Parallel U. - Sophomore Year

by Dakota Rusk

  Table of Contents

  Title

  Copyright

  Dedication

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  Epilogue

  Parallel U.

  SOPHOMORE YEAR

  by Dakota Rusk

  Copyright © 2017 Dakota Rusk

  ISBN 978-0-9904705-4-0

  For Gus Kimmel-Svara

  1

  It was still warm this September morning, but not oppressively so. The wilting heat of Quintilis and Sextilis—the peak summer months—had abated, and it was possible now to open the windows and enjoy the fresh air.

  “Fresh” wasn’t the best word for what rolled in and stirred the curtains. But Hermione, as a native of the city who had spent her girlhood roaming its streets and alleys, took no offense at the scents drifting up from below—frying foods, burning petrol, the sharp tang of unwashed bodies—nor for that matter its sounds: the shrill cries of street vendors, the growling of motors, the howling of dogs. In fact she rather delighted in them; they were a reminder of the life from which she had all but retired.

  Her daughters felt differently. They preferred to keep the windows shut and the air-coolant devices turned on. Hermione hated those mechanisms; they were noisy, expensive, and they chilled the apartment to such a degree that she was forced—in the very peak days of Sextilis, when one could fry an egg on the sidewalk—to wear a shawl within her own walls.

  But then her daughters were the pampered progeny of a prominent Roman bureaucrat: her late husband, Terentius Lutatius, who had reared them to think themselves above the common fray…a teaching Hermione now wished she had tried to soften. But he had been an imperious, commanding man and she had rather liked leaving everything to his care; besides which, she was a mere Greek provincial who had felt herself lucky to be the choice of a Roman magnate, and was therefore obliged to show her gratitude by respecting his wishes and opinions in all things. After all, he could have had his choice of wives far more connected, far more politically advantageous than she; though to his credit he had never said so, never voiced regrets of any kind.

  Their daughters, alas, were not so liberal. For many years they’d been, if not ashamed of the Greek half of their heritage, then reluctant to have the matter brought up—even here in Indium, the largest metropolis in Egypt now that Alexandria had become a virtual city-scale museum (one needed permission even to live there, and it was only ever granted to scholars, architects, archaeologists, and classicists). In Indium, Greeks were the second largest population, after ethnic Egyptians themselves, while the others—Romans, Arabs, Numidians, and the rest—were in a constant competition for distant third. It was in that way as cosmopolitan a city as any in the empire.

  And yet it was a Roman empire; which meant that no matter what its history or location or ethnic makeup might be, Indium was a Roman city. Roman laws, tastes, manners, and technology held mighty sway here. And so Hermione—still a handsome woman of only forty-four years—had isolated herself in this sprawling apartment on the twelfth floor of a luxury complex in Indium’s city center; it was what a Roman widow was meant to do, after the death of her husband. Oh, it wasn’t a law or anything so binding as that; she was perfectly free to live her life in any manner she chose. Women in the empire could own property, negotiate business deals, vote in elections, even run for public office. One of the current consuls was, in fact, a female: Philippa Daciana, the first to hold that highest of ranks.

  But ever since the Classical Revival period had begun, two hundred years before, women had been judged by the exalted standards of such ancient Roman matrons as Lucretia and Porcia and Cornelia. And since Hermione still had a brother in public life, she felt obliged to conduct herself accordingly…especially as both she and he were Greek. It was a paradox she never tired of contemplating: that it was much, much more important for non-Romans to adhere to strict Roman values than it was for Romans themselves. She supposed, when it came down to it, true Romans felt they had nothing to prove.

  In that sense, her daughters were the truest to be found. And here to demonstrate it came Vipsania into the room, her face flushed and her fists balled.

  “Mother,” she said, “for the love of Isis, what on earth are you doing opening the windows on a day like this? I can feel the humidity rolling in all the way down the corridor to my room. It’s going to turn my hair into a frizzy mess, and I’ve only just had it straightened.”

  “It’s not as humid as that,” said Hermione, “and I like your hair best naturally curly.”

  Vipsania’s nostrils flared. “What you like is not the point. Curled hair is not the fashion. Do you want me to be any more ostracized than I already am?”

  This was a not-so-subtle reference to the family’s mixed blood. Hermione chose to ignore it. “Beauty and fashion are not the same thing,” she said, turning away from the window to face her daughter. “I’ve told you many, many times. Beauty is inherent; beauty is stillness; beauty endures. Fashion is a dervish dance; it is always in motion, never settled, and ultimately never means a thing.”

  “How would you know?” the girl said with a sneer. “You never go out.”

  “Would you prefer that I did?” Hermione asked. It wasn’t a serious threat…or was it? In any case, it caused Vipsania to fall silent.

  But the victory was short-lived, because a moment later Drusilla burst in on them. “Well, that explains it,” she said when she saw Hermione by the open window. “There is an insect in my room the size of my forearm. I was wondering how it could possibly have gotten in, and now I see. Mother, are you mad? Or are you just waiting for an entire horde of locusts to infest our home and devour us alive?”

  Hermione sighed and shut the windows. Her daughters had her outnumbered.

  But, she reflected, only because Fabia wasn’t here.

  Fabia—her third daughter—was the only one who liked the fresh air as much as she did. Were Fabia here at this moment, Hermione would have someone on her side; and their natural authority—Hermione as the girls’ mother, Fabia as the unchallenged star of the family—would carry the day. The window would stay open.

  But Fabia, alas, was not here.

  Fabia was very, very far away.

  Unreachably far away.

  The other two girls harrumphed back to their rooms to finish preparing themselves for whatever silly, irresponsible pursuits they had planned for the day. Hermione tried not to dwell on the injustice of their treatment of her. They demanded that she not embarrass them, that she adhere to the millennia-old rule book for female behavior, while they themselves tore about the city like hellions, wearing revealing clothing, consorting with notorious cads and roués, and getting their names in the gossip columns with distressing regularity.

  Still, there was nothing she could do about it…at least not today. Though perhaps in time…with masculine authority giving ballast to her own…

  Almost as if prompted, the German housekeeper appeared. “Citizen Sapir is here to see you,” she said in her thickly accented Greek. She was a large woman with ice-white hair, a frosty demeanor, and a broad, florid face; not the most c
ompanionable of her personal staff, but Hermione kept her on because she—and it seemed she alone—intimidated her daughters.

  “Thank you, Brynja,” Hermione said; “show him in.”

  A moment later Uriel Sapir entered, looking very dapper in his three-piece suit and cape.

  “You’re on your way somewhere,” she said, appraising him with pleasure as he sat in the chair across from hers.

  He deftly licked the tips of his thumb and forefinger and used them to accent the crease in his trousers. “Bank business,” he said. “But as I was passing, I couldn’t resist stopping by.”

  “You should have given me warning,” she said playfully. “It’s not fair, ambushing a woman of middle years this way. I haven’t had time to put my face on.”

  He smiled. “The face I see before me should never be concealed behind another.”

  She giggled; yes, giggled, like a girl. Uriel had that effect on her. He was such a gallant—so prodigal with compliments—completely unlike her serious, sober-minded husband, who had scarcely offered her a syllable of flattery in all of the sixteen years they were wed.

  Uriel was Jewish, of course, which made all the difference. They were a loquacious people, completely unlike the taciturn Romans; but—crucially—very much like the chatterbox Greeks. Hermione felt entirely at her ease with Uriel in a way she’d never quite felt with Terentius.

  “There is a slight furrow in your lovely brow,” he said now—because his was no empty flattery; he really did look at her, see her—“and I’d like to do what I can to erase it before it becomes too comfortable there.”

  “Oh, it’s nothing,” she said with a wave of her hand. “It’s just the girls. You know how they are.”

  He nodded profoundly, as if to say, All the empire knows how they are. “I feel confident that they will outgrow this rebellious behavior, given the exemplary model of their mother.”

  “Thank you, dear friend; but in the meantime it can be hard to bear.”

  “None of their conduct reflects on you,” he assured her. “Your own reputation is on par with the mother of the Gracchi.”

  “Yes, well,” she said, flustered—sometimes his praise could be a bit much—“it would be easier if my children were only anything like the Gracchi.”

  “As I recall from my readings of your empire’s history,” he said with a smirk, “the Gracchi were flat-out rabble-rousers.”

  “Rabble-rousers for a cause; not for their own personal pleasure. And this,” she corrected him, “is not my empire. Any more than it is yours.”

  He gave her an oh-you-think-so look, and said, “I beg your pardon, sweet lady, but I am not the sibling of a senator.”

  It was true; Hermione’s younger brother, Cleopatros Innius, was actually a member of that august body and lived in the Imperial capital itself. He’d had to Romanize his name to make himself more palatable to the voters, certainly; but it was worth that small concession, as he was now considered a power player. There was even talk of him as a future consul. Yes, Uriel was right; this was her empire, if only because it was so very much her brother’s.

  “I won’t keep you,” he said, shifting forward in his seat as if to rise. “I only wondered whether you might be free to dine with me tomorrow night.”

  Hermione turned her head slightly, so that he wouldn’t see her smile. He was so attentive to her, so kind; of course he was romantically interested in her. Why wouldn’t he be? She was famous, rich, and well-connected. But he also treated her with courtesy and kindness, and was able expertly to gauge her mood; he paid her the compliment of getting to know her. Roman widows were not encouraged to remarry—and certainly not to Jews. She wondered what Cleopatros would think.

  But never mind; it hadn’t come to that yet. All it had come to was…an occasional dinner.

  “I shouldn’t,” she said, but with the kind of irresolution that invited argument.

  “You should,” he said instantly. “It’s not natural, a woman of your youth and vitality, wasting away in this lonely tower.”

  “It’s not seemly for me to cavort in public,” she said, tracing her finger across the length of her arm—an unwittingly seductive gesture that she wasn’t even aware she was making until she was in the middle of it.

  “It won’t be in public; it will be at my house, as ever, in the company of a few intimate friends—who I hope by this time you count as your friends as well.”

  She looked up at him. “Very well, I accept. Thank you.”

  “Thank you,” he said, inclining his head, “for allowing me the honor of hosting you.”

  She felt a surge of gratitude; she really owed him so much. Life without him would be unbearable…especially since she already had to endure the loss of Fabia. She took her tablet from the pocket of her dressing gown and sent a message to each of the girls: Citizen Sapir has paid us a call. Please pay your respects.

  But even as she replaced the tablet, she knew they wouldn’t come. They didn’t approve of Uriel Sapir. They looked down their patrician noses at him. Behind his back—behind hers, they thought (but oh, she heard)—they mocked him.

  Fabia never had. Fabia had recognized in Uriel Sapir a fellow adventurous spirit. She had always been glad to welcome him to the house and had always encouraged his attentions to Hermione.

  A few minutes passed with no response from Vipsania or Drusilla—or rather, the cold silence was their response; a request to acknowledge Uriel Sapir was fit only to be ignored—and then Uriel had to be on his way.

  Hermione was embarrassed by her daughters’ rudeness and tried to hide it, even though it was unnecessary. Uriel didn’t know she’d summoned the girls—didn’t even know that they were home. But he clearly saw the shameful flush that came over her face and must have guessed the reason, because immediately he launched into a very amusing story about a dinner party he’d attended where someone they both knew had gotten spectacularly drunk and tripped into the lap of the Praetorian Prefect, pulling the tablecloth—and all its contents—along with him. Hermione soon found herself helpless with laughter.

  Then Brynja arrived to show him to the door; and as he took his leave he held Hermione’s hand and said, “Till tomorrow night, then.”

  She nodded graciously and said, “Until tomorrow.”

  He parted his lips as if to say something else; then apparently thought better of it and merely smiled, and allowed Brynja to lead him away.

  He means to say it, Hermione realized. He means to tell me that he is in love with me. Perhaps even to offer marriage.

  It surprised her that he’d come so close, right here and now—so unsuitable a time and place for a declaration of that kind, with her in her morning clothes and and him running off somewhere. Uriel was a theatrical man, and she knew he would stage-manage his declaration within an inch of its life when the time came—candles, music, fine wine. That he had almost blurted it now can only have meant his feelings were both genuine and urgent—and not just the rapacious calculations of a grasping money-lover, as her daughters would doubtless have said.

  She withdrew to her bedroom to dress for the day and to arrange her face and hair. She’d no sooner sat down than a message arrived on her tablet.

  It was from Uriel.

  It just occurred to me, it read, that in fact you may surpass the mother of the Gracchi. You are, after all, the mother of Fabia Terentia—of whom no one can ever say, “She was a rabble-rouser.”

  It was true enough; Fabia’s fame—she was a world-class athlete, vestal postulant, and sterling role model—had catapulted the family to international renown, much to the satisfaction of her senator uncle in Rome, whose pride in his niece almost rendered him a braggart. Fabia remained the one unquestionably, unconditionally good thing in Hermione’s world—the one aspect she could point to and say, “There is my legacy; because of this, my life has merit.”

  But even this carried a sting; because Fabia was…well, who knew? She had gone away— to another world in fact; a parallel
world, though it made Hermione’s head ache to try to encompass it—and had not come back. And there was no way of knowing when, or how, or whether that would change. And with each day that passed Hermione’s heart grew heavier and her nerves more feeble; and they would continue to do so until…until…

  She wouldn’t allow herself to consider what the event might be that would end this terrible not-knowing. Fabia’s return was the only outcome that was bearable to imagine, and it seemed more and more fantastic each time she returned to it, so that she’d simply…stopped.

  And suddenly she realized that the ideal moment Uriel Sapir was waiting for—the moment when he would finally offer himself to her as both lover and husband—could not occur until this other matter had been resolved. Ever considerate, he wouldn’t burden her with a decision of this magnitude while her heart was still directed elsewhere.

  That—and also there was fact that he, too, loved Fabia; loved her like a daughter; she had seen it.

  She set down her hairbrush and put her face into her hands, and willed herself not to cry. She said a brief prayer to Isis for Fabia’s safe return. Not that Hermione was religious herself, but the Isis cult was having one of its periodic upswings in popularity, and there was no harm in seeing whether there might be anything to it. If not, she’d be no worse off.

  And besides, it felt good to make the appeal—to call out from her heart for help from the divine. Whether it worked or not, it was a catharsis.

  She lifted her face from her hands, feeling somewhat lighter in spirits, then picked up her hairbrush and looked again into the mirror.

  It was Fabia’s face that looked back at her.

  She screamed and fell out of her chair; the hairbrush flew from her hand and sailed across the room.

  Brynja rushed in. “My lady, what’s the matter?” she asked as she tried to help her mistress to her feet—but Hermione was like a frightened bird; she flailed and resisted, her eyes wide with shock.

  Drusilla and Vipsania now appeared, their faces twisted in alarm at the sight of their mother—always so composed, always so dignified—in such a highly agitated state. “Mother!” Drusilla cried. “What happened?”