Dwyrin drew his feet up under him and edged out into the space between the beds. The master reached Kyllun’s bunk and gave him a sharp switch on his exposed foot. Then the master paused, dark eyes narrowed, spying the rubbish by the side of the bed. His hand was quick as he turned and grasped the sleep-befuddled Kyllun by one large sun-browned ear.
“So! You are the rascal who has been into the orchards of the holy monks!” Kyllun barely had time to yelp before the cane swatted him sharply across the buttocks. “You’ll not be doing so again, my lad!” the master cried, and sharply marched him to the far end of the room, giving him the cane as he went. Kyllun was wailing by the time he and the master reached the end of the room. While the master was turned away, Dwyrin scooted across the gap and into his own bed. Safe.
Kyllun’s wailing had roused the rest of the boys now, including Patroclus, whose bunk was next to Dwyrin’s. The Sicilian boy eyed Dwyrin with distaste as the Hibernian slid under the thin cotton sheets of his bed and assumed a peaceful expression of sleep.
“You owe me your sweet at dinner,” Patroclus hissed as he cast back his own sheets and ran long, thin boned hands through his lank black hair.
“You might as well get up now, everyone else is,” he whispered at Dwyrin, who responded with a semi-audible snore and rolled over artistically, his sheets askew and one bare white leg sticking out. Patroclus shook his head and rubbed sleep from his long face with both hands.
The master returned and paused by Dwyrin’s bunk, eyeing the Hibernian’s recumbent form. One almond-shaped eye, keen and dark, widened a little at the sight of the boy’s foot and the cane twitched in his olive hand.
“Lord Dwyrin,” he cooed, “it is time to rise and greet holy Ra as he begins his long journey through the heavens.” Dwyrin snored again and buried his head underneath the thin straw pillow. “Oh, Dwyrin… Get up, you lazy, thieving, treacherous, duplicitous lout!” the master shouted, and caned the backs of Dwyrin’s legs fiercely. Dwyrin shot up out of the bed like a porpoise sporting in the Aegean waves. The quick dark hand of the master secured his protruding red, freckled ear and dragged him into the walkway. Dwyrin yelled as the cane was sharply laid across his bottom.
“Young men who sneak out at night,” the master growled, “should take pains to clean the grass stains from their feet before they reenter the dormitory!”
“Ow! Ow! Ow!” Dwyrin wailed, as he too was frogmarched to the end of the long room. The other boys stared in amazement as the red-headed boy was dragged into the master’s cubicle at the end of the dormitory. The master dismissed Kyllun with a quick motion and the Cilician went quickly, rubbing his ear and glaring sheer hate at the unrepentant Dwyrin.
“Now, young master Dwyrin,” the dorm master said as he closed the door behind him, “let me see if I can remember the punishments for stealing, breaking curfew, and causing the unjust punishment of another student.”
Dwyrin gulped as the door slammed shut.
Day’s end came at last, the ship of Ra dropping once more beyond the western hills to begin its journey through darkness. Dwyrin looked up from the basin at the back of the kitchens to see the sky turn gold and purple, then fade into deepest blue. Two of the cooks came out of the low door, bearing another heavy tray of bowls and cups. Bone weary, his hands red and sore, Dwyrin heaved the copper bucket onto his shoulder and stumbled to the well at the end of the rear court. His hands throbbed as he cranked the wheel around, dropping the bucket and its corded hemp line into the cool darkness below. There was a distant splash and the too-familiar gurgle of the bucket tipping over and filling. Dwyrin leaned on the wheel against the growing weight. His bronze-red hair was gilded by the setting sun. There was laughter from the court within; the junior boys were leaving dinner and going to the night studies. “Ho! Dwyrin! Thanks for doing the dishes!” Patroclus and Kyllun leaned over the top of the wall, smug smiles broad upon their faces. Each held an extra sweet, dripping with honey and crumbs. Their self-satisfied faces, Dwyrin thought, were loathsome to look upon. He made the horns at both of them and cranked the wheel back around. The bucket dragged heavy, even against the wheel and its pulleys. The two, hooting with laughter, disappeared from the wall and ran off, sandals slapping on the tiled walkway. Dwyrin cursed silently as he winched the heavy bucket out of the well.
/ could have stayed home and done this, he thought bitterly. Learning to be a thaumaturge sure takes a lot of lifting and carrying…
The curled edge of the bucket bit into his shoulder as he stumped back to the basin. The monks had come again and the basin was filled with cups and bowls and broad wooden serving platters. Dwyrin groaned as he leaned over the edge, spilling fresh water into the curved marble trough.
Holy monks and priests, particularly ones who can call the wind or summon lightning, should be able to clean their own bowls!
The moon was high and clear, well into the sky, when Dwyrin staggered through the corridor to the dormitory. His bed, he thought, would be most sweet. He washed in the cubicle at the end of the dorm, farthest from the master’s quarters. His hands were shaking with fatigue, his mind dulled. At last his bed was there and he could slide under the sheets, pulling them up over his head. Buried under the pillow, he allowed himself a whimper. But only one; Pa-troclus was doubtless listening from the next bunk.
His leg itched. He scratched it. His left side itched. He scratched it. There was something tickling at his belly. He rolled out of bed, his legs beginning to prickle. Turning back the sheets, he grimaced at the nettles and cockleburs liberally strewn within.
Patroclus laughed softly in the next bunk. Dwyrin, after a struggle, mastered himself and did not fall upon the Sicilian with knotted fists. He gathered up the bedding, trying hard not to spill any of the burrs or thistles within, and quietly crept out of the dorm. His hands and shoulder were already throbbing at the thought of drawing another bucket of water. Things, he thought as he bent over the washboard at the laundry, would have to change.
The masters barely teach us enough to summon a fly, he grumbled to himself. How can I…
He stopped, a slow wicked smile creeping onto his face. Suddenly he didn’t feel so tired.
ROMA MATER, ITALIA
A thin slat of daylight filtered down from above to cast a pall on the face of the young woman in the stained blue robe. Unconcerned with the thick crowd thronging the narrow alleyway, she pushed through mendicants, draymen, butchers with hogs’ heads slung over their shoulders, and off-duty aediles to finally reach the end of the sweetmeat lane. At the corner, she sneezed in the dust of the wider city street and then quickly crossed between two crowds of chanting priests. Each troupe bore a profusion of banners, small figurines on stands, and a cacophony of drums, trumpets, and rattles. The faithful moved slowly along the street, chanting and singing at the direction of their priests. On the far side, under the awning of a pastry shop, she tucked a loose curl of deep red-gold hair back into the patched hood of the threadbare robe and idly glanced up and down the street.
A half block away, Nikos was looking in her direction, his stubbly face turned up under a broad straw hat. He caught her eye and nodded, then touched the brim of the hat with a thick finger.