In which get a glimpse of our hero, his family, and the progress of the Aurora Project.
There is some material in this chapter that could be considered "R-rated." Ancient Romans resist movie ratings. Therefore I have not dramatized it, but simply related it as having happened in the past.
Episode 12: Tavington's Atlantis, part 2
A Family Vacation: March, 150 A.D.
"Dad---dy, let's go in the water again!"
Reluctantly, Colonel William Tavington awakened from his pleasant doze and found himself staring into two pairs of ice-blue eyes only inches from his own. Beyond the eager small faces, the sea was turquoise, the beach warm golden sand, the sky a rapturous cerulean blue, and the air alive with subtle fragrant breezes, smelling at one moment of the sea, and the next of lush tropical fruits.
The fruity scent came from his drink on the low tray table beside him—the one that the twins' antics threatened to upset. Diana, lounging in her own beach chair beside him under the broad umbrella, laughed and rescued both their drinks from imminent disaster.
Tavington growled, "I was having a really good dream."
"I'm sorry, Daddy," explained three-year-old Will with no genuine repentance, "but we need you to go in the water with us again."
His twin sister, Iris, patted her father's bare arm with a consoling little hand, made sticky by her own spilled juice. "Mommy can't save us if start to drown! Her tummy is too big now!"
Diana flashed her husband an ironic, triumphant grin, and took a sip from her drink—the one without the rum. Tavington knew himself ensnared, and took the proffered hands; rather looking forward to another round of water sports with his delightful children. Had they been back at home in the Town Hall, he would have had their adopted daughter, Emily, to take up the slack. Emily, however, was now a mature fifteen-year old, who had been unenthusiastic about a trip to an island where she would be the only teenager, and would in addition be separated from her circle of friends and miss class for "a whole four days!" So Emily stayed behind, feeling very grown-up and responsible, not knowing how her parents had enjoined Lisa Seevers to keep an eye on her while they were gone.
The twins had been something of a surprise to him, but not to Diana or to their 21st century medical team. Becoming pregnant immediately after removing a contraceptive implant often resulted in multiple births, and Diana was not alone among the new mothers of their community. The term "baby boom" was known to everyone now, whether a "21" or an "18." Two centuries difference in outlook had come to matter less and less. They were all united against the rest of the world—the world of the 2nd century A.D.; and current slang now differentiated between "newbies"—anyone transplanted from the future—and "old-timers"—the natives of this period in history.
Will and Iris bounced gleefully in the surf, shrieking with joy and terror when a wave knocked them down. These few days of holiday on Numenor's splendid beach had done the whole family a great deal of good.
Iris splashed Will, and then switched her attention to admiring the tiny ruffled skirt adorning her blue and yellow bathing suit. Certain customs of the 21's had been adopted, with occasional nervous resistance from the 18's—and vice versa, of course. Sea bathing had not been unknown in Tavington's time, but women had been heavily garbed, and men likewise—unless they ventured out of sight and wore nothing at all. The abbreviated bathing dress of the 21's took some getting used to, but Tavington was inured to it now, though he preferred roomier bathing trunks than the tight and tiny garb some of the 21's affected.
Long conversations over dinner, pleasant rounds of drinks at one of the new public houses—all right, he shrugged, pubs—had given both groups of time travelers a better understanding of each other's mindset.
One hot night in July that first year, Patrick Ferguson had wondered aloud to Diana, "I suppose you find us pitiful prudes, the way we dress from head to toe."
"No," had replied Diana, after a few moment's reflection. "I think you come from a colder climate. It took centuries for Americans to learn to dress like Americans, and not copy the heavier styles of Europe. You're not accustomed to seeing people wear clothing more appropriate to hot weather, and so it looks odd to you."
"That is so true," agreed Polly, one of Patrick's—well, wives would have to be the term now. "There are no Paris modes to follow, and there's no reason not to set our own!" She was an excellent seamstress herself, and with the passion of a convert had adopted the new kind of clothing created for New Atlantis' women when not engaged in active work: an ankle-length dress of colorful, gauzy cotton—either sleeveless, or with various pretty kinds of shorter sleeves. Some of the dresses were perfectly straight, without a waist at all. Some had high waists—especially those worn by expectant mothers. Comfortable sandals replaced the awkward footgear of the past. Polly still had not quite gotten used to the sight of women in trousers, but as her own tasks in building New Atlantis did not require her wearing them herself, she had learned to tolerate it.
"Aunt Sally!" screeched Will, seeing Ferguson's other---um, wife—strolling past on the beach.
Tavington let the boy run to her, unable to escape from Iris' ruthless little clutches himself. His daughter grabbed his hands and made him lift her out of the water and drop her down again, over and over. Tavington smiled back at her infectious glee, trying once again to decide who she more resembled. With her hair sopping wet, and darker for it, he would guess himself—or really, maybe his own mother. Actually, both children were pretty good blends of both their mother and father.
Iris stopped her play with him, and turned an earnest face up for help in wiping her eyes. He obliged, and added a kiss. The little girl saw Sally and waved.
"Hi, Aunt Sally!" She leaned against Tavington and confided, "Aunt Sally's even bigger than Mommy! Her dress looks like a tent!"
Tavington snorted, glad that Sally had not overheard. Her belly was perfectly enormous, and in her loose dress, colored in a wild style that the 21's called "tie-dyed," it did not look any smaller. She was expecting her second child, and her first, an adorable two-year-old redhead named Annie, was napping under a tree further up the beach, along with her brother/cousin Jamie and his mother Polly.
In fact, Tavington and a few members of the Executive Council were making an inspection of Numenor. They had come to spend a few days, take a good look at the resources, the production, and the efficiency of the little outpost on the smaller of the two habitable islands that comprised their settlement of New Atlantis. Since they had brought their spouses and children along, it was a very pleasant family holiday as well. Tavington had quite a few issues to mull over, and it helped to get away and think in this idyllic place.
Numenor was quite different from the city of New Atlantis, with its Fountain Square, its impressive buildings, its rows of flats, its strips of shops, and the massive bulk of the Laboratory set further back toward the hills surrounding the town. Numenor was an unpretentious place. There was one road leading up from the docks: it was the artery that connected a boathouse, a warehouse, a grouping of a few buildings that served as a "downtown" to the long string of houses, barns, and sheds of the villagers; and it ended at the little hangar, office, cabin, and airstrip that was rather grandly named Numenor Airport.
The Numenoreans were somewhat different too. The population, numbering only thirty-two (No—said the harbormaster—I tell a lie. Thirty-three since Tara had her baby two weeks ago), was made up of people who preferred the quiet and isolation of the little island. The 21s' innovation of working women paid dividends here, for almost every adult held a position of his or her own. There were the ranchers, raising beef and dairy cattle; the harbormaster and his wife the postmistress/radio operator; the harbormaster's two assistants, who seemed to spend most of their time fishing; the couple who maintained the power plant; the engineer in charge of the island's airstrip, who tended the hamlet's other radio; the pilot stationed on Numenor; another couple who ran the town's general store-cum-pub; and a few farmers, busily growing cotton and sugar cane and tending orchards and vegetable gardens.
It was three hours by boat to the big island: less than half an hour by air in an emergency, so those Numenoreans in need of supplies and amusement could certainly visit as needed. A few times a year, some Atlanteans came over to the smaller island, stayed with the inhabitants in the big transplanted farmhouses, helped the farmers out with the harvests, and enjoyed time at the beach. New Atlantis' own beaches were beautiful, but pebbled; not the fine golden grains of Numenor Beach. Eventually, more housing and at least a primary school would have to be built on the little island, but for now, the Numenoreans had no complaints.
He had intended to ask Michael Flynn to come along, but Michael was too busy with his own projects: today the geologistwas overseeing the little oil well and refinery in what might someday be called Oklahoma. They needed a small amount of fuel for the aircraft and the boats. Small: but essential. No one wanted to repeat the mistakes of the twentieth and twenty-first centuries. However, while their motor vehicles and construction machines were electrically powered, similar arrangements were not satisfactory for the helicopter and the two airplanes. There were a handful of motorboats, and even the large sailing yachts, and the Enterprise herself, had supplementary engines. It was one thing to be protective of their environment: it was another to be careless of their own security. They had chosen a site for the oil well carefully, finding a place uninhabited in 150 A.D. (though the facility was surrounded by a tall electrified fence--the place was often unattended). Michael had projects elsewhere as well: in the southern tip of Africa, in the Ural Mountains, in the Australian desert.
Iris had found a shell that she wanted to show her mother, and they sauntered back to Diana, their feet sinking luxuriously into the soft, deep sand. Diana was properly fascinated by Iris' new treasure, and Tavington left his women-folk to admire it, while he retrieved the remnants of his daiquiri and walked over to have a word with Ferguson.
The Scotsman was sprawled in blissful abandon on a huge beach towel, sipping a concoction of his own devising. Leaning on his left arm, he held the elaborate glass goblet in his right hand with an air of complacency. Twenty-first century surgery had given him back most of the use of it. The doctors were apologetic at not achieving one hundred percent success; but Ferguson had laughed, saying that he could now use his right hand to fire a pistol, eat with a fork or spoon, write with a pen, and make love to a woman. "When all's said and done," he observed, "what more can a man ask?"
He looked up as Tavington's shadow fell across his face.
Reproachfully, Tavington demanded, "Do you mean to do nothing for the next few days but lie on the beach and drink rum?"
Ferguson lifted his glass in salute. "Welcome to Numenor!"
They shared a laugh at the reference, and Tavington sat down by his friend.
Polly, a few yards further back in the shade, overheard and laughed too. "If we don't get back by Friday, we'll miss movie night."
"Oh, aye," Ferguson nodded seriously, "That is a consideration."
That was another innovation of the 21's that Tavington and his comrades found enjoyable. It had taken some time to understand the conventions of "films," but once those were grasped, the 18's had taken the art form to their hearts. There was a huge library of photoplays covering the whole 150-year history of the genre, from the silent films of Keaton and Chaplin to the almost three-dimensional epics of the last works in the 2040's before the collapse. Some of the stories were incomprehensible: Diana practically worshipped the films of Humphrey Bogart, but the context of them was often difficult for Tavington to fathom, though he had been moved by The African Queen, and impressed by the dark subtlety of The Treasure of the Sierra Madre. Diana was the settlement's official film critic, and often began the Friday night presentation with a brief talk explaining the background of the particular movie. This had helped the audience of 18th century transplants greatly, especially when a film was set in the American Civil War, or in the American Wild West, or in the First or Second World War.
Diana herself was interested in which films were embraced by the 18's. They liked action films, which was not too surprising; and generally found social or psychological melodrama less entertaining. The popular favorites were mythological films like Jason and the Argonauts, Illium, and Excalibur; and historical pieces like Ivanhoe, Kingdom of Heaven, The Vikings, Gladiator, The Last of the Mohicans, The Warlord, 1066, Cleopatra—all of them were tremendous hits. Even glimpses into the future of the British Army became beloved: Zulu and The Man Who Would Be King were chief among these. Sometimes works of lesser stature struck a chord with 18th century sensibilities that outstanding works did not. A series about the English Civil War, By the Sword Divided, was one of the most popular offerings, and the whole community talked and speculated about the characters as if they were next-door neighbors. Shakespeare's plays were available as well: the later version of Henry V was a great favorite.
Early on, Diana had made a firm rule about carrying firearms into the auditorium, which proved wise when coping with wildly excited soldiers, especially when they saw something as alarming as Jurassic Park (even after her assurance to the audience that dinosaurs had indeed lived once but were really and truly completely extinct) She had chosen the first few films very carefully, and had had great success in setting the right tone; but even she was not prepared for the pandemonium with which the old Lord of the Rings trilogy was received.
Tavington pooh-poohed her concern. There were really very few injuries—only assorted minor cuts when the Dragoons and the Volunteers drew their swords during the battle scenes. He had loved the films himself (secretly and deeply empathizing with Boromir), though he still disapproved of the climactic cavalry charge in The Two Towers, pointing out that such a slope would have inevitably resulted in a great number of horses tumbling down the hill head-first. Yes, yes, it was a fantasy—but still… The film had to be shown again every few months, and now there was a running chorus of gruff, ardent fans reciting their favorite lines along with the actors. (Hail the victorious dead!)
It was hard to tell fantasy from reality. The stories of adventures in outer space were confusing but often very exciting. Even more popular than Star Wars was John Carter of Mars, the Virginia-born hero of which had become practically a soldier's icon. Tavington loved any movie with realistic dinosaurs, especially the spectacular The Lost World of 2024; but his first favorite, hands-down, was a film about Alexander the Great in Egypt made in 2036, called Lord of the Two Lands. It was thrillingly realistic, historically accurate, and so affecting that he brooded some hours after, bitterly regretting that they had not made their settlement in, say, 335 B.C. He was determined to travel to that time when he could. He simply had to see Alexander for himself.
And nearly everybody enjoyed the three "Pirates of the Caribbean" movies, accepting them as bizarre but enchanting fantasy. The mix of a century's different clothing styles had been distracting at first, but the lively wit and theatrical swordplay of the stories was irresistible. Tavington could not help quoting from them, and still was not as bad as Ferguson, whom Diana acclaimed as nearly as great a movie-buff as herself.
Diana occasionally tried out more exotic films on Tavington, Bordon, and Ferguson in the privacy of the laboratory, before attempting to present them to the rest of the 18's. It was just as well. They warned her that subtitled films were not going to go over at all, though they themselves enjoyed a few fine French films—notably Cyrano de Bergerac and Hussard sur le Toit. With Japanese film she was unsuccessful. Despite her best efforts to explain the background and customs of the characters, some of it was simply impenetrable. They appreciated Seven Samurai as a noble work of art, but persuaded her that it would be a hopeless cause with semi-literate rankers. The Magnificent Seven, however, was seen and enjoyed by all.
Ferguson broke in on Tavington's reverie. "And what has your lady in store for us this week?"
"Oh!" said Tavington. "Dragonslayer. It should please everyone."
"Aye," agreed Ferguson with a lifted brow. "And not cause the fash that some films have. Everyone likes a fairy tale."
Tavington understood Ferguson's hint. Diana was too perceptive a woman to have done it by mistake. I, Claudius had a tremendous reception: for weeks people talked of nothing else; but it did not relieve the growing tension, nor did it improve the Atlanteans' opinion of Rome or Romans.
He downed the rest of his drink. What to do? What indeed--when you have admired and studied a people so long, and then have been utterly disillusioned? Last year's expedition that had made first contact with the Roman Empire could hardly be called a failure: the Enterprise had sailed successfully into the harbor of Gades; peaceful commerce had been established with the local authorities and traders; vital supplies had been obtained, lost literary masterpieces had been acquired, useful local talent had been recruited. Why then was there such a bitter aftertaste?
Tavington and Executive Council had originally thought to be open about their origins in the future, but on reflection had decided that that might be too great a culture shock for the ancient world. They had decided to make contact, get a feel for the lay of the land, and then act accordingly. At the moment, their hopes of fully explaining themselves to the Roman world were not sanguine. Sanguine… Taken in another sense of the world, their experience had been sanguine indeed.
They could not complain of their expedition's reception. The Roman governor, Marcus Vinicius, had been almost too friendly. He had been pleased with the gifts, and incessantly curious about the Atlanteans' origins, their customs—even the very lace on their garments. He had detained Ferguson and his party so long that they had begun to fear there was some secret agenda. Comfortably lodged in an official guesthouse, the landing party had radioed Atlantis; the engineers had received the proper coordinates and had been able to open a gate; and Tavington and a few of the scientists and engineers had come through for a clandestine survey of this ancient city. Much of it was beautiful and impressive: but a great deal was squalid and vile.
Tavington was a man of the eighteenth century, and not one to be perturbed by a chamberpot emptied out a window. Still, there was a nastiness here for which he had been unprepared. The water in the public baths was slightly green and stinking. The level of casual brutality and open sexual congress quite disquieting, even for a man who had known the roughest parts of London. The entire society was powered by slaves: omnipresent and completely invisible to their masters.
Ferguson had been disturbed, too. The reality of the place had not quite struck him until the night of the Governor's feast, when they had been entertained by naked, dancing slavegirls, some of whom had serviced the guests where they sat. Shocking enough: there had been ladies present who had simply laughed at the sight, as if at gamboling dogs. All the Atlanteans, male and female, were provided with their own slavegirl to attend them. The look of repressed rage and contempt on Lesley Urquhart's face would have made Ferguson laugh, if the situation were not so perilous. He and Bordon required all their self-command to maintain the appearance of savoir-faire.
These indecencies were eclipsed, however, by the boxing match that followed, in which the otherwise naked pugilists' hands were wrapped in metal studded leather. No blow was too foul for the combatants. The victor beat his opponent to death, to the polite, bored applause of the guests. He had gone on, smashing at the dead man's face until it was no longer recognizable as human. It had occurred to Ferguson that this was a subtle threat to him and his comrades, but on further deliberation, he decided it was not. It was an attempt of decadent people jaded beyond imagination to experience something—anything—that could excite them.
He had walked away to a balcony to get a breath of fresh air. Bordon was there already, listening intently to the sounds of the city at night. In the distance, nearly inaudible because of the noise from the feast, they could hear screams of laughter, howls and curses, and the thin, pitiful cries of unwanted infants, left in the common fields and on dunghills to die a slow death from exposure. Soon they could hear no more of this, because guests noisily began using the vomitorium, a room with basins and feathers set aside so the guests could vomit up the food they had eaten, in order to enable them to stuff themselves with the next course.
The two Britons stood awhile in silence, and Ferguson remarked, "I've always thought of myself as a sophisticated man, d'ye ken? Autre pays, autre moeurs."
"Ad nauseam," countered Bordon with a grim laugh. "So did I. God, this is a hideous place."
The slavegirls who had attended them at the feast were sent to their guest residence to amuse them. Ferguson was torn with indecision: there was the counsel of "when in Rome," and then there was the disapproving presence of the female Atlanteans, who would certainly tell on him if he did as the Romans unquestionably would. Discretion was by far the better part of valor. Avoiding temptation, he ordered Bordon to have the girls decently fed, and then have them bed down in the guesthouse's atrium as a group.
The Games the following day dealt a more lethal blow to their hopes. The Atlanteans were somewhat prepared for the combats. The gladiators showed great skill at arms and even the kind of courage real professionals can summon at need. That those men's lives were being thrown away for an idle afternoon's entertainment seemed wicked and wasteful to them all. What followed was worse.
Ferguson and Bordon, and certainly Herb Schultz and Alan Swinburne, who were in attendance, were not entirely taken by surprise. They knew that there was considerable variety offered for entertainments of this sort. Ferguson decided that it was just as well that Lesley Urquhart and most of her crew had decided to return to the Enterprise, because had she been here, she would have undoubtedly pulled a gun, and gotten them in all sorts of trouble. He could hardly keep his voice from shaking when relating the events to Tavington.
The second act of the Games were executions imaginatively staged in mythological style. The Nemean lion was featured first: three wretched men were shoved out of a gate to be mauled, disemboweled, or decapitated by a huge maned male with a savage temper. The crowd roared with laughter as one desperate man ran from gate to gate, trying to escape. The lion padded after him, in no hurry. The man fouled himself, screaming in terror: this occasioned even greater hilarity. Men and women wiped their eyes and nudged each other, and then squealed at the climax, as the beast caught him at last, and his head disappeared into the gaping maw. A huge gladiator, armed with a spiked club, appeared on the scene, representing Hercules. The lion was discreetly shot from behind the gates, probably with some sort of opiate to slow it down. Once it was sedated, "Hercules" leaped forward and battered the animal to death. Costumed stagehands, garbed like Charon, dragged off the dead men and the lion with iron hooks. Boys and girls with painted faces, dressed as nymphs and fauns, scattered fresh sand and flower petals over the bloodstains.
This, as disgusting as it was, was not as bad as the execution of a woman found guilty of poisoning her husband. She was bound naked in an indecent posture to a metal stanchion; a bull, also apparently drugged, was introduced so as to act out the legend of the bestial desires of Queen Pasiphae. It was hard to tell if the woman had actually survived more than a few minutes. The Atlanteans could only hope it had not been long. The crowd was aroused—frantic: a few discreetly headed to the shadows in the back of the amphitheatre to couple against the wall. Most simply howled for more killings, more rape, more torture.
Ferguson had been transfixed with horror; not wanting to look, but also not wanting to show weakness before these people. He had seen his share of hangings, floggings, bear-baitings, and cock fights, but nothing approaching this abomination. It occurred to him that this was just one city among thousands in this great Empire. Just one. The immense toll of slaughter in a year, the deaths of people sacrificed to the depraved lusts of a debased populace—it was quite beyond imagining. At least, he decided that he did not want to imagine it. Did he really want to deal with these people? Was there anything a small group of travelers from the future could do to influence this culture? Ferguson watched the Games, and despaired. He was not alone. Tavington, hearing much of the same from the entire expedition, was feeling grave doubts himself.
The last set piece had been a mock battle between the "Scythians" and the "Persians." It was not mock in the sense that no weapons were used. Those were real enough. It was a mockery of combat in that the exotically garbed "Scythians" were gladiators, and the "Persians" were the remaining slaves of a rich man who had been murdered by one of his household. The offender had already been crucified; but by law every last one of the man's slaves was to be executed as well. So under the plumed helmets were the white heads of old men and women, young girls, small children grotesquely burdened by swords they could not lift, even babes in arms. Not one of them was spared. The crowd jeered at the slaves' cowardice and ineptitude in defending themselves, and congratulated themselves when justice was done and they could all feel safer.
The governor's deputy asked Ferguson his opinion, and he saw no reason to equivocate. The rest of the party was ominously silent when they left the amphitheatre, as the last of the bodies was being hooked, and dragged out for disposal. They had not stayed long after that day, despite the governor's desire to further amuse them. They had their trading link established; they had obtained most of the resources they required—leather, cork, sulfur, copper, and lead; they had acquired three scholarly Greek slaves (to be freed on arrival in Atlantis) who would be resources in themselves about this world.
The voyage home was a positive relief, and the clean, bracing sea air did its part to dispel the gloom of the company. They were only a few hours out of Gades when they discovered they were carrying yet more cargo. It made a light-hearted coda to a very grim episode.
Young Danny Dalton, the eldest of the orphans the Project had rescued, had celebrated his release from school by immediately enlisting in the Dragoons. He was a tough but decent boy, who was long used to protecting children younger than himself. The squalor of Gades had not fazed him, being used to an equally hideous environment. He had gone below to fetch Ferguson's telescope, and had heard the trembling stowaway's sneeze. She was plainly no danger to anybody, and he was reluctant to drag her forcibly on deck, especially after hearing her say one word he recognized. He found his officer and said apologetically, "She's asking for you, sir."
Bordon was astonished. "For me? How can that be? Are you sure?"
"Yes, sir. She kept saying, 'Bordo, Bordo,' you know, the way those dag—I mean, Romans--said your name. She's really scared, sir. Do you want me to bring her up here?"
"No—no, of course not. I shall go down. You did well, Dalton. Take the Major his telescope, and tell him why I'm going below. I'll see what is to be done."
He found her easily enough when he knew where to look: crouching amidst some crates, clad in a scanty tunic of diaphanous linen. Her face still bore traces of paint under the dirt and tears. She was trained in obedience, and when he told her to come out and follow him, she offered no resistance.
The girl was of considerable interest when she climbed through the hatch. Ferguson came over, as did Alan Swinburne and the Greek he was speaking with, Amyntor the mathematician. Captain Urquhart saw the little impromptu conference and the subject of it, and gave the wheel to one of her sailors.
"And who is this?" she asked frostily. No local girls would be exploited on her watch.
"This little lass," replied Ferguson with an elegant gesture of introduction, "is Clytie, a dancing girl, slave to Governor Vinicius. Formerly, that is. She has decided that she is now slave to Bordo, legate of Verguso of Atlantis."
Urquhart was not amused. This sounded like the thin edge of the wedge. She said, in her stilted, limited Latin, "There are no slaves in Atlantis." Then she saw the girl's terrified expression, and said in an aside to Swinburne, "For God's sake, don't let her imagine we're going to toss her over the side. Tell her she's free."
Swinburne snorted, but explained. This was no consolation at all to the girl, whose only ambition in life so far had been to exchange a hard master for a kind one. She reached out timidly to Bordon, plainly wanting to clutch at his sleeve, but not daring to. Instead, she fell to her knees and started pleading, to everyone's embarrassment.
Urquhart asked Swinburne to translate, for with all the sobs and sniffs, she could only understand one word in five.
He smirked. "Clytie here begs Lord Bordo to accept her as his slave. She thought he'd be pleased, after all his kindness. He praised her beauty and her dancing, which no one ever had—" (here Bordon turned very red) "---and gave her sweet theobroma to drink and a soft blanket to sleep upon and did not hurt her. She begs us not to return her to her old master the Governor. There's a lot of more in the same vein—do you want to hear about your own divine beauty?"
"Oh, stow it, Alan." The captain grimaced, and her huge green eyes fixed Bordon with a gimlet stare. She said nothing to him yet, but asked Swinburne, "How old is she anyway?"
In a moment, she had her reply. "Seventeen. It might be nineteen. She has no idea. She never knew her mother, and belonged to a number of owners before ending up in Vinicius' private dance troupe."
"Well," suggested Urquhart slowly, "I suppose she could go to school."
The men rolled their eyes. "My dear Captain Urquhart," Ferguson observed gently, "I dinna think that the New Atlantis School is quite ready for a concubine and dancing girl of Gades." He saw Urquhart's indignant look and lifted a hand in disclaimer. "Mind you, I grant it's hardly the poor lassie's fault—but she's had experiences that perhaps the schoolgirls should be spared the hearing of." He gave Bordon a wry smile. "We're not turning about and taking her back to Vinicius—I'll wager we can all agree to that." There were nods of agreement. "Well, then, let's bring her with us, and let the Colonel and the Executive Council sort her out."
And so Clytie had returned to New Atlantis with the rest of the Enterprise's crew, passengers, and cargo. Unlike the Greek scholars, who had some idea by now where they might fit in with the Atlanteans, there was some puzzling over what to do with Clytie. She was quite illiterate, but could hardly be put in a first grade class. She knew no more English than a few words, and her only skills were dancing, gracefully serving cups of wine, and pleasing men. Diana, as a woman with fluent Latin, guessed from the first that the whole issue would be dropped in her lap; and so it transpired.
"She's pretty," Diana had remarked to her husband shortly after the expedition's return. "Very pretty, now that's she's washed and brushed."
Tavington only grunted, cautious about praising another woman's looks to his wife. Clytie was rather better than pretty in his opinion, with starry dark eyes, a skin like clear honey, thick and lustrous black hair, and a dancer's lithe but womanly body.
"Sally ran up a dress for her—a wonderful sunflower yellow. It seemed appropriate, given her name."
He grunted again, and then looked up sharply when the girl shyly entered the room, dressed in her charming new gown. The dress had dainty short sleeves, cut to flutter like the petals of a flower. It was the final touch needed to make her positively exquisite. Bordon was doomed, and a good thing, too.
And it was not as if she would never dance again: the men of the 18th century had triumphed in some matters of culture. There was a ball once a month in the school gymnasium. While the soldiers had adopted the easy and intimate waltz and the lively polka, the dances for the most part were the reels, minuets, allemandes and quadrilles of their own time. Women from the 21st century, enchanted with men who actually wanted to dance, learned quickly; and each of them had a special dress set aside for these occasions.
Clytie was given a little room in the Town Hall, and could not be persuaded to address Diana as anything but "domina." She had proved far from stupid, however. Diana, after dressing her decently (to the girl's grateful joy), began teaching her English and the rudiments of normal behavior as a free woman. In exchange, she helped with the Tavington and Ferguson children, and then would slip off, finding excuses to see Bordon.
Diana was not surprised one morning when she found the girl's room empty. Bordon had been a little lonely, and the girl quite determined: within a month she was sharing his comfortable quarters with him, happy beyond words. Her English was steadily improving, with constant tutelage from four little children and Diana's assistance. Whether she fully understood that she was free, or if she actually understood the concept in any depth, was a matter of guesswork.
Bordon was back at New Atlantis at the moment, in temporary command of the military; and Lisa Seevers was seeing to the administrative end. Their own inspection party would return on Friday morning, in plenty of time to enjoy Dragonslayer. If anything untoward arose, there was always the radio; but what could happen on their peaceful islands?
-----
Notes: Fans of Edgar Rice Burroughs will note the resemblances between John Carter and Tavington himself. Dark hair, light eyes: splendid swordsman; transplanted to an exotic new world where he finds adventure and love. Sorry, can't help it. I've adored John Carter since I was a kid. I hope the projected film does him justice. Advances in CG have made such a film possible—there was no way to create the warlike, eloquent, and terrifying four-armed, fifteen-foot tall green Martians with earlier technology.
Readers are invited to make their own list of films that might appeal to the imagination of people from the 18th century.
Lord of the Two Lands is the title of a lovely historical fantasy by Judith Tarr. It would make a far better film about Alexander than the sludge presented by Oliver Stone (which was itself a rip-off of Mary Renault's excellent historical novels.)
Gades is modern-day Cadiz, Spain.
No, I didn't make up vomitoria. The Romans are the only culture I know of that openly institutionalized bingeing and purging.
The fate of a murdered master's remaining slaves was real Roman law. Not making it up.
In Greek myth, Clytie was a nymph who suffered from unrequited love for the god Apollo. She was transformed into a sunflower; which to this day turns its head to follow the sun. Non-Greek speakers in New Atlantis eventually addressed her namesake as "Clootie." (rhymes with cutie)
Domina--Lady.