore cloth of colour - gatherings of more than a handful of Greeks was blinding in its rainbow effect. Not to mention more open, or perhaps intimate, in the amount of skin on show. Here, in the dusty and sandy lands to the south east of her home, men and women wore layers of modesty and shrouds of beige. There were colours here and there for those who could afford the dye or the textile work but even then, darker or muted shades were preferred over exotic brightness. Very quickly, Hypatia became aware of how out of place the bold orange at the base of her gown was; how ostentatious she had become in a sea of demure raiment.
Not only that, but all of the women that she could see wore shawls over their heads, some with the ends pulled across their faces, only their eyes visible over the folds of silk. One nervous hand found its way to Hypatia's exposed throat and neck, the tips of her fingers finding the pale softness of her skin and wondering at its exposure.
She felt on show and, in that moment, wondered if she should have turned back; returned to the Commander's home and left all none the wiser at her having left in the first place. Her tongue breached her lips to wet them in indecision and she tasted as well as smelt the musk of roasted vegetables, baked goods and earthen dust.
As all of her senses seemed to rebel upon her, turning in and making her claustrophobic, Hypatia turned around, less confidence now in both her appearance and her presence, only to whirl into the presence of the man she had come to see.
And everything retreated.
Nothing had grown quieter or more familiar to her but the moment that Isaiah smiled brightly at her appearance and Hypatia was helpless to smile back, her mind registered the foreignness of her surroundings as they were, rather than as a fearsome force to slowly impede on her person.
The first words from Isaiah's mouth, Hypatia understood well enough, but he quickly devolved into a longer sentence that she struggled to make out, her carefully crafted brows drawing together a little as she concentrated, her eyes watching the form of his mouth and lips in the hopes that she could better make out what he was saying.
When he said good afternoon and seemed pleased that she had arrived as promised, Hypatia was quick to smile and recite the additional words of greeting that she had repeated to herself in recital the previous day.
"Shalom aleichem, adon Isaiah." She said, her hands coming together at the palms and her torso bending forwards in what was a highly formal greeting for such a moment but what she had learnt to be proper and correct within his faith. Upon straightening, and unsure that she had done such a thing accurately, Hypatia then wasn't sure where to go from there. Her eyes trailed over his appearance. The blue over coat and the little hat he wore on his head which seemed so peculiar to him. It would hardly keep him dry in the rare happenstance of rain and it wouldn't keep the sun off of him much...
Realising that she was staring, Hypatia glanced away quickly and then looked at the small... something, that he offered her. It looked just something fried, with a rough and craggy edge and about the size of her palm. It smelt... warm. Which was a bizarre word to apply but there it was. And her hand held a mind of its open as she lifted her fingers to perhaps take a piece before her mother's voice spoke in her head, reminding her of the rules of eating in public.
Refreshment was only to be consumed if the pieces were small enough to be taken in a single mouthful and dry enough to leave no residue or crumb upon the fingers. Else gown and facial powder risked being disturbed.
Her slim and pale fingers drawing back and her head shaking slightly in a polite decline, Hypatia glanced around them, looking for a topic of conversation that she might know about vocabulary to encourage.
"Where is your..." Hypatia didn't know the word for 'stall' and was frustrated that she hadn't thought to make it one of the words her tutor translated for her. Instead, she pointed a soft indication at the places of business to their left and right, before settling her hands before her again, fingers twisted together in a symptom of nervousness and uncertainty.
He could see by the little telltale crease between her manicured eyebrows that she wasn’t understanding what he’d said, which, all things considered, was normal. This language barrier between them was a godsend, he decided, or he’d be in real danger from her. As it stood, they couldn’t communicate on any meaningful level, which meant that, despite what his less logical self would have liked in a perfect world, he was unable to get it. That made him feel much safer in speaking to her, though he was aware of the eyes upon them; her, more specifically. He knew what he’d find if he looked up.
”Isn’t that Isaiah of Matthias? What is he doing speaking to that heathen? It better be business. Yes, that has to be it. Business. He’s from a respectable family.” His family was well liked. So long as he didn’t touch her, he could get away with speaking to her, and when his mother invariably found out, he could claim that this was Hypatia, a woman who lived in the Commander’s house. The same Commander who paid a good deal more than he needed to for oil. That would be enough for Abigail to leave him alone about it. For a time. He wished he’d thought of that last night.
His “Good afternoon” earned him the smile he’d been seeking. It wasn’t a full grin, revealing her perfect teeth, but there was a pleasant curve to her lips and a fleeting brightness that made him understand something about himself in that instant; he’d do whatever it took to keep her smiling like that. That thought should have been an inkling that right now would be a good time to step away, give her a cold bow, and turn around, but the time for that was long past. That was something that should have happened yesterday. Now, he’d set himself on a path to secure more time in her presence - a thing he intellectually knew would lead to misery and irrationally, didn’t care.
All at once, Hypatia moved, holding her hands up to chest level, pressing her palms together, and bent at the waist, dipping to give him a formal bow. He saw the front of her dress dipping the littlest bit and he forced his attention back to her face, which was fast moving downwards as her sweet, clear voice uttered the phrase "Shalom aleichem, adon Isaiah."
His pulse quickened at the sound of his name on her tongue and he was hers in that moment. A smile lit his features and he pressed his hands together in return, laughing just the littlest bit, as he dipped down, giving her, a woman, a slightly less deep bow, and answered with the traditional “Aleichem shalom,” the typical response to her, though he had a slight prick of conscience doing it. Perhaps she was playing at Judaism, but he was not, and this was for members of his own people to greet one another. It was not for her to do. Though, he reflected, watching her with a soft brown gaze, that she was doing in it complete innocence and ignorance. He could forgive her anything, overlook everything, especially since she was too adorable in her speech for him to be upset with her. Besides, it showed she was trying and he was flattered she’d gone to the trouble.
Their eyes met and he stared right back at her. The market sounds were almost happening in some distant place. The shouting, the calling, the clattering of hooves, the swirls of dust, and bodies passing were wholly ignored. He couldn’t think of anything else to say to her that she’d understand, but he didn’t feel the need to speak. They were beyond communication. On a higher plain of existence, she-...she was gesturing, declining the latke, trying to tell him something.
Isaiah blinked, coming back to himself. “Pardon?” he checked and had to abandon all his fantasies about how connected they surely must be in order to actually listen to what she was trying to say.
"Where is your..." his eyes followed her movements and his gaze narrowed, landing on the many things she could be asking. There were the stalls, of course, but there were people in each. There were wares in each. She obviously didn’t want the food and Isaiah absently chewed the last latke as he glanced around.
“Stall?” he tried and, deciding that was the most logical thing she could be asking for, indicated with his head for her to follow after him. It was no small thing to get back to his stall. The way that most people were walking, it left them moving against the tide, like fish swimming up river. Glancing behind him every so often to figure out if she was navigating alright in his wake, Isaiah managed to get her back to his stall.
He’d thought nothing of the stall this morning, but now, as he stood next to it, looking at the empty wooden table, shaded by the green expanse of fabric atop four poles, he did not think it was anything special. Even the two cyan cushions that he and his mother sat upon were faded from years of use, though they were plush at the moment. His mother had recently unstitched the side, filled them up with fresh stuffing, and stitched up the hole again. The threadbare rug was only fit to stay outside. True enough, it covered the cobblestones, but it was impossible to tell what the pattern had been when it was new, or what the true colors should have been. There were hints of blue, what might have been red at one time but had turned rusty, and definitely a bit of brown that he now saw was probably ground in dust.
Glancing sideways at Hypatia, he gestured at it. “This is my stall,” he said slowly, so that she would understand and then he strode forward and patted the tabletop. The wood grain was mottled with dents and nicks. There were faded stains from ancient spills and a deep gash from where he had taken a shard of pottery to it when he was a child; his attempt at artistic flare that had gotten his hide beaten soundly for the crime. His finger absently traced the scar in the wood as he watched Hypatia to see how bored she probably would be by this place. There was no way for him to know how foreign all of this must seem to her.
Unbeknownst to Isaiah, his mother had stopped to see her friend across the marketplace. His idea was that she would go across town to see Mary. After all, the weaver woman spent the bulk of every day in the courtyard of her home, legs tucked beneath her, weaving brightly dyed cotton on her loom. What time did she have to come to market? He was half right. Mary would use her shuttle endless against the cotton fibers, weaving them in patterns that only an expert could achieve, but once she was done with a project, she came to market to sell it. Mary was here today, the unluckiest of days, and in her husband’s stall. At first, Abigail was caught up with nothing but speaking to her friend. She’d glanced behind her once or twice, and had seen Isaiah sell the last of the oil. That tided his mother over. Her stress settled and her steps were light. She could speak with her friend without guilt, knowing that they’d procured all the money they needed to for the day.
Deep in conversation, she’d turned again to check on Isaiah, only to find him missing. Frowning, she thought that odd, but, not terribly. He had been watching for someone, after all, and she could only surmise it was the girl who had so turned his head. That made her determine, more than ever, to know the second he was back in the stall. With her back to the marketplace, she and Mary had agreed between themselves that it would be Mary who kept the lookout. That would save poor Abigail’s neck from having to crane around every few seconds and so they fell into amiable conversation, thinking nothing out of place, when, all at once, Mary stopped speaking.
“Abigail, look. There’s a Greek woman at your stall.” Abigail frowned and turned. She tilted her head a bit, eyeing her son speaking to the girl.
“She’s there for oil,” she said dismissively. “Isaiah will make her know it and usher her away.” With that idea firmly fixed in her mind, she turned to continue the conversation. That a foreigner had made her son so addle brained was a ridiculous notion. Not to be borne. He had more sense than that, surely? No, her son had finally found a nice girl from a good background. Hopefully one with a large dowry, but really, she couldn’t expect a huge dowry...Perhaps the farmer who her husband was visiting today had a daughter? How would that be! An alliance of that kind with an owner of land! So spun out fantasies of Isaiah being quite comfortably fixed up with a farmer’s daughter. Only daughter? Heir to the farm? And with Isaiah and Benjamin being on such good terms, why, her lineage was positively set! It would give her nothing but gladness to see herself and her sons so blessed.
“She’s not leaving,” Mary muttered. The weaver woman leaned heavily on the tabletop of her stall, playing with the corner of her mitzpah. The mitzpah was one that Abigail had often admired. Being a weaver, Mary had spun herself one of such vivid color and beauty, that it completely detracted away from the plainness of her features. To get away with wearing such a thing, her friend claimed that it was to showcase her talent. Lending credence to this claim, Mary often found herself stopped while at temple and asked, in hushed tones, if such a thing could be made again and for what price? Just by going about her usual business, Mary liked to tell her friends that she was making money by simply existing. Behind her back, Abigail called it vanity, but she couldn’t deny the appeal of the mitzpah. It was that very thing that she’d been discussing with Mary now and had been trying to weedle down the price. That Mary kept interrupting was proving that she was winning the battle, but she didn’t like the interruption, all the same.
“Don’t change the subject,” Abigail said good naturedly. “We’ve been friends for too long for me to pay that much. I will give you a few shekels, but what about two loaves of bread? Wouldn’t that save you an entire morning? At great time expense to myself, I might add-”
“Why is he fawning over her?” Mary interrupted again, not listening. Her buggy eyes were narrowed and Abigail finally turned around to give the whole scene a proper look.
“He’s not fawning,” she snapped, her own eyes narrowed. “He’s bending. He’s so tall, you see. And look at her. Practically stunted. I’m shocked the wind doesn’t blow her away.”
“She is rather frail. A bit sickly, truly. Look how pale her skin is. And so on display, too. How much did that dress cost, do you think? It’s too extravagant a thing to wear every day!”
“Oh but you know the Greeks,” Abigail interjected, turning back around for a moment towards Mary. “They burn money, I heard. Throw it away. They toss it into wells in the earth to their gods, if you can believe that nonsense. A totally ignorant, stupid people.”
“She’s still there,” Mary pointed out and Abigail colored in annoyance.
“He’ll make her go,” she said stubbornly. “Perhaps she doesn’t speak our language and he’s having to make her understand.” This explanation seemed to stump Mary, who looked a little too delighted with the idea that her friend’s second born would be so vile as to take up with a pagan. But now, Hypatia and Isaiah had an audience, watching their every move and making no disguise of it. All productive conversation ceased between the women and turned wholly to picking apart Hypatia’s outfit, vulgar bodily display of skin, and any other possible defect the girl could have.
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He could see by the little telltale crease between her manicured eyebrows that she wasn’t understanding what he’d said, which, all things considered, was normal. This language barrier between them was a godsend, he decided, or he’d be in real danger from her. As it stood, they couldn’t communicate on any meaningful level, which meant that, despite what his less logical self would have liked in a perfect world, he was unable to get it. That made him feel much safer in speaking to her, though he was aware of the eyes upon them; her, more specifically. He knew what he’d find if he looked up.
”Isn’t that Isaiah of Matthias? What is he doing speaking to that heathen? It better be business. Yes, that has to be it. Business. He’s from a respectable family.” His family was well liked. So long as he didn’t touch her, he could get away with speaking to her, and when his mother invariably found out, he could claim that this was Hypatia, a woman who lived in the Commander’s house. The same Commander who paid a good deal more than he needed to for oil. That would be enough for Abigail to leave him alone about it. For a time. He wished he’d thought of that last night.
His “Good afternoon” earned him the smile he’d been seeking. It wasn’t a full grin, revealing her perfect teeth, but there was a pleasant curve to her lips and a fleeting brightness that made him understand something about himself in that instant; he’d do whatever it took to keep her smiling like that. That thought should have been an inkling that right now would be a good time to step away, give her a cold bow, and turn around, but the time for that was long past. That was something that should have happened yesterday. Now, he’d set himself on a path to secure more time in her presence - a thing he intellectually knew would lead to misery and irrationally, didn’t care.
All at once, Hypatia moved, holding her hands up to chest level, pressing her palms together, and bent at the waist, dipping to give him a formal bow. He saw the front of her dress dipping the littlest bit and he forced his attention back to her face, which was fast moving downwards as her sweet, clear voice uttered the phrase "Shalom aleichem, adon Isaiah."
His pulse quickened at the sound of his name on her tongue and he was hers in that moment. A smile lit his features and he pressed his hands together in return, laughing just the littlest bit, as he dipped down, giving her, a woman, a slightly less deep bow, and answered with the traditional “Aleichem shalom,” the typical response to her, though he had a slight prick of conscience doing it. Perhaps she was playing at Judaism, but he was not, and this was for members of his own people to greet one another. It was not for her to do. Though, he reflected, watching her with a soft brown gaze, that she was doing in it complete innocence and ignorance. He could forgive her anything, overlook everything, especially since she was too adorable in her speech for him to be upset with her. Besides, it showed she was trying and he was flattered she’d gone to the trouble.
Their eyes met and he stared right back at her. The market sounds were almost happening in some distant place. The shouting, the calling, the clattering of hooves, the swirls of dust, and bodies passing were wholly ignored. He couldn’t think of anything else to say to her that she’d understand, but he didn’t feel the need to speak. They were beyond communication. On a higher plain of existence, she-...she was gesturing, declining the latke, trying to tell him something.
Isaiah blinked, coming back to himself. “Pardon?” he checked and had to abandon all his fantasies about how connected they surely must be in order to actually listen to what she was trying to say.
"Where is your..." his eyes followed her movements and his gaze narrowed, landing on the many things she could be asking. There were the stalls, of course, but there were people in each. There were wares in each. She obviously didn’t want the food and Isaiah absently chewed the last latke as he glanced around.
“Stall?” he tried and, deciding that was the most logical thing she could be asking for, indicated with his head for her to follow after him. It was no small thing to get back to his stall. The way that most people were walking, it left them moving against the tide, like fish swimming up river. Glancing behind him every so often to figure out if she was navigating alright in his wake, Isaiah managed to get her back to his stall.
He’d thought nothing of the stall this morning, but now, as he stood next to it, looking at the empty wooden table, shaded by the green expanse of fabric atop four poles, he did not think it was anything special. Even the two cyan cushions that he and his mother sat upon were faded from years of use, though they were plush at the moment. His mother had recently unstitched the side, filled them up with fresh stuffing, and stitched up the hole again. The threadbare rug was only fit to stay outside. True enough, it covered the cobblestones, but it was impossible to tell what the pattern had been when it was new, or what the true colors should have been. There were hints of blue, what might have been red at one time but had turned rusty, and definitely a bit of brown that he now saw was probably ground in dust.
Glancing sideways at Hypatia, he gestured at it. “This is my stall,” he said slowly, so that she would understand and then he strode forward and patted the tabletop. The wood grain was mottled with dents and nicks. There were faded stains from ancient spills and a deep gash from where he had taken a shard of pottery to it when he was a child; his attempt at artistic flare that had gotten his hide beaten soundly for the crime. His finger absently traced the scar in the wood as he watched Hypatia to see how bored she probably would be by this place. There was no way for him to know how foreign all of this must seem to her.
Unbeknownst to Isaiah, his mother had stopped to see her friend across the marketplace. His idea was that she would go across town to see Mary. After all, the weaver woman spent the bulk of every day in the courtyard of her home, legs tucked beneath her, weaving brightly dyed cotton on her loom. What time did she have to come to market? He was half right. Mary would use her shuttle endless against the cotton fibers, weaving them in patterns that only an expert could achieve, but once she was done with a project, she came to market to sell it. Mary was here today, the unluckiest of days, and in her husband’s stall. At first, Abigail was caught up with nothing but speaking to her friend. She’d glanced behind her once or twice, and had seen Isaiah sell the last of the oil. That tided his mother over. Her stress settled and her steps were light. She could speak with her friend without guilt, knowing that they’d procured all the money they needed to for the day.
Deep in conversation, she’d turned again to check on Isaiah, only to find him missing. Frowning, she thought that odd, but, not terribly. He had been watching for someone, after all, and she could only surmise it was the girl who had so turned his head. That made her determine, more than ever, to know the second he was back in the stall. With her back to the marketplace, she and Mary had agreed between themselves that it would be Mary who kept the lookout. That would save poor Abigail’s neck from having to crane around every few seconds and so they fell into amiable conversation, thinking nothing out of place, when, all at once, Mary stopped speaking.
“Abigail, look. There’s a Greek woman at your stall.” Abigail frowned and turned. She tilted her head a bit, eyeing her son speaking to the girl.
“She’s there for oil,” she said dismissively. “Isaiah will make her know it and usher her away.” With that idea firmly fixed in her mind, she turned to continue the conversation. That a foreigner had made her son so addle brained was a ridiculous notion. Not to be borne. He had more sense than that, surely? No, her son had finally found a nice girl from a good background. Hopefully one with a large dowry, but really, she couldn’t expect a huge dowry...Perhaps the farmer who her husband was visiting today had a daughter? How would that be! An alliance of that kind with an owner of land! So spun out fantasies of Isaiah being quite comfortably fixed up with a farmer’s daughter. Only daughter? Heir to the farm? And with Isaiah and Benjamin being on such good terms, why, her lineage was positively set! It would give her nothing but gladness to see herself and her sons so blessed.
“She’s not leaving,” Mary muttered. The weaver woman leaned heavily on the tabletop of her stall, playing with the corner of her mitzpah. The mitzpah was one that Abigail had often admired. Being a weaver, Mary had spun herself one of such vivid color and beauty, that it completely detracted away from the plainness of her features. To get away with wearing such a thing, her friend claimed that it was to showcase her talent. Lending credence to this claim, Mary often found herself stopped while at temple and asked, in hushed tones, if such a thing could be made again and for what price? Just by going about her usual business, Mary liked to tell her friends that she was making money by simply existing. Behind her back, Abigail called it vanity, but she couldn’t deny the appeal of the mitzpah. It was that very thing that she’d been discussing with Mary now and had been trying to weedle down the price. That Mary kept interrupting was proving that she was winning the battle, but she didn’t like the interruption, all the same.
“Don’t change the subject,” Abigail said good naturedly. “We’ve been friends for too long for me to pay that much. I will give you a few shekels, but what about two loaves of bread? Wouldn’t that save you an entire morning? At great time expense to myself, I might add-”
“Why is he fawning over her?” Mary interrupted again, not listening. Her buggy eyes were narrowed and Abigail finally turned around to give the whole scene a proper look.
“He’s not fawning,” she snapped, her own eyes narrowed. “He’s bending. He’s so tall, you see. And look at her. Practically stunted. I’m shocked the wind doesn’t blow her away.”
“She is rather frail. A bit sickly, truly. Look how pale her skin is. And so on display, too. How much did that dress cost, do you think? It’s too extravagant a thing to wear every day!”
“Oh but you know the Greeks,” Abigail interjected, turning back around for a moment towards Mary. “They burn money, I heard. Throw it away. They toss it into wells in the earth to their gods, if you can believe that nonsense. A totally ignorant, stupid people.”
“She’s still there,” Mary pointed out and Abigail colored in annoyance.
“He’ll make her go,” she said stubbornly. “Perhaps she doesn’t speak our language and he’s having to make her understand.” This explanation seemed to stump Mary, who looked a little too delighted with the idea that her friend’s second born would be so vile as to take up with a pagan. But now, Hypatia and Isaiah had an audience, watching their every move and making no disguise of it. All productive conversation ceased between the women and turned wholly to picking apart Hypatia’s outfit, vulgar bodily display of skin, and any other possible defect the girl could have.
He could see by the little telltale crease between her manicured eyebrows that she wasn’t understanding what he’d said, which, all things considered, was normal. This language barrier between them was a godsend, he decided, or he’d be in real danger from her. As it stood, they couldn’t communicate on any meaningful level, which meant that, despite what his less logical self would have liked in a perfect world, he was unable to get it. That made him feel much safer in speaking to her, though he was aware of the eyes upon them; her, more specifically. He knew what he’d find if he looked up.
”Isn’t that Isaiah of Matthias? What is he doing speaking to that heathen? It better be business. Yes, that has to be it. Business. He’s from a respectable family.” His family was well liked. So long as he didn’t touch her, he could get away with speaking to her, and when his mother invariably found out, he could claim that this was Hypatia, a woman who lived in the Commander’s house. The same Commander who paid a good deal more than he needed to for oil. That would be enough for Abigail to leave him alone about it. For a time. He wished he’d thought of that last night.
His “Good afternoon” earned him the smile he’d been seeking. It wasn’t a full grin, revealing her perfect teeth, but there was a pleasant curve to her lips and a fleeting brightness that made him understand something about himself in that instant; he’d do whatever it took to keep her smiling like that. That thought should have been an inkling that right now would be a good time to step away, give her a cold bow, and turn around, but the time for that was long past. That was something that should have happened yesterday. Now, he’d set himself on a path to secure more time in her presence - a thing he intellectually knew would lead to misery and irrationally, didn’t care.
All at once, Hypatia moved, holding her hands up to chest level, pressing her palms together, and bent at the waist, dipping to give him a formal bow. He saw the front of her dress dipping the littlest bit and he forced his attention back to her face, which was fast moving downwards as her sweet, clear voice uttered the phrase "Shalom aleichem, adon Isaiah."
His pulse quickened at the sound of his name on her tongue and he was hers in that moment. A smile lit his features and he pressed his hands together in return, laughing just the littlest bit, as he dipped down, giving her, a woman, a slightly less deep bow, and answered with the traditional “Aleichem shalom,” the typical response to her, though he had a slight prick of conscience doing it. Perhaps she was playing at Judaism, but he was not, and this was for members of his own people to greet one another. It was not for her to do. Though, he reflected, watching her with a soft brown gaze, that she was doing in it complete innocence and ignorance. He could forgive her anything, overlook everything, especially since she was too adorable in her speech for him to be upset with her. Besides, it showed she was trying and he was flattered she’d gone to the trouble.
Their eyes met and he stared right back at her. The market sounds were almost happening in some distant place. The shouting, the calling, the clattering of hooves, the swirls of dust, and bodies passing were wholly ignored. He couldn’t think of anything else to say to her that she’d understand, but he didn’t feel the need to speak. They were beyond communication. On a higher plain of existence, she-...she was gesturing, declining the latke, trying to tell him something.
Isaiah blinked, coming back to himself. “Pardon?” he checked and had to abandon all his fantasies about how connected they surely must be in order to actually listen to what she was trying to say.
"Where is your..." his eyes followed her movements and his gaze narrowed, landing on the many things she could be asking. There were the stalls, of course, but there were people in each. There were wares in each. She obviously didn’t want the food and Isaiah absently chewed the last latke as he glanced around.
“Stall?” he tried and, deciding that was the most logical thing she could be asking for, indicated with his head for her to follow after him. It was no small thing to get back to his stall. The way that most people were walking, it left them moving against the tide, like fish swimming up river. Glancing behind him every so often to figure out if she was navigating alright in his wake, Isaiah managed to get her back to his stall.
He’d thought nothing of the stall this morning, but now, as he stood next to it, looking at the empty wooden table, shaded by the green expanse of fabric atop four poles, he did not think it was anything special. Even the two cyan cushions that he and his mother sat upon were faded from years of use, though they were plush at the moment. His mother had recently unstitched the side, filled them up with fresh stuffing, and stitched up the hole again. The threadbare rug was only fit to stay outside. True enough, it covered the cobblestones, but it was impossible to tell what the pattern had been when it was new, or what the true colors should have been. There were hints of blue, what might have been red at one time but had turned rusty, and definitely a bit of brown that he now saw was probably ground in dust.
Glancing sideways at Hypatia, he gestured at it. “This is my stall,” he said slowly, so that she would understand and then he strode forward and patted the tabletop. The wood grain was mottled with dents and nicks. There were faded stains from ancient spills and a deep gash from where he had taken a shard of pottery to it when he was a child; his attempt at artistic flare that had gotten his hide beaten soundly for the crime. His finger absently traced the scar in the wood as he watched Hypatia to see how bored she probably would be by this place. There was no way for him to know how foreign all of this must seem to her.
Unbeknownst to Isaiah, his mother had stopped to see her friend across the marketplace. His idea was that she would go across town to see Mary. After all, the weaver woman spent the bulk of every day in the courtyard of her home, legs tucked beneath her, weaving brightly dyed cotton on her loom. What time did she have to come to market? He was half right. Mary would use her shuttle endless against the cotton fibers, weaving them in patterns that only an expert could achieve, but once she was done with a project, she came to market to sell it. Mary was here today, the unluckiest of days, and in her husband’s stall. At first, Abigail was caught up with nothing but speaking to her friend. She’d glanced behind her once or twice, and had seen Isaiah sell the last of the oil. That tided his mother over. Her stress settled and her steps were light. She could speak with her friend without guilt, knowing that they’d procured all the money they needed to for the day.
Deep in conversation, she’d turned again to check on Isaiah, only to find him missing. Frowning, she thought that odd, but, not terribly. He had been watching for someone, after all, and she could only surmise it was the girl who had so turned his head. That made her determine, more than ever, to know the second he was back in the stall. With her back to the marketplace, she and Mary had agreed between themselves that it would be Mary who kept the lookout. That would save poor Abigail’s neck from having to crane around every few seconds and so they fell into amiable conversation, thinking nothing out of place, when, all at once, Mary stopped speaking.
“Abigail, look. There’s a Greek woman at your stall.” Abigail frowned and turned. She tilted her head a bit, eyeing her son speaking to the girl.
“She’s there for oil,” she said dismissively. “Isaiah will make her know it and usher her away.” With that idea firmly fixed in her mind, she turned to continue the conversation. That a foreigner had made her son so addle brained was a ridiculous notion. Not to be borne. He had more sense than that, surely? No, her son had finally found a nice girl from a good background. Hopefully one with a large dowry, but really, she couldn’t expect a huge dowry...Perhaps the farmer who her husband was visiting today had a daughter? How would that be! An alliance of that kind with an owner of land! So spun out fantasies of Isaiah being quite comfortably fixed up with a farmer’s daughter. Only daughter? Heir to the farm? And with Isaiah and Benjamin being on such good terms, why, her lineage was positively set! It would give her nothing but gladness to see herself and her sons so blessed.
“She’s not leaving,” Mary muttered. The weaver woman leaned heavily on the tabletop of her stall, playing with the corner of her mitzpah. The mitzpah was one that Abigail had often admired. Being a weaver, Mary had spun herself one of such vivid color and beauty, that it completely detracted away from the plainness of her features. To get away with wearing such a thing, her friend claimed that it was to showcase her talent. Lending credence to this claim, Mary often found herself stopped while at temple and asked, in hushed tones, if such a thing could be made again and for what price? Just by going about her usual business, Mary liked to tell her friends that she was making money by simply existing. Behind her back, Abigail called it vanity, but she couldn’t deny the appeal of the mitzpah. It was that very thing that she’d been discussing with Mary now and had been trying to weedle down the price. That Mary kept interrupting was proving that she was winning the battle, but she didn’t like the interruption, all the same.
“Don’t change the subject,” Abigail said good naturedly. “We’ve been friends for too long for me to pay that much. I will give you a few shekels, but what about two loaves of bread? Wouldn’t that save you an entire morning? At great time expense to myself, I might add-”
“Why is he fawning over her?” Mary interrupted again, not listening. Her buggy eyes were narrowed and Abigail finally turned around to give the whole scene a proper look.
“He’s not fawning,” she snapped, her own eyes narrowed. “He’s bending. He’s so tall, you see. And look at her. Practically stunted. I’m shocked the wind doesn’t blow her away.”
“She is rather frail. A bit sickly, truly. Look how pale her skin is. And so on display, too. How much did that dress cost, do you think? It’s too extravagant a thing to wear every day!”
“Oh but you know the Greeks,” Abigail interjected, turning back around for a moment towards Mary. “They burn money, I heard. Throw it away. They toss it into wells in the earth to their gods, if you can believe that nonsense. A totally ignorant, stupid people.”
“She’s still there,” Mary pointed out and Abigail colored in annoyance.
“He’ll make her go,” she said stubbornly. “Perhaps she doesn’t speak our language and he’s having to make her understand.” This explanation seemed to stump Mary, who looked a little too delighted with the idea that her friend’s second born would be so vile as to take up with a pagan. But now, Hypatia and Isaiah had an audience, watching their every move and making no disguise of it. All productive conversation ceased between the women and turned wholly to picking apart Hypatia’s outfit, vulgar bodily display of skin, and any other possible defect the girl could have.
Had Hypatia known that she had an audience to her interactions with Isaiah it would be had to say in what manner she would react. A young woman used to being primped and prepared in order to deliberately garner the attention of her peers and the superiors that her mother so wished to impress, she held very little shame at the idea of being stared at. Whilst it was often her beautiful sister Eurydice who stole the majority of aspiring and appreciative looks, standing next to her for long enough had at least inoculated Hypatia of the awkward nervousness that came with being shown attention by strangers.
On the other hand, however, Hypatia had only ever experienced such gazes that were of a positive and flattering nature. Not raised in a world of prejudgment and xenophobia (despite the recent revelation of her mother's opinions over the Jewish race), Hypatia was open to the befriending and understanding of others based on individual merit. And her ignorance of the ways of racism had her automatically assuming the same intention within everyone else. It was a dangerous sort of naivete to possess in a city so rife with discord between the Chosen People and their temporary Greek residents.
As such, for now, Isaiah's presence had set her mind at ease over her appearance and she was blissfully ignorant that the stares that she had noticed from the crowds hardly contained glances of compliment.
Instead, Hypatia focused on her guide and host for such a visit and followed him back through the crowded walkways to his stall. When he presented her with exactly what she had meant, she knew that the single word he had questioned her with was indeed the right one and she now nodded with a defiant statement of the same word.
"Yes. Stall."
Whilst Hypatia had never been unaware that she was raised by a family of great wealth and she often interacted with those of both greater and lesser value to their names, it was only now that Hypatia realised Isaiah to be possibly the poorest friend she had ever made. Keeping her expression calm and polite, she looked over the means of his business; the worn rug, the mended cushions, the canvas covering that had worn thinner in places and now leaked through more sunshine than the stripes either side of it. The stall itself was heavily hewn with groves and marks, stains and imperfections that made the whole apparatus appear... Sturdy. As if it were determined to carry forwards regardless of the scars time had left upon it.
Hypatia wondered what it would have been like to own something with that much history and story behind it. But Europa had always insisted on everything to be of the finest quality and on trend. Which meant that she possessed nothing from her childhood and her gowns were never older than two years since purchase. Never before had she considered the idea that such a practice left her devoid of connection.
Had she thought it through any further, Hypatia might have gone on to consider this the reason she was so accepting of picking up her Grecian life, delivering it to the sandy shores of Judea and accepting a potential marriage to a complete stranger. Or why she now stood with another complete stranger in a place she did not know attempting to connect through a language she did not understand.
Instead, however, Hypatia was not so self analytical. She simply looked upon the stall with an awkward sense of loss and then smiled politely at the man she did not wish to offend.
"You are here many hours?" Hypatia asked, curious to know how he spent his time, how his business worked. With her father an independent specialist, Hypatia had no concept of how normal trade or commerce worked. It was like another foreign language to her.
Such a thought, sparked a memory and Hypatia's lips parted and her eyes sprang wide as she didn't allow Isaiah to answer the question, diving into her lessons from the previous day with an enthusiasm that negated her interest in his response for a moment.
"I learn yesterday." She told Isaiah, her hands coming up to illustrate her words and phrases. The sleeves of her gown opened and shined in the sunlight, but she was oblivious of the way the orange caught the rays and shone, as she was too preoccupied in remembering something.
Occasionally closing her eyes for a moment to remember a word or an intonation, Hypatia spoke with the fluidity of a native, only because she was reciting certain phrases taught to her by her instructor, from her memories of the previous evening.
"I tried to say something yesterday but it was lost in translation... I wanted to tell you thank you for your aiding me in times of difficulty but also... Er..." She closed her eyes tight for a moment, her eyes wrinkling in concentration as she murmured to herself... "...but also... but also.... ah!" She looked up with open eyes again as her mouth continued to form words she neither knew nor understood but was able to simply recall the sound of. "But also to assure you that... you that I am a capable person of intelligence and that being in difficulty is not a nor... normal happenstance for me."
Hypatia took a moment to breathe and rearrange her tongue in her mouth after speaking what felt like a familiar song of gibberish, but when Isaiah seemed only shocked and did not respond to her straight away, Hypatia became worried that she had gotten key moments in the script inaccurate.
Apologising under her breath and then seeking her coin purse, Hypatia took out the little curled roll of parchment and began to read aloud the sounds her tutor had written for her in Greek, so that the words that left her mouth were Hebrew. With the written word as a guide she began to read aloud, set to repeat the entire speech again...
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This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
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Had Hypatia known that she had an audience to her interactions with Isaiah it would be had to say in what manner she would react. A young woman used to being primped and prepared in order to deliberately garner the attention of her peers and the superiors that her mother so wished to impress, she held very little shame at the idea of being stared at. Whilst it was often her beautiful sister Eurydice who stole the majority of aspiring and appreciative looks, standing next to her for long enough had at least inoculated Hypatia of the awkward nervousness that came with being shown attention by strangers.
On the other hand, however, Hypatia had only ever experienced such gazes that were of a positive and flattering nature. Not raised in a world of prejudgment and xenophobia (despite the recent revelation of her mother's opinions over the Jewish race), Hypatia was open to the befriending and understanding of others based on individual merit. And her ignorance of the ways of racism had her automatically assuming the same intention within everyone else. It was a dangerous sort of naivete to possess in a city so rife with discord between the Chosen People and their temporary Greek residents.
As such, for now, Isaiah's presence had set her mind at ease over her appearance and she was blissfully ignorant that the stares that she had noticed from the crowds hardly contained glances of compliment.
Instead, Hypatia focused on her guide and host for such a visit and followed him back through the crowded walkways to his stall. When he presented her with exactly what she had meant, she knew that the single word he had questioned her with was indeed the right one and she now nodded with a defiant statement of the same word.
"Yes. Stall."
Whilst Hypatia had never been unaware that she was raised by a family of great wealth and she often interacted with those of both greater and lesser value to their names, it was only now that Hypatia realised Isaiah to be possibly the poorest friend she had ever made. Keeping her expression calm and polite, she looked over the means of his business; the worn rug, the mended cushions, the canvas covering that had worn thinner in places and now leaked through more sunshine than the stripes either side of it. The stall itself was heavily hewn with groves and marks, stains and imperfections that made the whole apparatus appear... Sturdy. As if it were determined to carry forwards regardless of the scars time had left upon it.
Hypatia wondered what it would have been like to own something with that much history and story behind it. But Europa had always insisted on everything to be of the finest quality and on trend. Which meant that she possessed nothing from her childhood and her gowns were never older than two years since purchase. Never before had she considered the idea that such a practice left her devoid of connection.
Had she thought it through any further, Hypatia might have gone on to consider this the reason she was so accepting of picking up her Grecian life, delivering it to the sandy shores of Judea and accepting a potential marriage to a complete stranger. Or why she now stood with another complete stranger in a place she did not know attempting to connect through a language she did not understand.
Instead, however, Hypatia was not so self analytical. She simply looked upon the stall with an awkward sense of loss and then smiled politely at the man she did not wish to offend.
"You are here many hours?" Hypatia asked, curious to know how he spent his time, how his business worked. With her father an independent specialist, Hypatia had no concept of how normal trade or commerce worked. It was like another foreign language to her.
Such a thought, sparked a memory and Hypatia's lips parted and her eyes sprang wide as she didn't allow Isaiah to answer the question, diving into her lessons from the previous day with an enthusiasm that negated her interest in his response for a moment.
"I learn yesterday." She told Isaiah, her hands coming up to illustrate her words and phrases. The sleeves of her gown opened and shined in the sunlight, but she was oblivious of the way the orange caught the rays and shone, as she was too preoccupied in remembering something.
Occasionally closing her eyes for a moment to remember a word or an intonation, Hypatia spoke with the fluidity of a native, only because she was reciting certain phrases taught to her by her instructor, from her memories of the previous evening.
"I tried to say something yesterday but it was lost in translation... I wanted to tell you thank you for your aiding me in times of difficulty but also... Er..." She closed her eyes tight for a moment, her eyes wrinkling in concentration as she murmured to herself... "...but also... but also.... ah!" She looked up with open eyes again as her mouth continued to form words she neither knew nor understood but was able to simply recall the sound of. "But also to assure you that... you that I am a capable person of intelligence and that being in difficulty is not a nor... normal happenstance for me."
Hypatia took a moment to breathe and rearrange her tongue in her mouth after speaking what felt like a familiar song of gibberish, but when Isaiah seemed only shocked and did not respond to her straight away, Hypatia became worried that she had gotten key moments in the script inaccurate.
Apologising under her breath and then seeking her coin purse, Hypatia took out the little curled roll of parchment and began to read aloud the sounds her tutor had written for her in Greek, so that the words that left her mouth were Hebrew. With the written word as a guide she began to read aloud, set to repeat the entire speech again...
Had Hypatia known that she had an audience to her interactions with Isaiah it would be had to say in what manner she would react. A young woman used to being primped and prepared in order to deliberately garner the attention of her peers and the superiors that her mother so wished to impress, she held very little shame at the idea of being stared at. Whilst it was often her beautiful sister Eurydice who stole the majority of aspiring and appreciative looks, standing next to her for long enough had at least inoculated Hypatia of the awkward nervousness that came with being shown attention by strangers.
On the other hand, however, Hypatia had only ever experienced such gazes that were of a positive and flattering nature. Not raised in a world of prejudgment and xenophobia (despite the recent revelation of her mother's opinions over the Jewish race), Hypatia was open to the befriending and understanding of others based on individual merit. And her ignorance of the ways of racism had her automatically assuming the same intention within everyone else. It was a dangerous sort of naivete to possess in a city so rife with discord between the Chosen People and their temporary Greek residents.
As such, for now, Isaiah's presence had set her mind at ease over her appearance and she was blissfully ignorant that the stares that she had noticed from the crowds hardly contained glances of compliment.
Instead, Hypatia focused on her guide and host for such a visit and followed him back through the crowded walkways to his stall. When he presented her with exactly what she had meant, she knew that the single word he had questioned her with was indeed the right one and she now nodded with a defiant statement of the same word.
"Yes. Stall."
Whilst Hypatia had never been unaware that she was raised by a family of great wealth and she often interacted with those of both greater and lesser value to their names, it was only now that Hypatia realised Isaiah to be possibly the poorest friend she had ever made. Keeping her expression calm and polite, she looked over the means of his business; the worn rug, the mended cushions, the canvas covering that had worn thinner in places and now leaked through more sunshine than the stripes either side of it. The stall itself was heavily hewn with groves and marks, stains and imperfections that made the whole apparatus appear... Sturdy. As if it were determined to carry forwards regardless of the scars time had left upon it.
Hypatia wondered what it would have been like to own something with that much history and story behind it. But Europa had always insisted on everything to be of the finest quality and on trend. Which meant that she possessed nothing from her childhood and her gowns were never older than two years since purchase. Never before had she considered the idea that such a practice left her devoid of connection.
Had she thought it through any further, Hypatia might have gone on to consider this the reason she was so accepting of picking up her Grecian life, delivering it to the sandy shores of Judea and accepting a potential marriage to a complete stranger. Or why she now stood with another complete stranger in a place she did not know attempting to connect through a language she did not understand.
Instead, however, Hypatia was not so self analytical. She simply looked upon the stall with an awkward sense of loss and then smiled politely at the man she did not wish to offend.
"You are here many hours?" Hypatia asked, curious to know how he spent his time, how his business worked. With her father an independent specialist, Hypatia had no concept of how normal trade or commerce worked. It was like another foreign language to her.
Such a thought, sparked a memory and Hypatia's lips parted and her eyes sprang wide as she didn't allow Isaiah to answer the question, diving into her lessons from the previous day with an enthusiasm that negated her interest in his response for a moment.
"I learn yesterday." She told Isaiah, her hands coming up to illustrate her words and phrases. The sleeves of her gown opened and shined in the sunlight, but she was oblivious of the way the orange caught the rays and shone, as she was too preoccupied in remembering something.
Occasionally closing her eyes for a moment to remember a word or an intonation, Hypatia spoke with the fluidity of a native, only because she was reciting certain phrases taught to her by her instructor, from her memories of the previous evening.
"I tried to say something yesterday but it was lost in translation... I wanted to tell you thank you for your aiding me in times of difficulty but also... Er..." She closed her eyes tight for a moment, her eyes wrinkling in concentration as she murmured to herself... "...but also... but also.... ah!" She looked up with open eyes again as her mouth continued to form words she neither knew nor understood but was able to simply recall the sound of. "But also to assure you that... you that I am a capable person of intelligence and that being in difficulty is not a nor... normal happenstance for me."
Hypatia took a moment to breathe and rearrange her tongue in her mouth after speaking what felt like a familiar song of gibberish, but when Isaiah seemed only shocked and did not respond to her straight away, Hypatia became worried that she had gotten key moments in the script inaccurate.
Apologising under her breath and then seeking her coin purse, Hypatia took out the little curled roll of parchment and began to read aloud the sounds her tutor had written for her in Greek, so that the words that left her mouth were Hebrew. With the written word as a guide she began to read aloud, set to repeat the entire speech again...
He watched her face as her eyes bounced from the rug, to the cushions, to the roof, to the walls, to the table. She didn’t show any degree of delight, though he hadn’t expected her to jump for joy. It was a stall. An empty one, at that. There was only so much to see and do at such a place. The entire time her gaze took in the stall, and his eyes never left her face, his finger kept up its tracing of the groove in the tabletop, back and forth, back and forth, in a controlled, soothing rhythm while he waited for her to pronounce judgement. This wasn’t the part he’d been dreading, but he knew it was an important moment. These few seconds would decide if she politely told him she needed to leave, or if she would stay and attempt to speak with him more. While he knew that she probably liked him as much as she could like any new acquaintance, he was aware that women liked a degree of security, even in their friendships. What could a poor merchant’s son offer to someone like her? How could he better her life in any way? Aside from rescuing her in the odd circumstances she’d found herself in the last two weeks, he couldn’t offer a lot. A lesson in olive oil, perhaps, but that was dull and he wouldn’t have dreamed of actually offering that up as a subject of conversation.
"You are here many hours?" she asked after a long pause. Isaiah twisted his mouth, thinking about how to answer that question in a way she’d understand. Though she was demonstrating more skill with Hebrew than she’d had even yesterday, he thought his explanation beyond ‘yes’ or ‘no’ might sail straight over her ability to comprehend him. Before he could even begin to formulate what to say, Hypatia’s whole being changed. Her body took on a lightness, her face a sunlit valley after a cloudy day, as she suddenly turned to him. Isaiah stopped tracing the groove and gave her his entire attention.
"I learn yesterday,” she said, explaining his unvoiced marveling at her command of Hebrew. Isaiah’s eyes were drawn to her hands as she pantomimed what she meant - a habit he was finding more adorable every time she did it. The sleeves of her dress fell back, exposing her upper arms and Isaiah colored, dropping his eyes to the rug. Every so often, his eyes would travel back up, but always he felt bad about looking, and so he chose to direct his attention to a more proper place. It was a little difficult being this close to a pagan girl, who wasn’t finding any exposure of skin abnormal. Already her dress was far lower on her chest than he’d have assumed was proper and he had definitely noticed, and had to give himself a stern warning not to focus on it.
All at once, Hypatia began speaking in full, understandable sentences. Isaiah’s eyes traveled back up to her face, frowning in astonishment. Her accent was even a little better and his eyes were wide as she continued to thank him for his help. Her eyes opened but he continued to stare, too shocked to pretend he hadn’t been. Hypatia struggled to find her words and in that time, Isaiah stepped a little closer, resting his hip against the table, wondering how she’d managed to become more perfect than she’d already been before. He smiled a little when she assured him that she wasn’t silly or incapable, nodding along as she spoke, encouraging her to keep going, adding a “No, I know,” at the very last part but she’d appeared not to hear him. It was just as well. He was trying to work out how she’d learned so much overnight or if she’d just been toying with him in the courtyard.
She turned her attention to the coin purse at her hip, digging through it to pull out a small scroll. From it, she began to read out the words again that she’d just said, verbatim. Isaiah closed the distance between them, forgetting in the moment that anyone in the market could be looking, and brushed his fingers against the top of her paper, glancing down to see what it is she had. His face broke into a grin and he tapped the paper. “Who wrote this for you? Where did you learn?” Then, he patted his chest. “I can teach you, if you like?” He wanted to be the one who spent this much time with her, who dedicated the length of time it surely took to write all of that out, to help her sound out the words. To teach her to speak, in other words.
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Check out their information page here.
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
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He watched her face as her eyes bounced from the rug, to the cushions, to the roof, to the walls, to the table. She didn’t show any degree of delight, though he hadn’t expected her to jump for joy. It was a stall. An empty one, at that. There was only so much to see and do at such a place. The entire time her gaze took in the stall, and his eyes never left her face, his finger kept up its tracing of the groove in the tabletop, back and forth, back and forth, in a controlled, soothing rhythm while he waited for her to pronounce judgement. This wasn’t the part he’d been dreading, but he knew it was an important moment. These few seconds would decide if she politely told him she needed to leave, or if she would stay and attempt to speak with him more. While he knew that she probably liked him as much as she could like any new acquaintance, he was aware that women liked a degree of security, even in their friendships. What could a poor merchant’s son offer to someone like her? How could he better her life in any way? Aside from rescuing her in the odd circumstances she’d found herself in the last two weeks, he couldn’t offer a lot. A lesson in olive oil, perhaps, but that was dull and he wouldn’t have dreamed of actually offering that up as a subject of conversation.
"You are here many hours?" she asked after a long pause. Isaiah twisted his mouth, thinking about how to answer that question in a way she’d understand. Though she was demonstrating more skill with Hebrew than she’d had even yesterday, he thought his explanation beyond ‘yes’ or ‘no’ might sail straight over her ability to comprehend him. Before he could even begin to formulate what to say, Hypatia’s whole being changed. Her body took on a lightness, her face a sunlit valley after a cloudy day, as she suddenly turned to him. Isaiah stopped tracing the groove and gave her his entire attention.
"I learn yesterday,” she said, explaining his unvoiced marveling at her command of Hebrew. Isaiah’s eyes were drawn to her hands as she pantomimed what she meant - a habit he was finding more adorable every time she did it. The sleeves of her dress fell back, exposing her upper arms and Isaiah colored, dropping his eyes to the rug. Every so often, his eyes would travel back up, but always he felt bad about looking, and so he chose to direct his attention to a more proper place. It was a little difficult being this close to a pagan girl, who wasn’t finding any exposure of skin abnormal. Already her dress was far lower on her chest than he’d have assumed was proper and he had definitely noticed, and had to give himself a stern warning not to focus on it.
All at once, Hypatia began speaking in full, understandable sentences. Isaiah’s eyes traveled back up to her face, frowning in astonishment. Her accent was even a little better and his eyes were wide as she continued to thank him for his help. Her eyes opened but he continued to stare, too shocked to pretend he hadn’t been. Hypatia struggled to find her words and in that time, Isaiah stepped a little closer, resting his hip against the table, wondering how she’d managed to become more perfect than she’d already been before. He smiled a little when she assured him that she wasn’t silly or incapable, nodding along as she spoke, encouraging her to keep going, adding a “No, I know,” at the very last part but she’d appeared not to hear him. It was just as well. He was trying to work out how she’d learned so much overnight or if she’d just been toying with him in the courtyard.
She turned her attention to the coin purse at her hip, digging through it to pull out a small scroll. From it, she began to read out the words again that she’d just said, verbatim. Isaiah closed the distance between them, forgetting in the moment that anyone in the market could be looking, and brushed his fingers against the top of her paper, glancing down to see what it is she had. His face broke into a grin and he tapped the paper. “Who wrote this for you? Where did you learn?” Then, he patted his chest. “I can teach you, if you like?” He wanted to be the one who spent this much time with her, who dedicated the length of time it surely took to write all of that out, to help her sound out the words. To teach her to speak, in other words.
He watched her face as her eyes bounced from the rug, to the cushions, to the roof, to the walls, to the table. She didn’t show any degree of delight, though he hadn’t expected her to jump for joy. It was a stall. An empty one, at that. There was only so much to see and do at such a place. The entire time her gaze took in the stall, and his eyes never left her face, his finger kept up its tracing of the groove in the tabletop, back and forth, back and forth, in a controlled, soothing rhythm while he waited for her to pronounce judgement. This wasn’t the part he’d been dreading, but he knew it was an important moment. These few seconds would decide if she politely told him she needed to leave, or if she would stay and attempt to speak with him more. While he knew that she probably liked him as much as she could like any new acquaintance, he was aware that women liked a degree of security, even in their friendships. What could a poor merchant’s son offer to someone like her? How could he better her life in any way? Aside from rescuing her in the odd circumstances she’d found herself in the last two weeks, he couldn’t offer a lot. A lesson in olive oil, perhaps, but that was dull and he wouldn’t have dreamed of actually offering that up as a subject of conversation.
"You are here many hours?" she asked after a long pause. Isaiah twisted his mouth, thinking about how to answer that question in a way she’d understand. Though she was demonstrating more skill with Hebrew than she’d had even yesterday, he thought his explanation beyond ‘yes’ or ‘no’ might sail straight over her ability to comprehend him. Before he could even begin to formulate what to say, Hypatia’s whole being changed. Her body took on a lightness, her face a sunlit valley after a cloudy day, as she suddenly turned to him. Isaiah stopped tracing the groove and gave her his entire attention.
"I learn yesterday,” she said, explaining his unvoiced marveling at her command of Hebrew. Isaiah’s eyes were drawn to her hands as she pantomimed what she meant - a habit he was finding more adorable every time she did it. The sleeves of her dress fell back, exposing her upper arms and Isaiah colored, dropping his eyes to the rug. Every so often, his eyes would travel back up, but always he felt bad about looking, and so he chose to direct his attention to a more proper place. It was a little difficult being this close to a pagan girl, who wasn’t finding any exposure of skin abnormal. Already her dress was far lower on her chest than he’d have assumed was proper and he had definitely noticed, and had to give himself a stern warning not to focus on it.
All at once, Hypatia began speaking in full, understandable sentences. Isaiah’s eyes traveled back up to her face, frowning in astonishment. Her accent was even a little better and his eyes were wide as she continued to thank him for his help. Her eyes opened but he continued to stare, too shocked to pretend he hadn’t been. Hypatia struggled to find her words and in that time, Isaiah stepped a little closer, resting his hip against the table, wondering how she’d managed to become more perfect than she’d already been before. He smiled a little when she assured him that she wasn’t silly or incapable, nodding along as she spoke, encouraging her to keep going, adding a “No, I know,” at the very last part but she’d appeared not to hear him. It was just as well. He was trying to work out how she’d learned so much overnight or if she’d just been toying with him in the courtyard.
She turned her attention to the coin purse at her hip, digging through it to pull out a small scroll. From it, she began to read out the words again that she’d just said, verbatim. Isaiah closed the distance between them, forgetting in the moment that anyone in the market could be looking, and brushed his fingers against the top of her paper, glancing down to see what it is she had. His face broke into a grin and he tapped the paper. “Who wrote this for you? Where did you learn?” Then, he patted his chest. “I can teach you, if you like?” He wanted to be the one who spent this much time with her, who dedicated the length of time it surely took to write all of that out, to help her sound out the words. To teach her to speak, in other words.
Hypatia had never meant to be insulting when it came to the manner in which she regarded the little stall of Isaiah's family business. Whilst she held sincere curiosity when it came to the young Judean and the way in which he lived his life, purely for the sake that it was his, Hypatia had not exactly known in what means to give compliment or comment. Genuine interest only went so far as the reality that was thereby presented and, as with many a case, the physical manifestation of discovery did not merit, nor meet, the standards that Hypatia's imagination had dreamed up in her ignorance.
Underwhelmed by the difference between fantasy and fact, yet not disappointed or disparaging for a means of life that had clearly been shown much love and devotion, Hypatia was caught in a moment of awkward uncertainty in which she wished not to convey a sense of judgement that she did not feel. Instead, she had turned to the solution of avoidance and asked an innocuous query that bypassed the potential for insult, yet was no less curious to her in her life of idle luxury.
Without the instinctive social alacrity that her mother possessed and often tried to imbrue in her daughter, Hypatia was unknowing as to whether she had successfully manoeuvred her way beyond her immediate reactions to the stall.
Yet, the question that she had chosen to turn conversation to a safer terrain had apparently failed to impress as the soft and expressive lips she had been watching twisted into something between thoughtful and disgruntled. Unsure whether her words had offended despite her best efforts or if Isaiah were simply contemplating his answer, frustration seemed a universal trend upon either potential.
Looking away, as if to remove all visual reminders of her stumbling inability to speak with this man without confusion or harm, Hypatia was distracted by the gesture that Isaiah made upon the wooden surface of the stall's table top.
She had often heard it said that with the removal of a single sense, others became sharpened. That the Gods offered compensation for loss through the advancement of what was lucky enough to remain. Though she had not lost her ability of speech in its entirety, the loss of her chance to communicate seemed to have escalated her insight of body language. When words were beyond comprehension, the slightest of gestures became a story of their own.
Hypatia watched with a steady gaze, as Isaiah stroked a single fingertip along the groove. The gesture was absent-minded. No more conscious, she thought, than perhaps where he was positioning his feet, the angle of his spine or the tilt of his head. For whatever reason - memory or simple texture - that dent in the woodwork was one he knew well...
Hypatia blinked when Isaiah's hand stilled and she realised the message she had been intending to give him. Her words with quick, her language fluent, but she was ignorant to the change in Isaiah's features when the rapid and eloquent Hebrew left her lips. Unconscious to his glances as her chiton shifted over her arms and his surprise at her command of his native tongue, Hypatia's focus had turned inwards. Her eyes were reading words no longer before her and her mind was looking to parchment she no longer held, her reading of the world around her shrinking to that of shapes and colours.
When he did not respond, she reached for the scroll that would aid her in elocuting the words once more. This time, she hoped, with more accuracy. And yet she was stopped almost immediately. As Isaiah moved towards her, his frame moving into her personal space, Hypatia's spine turned still and her lungs paralysed in a moment of uncertainty. Whilst Grecians were perhaps more evocative in their garb and style, their personal space was just as private as that of their southern neighbours and the invasion of hers had Hypatia freezing in place.
When all Isaiah did with this newfound closeness was touch upon the top of the papyrus she held and bend it back so that he might read the words scrawled across its face, Hypatia exhaled, feeling a flicker of silliness in her belly. On her next inhale, the flicker became a flutter as she breathed in the scent of him.
Bathing together with the female relatives of her family, Hypatia was used to a wondrous concoction of scents upon human skin. Depending on fashions of the moment, her mother might favour lavender, rose, hyacinth or iris. Honey, peaches, citrus and lemon were also popular. The oils of anointment for applying to skin were often seasoned with perfume, whilst the hair soaked in milks or ciders for softness and shine. By the end of daily ablutions, each member of the family exuded a pleasant but not overpowering recipe of smells that Hypatia barely noticed anymore. It was simply the natural state of Grecian being.
Yet, there was nothing sweet or succulent over the smell of Isaiah. No cloying perfumes that were her mother's favourites. Instead, his presence cut through in an honest freshness that seemed to open her lungs, seducing them to draw in more air than was her normal breath. The layers of linen weave that formed his attire seemed to have caught and held the fresh sunshine in which they had been hung to dry, whilst his skin bore its warmth. The air around him brought with it soap and a little incense and perhaps the merest hint of sandalwood. Hypatia had no control of the way in which her chest inflated, drawing in deep a scent that was both entirely refreshing and pleasantly warm.
Blinking in a rapid shift of lashes when Isaiah spoke, pointing at the words on the page, Hypatia felt her cheeks bloom into colour more rapidly than they had ever done in the past. And whilst her colouring in his presence previously had always been accompanied by a wonderment as to her humiliation, she was entirely aware, this time, of why she had been caught in a moment of embarrassment. Here this young man was, being overtly kind in his attempts to converse with the silly Greek woman who could not speak his language and she was spending his moments of generosity analysing the scent of his skin.
Her cheeks fired afresh just at the thought and she narrowed her eyes, her lips drawing into a little purse, as she focused on what he was saying as hard as she good; a distraction from more inappropriate fixations.
Unable to see what Isaiah was referring to and assuming, via his gestures, that his words applied to something inscribed upon her notations, Hypatia drew her lower lip into her teeth in thought, entirely forgetting the paint that hard marked them to a succulent pink and leaned a little closer to her new friend in the hopes of noting the phrases in particular that he was querying.
When the tips of her unbound hair brushed over the back of his hand and against his chest, Hypatia reached up to secure the locks behind her ear. Their silken lengths, however, immediately shifted over her shoulder in a manner daring to fall back into place, so she switched her hold on her little guide to the secrets of Hebrew and reached with her other to pull the bulk of her hair down the other side of her neck. Her pale throat now exposed to the warmth of the sun in a way that was both pleasant and encouraging, Hypatia concentrated once more on the paper they each now shared, glancing between the notes of her tutor and Isaiah's spoken words. She looked to his mouth as if she could witness the physical formation of such language in the air between them.
He had asked 'who'... and he had said the verb 'write'... or something like it. The second question was easier and a query as to where she had learnt Hebrew.
Smiling and ready to answer the man, Hypatia's tongue stilled and her lips hovered on a moment of parting as Isaiah's hand turned to touch the front of his robe for just a moment, his next words causing her to frown prettily. She wasn't sure that she had translated that right but there had been few words so, surely, she could not have gotten it that wrong?
"I learn from..." A shadow formed between Hypatia's brows as she tried to think of the correct word... Teacher... mentor... lecturer... translator... all such nouns were lost to her in the Hebrew. "...man. He come to manor. He teach." Her fingers tightened on the notes before her, lifting them a little in a gesture of significance. "I speak what I want to speak. He write. I read."
Urgh.
Hypatia was growing frustrated with the clunky way in which she was finding her meanings in the Judean tongue. Surely, she sounded like one who had lost half of their brain?
When it came to the last utterance, Hypatia wasn't sure what to do with it.
"You want teach me?" She asked, with an almost suspicious tone to her voice. Whilst such distrust was not directed at him - only her own understanding of what he was saying - she turned to look upon him with uncertainty, her long and slender neck turning at an elegant angle and her eyes large with query.
There was that flutter in her belly again...
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Hypatia had never meant to be insulting when it came to the manner in which she regarded the little stall of Isaiah's family business. Whilst she held sincere curiosity when it came to the young Judean and the way in which he lived his life, purely for the sake that it was his, Hypatia had not exactly known in what means to give compliment or comment. Genuine interest only went so far as the reality that was thereby presented and, as with many a case, the physical manifestation of discovery did not merit, nor meet, the standards that Hypatia's imagination had dreamed up in her ignorance.
Underwhelmed by the difference between fantasy and fact, yet not disappointed or disparaging for a means of life that had clearly been shown much love and devotion, Hypatia was caught in a moment of awkward uncertainty in which she wished not to convey a sense of judgement that she did not feel. Instead, she had turned to the solution of avoidance and asked an innocuous query that bypassed the potential for insult, yet was no less curious to her in her life of idle luxury.
Without the instinctive social alacrity that her mother possessed and often tried to imbrue in her daughter, Hypatia was unknowing as to whether she had successfully manoeuvred her way beyond her immediate reactions to the stall.
Yet, the question that she had chosen to turn conversation to a safer terrain had apparently failed to impress as the soft and expressive lips she had been watching twisted into something between thoughtful and disgruntled. Unsure whether her words had offended despite her best efforts or if Isaiah were simply contemplating his answer, frustration seemed a universal trend upon either potential.
Looking away, as if to remove all visual reminders of her stumbling inability to speak with this man without confusion or harm, Hypatia was distracted by the gesture that Isaiah made upon the wooden surface of the stall's table top.
She had often heard it said that with the removal of a single sense, others became sharpened. That the Gods offered compensation for loss through the advancement of what was lucky enough to remain. Though she had not lost her ability of speech in its entirety, the loss of her chance to communicate seemed to have escalated her insight of body language. When words were beyond comprehension, the slightest of gestures became a story of their own.
Hypatia watched with a steady gaze, as Isaiah stroked a single fingertip along the groove. The gesture was absent-minded. No more conscious, she thought, than perhaps where he was positioning his feet, the angle of his spine or the tilt of his head. For whatever reason - memory or simple texture - that dent in the woodwork was one he knew well...
Hypatia blinked when Isaiah's hand stilled and she realised the message she had been intending to give him. Her words with quick, her language fluent, but she was ignorant to the change in Isaiah's features when the rapid and eloquent Hebrew left her lips. Unconscious to his glances as her chiton shifted over her arms and his surprise at her command of his native tongue, Hypatia's focus had turned inwards. Her eyes were reading words no longer before her and her mind was looking to parchment she no longer held, her reading of the world around her shrinking to that of shapes and colours.
When he did not respond, she reached for the scroll that would aid her in elocuting the words once more. This time, she hoped, with more accuracy. And yet she was stopped almost immediately. As Isaiah moved towards her, his frame moving into her personal space, Hypatia's spine turned still and her lungs paralysed in a moment of uncertainty. Whilst Grecians were perhaps more evocative in their garb and style, their personal space was just as private as that of their southern neighbours and the invasion of hers had Hypatia freezing in place.
When all Isaiah did with this newfound closeness was touch upon the top of the papyrus she held and bend it back so that he might read the words scrawled across its face, Hypatia exhaled, feeling a flicker of silliness in her belly. On her next inhale, the flicker became a flutter as she breathed in the scent of him.
Bathing together with the female relatives of her family, Hypatia was used to a wondrous concoction of scents upon human skin. Depending on fashions of the moment, her mother might favour lavender, rose, hyacinth or iris. Honey, peaches, citrus and lemon were also popular. The oils of anointment for applying to skin were often seasoned with perfume, whilst the hair soaked in milks or ciders for softness and shine. By the end of daily ablutions, each member of the family exuded a pleasant but not overpowering recipe of smells that Hypatia barely noticed anymore. It was simply the natural state of Grecian being.
Yet, there was nothing sweet or succulent over the smell of Isaiah. No cloying perfumes that were her mother's favourites. Instead, his presence cut through in an honest freshness that seemed to open her lungs, seducing them to draw in more air than was her normal breath. The layers of linen weave that formed his attire seemed to have caught and held the fresh sunshine in which they had been hung to dry, whilst his skin bore its warmth. The air around him brought with it soap and a little incense and perhaps the merest hint of sandalwood. Hypatia had no control of the way in which her chest inflated, drawing in deep a scent that was both entirely refreshing and pleasantly warm.
Blinking in a rapid shift of lashes when Isaiah spoke, pointing at the words on the page, Hypatia felt her cheeks bloom into colour more rapidly than they had ever done in the past. And whilst her colouring in his presence previously had always been accompanied by a wonderment as to her humiliation, she was entirely aware, this time, of why she had been caught in a moment of embarrassment. Here this young man was, being overtly kind in his attempts to converse with the silly Greek woman who could not speak his language and she was spending his moments of generosity analysing the scent of his skin.
Her cheeks fired afresh just at the thought and she narrowed her eyes, her lips drawing into a little purse, as she focused on what he was saying as hard as she good; a distraction from more inappropriate fixations.
Unable to see what Isaiah was referring to and assuming, via his gestures, that his words applied to something inscribed upon her notations, Hypatia drew her lower lip into her teeth in thought, entirely forgetting the paint that hard marked them to a succulent pink and leaned a little closer to her new friend in the hopes of noting the phrases in particular that he was querying.
When the tips of her unbound hair brushed over the back of his hand and against his chest, Hypatia reached up to secure the locks behind her ear. Their silken lengths, however, immediately shifted over her shoulder in a manner daring to fall back into place, so she switched her hold on her little guide to the secrets of Hebrew and reached with her other to pull the bulk of her hair down the other side of her neck. Her pale throat now exposed to the warmth of the sun in a way that was both pleasant and encouraging, Hypatia concentrated once more on the paper they each now shared, glancing between the notes of her tutor and Isaiah's spoken words. She looked to his mouth as if she could witness the physical formation of such language in the air between them.
He had asked 'who'... and he had said the verb 'write'... or something like it. The second question was easier and a query as to where she had learnt Hebrew.
Smiling and ready to answer the man, Hypatia's tongue stilled and her lips hovered on a moment of parting as Isaiah's hand turned to touch the front of his robe for just a moment, his next words causing her to frown prettily. She wasn't sure that she had translated that right but there had been few words so, surely, she could not have gotten it that wrong?
"I learn from..." A shadow formed between Hypatia's brows as she tried to think of the correct word... Teacher... mentor... lecturer... translator... all such nouns were lost to her in the Hebrew. "...man. He come to manor. He teach." Her fingers tightened on the notes before her, lifting them a little in a gesture of significance. "I speak what I want to speak. He write. I read."
Urgh.
Hypatia was growing frustrated with the clunky way in which she was finding her meanings in the Judean tongue. Surely, she sounded like one who had lost half of their brain?
When it came to the last utterance, Hypatia wasn't sure what to do with it.
"You want teach me?" She asked, with an almost suspicious tone to her voice. Whilst such distrust was not directed at him - only her own understanding of what he was saying - she turned to look upon him with uncertainty, her long and slender neck turning at an elegant angle and her eyes large with query.
There was that flutter in her belly again...
Hypatia had never meant to be insulting when it came to the manner in which she regarded the little stall of Isaiah's family business. Whilst she held sincere curiosity when it came to the young Judean and the way in which he lived his life, purely for the sake that it was his, Hypatia had not exactly known in what means to give compliment or comment. Genuine interest only went so far as the reality that was thereby presented and, as with many a case, the physical manifestation of discovery did not merit, nor meet, the standards that Hypatia's imagination had dreamed up in her ignorance.
Underwhelmed by the difference between fantasy and fact, yet not disappointed or disparaging for a means of life that had clearly been shown much love and devotion, Hypatia was caught in a moment of awkward uncertainty in which she wished not to convey a sense of judgement that she did not feel. Instead, she had turned to the solution of avoidance and asked an innocuous query that bypassed the potential for insult, yet was no less curious to her in her life of idle luxury.
Without the instinctive social alacrity that her mother possessed and often tried to imbrue in her daughter, Hypatia was unknowing as to whether she had successfully manoeuvred her way beyond her immediate reactions to the stall.
Yet, the question that she had chosen to turn conversation to a safer terrain had apparently failed to impress as the soft and expressive lips she had been watching twisted into something between thoughtful and disgruntled. Unsure whether her words had offended despite her best efforts or if Isaiah were simply contemplating his answer, frustration seemed a universal trend upon either potential.
Looking away, as if to remove all visual reminders of her stumbling inability to speak with this man without confusion or harm, Hypatia was distracted by the gesture that Isaiah made upon the wooden surface of the stall's table top.
She had often heard it said that with the removal of a single sense, others became sharpened. That the Gods offered compensation for loss through the advancement of what was lucky enough to remain. Though she had not lost her ability of speech in its entirety, the loss of her chance to communicate seemed to have escalated her insight of body language. When words were beyond comprehension, the slightest of gestures became a story of their own.
Hypatia watched with a steady gaze, as Isaiah stroked a single fingertip along the groove. The gesture was absent-minded. No more conscious, she thought, than perhaps where he was positioning his feet, the angle of his spine or the tilt of his head. For whatever reason - memory or simple texture - that dent in the woodwork was one he knew well...
Hypatia blinked when Isaiah's hand stilled and she realised the message she had been intending to give him. Her words with quick, her language fluent, but she was ignorant to the change in Isaiah's features when the rapid and eloquent Hebrew left her lips. Unconscious to his glances as her chiton shifted over her arms and his surprise at her command of his native tongue, Hypatia's focus had turned inwards. Her eyes were reading words no longer before her and her mind was looking to parchment she no longer held, her reading of the world around her shrinking to that of shapes and colours.
When he did not respond, she reached for the scroll that would aid her in elocuting the words once more. This time, she hoped, with more accuracy. And yet she was stopped almost immediately. As Isaiah moved towards her, his frame moving into her personal space, Hypatia's spine turned still and her lungs paralysed in a moment of uncertainty. Whilst Grecians were perhaps more evocative in their garb and style, their personal space was just as private as that of their southern neighbours and the invasion of hers had Hypatia freezing in place.
When all Isaiah did with this newfound closeness was touch upon the top of the papyrus she held and bend it back so that he might read the words scrawled across its face, Hypatia exhaled, feeling a flicker of silliness in her belly. On her next inhale, the flicker became a flutter as she breathed in the scent of him.
Bathing together with the female relatives of her family, Hypatia was used to a wondrous concoction of scents upon human skin. Depending on fashions of the moment, her mother might favour lavender, rose, hyacinth or iris. Honey, peaches, citrus and lemon were also popular. The oils of anointment for applying to skin were often seasoned with perfume, whilst the hair soaked in milks or ciders for softness and shine. By the end of daily ablutions, each member of the family exuded a pleasant but not overpowering recipe of smells that Hypatia barely noticed anymore. It was simply the natural state of Grecian being.
Yet, there was nothing sweet or succulent over the smell of Isaiah. No cloying perfumes that were her mother's favourites. Instead, his presence cut through in an honest freshness that seemed to open her lungs, seducing them to draw in more air than was her normal breath. The layers of linen weave that formed his attire seemed to have caught and held the fresh sunshine in which they had been hung to dry, whilst his skin bore its warmth. The air around him brought with it soap and a little incense and perhaps the merest hint of sandalwood. Hypatia had no control of the way in which her chest inflated, drawing in deep a scent that was both entirely refreshing and pleasantly warm.
Blinking in a rapid shift of lashes when Isaiah spoke, pointing at the words on the page, Hypatia felt her cheeks bloom into colour more rapidly than they had ever done in the past. And whilst her colouring in his presence previously had always been accompanied by a wonderment as to her humiliation, she was entirely aware, this time, of why she had been caught in a moment of embarrassment. Here this young man was, being overtly kind in his attempts to converse with the silly Greek woman who could not speak his language and she was spending his moments of generosity analysing the scent of his skin.
Her cheeks fired afresh just at the thought and she narrowed her eyes, her lips drawing into a little purse, as she focused on what he was saying as hard as she good; a distraction from more inappropriate fixations.
Unable to see what Isaiah was referring to and assuming, via his gestures, that his words applied to something inscribed upon her notations, Hypatia drew her lower lip into her teeth in thought, entirely forgetting the paint that hard marked them to a succulent pink and leaned a little closer to her new friend in the hopes of noting the phrases in particular that he was querying.
When the tips of her unbound hair brushed over the back of his hand and against his chest, Hypatia reached up to secure the locks behind her ear. Their silken lengths, however, immediately shifted over her shoulder in a manner daring to fall back into place, so she switched her hold on her little guide to the secrets of Hebrew and reached with her other to pull the bulk of her hair down the other side of her neck. Her pale throat now exposed to the warmth of the sun in a way that was both pleasant and encouraging, Hypatia concentrated once more on the paper they each now shared, glancing between the notes of her tutor and Isaiah's spoken words. She looked to his mouth as if she could witness the physical formation of such language in the air between them.
He had asked 'who'... and he had said the verb 'write'... or something like it. The second question was easier and a query as to where she had learnt Hebrew.
Smiling and ready to answer the man, Hypatia's tongue stilled and her lips hovered on a moment of parting as Isaiah's hand turned to touch the front of his robe for just a moment, his next words causing her to frown prettily. She wasn't sure that she had translated that right but there had been few words so, surely, she could not have gotten it that wrong?
"I learn from..." A shadow formed between Hypatia's brows as she tried to think of the correct word... Teacher... mentor... lecturer... translator... all such nouns were lost to her in the Hebrew. "...man. He come to manor. He teach." Her fingers tightened on the notes before her, lifting them a little in a gesture of significance. "I speak what I want to speak. He write. I read."
Urgh.
Hypatia was growing frustrated with the clunky way in which she was finding her meanings in the Judean tongue. Surely, she sounded like one who had lost half of their brain?
When it came to the last utterance, Hypatia wasn't sure what to do with it.
"You want teach me?" She asked, with an almost suspicious tone to her voice. Whilst such distrust was not directed at him - only her own understanding of what he was saying - she turned to look upon him with uncertainty, her long and slender neck turning at an elegant angle and her eyes large with query.
There was that flutter in her belly again...
Isaiah liked to think of himself as a good man. A kind man. On of high morals and excellent character. This was not based on any sense of undue pride, but a strict adherence to the books of Moses and the laws therein told him, to his Judean mind, that he was a good person. But, as Hypatia leaned in, the coils of her golden mane falling in a luxurious cascade against his chest, he looked down at her and had the strongest impulse to sink both hands into her hair. He stayed completely still as the ends of her hair tickled the back of his hand and he knew he should move, but he didn’t. Just as his scent had fascinated her, he, too, found himself overwhelmed with visions of a sunny orchard. He imagined her wandering through this orchard, with its clear lane and verdant green grass, a basket on the crook of her arm, dressed exactly as she was today, reaching up to pluck a red apple from the lowest branch. Her bare, white arm stretched up against the clear blue of the sky. The red of the apple was as a ruby in her palm. The basket was suddenly filled with white apple blossoms She’d take them home and they would become soap for her while she bathed-
Isaiah squeezed his eyes shut, clenched his jaw, and withdrew his hand. Never had he been so close to such an impure thought in the presence of a woman. His heart beat against his chest, reminding him that the physical world was very real and it wouldn’t do for either of them if he let himself slip off into unseemly daydreams. Carefully forcing his mind to be blank and to listen to Hypatia’s gentle chatter, he finally opened his eyes only to be confronted with the curve of her neck and the gentle wisps of of golden hair escaping the bounty of locks she’d pulled around to the other side. The pink shell of her ear as fairly close to him as they leaned over the paper and he had to look skyward, seeking some sort of divine help. Taking a step back, letting his fingers slip away from the paper, he backed against the table and held the edges of it, the bones of his hand showing white in his knuckles.
His attempt at getting back to a point where conversation was rational again, he asked who’d taught her, trying to focus on the miracle of her grasp of language, rather than the way the design of her dress left most of her top half bare; or what he considered bare, at any rate. Her arms and shoulders and a good deal of her upper chest were on full display and, when paired with the total innocence of her features, it was his total undoing. He couldn’t pretend to himself that he just wanted to be her friend. Not after what had happened a few seconds ago. However, he wasn’t quite prepared to admit what it was he did want, because it was impossible, wrong in several ways, and terribly selfish. He didn’t like it and didn’t like what a simple desire was turning him into - someone with wicked impulses.
Hypatia drew him out of the more self reproachful thoughts by struggling to tell him how it was she’d come to learn what she had, and he crossed his arms, listening, his own frown mirroring hers as he sifted through her accent to try and glean what she was saying. A man had come to teach her. Of course one had, obviously. There weren’t many women tutors, though for someone as innocent as she was, he’d have preferred it was a woman who came to her. That would be better, wouldn’t it? But even as she asked if he, Isaiah, wanted to teach her, the resolve that a woman should do it melted away and he heard the words “Yes, I do,” leap off his tongue before he could quite reason himself out of saying them.
Even now, he should probably take them back, and he wanted to. But he didn’t. The thought of not seeing her for more time was unbearable. He wanted to see her every day, as irrational as that might be. They didn’t know each other, he reminded himself. Another, most unhelpful part of him thought, but this will aid us in getting to know each other…
One of the temple priests had once warned him that every person would face times of trial, a testing of their faith; would they remain faithful to Yahweh and His teachings? Even in the face of temptation? At the time, Isaiah couldn’t imagine anyone being silly enough to fail that test. Or, if they did fail, then they were of weak character. But here, now, he was falling straight from his lofty ideals and crashing into the paving stones below with the weaker willed men who’d failed before him. All he knew was that he wanted to be the man to teach her what she needed to know and no one else should do it.
“When do you go back?” he asked, meaning when did she need to go home. He finally had the presence of mind to glance around the market to check if they were being watched. A pair of women, their heads close together as they spoke, chose that exact moment to walk across the stretch of market, blocking his line of sight to Mary’s stall, and therefore, he did not see the horror in his mother’s face. Satisfied that they weren’t being paid any undue attention, Isaiah looked back at Hypatia, forcing himself to maintain the sort of blank expectation he’d had before he’d been momentarily overpowered by her.
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
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Isaiah liked to think of himself as a good man. A kind man. On of high morals and excellent character. This was not based on any sense of undue pride, but a strict adherence to the books of Moses and the laws therein told him, to his Judean mind, that he was a good person. But, as Hypatia leaned in, the coils of her golden mane falling in a luxurious cascade against his chest, he looked down at her and had the strongest impulse to sink both hands into her hair. He stayed completely still as the ends of her hair tickled the back of his hand and he knew he should move, but he didn’t. Just as his scent had fascinated her, he, too, found himself overwhelmed with visions of a sunny orchard. He imagined her wandering through this orchard, with its clear lane and verdant green grass, a basket on the crook of her arm, dressed exactly as she was today, reaching up to pluck a red apple from the lowest branch. Her bare, white arm stretched up against the clear blue of the sky. The red of the apple was as a ruby in her palm. The basket was suddenly filled with white apple blossoms She’d take them home and they would become soap for her while she bathed-
Isaiah squeezed his eyes shut, clenched his jaw, and withdrew his hand. Never had he been so close to such an impure thought in the presence of a woman. His heart beat against his chest, reminding him that the physical world was very real and it wouldn’t do for either of them if he let himself slip off into unseemly daydreams. Carefully forcing his mind to be blank and to listen to Hypatia’s gentle chatter, he finally opened his eyes only to be confronted with the curve of her neck and the gentle wisps of of golden hair escaping the bounty of locks she’d pulled around to the other side. The pink shell of her ear as fairly close to him as they leaned over the paper and he had to look skyward, seeking some sort of divine help. Taking a step back, letting his fingers slip away from the paper, he backed against the table and held the edges of it, the bones of his hand showing white in his knuckles.
His attempt at getting back to a point where conversation was rational again, he asked who’d taught her, trying to focus on the miracle of her grasp of language, rather than the way the design of her dress left most of her top half bare; or what he considered bare, at any rate. Her arms and shoulders and a good deal of her upper chest were on full display and, when paired with the total innocence of her features, it was his total undoing. He couldn’t pretend to himself that he just wanted to be her friend. Not after what had happened a few seconds ago. However, he wasn’t quite prepared to admit what it was he did want, because it was impossible, wrong in several ways, and terribly selfish. He didn’t like it and didn’t like what a simple desire was turning him into - someone with wicked impulses.
Hypatia drew him out of the more self reproachful thoughts by struggling to tell him how it was she’d come to learn what she had, and he crossed his arms, listening, his own frown mirroring hers as he sifted through her accent to try and glean what she was saying. A man had come to teach her. Of course one had, obviously. There weren’t many women tutors, though for someone as innocent as she was, he’d have preferred it was a woman who came to her. That would be better, wouldn’t it? But even as she asked if he, Isaiah, wanted to teach her, the resolve that a woman should do it melted away and he heard the words “Yes, I do,” leap off his tongue before he could quite reason himself out of saying them.
Even now, he should probably take them back, and he wanted to. But he didn’t. The thought of not seeing her for more time was unbearable. He wanted to see her every day, as irrational as that might be. They didn’t know each other, he reminded himself. Another, most unhelpful part of him thought, but this will aid us in getting to know each other…
One of the temple priests had once warned him that every person would face times of trial, a testing of their faith; would they remain faithful to Yahweh and His teachings? Even in the face of temptation? At the time, Isaiah couldn’t imagine anyone being silly enough to fail that test. Or, if they did fail, then they were of weak character. But here, now, he was falling straight from his lofty ideals and crashing into the paving stones below with the weaker willed men who’d failed before him. All he knew was that he wanted to be the man to teach her what she needed to know and no one else should do it.
“When do you go back?” he asked, meaning when did she need to go home. He finally had the presence of mind to glance around the market to check if they were being watched. A pair of women, their heads close together as they spoke, chose that exact moment to walk across the stretch of market, blocking his line of sight to Mary’s stall, and therefore, he did not see the horror in his mother’s face. Satisfied that they weren’t being paid any undue attention, Isaiah looked back at Hypatia, forcing himself to maintain the sort of blank expectation he’d had before he’d been momentarily overpowered by her.
Isaiah liked to think of himself as a good man. A kind man. On of high morals and excellent character. This was not based on any sense of undue pride, but a strict adherence to the books of Moses and the laws therein told him, to his Judean mind, that he was a good person. But, as Hypatia leaned in, the coils of her golden mane falling in a luxurious cascade against his chest, he looked down at her and had the strongest impulse to sink both hands into her hair. He stayed completely still as the ends of her hair tickled the back of his hand and he knew he should move, but he didn’t. Just as his scent had fascinated her, he, too, found himself overwhelmed with visions of a sunny orchard. He imagined her wandering through this orchard, with its clear lane and verdant green grass, a basket on the crook of her arm, dressed exactly as she was today, reaching up to pluck a red apple from the lowest branch. Her bare, white arm stretched up against the clear blue of the sky. The red of the apple was as a ruby in her palm. The basket was suddenly filled with white apple blossoms She’d take them home and they would become soap for her while she bathed-
Isaiah squeezed his eyes shut, clenched his jaw, and withdrew his hand. Never had he been so close to such an impure thought in the presence of a woman. His heart beat against his chest, reminding him that the physical world was very real and it wouldn’t do for either of them if he let himself slip off into unseemly daydreams. Carefully forcing his mind to be blank and to listen to Hypatia’s gentle chatter, he finally opened his eyes only to be confronted with the curve of her neck and the gentle wisps of of golden hair escaping the bounty of locks she’d pulled around to the other side. The pink shell of her ear as fairly close to him as they leaned over the paper and he had to look skyward, seeking some sort of divine help. Taking a step back, letting his fingers slip away from the paper, he backed against the table and held the edges of it, the bones of his hand showing white in his knuckles.
His attempt at getting back to a point where conversation was rational again, he asked who’d taught her, trying to focus on the miracle of her grasp of language, rather than the way the design of her dress left most of her top half bare; or what he considered bare, at any rate. Her arms and shoulders and a good deal of her upper chest were on full display and, when paired with the total innocence of her features, it was his total undoing. He couldn’t pretend to himself that he just wanted to be her friend. Not after what had happened a few seconds ago. However, he wasn’t quite prepared to admit what it was he did want, because it was impossible, wrong in several ways, and terribly selfish. He didn’t like it and didn’t like what a simple desire was turning him into - someone with wicked impulses.
Hypatia drew him out of the more self reproachful thoughts by struggling to tell him how it was she’d come to learn what she had, and he crossed his arms, listening, his own frown mirroring hers as he sifted through her accent to try and glean what she was saying. A man had come to teach her. Of course one had, obviously. There weren’t many women tutors, though for someone as innocent as she was, he’d have preferred it was a woman who came to her. That would be better, wouldn’t it? But even as she asked if he, Isaiah, wanted to teach her, the resolve that a woman should do it melted away and he heard the words “Yes, I do,” leap off his tongue before he could quite reason himself out of saying them.
Even now, he should probably take them back, and he wanted to. But he didn’t. The thought of not seeing her for more time was unbearable. He wanted to see her every day, as irrational as that might be. They didn’t know each other, he reminded himself. Another, most unhelpful part of him thought, but this will aid us in getting to know each other…
One of the temple priests had once warned him that every person would face times of trial, a testing of their faith; would they remain faithful to Yahweh and His teachings? Even in the face of temptation? At the time, Isaiah couldn’t imagine anyone being silly enough to fail that test. Or, if they did fail, then they were of weak character. But here, now, he was falling straight from his lofty ideals and crashing into the paving stones below with the weaker willed men who’d failed before him. All he knew was that he wanted to be the man to teach her what she needed to know and no one else should do it.
“When do you go back?” he asked, meaning when did she need to go home. He finally had the presence of mind to glance around the market to check if they were being watched. A pair of women, their heads close together as they spoke, chose that exact moment to walk across the stretch of market, blocking his line of sight to Mary’s stall, and therefore, he did not see the horror in his mother’s face. Satisfied that they weren’t being paid any undue attention, Isaiah looked back at Hypatia, forcing himself to maintain the sort of blank expectation he’d had before he’d been momentarily overpowered by her.
It was perhaps testament to Hypatia's upbringing that she was naive enough, with child-like innocence not to notice Isaiah's difficulty. With any step closer to her, in interpreted it as an attempt to breach the learning and language boundary that the parchment she held was helping to bridge. Any retreat of his being, her mind attributed to decorum or momentary reminders of etiquette. As if he feared the opinion of the diminishing crowds around then if he stood too close. To her consideration of his behaviour, he was being demure in character and respectful of her reputation. A man who was kindness through and through.
When he spoke of wanting to help her learn his native tongue, confirming her attempt to translate his own words back to him, Hypatia could do little else within the confusion of his offer but to follow in her natural instincts. And so, she smiled. Her straight, white teeth gleamed even against her own pale skin and she felt her cheeks bloom once more. Less to do with social awkwardness this time, the colour rose as a result of simple happiness - an excitement for how their lives might intertwine and progress from this point onwards.
Just the fact that Isaiah actually wished to be within her company, regardless of the difficulties it required him to face in terms of language and cultural boundaries had a proud little warmth curl in her chest once more... It was nice to be considered worthy of a visit, time and effort without agenda. Though why he should wish to be a part of her very small and so far silent world, was beyond her comprehension. But one did not have to understand in order to feel joy over particular happenstance.
Noting the way that the heat was forming in her face, and how the sun was still beating down upon the two of them, Hypatia felt the burn of the sun from on high even more so now that Isaiah had questioned how long she might be out in it. With slim fingers that brushed over her own arms, as if to protect her from the hot tingle of oppressive sunshine, Hypatia looked around at the merchants flanking them upon all sides. Despite their interaction lasting only a few minutes - minutes that seemed to have stretched into an eternity that was over far too quickly, there were far more sellers closing up their wares for the end of the day.
Feeling a sense of disappointment that she had not attended upon Isaiah's invitation earlier in the day, Hypatia turned her head with an elegant tilt and shook her head softly.
"I should return." She stared simply, any words she was destined to say afterwards suddenly halted by the appearance of a hassled and concerned looking Sarah. The older woman, judging but the way strands of hair had been loosened from beneath her headscarf and her cheeks sported unattractive splodges of colour at the pique of their ruddy roundness, had been looking for Hypatia across the market since losing track of her in the crowd. Her breathing was heavy with effort more than with exertion and her eyes were that of severely dislike of her charge.
The feeling was more or less mutual as Hypatia had never much taken to Sarah's higher than thou attitude nor her tendency for becoming cross. Yet she was her guide and translator to the world in which she found herself so she had long since resigned herself to the acceptance of a shadow that was so out of sorts so much of the time.
In broken Greek, Sarah chastised Hypatia in specific language that could not be heralded as outright rude. She insisted that they return to the manor of be betrothed and that her mother would now be awake and concerned for her absence.
Hypatia's expression remained polite but dimmed a little in recognition of this fact. Even if Isaiah's business was not concluded for the day and the sun had not been seeping through her silks and causing a glow upon her skin... Europa was surely the deciding factor of her return. For some small, hidden and unacknowledged voice in the corner of her mind spoke with a protective instinct that warned her to keep Isaiah's presence beyond the knowledge of her mother.
"Very well." Hypatia answered the woman's frustrated tone in a calm a patient one of her own. She then held a hand towards Isaiah. "Please inform this man in Hebrew that I shall expect him to call upon me at the manor tomorrow at daybreak, if that is suitable to him?"
"I shall not." Sarah refused, her Greek rudimentary but clear enough. "I serve Master Alexios and now Lady Europa. I will not invite strangers to the home without permission from they. And, with respect my Lady, nor should you."
Hypatia's eyes turned bright in a moment of emotion sparked by conflict she did not have the courage nor skill to argue down. Looking as if she had been slapped for a moment, it took a few heartbeats for her spine to straighten, her jaw to steady and her chin to rise.
"Very well." She stated again, attempting to redeem her own state of shame. She prayed that sir Isaiah did not notice the brazen awkwardness of the exchange. "Then tell me what the Hebrew word for 'letter' is."
Despite a suspicious expression stealing over her features as if she knew exactly the purpose of the query and desired more than anything to find a valid reason to deny a second request from her superior, Sarah abated her resistance and duly supplied the word. Hypatia then turned to Isaiah, armed with such language.
"I write letter for you." She told him carefully, the new word tripping over her tongue. "For when you teach."
She knew that the staff within Alexios' kitchens would have a means of contacting Isaiah for their deliveries of oil, so she would simply ask them how and where to send such a missive once her current tutor had helped her to write it.
Her eyes glancing over the stall and business that the young Judean clearly took great pride in, Hypatia's smile and sunny disposition had returned as she bid the man farewell.
"Thank you for showing me your stall, Isaiah." She said, using the new word with more confidence. She then placed her hands together and offered that formal bow once more. "Shalom, friend."
And with Sarah tugging on the sleeve of her goan, an awkward look upon her face when she looked towards Isaiah, Hypatia gave in to the necessary retreat and, without being permitted a lengthy goodbye, cast a single backwards glance at the little stall and its owner before she was dragged away through the streets.
The noise of the market and then the roads between there and the manor were loud enough to cause the most brash of distractions, whilst Sarah's grumblings in Hebrew created a dark and dreary undertone, designed to seep beneath the clamour and needle at the mistress she considered too stupid in her arrogant follies. And yet, Hypatia heard none of it. She was distracted by the thought of a pair of dark eyes, the warm brush of linen and the smell of soap and sandalwood...
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It was perhaps testament to Hypatia's upbringing that she was naive enough, with child-like innocence not to notice Isaiah's difficulty. With any step closer to her, in interpreted it as an attempt to breach the learning and language boundary that the parchment she held was helping to bridge. Any retreat of his being, her mind attributed to decorum or momentary reminders of etiquette. As if he feared the opinion of the diminishing crowds around then if he stood too close. To her consideration of his behaviour, he was being demure in character and respectful of her reputation. A man who was kindness through and through.
When he spoke of wanting to help her learn his native tongue, confirming her attempt to translate his own words back to him, Hypatia could do little else within the confusion of his offer but to follow in her natural instincts. And so, she smiled. Her straight, white teeth gleamed even against her own pale skin and she felt her cheeks bloom once more. Less to do with social awkwardness this time, the colour rose as a result of simple happiness - an excitement for how their lives might intertwine and progress from this point onwards.
Just the fact that Isaiah actually wished to be within her company, regardless of the difficulties it required him to face in terms of language and cultural boundaries had a proud little warmth curl in her chest once more... It was nice to be considered worthy of a visit, time and effort without agenda. Though why he should wish to be a part of her very small and so far silent world, was beyond her comprehension. But one did not have to understand in order to feel joy over particular happenstance.
Noting the way that the heat was forming in her face, and how the sun was still beating down upon the two of them, Hypatia felt the burn of the sun from on high even more so now that Isaiah had questioned how long she might be out in it. With slim fingers that brushed over her own arms, as if to protect her from the hot tingle of oppressive sunshine, Hypatia looked around at the merchants flanking them upon all sides. Despite their interaction lasting only a few minutes - minutes that seemed to have stretched into an eternity that was over far too quickly, there were far more sellers closing up their wares for the end of the day.
Feeling a sense of disappointment that she had not attended upon Isaiah's invitation earlier in the day, Hypatia turned her head with an elegant tilt and shook her head softly.
"I should return." She stared simply, any words she was destined to say afterwards suddenly halted by the appearance of a hassled and concerned looking Sarah. The older woman, judging but the way strands of hair had been loosened from beneath her headscarf and her cheeks sported unattractive splodges of colour at the pique of their ruddy roundness, had been looking for Hypatia across the market since losing track of her in the crowd. Her breathing was heavy with effort more than with exertion and her eyes were that of severely dislike of her charge.
The feeling was more or less mutual as Hypatia had never much taken to Sarah's higher than thou attitude nor her tendency for becoming cross. Yet she was her guide and translator to the world in which she found herself so she had long since resigned herself to the acceptance of a shadow that was so out of sorts so much of the time.
In broken Greek, Sarah chastised Hypatia in specific language that could not be heralded as outright rude. She insisted that they return to the manor of be betrothed and that her mother would now be awake and concerned for her absence.
Hypatia's expression remained polite but dimmed a little in recognition of this fact. Even if Isaiah's business was not concluded for the day and the sun had not been seeping through her silks and causing a glow upon her skin... Europa was surely the deciding factor of her return. For some small, hidden and unacknowledged voice in the corner of her mind spoke with a protective instinct that warned her to keep Isaiah's presence beyond the knowledge of her mother.
"Very well." Hypatia answered the woman's frustrated tone in a calm a patient one of her own. She then held a hand towards Isaiah. "Please inform this man in Hebrew that I shall expect him to call upon me at the manor tomorrow at daybreak, if that is suitable to him?"
"I shall not." Sarah refused, her Greek rudimentary but clear enough. "I serve Master Alexios and now Lady Europa. I will not invite strangers to the home without permission from they. And, with respect my Lady, nor should you."
Hypatia's eyes turned bright in a moment of emotion sparked by conflict she did not have the courage nor skill to argue down. Looking as if she had been slapped for a moment, it took a few heartbeats for her spine to straighten, her jaw to steady and her chin to rise.
"Very well." She stated again, attempting to redeem her own state of shame. She prayed that sir Isaiah did not notice the brazen awkwardness of the exchange. "Then tell me what the Hebrew word for 'letter' is."
Despite a suspicious expression stealing over her features as if she knew exactly the purpose of the query and desired more than anything to find a valid reason to deny a second request from her superior, Sarah abated her resistance and duly supplied the word. Hypatia then turned to Isaiah, armed with such language.
"I write letter for you." She told him carefully, the new word tripping over her tongue. "For when you teach."
She knew that the staff within Alexios' kitchens would have a means of contacting Isaiah for their deliveries of oil, so she would simply ask them how and where to send such a missive once her current tutor had helped her to write it.
Her eyes glancing over the stall and business that the young Judean clearly took great pride in, Hypatia's smile and sunny disposition had returned as she bid the man farewell.
"Thank you for showing me your stall, Isaiah." She said, using the new word with more confidence. She then placed her hands together and offered that formal bow once more. "Shalom, friend."
And with Sarah tugging on the sleeve of her goan, an awkward look upon her face when she looked towards Isaiah, Hypatia gave in to the necessary retreat and, without being permitted a lengthy goodbye, cast a single backwards glance at the little stall and its owner before she was dragged away through the streets.
The noise of the market and then the roads between there and the manor were loud enough to cause the most brash of distractions, whilst Sarah's grumblings in Hebrew created a dark and dreary undertone, designed to seep beneath the clamour and needle at the mistress she considered too stupid in her arrogant follies. And yet, Hypatia heard none of it. She was distracted by the thought of a pair of dark eyes, the warm brush of linen and the smell of soap and sandalwood...
It was perhaps testament to Hypatia's upbringing that she was naive enough, with child-like innocence not to notice Isaiah's difficulty. With any step closer to her, in interpreted it as an attempt to breach the learning and language boundary that the parchment she held was helping to bridge. Any retreat of his being, her mind attributed to decorum or momentary reminders of etiquette. As if he feared the opinion of the diminishing crowds around then if he stood too close. To her consideration of his behaviour, he was being demure in character and respectful of her reputation. A man who was kindness through and through.
When he spoke of wanting to help her learn his native tongue, confirming her attempt to translate his own words back to him, Hypatia could do little else within the confusion of his offer but to follow in her natural instincts. And so, she smiled. Her straight, white teeth gleamed even against her own pale skin and she felt her cheeks bloom once more. Less to do with social awkwardness this time, the colour rose as a result of simple happiness - an excitement for how their lives might intertwine and progress from this point onwards.
Just the fact that Isaiah actually wished to be within her company, regardless of the difficulties it required him to face in terms of language and cultural boundaries had a proud little warmth curl in her chest once more... It was nice to be considered worthy of a visit, time and effort without agenda. Though why he should wish to be a part of her very small and so far silent world, was beyond her comprehension. But one did not have to understand in order to feel joy over particular happenstance.
Noting the way that the heat was forming in her face, and how the sun was still beating down upon the two of them, Hypatia felt the burn of the sun from on high even more so now that Isaiah had questioned how long she might be out in it. With slim fingers that brushed over her own arms, as if to protect her from the hot tingle of oppressive sunshine, Hypatia looked around at the merchants flanking them upon all sides. Despite their interaction lasting only a few minutes - minutes that seemed to have stretched into an eternity that was over far too quickly, there were far more sellers closing up their wares for the end of the day.
Feeling a sense of disappointment that she had not attended upon Isaiah's invitation earlier in the day, Hypatia turned her head with an elegant tilt and shook her head softly.
"I should return." She stared simply, any words she was destined to say afterwards suddenly halted by the appearance of a hassled and concerned looking Sarah. The older woman, judging but the way strands of hair had been loosened from beneath her headscarf and her cheeks sported unattractive splodges of colour at the pique of their ruddy roundness, had been looking for Hypatia across the market since losing track of her in the crowd. Her breathing was heavy with effort more than with exertion and her eyes were that of severely dislike of her charge.
The feeling was more or less mutual as Hypatia had never much taken to Sarah's higher than thou attitude nor her tendency for becoming cross. Yet she was her guide and translator to the world in which she found herself so she had long since resigned herself to the acceptance of a shadow that was so out of sorts so much of the time.
In broken Greek, Sarah chastised Hypatia in specific language that could not be heralded as outright rude. She insisted that they return to the manor of be betrothed and that her mother would now be awake and concerned for her absence.
Hypatia's expression remained polite but dimmed a little in recognition of this fact. Even if Isaiah's business was not concluded for the day and the sun had not been seeping through her silks and causing a glow upon her skin... Europa was surely the deciding factor of her return. For some small, hidden and unacknowledged voice in the corner of her mind spoke with a protective instinct that warned her to keep Isaiah's presence beyond the knowledge of her mother.
"Very well." Hypatia answered the woman's frustrated tone in a calm a patient one of her own. She then held a hand towards Isaiah. "Please inform this man in Hebrew that I shall expect him to call upon me at the manor tomorrow at daybreak, if that is suitable to him?"
"I shall not." Sarah refused, her Greek rudimentary but clear enough. "I serve Master Alexios and now Lady Europa. I will not invite strangers to the home without permission from they. And, with respect my Lady, nor should you."
Hypatia's eyes turned bright in a moment of emotion sparked by conflict she did not have the courage nor skill to argue down. Looking as if she had been slapped for a moment, it took a few heartbeats for her spine to straighten, her jaw to steady and her chin to rise.
"Very well." She stated again, attempting to redeem her own state of shame. She prayed that sir Isaiah did not notice the brazen awkwardness of the exchange. "Then tell me what the Hebrew word for 'letter' is."
Despite a suspicious expression stealing over her features as if she knew exactly the purpose of the query and desired more than anything to find a valid reason to deny a second request from her superior, Sarah abated her resistance and duly supplied the word. Hypatia then turned to Isaiah, armed with such language.
"I write letter for you." She told him carefully, the new word tripping over her tongue. "For when you teach."
She knew that the staff within Alexios' kitchens would have a means of contacting Isaiah for their deliveries of oil, so she would simply ask them how and where to send such a missive once her current tutor had helped her to write it.
Her eyes glancing over the stall and business that the young Judean clearly took great pride in, Hypatia's smile and sunny disposition had returned as she bid the man farewell.
"Thank you for showing me your stall, Isaiah." She said, using the new word with more confidence. She then placed her hands together and offered that formal bow once more. "Shalom, friend."
And with Sarah tugging on the sleeve of her goan, an awkward look upon her face when she looked towards Isaiah, Hypatia gave in to the necessary retreat and, without being permitted a lengthy goodbye, cast a single backwards glance at the little stall and its owner before she was dragged away through the streets.
The noise of the market and then the roads between there and the manor were loud enough to cause the most brash of distractions, whilst Sarah's grumblings in Hebrew created a dark and dreary undertone, designed to seep beneath the clamour and needle at the mistress she considered too stupid in her arrogant follies. And yet, Hypatia heard none of it. She was distracted by the thought of a pair of dark eyes, the warm brush of linen and the smell of soap and sandalwood...
At Hypatia’s answer of needing to leave, Isaiah nodded. He’d suspected as much and was half grateful for it. Once she left, he’d be able to have full control of his faculties again. Yet, he found his head tilting as he surveyed her with a soft, wistful look, wishing harder than ever that he was rich. Such a thing was not an uncommon thought for him. If he was rich, their house wouldn’t be so cramped and he wouldn’t have to hear the intermittent giggling that came from Benjamin’s room, or the thumping at night. He wouldn’t hear his little nephew’s newborn wailing at all hours. More importantly, he’d have had an actual chance with Hypatia. Be able to give her more of the life she was used to. Instead, he found himself limited to finding ways to spend time with her and, he promised himself, that would be where he would stop. Just talking with her would be enough.
All at once, an unpleasant looking, rumpled woman bumbled up to them and Isaiah stood up straighter, giving the servant a once over before glancing at Hypatia. His shoulders eased visibly once he figured out that Hypatia not only knew this woman, but that this servant must be attached to her in some way. That was rather a relief - he’d been wondering if she wandered here on her own and while that wasn’t a crime, if she got into trouble, he didn’t think she knew enough Hebrew to get anyone of any importance to lend her aid. They’d more than likely ignore her pleas. It didn’t matter if she looked like an underdressed angel.
Though Hypatia wished he hadn’t noticed the discord between them, he’d have been a fool if he’d managed to miss it. Despite not knowing what they were saying, the uncertainty on Hypatia’s face and the irritation etched into every rolly feature on Sarah gave him the distinct impression that Hypatia’s venture here was as clandestine as his own way of making sure he saw her. A certain thrill rippled through him at the thought that she was trying to be secretive about seeing him and he nodded to her in a dreamy way when she mentioned the word letter. And then, in a swirl of sweat on Sarah’s end, and perfume on Hypatia’s, the two women were gone.
Isaiah leaned against the table again, clasping his hands in front of him, staring after her as she left, and smiling softly when he saw Hypatia throw a single glance back in his direction. He gave her a short wave and sighed, lips drawn up into a foolish grin. Today had gone about as perfectly as any day could go, all things considered. His eyes lingered on the pair of them until the crowds swallowed them up. Isaiah glanced around the stall, his eyes bouncing from rug to cushions to the table behind him, realizing he was alone. The feeling was different today than it had been before. Perhaps yesterday, he might have sat on one of the cushions and watched people wander by, or even invited a neighbor to sit with him and talk. Today, he felt the empty space pressing in, like something was missing. Like the stall had only been complete with Hypatia standing in it.
“That’s silly,” he muttered to himself and bent to pick up the first of the faded blue cushions. Twisting, he set it on the table behind him and as he came up with the second one, he found his mother’s face right at his shoulder. Isaiah jumped back, using the cushion as a shield, staring at her. “Where did you come from? I thought you were with Mary.”
“I was,” Abigail moved into the stall and snatched up a cushion, tossing it to Isaiah without looking at him. He caught it and turned onto to find another one being flung at him. By then he’d figured out that she intended to fling every cushion on the ground at him and that he was to stack them on the table. They worked in silence for a few seconds. An uncomfortable heat rose in the back of his neck but he couldn’t quite bring himself to check why his mother’s previously jovial mood had changed. There could be many reasons. Maybe she and Mary had fought? Yes. That must be it.
“What did you do while I was gone?” Abigail asked suddenly. Isaiah kept his back to her as he gathered the cushions against his chest, thinking fast.
“Sold the rest of the oil,” he glanced over at the wagon a good ways off. “Do you think we have a ride back to the house? Or will we have to walk?”
“Who was the Greek harlot here?”
“Harlot?” Isaiah frowned and looked sharply at his mother. “There was no harlot here,” he didn’t dull the edge in his voice, not liking any of the implications that she was hinting at.
“Looked like a harlot,” Abigail persisted.
Isaiah sighed loudly. “I wouldn’t associate with a harlot, mother.”
“I hope not. It would bring gray to my head,” she frowned at him. “And shame.”
“Since you were spying,” Isaiah eyed her, finding courage in his agitation. “She lives in Commander Alexios’s house. She-”
“Oh! She was ordering oil!” his mother’s relief was so great that Isaiah couldn’t quite bring himself to contradict that assumption. He bit his lower lip and then said, “I have met her twice when I went to the Commander’s house. I think she’s his sister or something. Her Hebrew isn’t good.”
“Oh, well,” Abigail brushed strands of hair away from her face, and smoothed down her stola, the outer robe she wore when in public. “That’s fine. I thought-” she stopped and when Isaiah merely tilted his head and raised his brows at her, she colored. “I thought she was the girl you were waiting for. I am sorry, son, I only meant to put you on your guard, but I see that it is unnecessary.”
“Wholly unnecessary,” he said cooly, though was incapable of maintaining any sort of harshness and reached out an arm to draw his mother close. “There is no danger, mama.” He kissed the top of her head and stared unhappily at the tabletop. Since he could offer Hypatia nothing…”There’s no danger at all.”
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At Hypatia’s answer of needing to leave, Isaiah nodded. He’d suspected as much and was half grateful for it. Once she left, he’d be able to have full control of his faculties again. Yet, he found his head tilting as he surveyed her with a soft, wistful look, wishing harder than ever that he was rich. Such a thing was not an uncommon thought for him. If he was rich, their house wouldn’t be so cramped and he wouldn’t have to hear the intermittent giggling that came from Benjamin’s room, or the thumping at night. He wouldn’t hear his little nephew’s newborn wailing at all hours. More importantly, he’d have had an actual chance with Hypatia. Be able to give her more of the life she was used to. Instead, he found himself limited to finding ways to spend time with her and, he promised himself, that would be where he would stop. Just talking with her would be enough.
All at once, an unpleasant looking, rumpled woman bumbled up to them and Isaiah stood up straighter, giving the servant a once over before glancing at Hypatia. His shoulders eased visibly once he figured out that Hypatia not only knew this woman, but that this servant must be attached to her in some way. That was rather a relief - he’d been wondering if she wandered here on her own and while that wasn’t a crime, if she got into trouble, he didn’t think she knew enough Hebrew to get anyone of any importance to lend her aid. They’d more than likely ignore her pleas. It didn’t matter if she looked like an underdressed angel.
Though Hypatia wished he hadn’t noticed the discord between them, he’d have been a fool if he’d managed to miss it. Despite not knowing what they were saying, the uncertainty on Hypatia’s face and the irritation etched into every rolly feature on Sarah gave him the distinct impression that Hypatia’s venture here was as clandestine as his own way of making sure he saw her. A certain thrill rippled through him at the thought that she was trying to be secretive about seeing him and he nodded to her in a dreamy way when she mentioned the word letter. And then, in a swirl of sweat on Sarah’s end, and perfume on Hypatia’s, the two women were gone.
Isaiah leaned against the table again, clasping his hands in front of him, staring after her as she left, and smiling softly when he saw Hypatia throw a single glance back in his direction. He gave her a short wave and sighed, lips drawn up into a foolish grin. Today had gone about as perfectly as any day could go, all things considered. His eyes lingered on the pair of them until the crowds swallowed them up. Isaiah glanced around the stall, his eyes bouncing from rug to cushions to the table behind him, realizing he was alone. The feeling was different today than it had been before. Perhaps yesterday, he might have sat on one of the cushions and watched people wander by, or even invited a neighbor to sit with him and talk. Today, he felt the empty space pressing in, like something was missing. Like the stall had only been complete with Hypatia standing in it.
“That’s silly,” he muttered to himself and bent to pick up the first of the faded blue cushions. Twisting, he set it on the table behind him and as he came up with the second one, he found his mother’s face right at his shoulder. Isaiah jumped back, using the cushion as a shield, staring at her. “Where did you come from? I thought you were with Mary.”
“I was,” Abigail moved into the stall and snatched up a cushion, tossing it to Isaiah without looking at him. He caught it and turned onto to find another one being flung at him. By then he’d figured out that she intended to fling every cushion on the ground at him and that he was to stack them on the table. They worked in silence for a few seconds. An uncomfortable heat rose in the back of his neck but he couldn’t quite bring himself to check why his mother’s previously jovial mood had changed. There could be many reasons. Maybe she and Mary had fought? Yes. That must be it.
“What did you do while I was gone?” Abigail asked suddenly. Isaiah kept his back to her as he gathered the cushions against his chest, thinking fast.
“Sold the rest of the oil,” he glanced over at the wagon a good ways off. “Do you think we have a ride back to the house? Or will we have to walk?”
“Who was the Greek harlot here?”
“Harlot?” Isaiah frowned and looked sharply at his mother. “There was no harlot here,” he didn’t dull the edge in his voice, not liking any of the implications that she was hinting at.
“Looked like a harlot,” Abigail persisted.
Isaiah sighed loudly. “I wouldn’t associate with a harlot, mother.”
“I hope not. It would bring gray to my head,” she frowned at him. “And shame.”
“Since you were spying,” Isaiah eyed her, finding courage in his agitation. “She lives in Commander Alexios’s house. She-”
“Oh! She was ordering oil!” his mother’s relief was so great that Isaiah couldn’t quite bring himself to contradict that assumption. He bit his lower lip and then said, “I have met her twice when I went to the Commander’s house. I think she’s his sister or something. Her Hebrew isn’t good.”
“Oh, well,” Abigail brushed strands of hair away from her face, and smoothed down her stola, the outer robe she wore when in public. “That’s fine. I thought-” she stopped and when Isaiah merely tilted his head and raised his brows at her, she colored. “I thought she was the girl you were waiting for. I am sorry, son, I only meant to put you on your guard, but I see that it is unnecessary.”
“Wholly unnecessary,” he said cooly, though was incapable of maintaining any sort of harshness and reached out an arm to draw his mother close. “There is no danger, mama.” He kissed the top of her head and stared unhappily at the tabletop. Since he could offer Hypatia nothing…”There’s no danger at all.”
At Hypatia’s answer of needing to leave, Isaiah nodded. He’d suspected as much and was half grateful for it. Once she left, he’d be able to have full control of his faculties again. Yet, he found his head tilting as he surveyed her with a soft, wistful look, wishing harder than ever that he was rich. Such a thing was not an uncommon thought for him. If he was rich, their house wouldn’t be so cramped and he wouldn’t have to hear the intermittent giggling that came from Benjamin’s room, or the thumping at night. He wouldn’t hear his little nephew’s newborn wailing at all hours. More importantly, he’d have had an actual chance with Hypatia. Be able to give her more of the life she was used to. Instead, he found himself limited to finding ways to spend time with her and, he promised himself, that would be where he would stop. Just talking with her would be enough.
All at once, an unpleasant looking, rumpled woman bumbled up to them and Isaiah stood up straighter, giving the servant a once over before glancing at Hypatia. His shoulders eased visibly once he figured out that Hypatia not only knew this woman, but that this servant must be attached to her in some way. That was rather a relief - he’d been wondering if she wandered here on her own and while that wasn’t a crime, if she got into trouble, he didn’t think she knew enough Hebrew to get anyone of any importance to lend her aid. They’d more than likely ignore her pleas. It didn’t matter if she looked like an underdressed angel.
Though Hypatia wished he hadn’t noticed the discord between them, he’d have been a fool if he’d managed to miss it. Despite not knowing what they were saying, the uncertainty on Hypatia’s face and the irritation etched into every rolly feature on Sarah gave him the distinct impression that Hypatia’s venture here was as clandestine as his own way of making sure he saw her. A certain thrill rippled through him at the thought that she was trying to be secretive about seeing him and he nodded to her in a dreamy way when she mentioned the word letter. And then, in a swirl of sweat on Sarah’s end, and perfume on Hypatia’s, the two women were gone.
Isaiah leaned against the table again, clasping his hands in front of him, staring after her as she left, and smiling softly when he saw Hypatia throw a single glance back in his direction. He gave her a short wave and sighed, lips drawn up into a foolish grin. Today had gone about as perfectly as any day could go, all things considered. His eyes lingered on the pair of them until the crowds swallowed them up. Isaiah glanced around the stall, his eyes bouncing from rug to cushions to the table behind him, realizing he was alone. The feeling was different today than it had been before. Perhaps yesterday, he might have sat on one of the cushions and watched people wander by, or even invited a neighbor to sit with him and talk. Today, he felt the empty space pressing in, like something was missing. Like the stall had only been complete with Hypatia standing in it.
“That’s silly,” he muttered to himself and bent to pick up the first of the faded blue cushions. Twisting, he set it on the table behind him and as he came up with the second one, he found his mother’s face right at his shoulder. Isaiah jumped back, using the cushion as a shield, staring at her. “Where did you come from? I thought you were with Mary.”
“I was,” Abigail moved into the stall and snatched up a cushion, tossing it to Isaiah without looking at him. He caught it and turned onto to find another one being flung at him. By then he’d figured out that she intended to fling every cushion on the ground at him and that he was to stack them on the table. They worked in silence for a few seconds. An uncomfortable heat rose in the back of his neck but he couldn’t quite bring himself to check why his mother’s previously jovial mood had changed. There could be many reasons. Maybe she and Mary had fought? Yes. That must be it.
“What did you do while I was gone?” Abigail asked suddenly. Isaiah kept his back to her as he gathered the cushions against his chest, thinking fast.
“Sold the rest of the oil,” he glanced over at the wagon a good ways off. “Do you think we have a ride back to the house? Or will we have to walk?”
“Who was the Greek harlot here?”
“Harlot?” Isaiah frowned and looked sharply at his mother. “There was no harlot here,” he didn’t dull the edge in his voice, not liking any of the implications that she was hinting at.
“Looked like a harlot,” Abigail persisted.
Isaiah sighed loudly. “I wouldn’t associate with a harlot, mother.”
“I hope not. It would bring gray to my head,” she frowned at him. “And shame.”
“Since you were spying,” Isaiah eyed her, finding courage in his agitation. “She lives in Commander Alexios’s house. She-”
“Oh! She was ordering oil!” his mother’s relief was so great that Isaiah couldn’t quite bring himself to contradict that assumption. He bit his lower lip and then said, “I have met her twice when I went to the Commander’s house. I think she’s his sister or something. Her Hebrew isn’t good.”
“Oh, well,” Abigail brushed strands of hair away from her face, and smoothed down her stola, the outer robe she wore when in public. “That’s fine. I thought-” she stopped and when Isaiah merely tilted his head and raised his brows at her, she colored. “I thought she was the girl you were waiting for. I am sorry, son, I only meant to put you on your guard, but I see that it is unnecessary.”
“Wholly unnecessary,” he said cooly, though was incapable of maintaining any sort of harshness and reached out an arm to draw his mother close. “There is no danger, mama.” He kissed the top of her head and stared unhappily at the tabletop. Since he could offer Hypatia nothing…”There’s no danger at all.”