They were in one of Rome’s many cafés at the moment, watching people ebb and flow around them. Adam had mulled over their previous conversations, and now commented diffidently, “So . . . valkyrie can live to be two thousand years old?” He sipped his coffee.
Sigrun made a face at him over her tea. “Yes. Well, in theory.” She sighed. “Nothing but a mortal battle-wound, Adam. And whatever doesn’t kill me, makes me stronger.” She glanced around, cautiously, and pulled her cloak over her shoulders for a moment, to shield her form from any curious passers-by . . . and channeled some of the divine energies within her. Adam’s eyes widened slightly.
He’d never made an exact count, precisely, but . . . “There are more rune-marks on you than a year ago.”
“Ninety percent of my body had third-degree burns, Adam. It would have killed a normal human. My scars might be prettier . . . but they’re also more useful, in a way. I think they’ve strengthened my skin.” She shrugged. “We respond. We adapt. We’re human that way.” She smiled ruefully. “If nothing else, we learn how to duck faster.”
“I should hope so. You don’t always have to answer force with force.”
A quick smile over the top of her cup. “It’s the only way I know, Adam.”
He considered her for a moment, then asked, cautiously, “So, on another topic . . . you hearing anything from the Odinhall and the investigation?”
She shook her head. “No. And I am not asking anything directly. Not while I have a choice in the matter.” Sigrun wrapped both hands around her cup, as if even she were chilled. “I have met Tyr twice in my life. The second time was to be questioned to see if the events in Nahautl were some sort of presage of Ragnarok. I could cheerfully live to be a thousand if I could be assured never to have that kind of conversation again.”
“Ragnarok?” Adam repeated, numbly. “They thought that . . . it could be a sign of the end of the world?”
“They thought that it was possible.”
“So . . . was it?”
Sigrun shook her head, and set her teacup down. “That’s the thing, Adam. No matter what people like my sister believe . . . there really is no fate. Even the gods weren’t sure if what transpired in Nahautl was a presage . . . or a coincidence. Think on that.” Her gray eyes were clear, and filled with conviction. “Then again, my sister has been telling me since she was ten years old that I would live just long enough to see the world end.”
That chilled Adam. He’d seen how uncannily accurate some of Sophia’s prophecies were, but like all prophecies, they seemed to be understandable only in retrospect. And given that, he didn’t like the sound of anything Sophia had told him about himself, ten months ago. “Do you believe her?” he asked, quietly, stirring his coffee with a spoon.
Sigrun stared down into her cup for a moment. “Considering how long valkyrie can live? Adam ben Maor, you have my word on it that I do not lose sleep over Sophia’s prophecies regarding me.” She grimaced. “All right, the first month or so, I did. And once in a great while, when I can see it in my own mind as clearly as if she painted it there, on the backs of my eyelids. But there is no fate. My destiny is my own. And I will not permit her to control my wyrd with words. I will wrestle with it, and if need be, die for it. But every choice along the road will be my own.”
Adam smiled. He had to admit, that wasn’t a bad philosophy. She looked across the table, and changed the subject. Entirely. “So, I have almost finished packing,” she informed him, calmly. “I have even purchased extra suncream for Trennus as well as for myself, in case he should forget. I did not enjoy the sunburns I received in Nahautl, and I don’t wish to repeat them.”
His lips quirked. “You’re afraid of sunburns.”
Sigrun gave him a look. “They hurt.”
“You had third-degree burns over ninety percent of your body.”
“Sunburn is not a battle wound.” She shifted around in her seat, looking away. “Also, direct sunlight has been more . . . uncomfortable since the burns, than it was before.”
Adam blinked, and immediately regretted having teased her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize.”
“I didn’t make an issue of it. I will wear my suncream and live with it.” She paused and looked up again. “What else should I be aware of?”
“There are modesty laws, but they only really apply to Judeans.” He took in her blank look, and gave her a half-smile. “Some of it depends from community to community, or even individual to individual. It largely ties in to how each person happens to interpret our holy writings. For example, in the smaller farming communities, men aren’t allowed to shave or trim their beards, and their hair must be cut in specific ways.” He shrugged. “Depending on how conservative a family is, a woman might be expected to wear sleeves no shorter than her elbows, skirts no shorter than the knee . . . pants are prohibited, and married women need to cover their hair, lest they provoke the lust of men other than their husband.”
He caught the dubious glance she shot him. “Hair provokes lust?”
“Depending on the authority.” He gave her a lopsided grin. “One of the thinkers I particularly like commented once that modesty laws should be a common-sense thing. If it’s common for a woman’s fingers to be seen, then her left pinky isn’t going to inspire lust. Likewise, if everyone around her typically walks around with their hair exposed, it’s not . . . well . . . .”
“An illicit thrill.”
“I have it on good authority that centuries ago, the mere sight of an exposed female ankle was enough to make a good man slather at the mouth.” Adam’s lips quirked up. “They were a little hard up for things to get interested in at the time, I think.”
“The human imagination can turn anything into a fetish. All the more quickly if it’s something forbidden,” Sigrun returned, dryly. “Do all these modesty laws only apply to women?”
“Oh, no, men need to cover their heads as well, but that’s nothing to do with marriage.” Adam shrugged, and thought about what other pitfalls someone who wasn’t a native might run into. “Ah. Don’t be surprised if some men refuse to clasp wrists with you.’
Her eyebrows shot up. “You’re pleased to jest with me?”
“No, I’m really not joking. It’s an extension of the modesty ideals. It’s supposed to be a way of demonstrating respect for women, and acknowledging that any touch could inspire lust in the man offering it.”
Sigrun stared at him. “That must make military service alongside women extremely difficult for them.”
“Oh, if it’s a matter of life and death, people are allowed to touch people of the opposite sex.” Adam pointed out quickly.
“You’ve never seemed to have a problem clasping my wrist or sparring with me, or whatever else.” Sigrun was clearly trying to phrase it delicately. She came from a culture that was almost entirely alien to these notions. And while Rome might have deeply patriarchal roots, they didn’t extend in all the same directions as ancient Judean thinking had. He didn’t even want to get into the times of the month at which a woman was considered unclean and couldn’t be touched by even her own husband, and no one in her family could sit where she’d sat. He had a distinct feeling that telling Sigrun that a woman could ever be considered unclean would either offend her to the core, or make her laugh in total abandon. Sigrun hesitated, and added, just as carefully. “In fact, you made a point of putting a hand on Fritti’s shoulder, back in Ponca. Just to comfort a frightened girl.”
Adam shrugged. “I’m pretty Romanized in most respects. Most everyone you’ll meet in Jerusalem is, honestly. There could be one or two sticklers for the old ways that you might encounter. I’m just trying to give you an idea of some of the reactions you might get.” His eyes flicked down to the leather bodice she generally wore; in Nahautl, she’d switched to a cloth one, to deal with the heat, and she hadn’t been able to wear a shirt underneath for four out of the six months of their stay. “I know you’re likely to find Judea uncomfortably warm, even in spring,
Sig. I, personally, have no problem with the fact that you’ll wear a bodice without a shirt underneath.” Adam did his best to keep his grin at bay and out of his voice. He really didn’t have a problem with the generous curves her outfits typically displayed. And of course, there was the pure fact that Sigrun’s clothing was simply . . . commonplace to Nova Germania. Nothing out of the ordinary, really, and she wasn’t actually displaying herself, so much as wearing what was comfortable and allowed her to fight effectively. “There might be someone out there who’d tell you to cover up, though.”
“Because my hair or my body might inspire them to lust.” Sigrun’s tone was exquisitely dry. Clearly, she thought the chances of that were low, just as she had when he’d walked her home any number of evenings here in Rome. Then again, her ability to protect herself was well beyond that of a normal woman. “They could try not looking. Exerting a modicum of self-control. Or, if that is beyond them, they could cut out their own eyes, like Oedipus.”
“Drastic.”
“But it would certainly prevent them from seeing anything that would incite them.” Sigrun toasted him with her cup. “I have no problem with dressing in a different fashion if I were to enter your temples or tabernacles. That’s respect. But in a public street? This is still the Empire, even if it’s an autonomous region.” Her eyes glittered for a moment. “They will simply have to ignore the barbarian bitch.”
His head came up. “Don’t,” Adam told her, gently. “Don’t call yourself that, and don’t borrow trouble before it happens.”
Sigrun exhaled. “You’re right,” she admitted, after a moment. She smiled faintly. “I think that, right there, sums up why Livorus is considering you for overall command of his lictor detail.” She raised her eyes, still smiling. “You’re the most balanced of any of us. And you’re wise.”
Adam’s eyes widened. “I wasn’t aware he was considering that.” He coughed into his hand. “Wise for my age, eh?”
“Wisdom isn’t always measured in years. Though having a number of them at one’s disposal does help.” Sigrun shrugged. “I am far wiser now, than when I was younger.” She changed the subject. “Need I be concerned about mosquitoes?”
“Nowhere near as bad as Tenochtitlan,” he replied, immediately, and reached into his shirt pocket for a small leather case he’d brought with him. He’d considered giving these to her on the plane tomorrow, but now seemed as good a time as any. “The tropical sun was a little hard on your eyes in Nahautl, as I recall.” He slid the case across the table to her. “I think these will fit you.”
Sigrun looked startled, and opened the case on its hinges, peering cautiously down into the box as if she expected it to explode in her face. “Oh!” She sounded startled. “Smoked lenses. Like the ones you and Kanmi wear.” She looked up, smiling. “I’ve never worn glasses before.”
“Should cut down on glare for you. Try them on.”
She perched them on her nose, grimaced, and fiddled with the earpieces, frowning in discomfort until he took them back from her hands, and adjusted them to fit her better. “There. How’s that?”
“Much better.” She turned her head this way and that, looking around the café. “You’re right; the light bouncing off the windows is much less bright this way.”
He couldn’t help but notice that she hadn’t so much as picked up a spoon to check what the glasses looked like on her. The windows were all on the far side of the café; she couldn’t possibly see her reflection in them. “You don’t want to check to see if they look all right?”
“I could see enough reflected in your eyes. Besides, your expression didn’t change, and you didn’t suggest that I could exchange them.” Sigrun paused, and asked, awkwardly, “How much do I owe you for them?”
Adam shook his head, suddenly mildly irritated. “Nothing.”
“I’m sorry. You’re trying to ensure my effectiveness in the field.” She paused, and added, quickly, “You could very likely put them on your expense report and be reimbursed—”
“Damn it, Sigrun. Do you have to make everything this hard?” He put down his cup with more force than he’d intended, and the handle snapped off in his hand. He stared down at it for a moment, before gingerly putting it on the table, beside the cup. He’d meant the lenses as a friendly gesture. Or something like that. He wasn’t actually sure at the moment what he’d meant by them, except that at the moment, her backpedalling was like a slap in the face. After a deep breath, Adam managed to level his tone. “They’re a gift.”
Her eyes were wide, and she hesitantly reached across the table, offering her hand. “I’m sorry,” Sigrun repeated. “I didn’t mean to offend you. They’re a lovely gift, and I will wear them with gratitude.”
After a moment of staring down at the cloth over the table, and the crumbs of the flat emmer bread they’d torn up and eaten with cheese, Adam looked up again. “Sorry. Overreacted there.”
Sigrun shook her head quickly, but Adam forestalled her before she could say anything more. “Let’s change the subject?” he offered, with a hint of a smile.
Clear gratitude in her eyes, shining for just an instant. “Ah . . . yes. Actually, as I said earlier, I should go to the bookstore before they close.” Another hesitation. She didn’t want, evidently, to leave them on this awkward, uncomfortable moment. “I don’t suppose you’d care to join me?”
“I’d like nothing better.” He couldn’t help but chuckle at the surprise in her eyes. In close to a year and a half on the job together, this was certainly the longest they’d spent together off-duty, and the longest that they’d conversed about things that weren’t work. Adam was pleasantly surprised by the quality of the bookstores; they had wonderful tomes with full-color plates on the planets so far explored by automated probes. He showed her the black and white photographs of Saturn’s rings in one of the books that he bought, and eyed the stack under her own arm. Three different alphabets—Gothic, Latin, and Hellene, and that was just at first glance. “Archaeology, history, art, natural philosophy . . . . I think you may need some for the other arm, just for ballasting purposes,” he informed her, lightly. ”May I at least walk you home?”
The walk was pleasant. He’d never before been invited in to her apartment, but tonight, he had a sense that she wanted to apologize to him, in a way, for her earlier misunderstanding about the smoked lenses. “My home is in no way comfortable,” Sigrun told him, “but if you’d like to come up for a while . . . ?” She trailed off, looking away.
Again, he had the strangest sensation that she had no idea what to do or say. It was out of his experience in dealing with Gothic or Gallic women, most of whom were fairly forthright. He didn’t have the sensation that she was being coy, either. Coy and Sigrun could not coexist in the same sentence. “I’d like that,” he told her, lightly, and put a hand, very lightly, on her shoulder, where her spring-weight cloak was tossed back and out of her way, suddenly very aware of the sensation of her skin under his fingers. This does not mean in any way that she’s interested in you, his higher cognitive powers warned him. This is Sigrun. She’s . . . god-born. She doesn’t even seem to look at people the same way as others do. The lower functions of mind and body, however, were suddenly much more alert. Stop it, you idiot.
Looking around her tiny apartment, he was struck immediately by two things. First, she had not been joking when she called it uncomfortable. She had a single armchair in her living area, upholstered in leather, a footstool in front of it, and a small table with a lamp on it—ley-powered, like most everything else in Rome . . . and nothing else in the way of furniture, besides groaning bookshelves. No far-viewer. A radio, with an old-fashioned player for cylinders of music—mostly harp, violin, and pianoforte pieces, from a quick glance along the shelves of recordings. All either Gallic or Gothic in origin. “You make Spartans look like hedonists,” he called to her, looking around as she made her way to the kitchen to find a second chair.
The only life and color in that small living area came
from the pictures on the walls. Water-colored lithographs and photographs, framed, of the various places she’d been, apparently. There was a new one, leaning against the wall, as yet unhung, of Tenochtitlan, with its pyramids, skyscrapers, lake, and bridges. Another of Burgundoi, the Odinhall, and the bridge across the deep waters of the bay. A picture of what, by its inscription, was Cimbri-on-the-Caestus, her home town. Two or three of cities in northern Europa and Raccia. One of Rome itself. Another of the city of Delphi, including the temple of Apollo there.
There was a fireplace tucked in the corner, which looked largely unused. On the mantelpiece, a handful of black-and-white photographs. One was of a Cimbric man, standing beside a seated woman with pale hair, who looked strikingly similar to Sigrun, but without the steel in her eyes. The woman wore a smile as she held a child in her lap. Beside that, another picture, which captured the same man, older now, beside Sigrun, who looked no different in that image than she did today. Her father wrapped an arm around her shoulders, and a young girl, no more than nine or ten, stood in front of them. While her father and sister smiled, Sigrun was expressionless, and the image had been sliced with a sharp knife at some part; her father’s left arm, and whoever had been beside him, had been edited away. Other than that . . . no other pictures, though an album sat on the table beside the chair. “Mind if I look?” Adam asked, as Sigrun dragged a wooden chair back in from the kitchen.
She shrugged, and perched on the edge, gesturing for him to take the more comfortable armchair. “By all means. Can I get you anything? I discarded everything that could go bad in my absence, so there’s not much.”
“No, thank you.”
“Tea, at least, I can manage. Give me a minute to put the kettle on.”
Adam sat down, and leafed through the pictures. A handful from Sigrun’s childhood, apparently. He was tempted to look for dates on the backs of her infant pictures, but decided that she might take that amiss. Judging from the clothing, however, it had at least been in this century, which made him sigh in relief. There was a single picture of her mother, looking frail, ill, and hairless in a hospital gown, holding her daughter. Then an image of a Gothic funeral pyre, and those gathered to light it, including the toddler who’d been Sigrun. A series of images of her and her father, usually with a stern-faced female pedagogue with dark hair in the picture, and a very old-fashioned slave collar around her throat. Then, surprisingly, a picture of the father and the pedagogue, minus the slave collar and with a wreath of orange blossoms on her hair. Their hands were tied together in the image with a white ribbon, and the pictured was accompanied by a yellowing card marked in heavy, elegant Gothic runes, which Adam couldn’t read. Presumably it was a wedding announcement. There were a few other pictures from their wedding . . . something to do with breaking cakes and a fire, and an exchange of rings. Sigrun herself was nowhere in the wedding pictures.
The Valkyrie (The Saga of Edda-Earth Book 1) Page 53