embroideries.
"Good evening, Father," said his son from the doorway.
Marcus looked up. "We've a few moments before the guests arrive. Sit beside me, Artorius, and let me tell you once again that while I was a disappointment to my father, you are not to me."
"How could I disappoint you, when you've taught me so much?" Artorius's even-tempered smile was his mother's, and yet his grandmother's humor, bright and sharp as a golden sickle, lurked at the corners of his mouth. At one and thirty he was in the prime of life, a tall, clean-limbed man with a glint of red in his brown hair. He'd already served as quaestor and curator in Dacia and Macedonia. Now he was going to the province of Britannia as procurator. Which, Marcus thought, seemed only fair.
Maeve walked into the room and handed Marcus the torc. "Here it is."
It was almost too heavy for him. He would've dropped it if Artorius's strong hands hadn't caught it. Marcus passed it gladly to his son. "I know now why I carried this through fire and blood. For you to throw into the Tamesis, in the name of the goddess Andrasta and of peace."
"As you wish," Artorius said, his doubt tempered with respect.
Marcus handed him the scroll, too. "And this is for you to read on your journey north. To remind you that every truth and every duty has many different braided strands. To remind you of Seneca's aphorism: Fire is the test of gold, adversity, of strong men."
"In your veins runs the blood of both Roma and Britannia," Maeve told him. "May you found a new race. May your name and the names of your descendants be long remembered, in Britannia and beyond its borders."
The gleam of the torc was reflected in Artorius's indigo blue eyes. "I'll bring honor to my name and my blood, I swear it."
Marcus smiled through his pain, content.
Tradition
Elizabeth Moon
July 31, 1914. Durazzo, Albania
Rear Admiral Sir Christopher George Francis Maurice Cradock strode briskly along the deck of his flagship, H.M.S. Defence , walking off the effects of last night's dinner with the officers of the S.M.S. Breslau . Despite the political tension of the past few weeks, it had been a pleasant evening of good food and good talk, punctuated by the clink of silver on china and the gurgle of wine into glasses as the mess stewards kept them filled.
Only once had Commander Kettner revealed any hint of that German confidence which so nearly approached arrogance. "You English—" he had said, his voice rising. Then he had chuckled affably. "You have so much invested in tradition," he had continued, more relaxed. "We Germans have a tradition to make. It is always so for vigorous youth, is it not?" The clear implication that the Royal Navy was superannuated had rankled, but Cradock had passed it off graciously. Time enough to compare traditions when the young eagle actually flew and dared its talons against Britannia's experience. He had no doubt that rashness would be well reproved.
Cradock took a deep breath and eyed the steep tile roofs, bright in morning sunlight, that stepped down to the harbor, its still water perfectly reflecting both ships and buildings. Behind them rose the mountains in which—in happier years—he had hunted boar. No foxhunting here, but a sportsman could find some game anywhere.
He glanced over at Breslau , admitting to himself that the Germans had certainly reached a high standard of seamanship. Every detail he had seen the day before had been correct. Several of the officers had read his books; they had asked him to expand on some of the points he'd made. Only courtesy, of course, but he could not help being pleased.
A thicker ooze of smoke from Breslau 's funnels stained the morning air. Cradock slowed. On her decks a subdued flurry of movement he recognized at once. Astern, the smooth reflection of the mountains shattered like a dropped mirror as her screws churned. He turned to his flag lieutenant.
"What do we know of Admiral Souchon and the
"Good evening, Father," said his son from the doorway.
Marcus looked up. "We've a few moments before the guests arrive. Sit beside me, Artorius, and let me tell you once again that while I was a disappointment to my father, you are not to me."
"How could I disappoint you, when you've taught me so much?" Artorius's even-tempered smile was his mother's, and yet his grandmother's humor, bright and sharp as a golden sickle, lurked at the corners of his mouth. At one and thirty he was in the prime of life, a tall, clean-limbed man with a glint of red in his brown hair. He'd already served as quaestor and curator in Dacia and Macedonia. Now he was going to the province of Britannia as procurator. Which, Marcus thought, seemed only fair.
Maeve walked into the room and handed Marcus the torc. "Here it is."
It was almost too heavy for him. He would've dropped it if Artorius's strong hands hadn't caught it. Marcus passed it gladly to his son. "I know now why I carried this through fire and blood. For you to throw into the Tamesis, in the name of the goddess Andrasta and of peace."
"As you wish," Artorius said, his doubt tempered with respect.
Marcus handed him the scroll, too. "And this is for you to read on your journey north. To remind you that every truth and every duty has many different braided strands. To remind you of Seneca's aphorism: Fire is the test of gold, adversity, of strong men."
"In your veins runs the blood of both Roma and Britannia," Maeve told him. "May you found a new race. May your name and the names of your descendants be long remembered, in Britannia and beyond its borders."
The gleam of the torc was reflected in Artorius's indigo blue eyes. "I'll bring honor to my name and my blood, I swear it."
Marcus smiled through his pain, content.
Tradition
Elizabeth Moon
July 31, 1914. Durazzo, Albania
Rear Admiral Sir Christopher George Francis Maurice Cradock strode briskly along the deck of his flagship, H.M.S. Defence , walking off the effects of last night's dinner with the officers of the S.M.S. Breslau . Despite the political tension of the past few weeks, it had been a pleasant evening of good food and good talk, punctuated by the clink of silver on china and the gurgle of wine into glasses as the mess stewards kept them filled.
Only once had Commander Kettner revealed any hint of that German confidence which so nearly approached arrogance. "You English—" he had said, his voice rising. Then he had chuckled affably. "You have so much invested in tradition," he had continued, more relaxed. "We Germans have a tradition to make. It is always so for vigorous youth, is it not?" The clear implication that the Royal Navy was superannuated had rankled, but Cradock had passed it off graciously. Time enough to compare traditions when the young eagle actually flew and dared its talons against Britannia's experience. He had no doubt that rashness would be well reproved.
Cradock took a deep breath and eyed the steep tile roofs, bright in morning sunlight, that stepped down to the harbor, its still water perfectly reflecting both ships and buildings. Behind them rose the mountains in which—in happier years—he had hunted boar. No foxhunting here, but a sportsman could find some game anywhere.
He glanced over at Breslau , admitting to himself that the Germans had certainly reached a high standard of seamanship. Every detail he had seen the day before had been correct. Several of the officers had read his books; they had asked him to expand on some of the points he'd made. Only courtesy, of course, but he could not help being pleased.
A thicker ooze of smoke from Breslau 's funnels stained the morning air. Cradock slowed. On her decks a subdued flurry of movement he recognized at once. Astern, the smooth reflection of the mountains shattered like a dropped mirror as her screws churned. He turned to his flag lieutenant.
"What do we know of Admiral Souchon and the
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