Six Historical Tales: Six Historical Tales, #1

By Rayne Hall

Six short stories for different historical periods:

Greetings From Jerusalem (Ancient Rome)
Scruples (Middle Ages)
The Holed Stone (England 1900)
The Black Boar (Middle Ages)
Beltane (Ancient Britain)
Queen of Ithaka (Ancient Greece)

Please note: some of these stories have been published in other collections. British English.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rayne Hall Ltd
• Release date: Jun 26, 2014
• ISBN: 9781501417856

Book preview

CONTENTS

Greetings From Jerusalem (Ancient Rome)

Scruples (Middle Ages)

The Holed Stone (1900)

The Black Boar (Middle Ages)

Beltane (Ancient Britain)

Queen of Ithaka (Ancient Greece)

GREETINGS FROM JERUSALEM

Dearest Lucia,

You were right to disbelieve the rumours that reached you in Rome. Are you wondering what really happened at the party, and why that unfortunate man had to die?

I had to protect my daughter, and I know you’ll understand that. You remember Sal? She’s thirteen now, a lovely young lady. She and I were the only females at my husband’s birthday celebration. Here in the Middle East, women don’t attend parties; they’re supposed to watch from latticed balconies.

That in itself wouldn't be a problem: When my husband hosts Hebrews, Sal and I stay away; when the guests are modern Romans who insist on our presence, we join.

For private events, it's best to keep the two cultures separate, or they clash harsher than soldiers’cymbals. At formal functions, men exercise cultural tolerance and self restraint. But mixing cultures at an intimate party is a hostess’ nightmare. If I put sow’s udder on the menu, the Hebrews see a sacrilege, but if I leave it off, the Romans feel slighted. If I join the men for the meal, I scandalise the Hebrews, but the Romans would read my absence as a personal insult.

Our family are descended from the Hebrew ruling class, but educated the Roman way. Belonging to both cultures doesn’t help; it only raises expectations and makes it easier to offend. However, this was my husband’s birthday, and he wanted to spread intercultural goodwill. I juggled the menu and the seating arrangements and briefed Sal in what topics to avoid. We both dressed so modestly that we almost satisfied native requirements. I wore an elegant though somewhat old-fashioned tiber-green dress with the stole draped over my head. Sal wore blue. It’s the only colour she wears these days.

The men stared at us as if we were shimmering fish in an aquarium. They were a strange mix to see in one room: Sheikhs with striped headscarves, religious leaders, members of my husband’s government, officers of the occupying army, and a bunch of recently pacified rebels. The natives perched on their couches like hawks waiting for prey, while the Romans reclined like leopards about to pounce. You can imagine the atmosphere - the tension in the air was so thick you could slice it with a scimitar. My husband thought he could handle them.

At first, all went well. My choice of menu - boiled camel rib, honey-fried locusts and a variety of fish dishes – met with approval. The hard-line Hebrews ignored the female presence, the Romans delighted in it. As the skilled diplomat that I am, I steered the conversation along inoffensive topics such as camel breeding and chariot races. The oil lamps on their slender stands burnt steadily. Frankincense scented the air. I started to relax.

Then a slave made a minor mistake. She served the stuffed dates before clearing the painted pottery with the meat remnants from the tables. The moment my attention diverted into the domestic matter, the guests’ talk hooked into politics.

The event of the day was the crowd that flocked to see Yochanan. That Yochanan was a bearded wild man who lived by the river and practised water initiation rituals. This country has more religious fanatics than a mangy dog has fleas. Apparently, this particular one had referred to me as a whore, because I divorced my first husband and married his brother.

I didn’t give a fig for Yochanan's views, but I paid attention to my guests' conversations. Talking about Yochanan in this setting was as safe as emptying a burning lamp over a tinder basket. Better change the subject, fast.

What do you think of the musicians? I waved a hand at the band in the corner. The harpist is new. I only bought him last month.

They ignored me. A Roman general asked my husband if he was going to have Yochanan beheaded for his insolence.

One of the sheikhs jumped up, his hand on the chiselled hilt of his dagger, and declared that Yochanan was the prophet of the One True God. If the prophet dies, the true believers will rise!

I turned to the general on my left. "All my musicians are from Egypt. Egyptians make the best musicians, don’t you think? Greeks can handle the harp better, but when it comes to the reed flute or the sistrum,