2022-06-03 - Fiddler On the Roof, Classical Edition

It's been a few days since the grand masquerade at the Grand Olympic Hotel that ended so abruptly for several people. Days that Ravn has spent largely working -- it's finals time in the academic world and a lot of students need a last pep talk or revising session. He still needs the occasional shower, though, and thus he turns up at Oak Three every so often, shoulder bag on one arm -- he never leaves that anywhere these days if he can avoid it (and no wonder, given how much he's realised he's able to stuff into that thing).

You take out the key. You unlock the front door to your house. You step in.

You find yourself somewhere else. Gray Harbor, you do you.

Ravn takes a deep breath to steady himself and murmur a quiet and exasperated "Oh, come the fuck on." Then he looks around.

He's seen this place before. The architecture is vaguely familiar, as are the cypresses and the air; he's breathed this air. The skyline, too. Houses up to five and six storeys tall, with terracotta tiled roofs -- and slates in the windows, not glass. Cobbled road where the gutter brims with garbage and the droppings of draft animals. The smells of cooking -- and in the distance, tanneries, butcher shops, blacksmiths, dye workshops and so on. A pre-industrial city. Not even a medieval one -- and that's the Circus Maximus downhill. He's seen it before -- but when Ravn was in Rome the year was 2019, and the grand circus looked its age, several thousand years old.

It doesn't now. And the people milling past in the street are wearing light tunics and flowing dresses over sandalled feet. Most are Mediterraneans, but a substantial amount belong to ethnicities both lighter and darker. A litter moves past, carried on the shoulders of four black men -- Nubian slaves, no doubt, and inside, some patrician's wife or daughter, sheltered from the Italian sun.

It's hot here. Hot and smelly and crowded. He slinks into a portal to somebody's yard and tries to catch his breath. A glance down himself -- sure enough, when in Rome, do as the Romans do. Classical studies aren't Ravn's field but he knows enough to identify himself as a patrician -- a member of Rome's land owning gentry. Which means he really shouldn't be strolling around in the street in nothing but his tunic, cape, and table knife, unaccompanied and easy prey for thieves and robbers.

Maybe he won't be alone in this Dream. And maybe whoever else is here will be somebody big and burly.

It's been just another week in Gray Harbor, really: a mixture of the mundane and the not-so-mundane, of dealing with the way disasters play out, and the way not-disasters do too. Amidst the rest of her occupations, it's inevitable that Una has found time to be in the kitchen as well, with her hair pulled up atop her head and her clothes splattered with flour and butter; her happy place.

It was the oven that did it, for her. One moment she's leaning down to slide another tray into it, humming tunelessly as she does so, and the next? Boom. It's a different kind of heat that sets her skin to prickling, not to mention the slide of different fabric against her skin, both in the form of her long tunic and stola, and the pillows nestling beneath her. She's reclining, instead of standing, and for the first moment or two it's a dizzying sensation, not made even remotely better by the movement of-- yes, indeed, the litter, though the curtains provide a little bit of a breeze.

It's not enough: she flings one open and throws her upper body out in order to try and breathe (and not vomit all over the granted already-filthy streets. Her Nubian guard makes no effort to stop, mind, inevitably under strict orders to convey their mistress safely to her destination, and that definitely means that stopping in the street is not on the cards.

Breathing, though. Not throwing up. This would be easier without the constant swaying motion of the litter. It's not so difficult for Una to work out where she is, though staring out the curtains doesn't much help with the motion sickness: between the clothes, the architecture (admittedly, she doesn't have the real world experience of it, but that's by the by), and the climate, it's not a difficult guess. Maybe it's the fact that a lot of her exposure to this part of history is through novels; maybe it's because she really is going to vomit if she doesn't do something soon.

Either way, she closes the curtains again and crawls onto her knees (definitely not helping the nausea), inching forward until she can stick her nose out of the back of the litter. It's not so far to fall, right? And if she times it just right--

-- she's one of the least athletic people in the world, maybe, but somehow her nice, handsome Nubian guards are too focused on facing forward to register the shift of weight, or the complete absence of their mistress. Una hits the ground, breathing hard, her draperies scattered around her.

Sorry, Ravn. Not only is your companion in this Dream not big and burly, she's an even bigger target than you are, with a king's ransom in jewels on fingers, ears, wrists, and neck.

That flash of ginger at about chest height looks familiar. Not the clothing and definitely not the sparkle of precious metals and stones on her fingers, around her neck, and in that elaborate hairdo -- none of those are any more familiar than his own linen tunic, finely dyed and accentuated with a pattern that no doubt identifies his noble house to other Romans (he has no damned idea what it means, personally). The luxurious red sandals on his feet certainly sets him apart from the labourers and craftsmen walking past in the street -- enough that it must be an obvious indicative of social standing.

Whatever the reason they're here, there's at least two of them. Ravn whistles sharply and reaches out in an attempt to catch Una's attention and get her to join him in the shadow of the portal. "Suus 'heu mihi!"

What the hell? Oh well. Apparently, Latin translations happen. He speaks Latin -- in theory. The kind of dusty, never-actually-speaking Latin an academic has sat through in order to read ancient texts -- not the kind of spoken language that you'd hear in the actual streets of ancient Rome. "Hey, it's me!"

"Vacca stulta!" Yes, Una, you really are a stupid cow.

Someone more nimble than Una might have ended up in a crouched position after their gymnastic escape; Una, alas, has ended up in a mess of fabric and dirt (and worse) instead, and she's still collecting herself enough to try and figure out her next move (jumping out of moving vehicles, Una? What next?!) when that whistle catches her attention, followed so promptly by the sound of Ravn's voice-- familiar, even if the words and the language are not-- that she can't help but look up, and then move.

She holds her skirts as she runs, her palla holding on only thanks to her jewelled broach. It's not far, and that's for the best: she aims herself not quite directly at Ravn, but certainly towards his vicinity, out of the way of the noisy street and the inevitable death (or at least, robbery) that surely awaits. Una doesn't speak Latin, but whoever she's playing right now plainly does; a torrent of words follow, and then the more concerted: "Shit. Thank fuck. I'm glad you're here. When I dreamed of visiting ancient Rome... it wasn't quite this dramatic."

At least now that she's upright and at least a little less vomit-y, she can glance Ravn up and down, and then herself as well. If there's context to be picked up from her clothing (and there is: whoever she is, she's married, and helpfully, this is not her wedding day), she's missed it. No matter.

A potentially disturbing awareness bubbles up in Ravn's mind; he knows this woman that Una is supposed to be. Whoever he is supposed to be -- they are connected somehow. He's not entirely certain how he feels about this. A bit of certainty would be nice. It does make a difference whether someone is your sister or your wife. You love both but (hopefully!) you express that fondness in different ways.

"I really could have done without visiting it at all," the folklorist-patrician murmurs and reaches to try to help brush dirt off Una's fancy gown -- only to remember that he is not wearing his gloves. Careful, then, caaareful.

"Do we have any idea who we are? Corvus Danus -- no, that's wrong, there isn't a 'Denmark' at this time, and Dacia is Transylvania." If he sounds slightly panicked it's not far off the mark. The historian knows enough about ancient Rome -- whether it's the republic or the empire -- to know just how much potential disaster one can get wrapped up in here. "I don't feel like I'm a foreigner. I'm somebody with Germanic roots from the looks of me but I am a patrician. So I have to be Roman by birth."

There's only so much a few bare hands can do to improve the state of Una's gown, but she's appreciative of the help anyway-- eventually, she shakes her head and gives up, adjusting her palla in an attempt to cover at least a little of it. Her fingers seem to know what they're doing, even if she doesn't; it's always such an unnerving feeling. "Too many daydreams of living history on my end, I'm afraid," she says with a wrinkle of her nose. "And here we are. I--"

Ravn's question has drawn, however, a frown. It's like there's something lurking there, in the recesses of her mind, but she's not quite there yet. "Given the sheer weight of gold I'm wearing," she confirms, shaking one wrist with a merry jangle, then hastily stopping it, just in case it attracts too much attention. "I think it's safe to assume I'm-- oh. I don't know about you, but I was on my way to the Domus Transitoria, to visit my cousin. She's still sad, because her baby died last year."

It's unnerving, when Dreams do that. What is this knowledge, and where did it come from? (And where's the rest that would help fill out the context?)

Would it not be nice indeed, if Dreams came with a quick primer -- ten things you need to know when in Ancient Rome.

Ravn glances down the street. "That's just over there," he agrees and wonders at the back of his head how he knows. Sure, he played tourist in Rome for a while, in 2019 -- he knows where the Capitol is, and obviously, the Colosseum, but the houses of -- oh God.

He takes a deep breath. "The date. Do you know the date?"

For all that Una has likely read novels that include maps, her sense of geography is clearly not well-developed in this city, strange as it is. She lets her gaze follow Ravn's, frowning as she does so, though there's some sense of wide-eyed wonder, too: she's in Rome.

She's-- "Wait. The date? It's..." Pause. "The month of the Divine Julius, in the year 64."

"Here's to hoping it's not the two hundredth day, then," Ravn murmurs. "Because sixty-four two hundred in the Julian calendar sounds pretty harmless until you recall it means July 18 in Gregorian. Which is when Rome burned." He glances in the direction of the palace just down the Palatine Hill a stretch. "Do you think it's coincidence we're going to the palace of Emperor Nero in this particular month? I'm not buying it."

He hoists his bag up on his shoulder -- a simple knapsack that reminds him strangely of the shoulder bag he likes to portage around Gray Harbor. He's afraid to look inside, though, because who knows what will happen to the contents of it, if subjected to time travel?

Might find his laptop turned into an abacus. And that'd be the lucky part.

He sighs again. "Right. We have our roles to play -- do you have any idea why you decided to bail on a visit to good old Neckbeard?"

"Shit," says Una, in Latin (actually, it's more than just 'shit', but that sums it up reasonably well).

She inhales, flicking another bit of dirt off of her skirts: this might be all the more important, if a visit to the palace is in order. "I'm sure I read something, maybe a year or two ago, about how maybe Nero was framed and none of it was his fault, and just the propaganda of the day wanted to make it all his fault. So maybe it won't be that bad? I--" Don't hold your breath, Una.

"I have no idea. I mean, I think I wanted out because adjusting to that motion made me want to vomit, but I'm not sure if whoever I am had some higher plan. In retrospect, it seems like a ridiculous idea, throwing yourself out of a moving vehicle, unprotected... Nero wasn't especially one of the lecherous ones, was he? I need a better memory for all of this. It's too convenient that I escaped here, and found you. Right?"

Ravn cants his head, thinking. As a historian he has a good grip on the classical era, but it's not his field of interest and given that books and the internet exists, he has not previously dedicated much mind space to remembering the exact names and dates of every atrocity of the Roman empire. "Nero killed his mother," he recalls. "And there was a fair bit of political scheming and maneuvering -- but that goes for pretty much all of the Roman emperors. He's not stark raving mad the way Caligula was -- we're not going to be made to do the Ave at his consul, the horse. Then there's the whole 'Nero played his fiddle while Rome burned' controversy which is problematic because fiddles did not exist yet and also, contemporary writers point out that Nero wasn't in Rome at the time it burned."

Pause. "Which leaves an interesting question, actually. Who the hell are we visiti -- " Ravn blinks. "You said that. Poppae Sabina, your cousin. Has the Dream also helpfully supplied you with an idea who she is? I probably should know but the only female names that jump out at me when it comes to Nero is Messalina and Agrippina."

Poor Sabina. The one history tends to only mention as a footnote.

Una takes in a few long, deep breaths, a thing she probably regrets fairly quickly: ugh, Roman streets, even nice little yards like this one, do not smell especially good. It gives her some thinking time, though, letting the thoughts rise and fall with her breath, one at a time. "I suppose it makes for a better mental image for the modern mind than saying he played the cithara." Her nose wrinkles: how did she remember the name of an ancient instrument she's never heard of or seen? Thanks, Dream logic.

She plays, idly, with the pearls embedded in her wrist cuff, focusing her thoughts. The answer to Ravn's question comes with a moment of clarity, one that makes Una frown, even if her other self seems almost offended, tucked away in her thoughts. "Poppaea Augusta Sabina, daughter of Titus Ollius, Empress of Rome."

Beat.

"Well fuck."

"Well then." Ravn takes a deep breath. "I guess that whoever we are, and whatever our relationship is, we're part of Roman high politics, then. You're the empress' cousin. I am -- whoever I am, but whoever I am is definitely a member of the gentry, though apparently not someone high up enough that I can't leave my domus without armed guards. Or maybe I snuck out too, like you, who knows. Either way, I guess we should go ask Cousin Sabina what she's up to. And pay attention when they tell us who we are."

The street is pleasant enough -- by contemporary standards. Cypress trees provide a pleasant scent that drowns out at least some of the waste in the gutter and the sweat of bodies and animals, of street kitchens and bakeries, of goods moved on carts and the donkeys pulling them. Ravn reminds himself that it could be a hell of a lot worse -- the highlight of Roman social life was, after all, the baths, and compared to say, Rome in the Renaissance . . . When push comes to shove, bodies in light linen tunics in Italian summer heat smell less than bodies in hosen and long robes in Italian summer heat.

The uniformed guards outside the palace are a thing to see. It's one thing, reading about the Praetorian Guard, seeing them in movies -- and to see them live, in their purple capes and feathered helmets. The costumiers of Spartacus had the budget to do a good impression, certainly -- but the air around them, that feeling of give these guys a good, wide berth, in fact, just cross the street and mind your own business, is not something Hollywood can capture on film. These are the emperor-makers. And in several cases, the emperor-enders.

Ravn swallows again and heads straight for the gate. "Here goes nothing," he murmurs, and marvels quietly at how they're still doing their murmuring in Latin. If only his old college teacher could see him now.

"Right," agrees Una, taking in another of those deep breaths and drawing her shoulders back to do so. At least this particular era doesn't require stupendously uncomfortable clothes: her sandals aren't likely to sprain her ankles, and indeed, linen and very fine wool are light and airy. As long as no one tries to make her eat garum...

This is fine. It's not fine, but it's fine enough.

Evidently her litter has been admitted, or sent around the back somewhere, or perhaps it was supposed to be heading somewhere else altogether and she ditched it to come here specifically, because it's not in evidence at the gates. Hopefully her unfortunate slaves have not been unduly punished, wherever it is they were supposed to end up. That's not a happy thought for Una, though she attempts, determinedly, to keep a neutral, impassive smile on her face.

The Praetorians are impressive, there's no denying that. Una aims for breezy as they approach, which is not much her usual style, but... acting! This is fine. She's a person, probably with two names, and she belongs here. Cousin Sabina is expecting her.

It works, too - miraculously. The guards merely draw their spears aside, acknowledging both with a solemn and surprisingly deferential gesture, and isn't that unnerving.

Una hisses at Ravn, after they've passed through: "They know who we are. Fuck. Who the fuck are we?"

"I almost wish I was back in Gray Harbor worrying about how many people ate the damned brain rotting Veil fruit pastries before Dita wrecked them," Ravn murmurs under his breath. "The pastries, not the people."

Part of him loves it. A historian, getting to live history? He has to remind himself once again that the Veil does not actually send him time travelling -- it creates a fantasy, and that if it is attempted historically accurate, it's still based on his own perception of what that means exactly. It's a dangerous trap of thought -- to think, I've seen Nero's Rome, I know what it looked like, when in fact, what Ravn has seen is what Ravn thinks Nero's Rome looked like. Anecdotal evidence is not empirical fact.

Having Praetorians treat you like a person of station is decidedly unnerving though. Classical Rome is second only to Borgia Rome when it comes for a reputation of backstabbing, poisoning, and decadence. It's a great period to read about but, the historian notes to himself, possibly not quite so great to be in. And then there's that little thing about Rome burning.

It's not on fire yet. Yet.

Once past and into the great and airy atrium Ravn pauses in stride -- in part because he's honestly not certain where to go. Not a specialist in all things upper class Roman -- were they like the Athenian men of the upper class, keeping their wives and daughters in specific sections of the house, not to talk to men not of their immediate family? He recalls bits and pieces -- the Romans' reputation for wild orgies and decadence was greatly exaggerated by the Christians that wrote their history, and the Catholic Church had every reason to depict the pantheistic Romans as decadent and sinful. And of course, Satyricon was written by a contemporary writer.

Roman women of the upper class were -- prissy? He recalls reading that, that they were kept to standards higher than subsequent medieval era ladies.

And then of course the whole thing about using lead powder as a cosmetic, routinely rendering them barren and short lived.

"I think we might want to try to find your cousin and steer this towards an unofficial visit if at all possible," he murmurs. "There's a hell of a difference between eating grapes with your cousin and an official audience with the Empress of the Rome."

Almost. That's the thing, isn't it? There's the 'life would be so much simpler right now if I were just watching my cookies in the oven, trying not to worry about Veil fruit and housemates with no filter' and then there's the... holy shit, it's like I'm actually living some of my favourite genre fiction. Una's caught between the two, with that low-grade discomfort in the pit of her belly that gnaws away, acknowledging all the ways in which this could go badly wrong. But... but.

Her eyes drink in the details: the mosaics and the frescoes, the lararium set back into one wall, and the open peristyle with its fountain. There's more than a tiny part of her that just wants to linger and explore, to touch all the things, and--

Ravn's murmur draws her attention back, and she shifts, straightening her spine again. "Right," she agrees. "Sabina spends her afternoons in her private garden, when the weather is fine. Her ladies spin and weave, and she can entertain guests in the far corner where they can't hear her. That's--"

How did she know that? She just did.

"This way."

Her feet know the way, passing down a dark corridor away from this more public part of the palace, eventually opening up into another, more private atria. Water trickles through the fountain; birds sing in the air; and Poppaea Sabina-- for it must be she-- looks bored, bored, bored, sitting upright in a chair (proper ladies don't recline except when they must, see) and waving impatiently at the slave child playing a flute-like instrument at her feet.

"Cousin!" she calls, looking up as Una and Ravn approach. "You made it after all. Come." Not a request. "Walk with me."

Quandary time. Is Ravn also a cousin? Did Her August Majesty mean both of them in that case, or just one of them? And in that case, which one? This is where it would be really, really helpful to know who he's supposed to be. Is he Una's husband and hence, a relation of the Empress that history forgot -- or rather, one of the empresses that history forgot because some of them made some pretty big splashes. Sabina will be succeeded, eventually, by Statilia Messalina of whom history only notes, 'she was less flamboyant than her predecessor'. On the scale of Valeria Messalina, wife of Claudius and attempted killer of her brother Nero, to Statilia Messa-who did you say again?, at least Sabina ranks as 'flamboyant'.

The only thing he knows for certain is that he is not Una's servant because he's a patrician. It'd be really helpful to at least know his own name.

The Dane falls into stride, one step behind Una -- mostly because he takes a second to get moving, overthinking as always. At six foot three he towers over the (other) Romans, and he finds himself trying to slink a bit, sink down and maybe make him a bit less tall. Whoever he is supposed to be, there's some very definite Germanic blood in that man. The son of a Roman patrician and a slave wife, perhaps, raised up to the ranks of the freeborn? Heaven only knows.

And maybe Heaven does indeed know. Another bubble of information acquired a decade ago surfaces in his mind: There is some historical controversy whether Nero's second wife secretly was a Christian.

Sabina is flamboyant; that's one thing that history got right (assuming the Veil is choosing to be accurate in this instance which is, of course, entirely up to chance). She sweeps out of her chair and away from the collection of ladies, the boy flautist, and yes, the man waving a fan as well, dismissing them with a flick of her fingers. Not that they disappear, mind, but at least none of them try and follow as she leads the way further into the garden, past the fountain and towards the shade of an olive tree.

She seems mostly interested in Una, which is awkward, since Una would really prefer not to be quite so forward facing (would prefer, probably, to just hide behind that tree). On the other hand, she doesn't dismiss Ravn outright: he gets barely a glance, and then she's saying to Una, "Well? Did you pass on my message? Was there a reply? Tell me, cousin."

No, sorry Una, you still don't get to know your own name.

Una freezes, and casts Ravn a helpless, horrified glance. Um?

Thoughts race through Ravn's head. More and more bits of trivia surface -- and that's part of his problem because a substantial part of those trivia go something like, historians debate whether, and really, that's the last thing he needs right now. Is Poppae Sabina a secret Christian? Is that what the 'message' is about? Or is this something else -- anything else, really, because if the Empress had a lover, or participated in some conspiracy (any number of conspiracies), and was successful in keeping it secret -- well then Ravn wouldn't know about it, would he now?

The only thing he has is, Rome is going to burn. And the fire starts at night -- probably this night, if he can trust a Dream's timing.

Think, Dr. Phil. Abildgaard.

History blamed the fire on Nero, but Nero blamed the fire on the Christians. Poppae Sabina might be a secret Christian. It's the only leads he has. And all he can do is wait just a little, and hopefully, Sabina will toss them a bone. He nods very slightly at Una and hopes she understands what he means. Sometimes, being a Mentalist would be really damn handy.

That nod? It's not immediately helpful, thanks Ravn. Oh, Una likely picks up on its meaning well enough, but it still leaves her to paste a smile back onto her face and turn her attention back on her supposed cousin, who is watching her hawk-eyed and eager.

"Uh--" begins Una, because, well, shit. Even if she knew what this message was, she clearly has no idea whether she has, in fact, successfully delivered it. Think, Una, think. Unfortunately, the mental reserves are coming up blank: there's Quo Vadis, which she's pretty sure she watched in high school, and then all the novels, except that most of the novels are set earlier or later: the Roman Republic, or possibly the Year of the Four Emperors or the Flavian dynasty that followed.

None of them are helpful here.

Happily, however, although this designation is perhaps dubious under the circumstances, Poppaea Sabina likes the sound of her own voice, and for a potential conspirator? She's not precisely subtle. Maybe everyone gets distracted by the brightness of her tyrian purple palla. "I'm so worried, cousin. The omens are just terrible, and I know the augurs are superstition, a remnant of the old gods and not the one true God, but I can't help it. My husband hates and fears them so much, and I am afraid."

Her pose is undeniably dramatic: hand on her forehead, mouth open. It would be ridiculous, except that it rather does just feel as though Sabina is simply that kind of woman.

Finally. The Jewish God bless a conspirator who can't shut up. Ravn tries to hide his breath of relief but it comes from the heart; here, at least, is something he can latch on to. And given Sabina's lack of interest in him, he's somebody who barely registers to the Empress -- which has some advantages, one of them that she likely has no idea where he stands politically. Well, Corvus Danus, or whatever the hell his name is, here's to hoping that you haven't previously taken a strong anti-Christian position because you're about to become a convert.

"The augurs hold much sway over the hearts of Rome," he ventures, gently. "Who does not recall the ides of March? God whispers into the ear of a soothsayer when He wants the non-believer to hear what needs to be heard. I put the Ichtys on my house altar, August One, but I still listen when my haruspex tells me that they see fire in the goat's entrails."

Sabina's delight is unfeigned: she claps her hands together, then clasps them there, finally focusing her attention on Ravn outright; Una, it seems, is last week's news. "Then it is true!" she says. "I have so long prayed for this, and it seems my prayers have been answered. Cousin, I commend your efforts. I fear we will never swell our numbers with my husband, but I hope--" One hand moves to rest on her flat belly. "Perhaps my son."

Una blinks.

Hastily, she adds, "The air is so dry, and the wind so strong. Even if we do not believe the augurs for themselves... when God speaks, we must listen. What more can we do, Sabina? I do not like this."

Ravn manages to stop himself before blurting out something along the lines of, if we get on a fast horse (each) now, how long do you think it will take us to get to Naples, I mean Napolis. There's no point; the Dream will never allow them to dodge the narrative like that. But it does offer some pointers; for one, Nero famously opened his palaces to the people rendered homeless by the fire, after the fire. Meaning --

"I think at this time it is wise to stay right here, August One." Ravn is entirely in favour of the idea of staying in one of those palaces because if they can be opened after the fire? It means that they did not burn. And that brings up another interesting historical quandary subject to much debate among his peers in Classical History: "Is your husband at home?"

Poppaea Sabina is many things, but it doesn't quite seem as if 'master strategist' is one of them. Una's question leaves her unbalanced and uncertain; Ravn's suggestion, by turns, is a relief that she grasps onto with two (metaphorical, thankfully) hands. "Yes," she agrees. "The streets are not safe. I wish you would travel with your guards, my dear cousin, and not put yourself at such risk. We're safe, here. No trouble would dare to travel up the Palatine."

History does not agree with Sabina, but Una, though frowning, seems inclined to accept it-- in this case, it may well be correct, at least in part.

"My husband? Why yes, he's in his study, practicing his music. Did you need him for something? He never likes the interruption, but it will be time to dine soon enough. You'll have to stay. Break bread with us, my friends."

Today is not the time to point out on which exact hill of Rome that Julius Caesar famously got stabbed -- what exact hill on which a lot of Emperors past and future are in fact going to get stabbed, garotted, or poisoned. And disturbing an emperor who, a year or so from now, is going to kill the woman they're talking to by repeatedly jumping up and down on her pregnant stomach in a fit of pique doesn't sound great either.

It's a strange feeling, talking to a woman whom you know is going to die horribly from spousal abuse in a year.

And of course one does not argue with the Empress; while presented as an offer to join her at dinner, it really isn't a suggestion. "It would be our great honour, August One. And perhaps the Emperor will deign to play his cithara for us. I am told he plays quite masterfully."

Nero, who wanted to be a performer, not a ruler.

The look on Sabina's face is something akin to pique, for that last remark of Ravn's, as if the very last thing she wants to do is encourage her husband in his dreams of performance, thank you very much. She's Augusta, however, if not a patrician by birth, and on her third marriage: she knows how to handle husbands, not to mention men in general.

Another woman might take the opportunity now, with her husband still occupied and her slaves and ladies deliberately looking away, to pray with her fellow Christians. Una half looks as if she expects it, clutching uncomfortably with the fabric of her palla.

But Sabina shakes off whatever thoughts she has and says, "Come. I will call for wine, and fetch my husband, while my slave washes the dirt from your feet and hands, and then we will dine."

And off she strides, apparently quite expecting her guests to follow without pause.

Who's arguing with the Empress? Not Corvus Danum, or whatever his name is, that's for certain. He just takes a mental note: Sabina is not impressed with her imperial husband's passion for the stage and the musical arts.

Maybe she expects him to actually run his empire or something. Maybe she wishes he'd let her run it, instead of just doing both, equally half-assedly.

Whichever's the case, you can be certain no one within a thousand miles is going to tell Emperor Neckbeard that he's a mediocre thespian and a mediocre musician. And to be fair, the historian notes to himself, he might actually be perfectly fine -- because history was not written by people who loved him.

Besides, he's got other problems. Ones that involve the words 'slave' and 'washing dirt off his feet'. Oh sweet neuropathy, this is going to be fun.

Not Una, either, whatever her name is. (Is she related to the Poppaea Sabina side of the family, this Poppaea Sabina being designated 'the younger', or is it the Titus Ollius side? Or perhaps 'cousin' is looser even than that. Who can say!) She casts a sharp glance in Ravn's direction as she falls into step behind the Augusta, more than a little wary still. Dinner with the Emperor Nero and his wife, of course! Just another normal day in the life of a Gray Harborite, no big deal.

Sabina leads the way through the atria and into a large triclinium. It's not a banqueting hall: despite its size, it is many times more intimate than that, with enough dining couches for a only a handful of people. A proper Republican Roman matron might not recline to eat, but evidently that is old fashioned nonsense: she may sit up outside, in her garden, but in here there are no chairs to be seen, and that, Una thinks to herself, may make this tricky. It just seems a very awkward position for eating in.

"I will return," Sabina promises, having waved in her guests.

"This is going to be an experience," Ravn murmurs softly under his breath, for only his wife? cousin? aunt? niece? sister? to hear. "Rich Romans ate some -- interesting things." Pray it's going to be jellied otter noses and not pickled whole dormice. Be thankful it's not the Victorian era, at least, where for a while, green food was all the rage, and the green was arsenic.

Then he remembers something else and quickly whispers to his wife, cousin, aunt, niece, sister, whatever, "Nero was -- is -- all about theatre and music. Whoever we are, we ought to know what's hot and what's not -- and we don't. If we get cornered I think I may invent the violin a few centuries early." He nods at his knapsack.

There's a lot of stuff in there. Whether it's accessible in a time and age it does not belong in -- well, there's only one way to find out. Ravn strongly suspects that this is going to be one of those case by case, or rather, Dream by Dream things -- some Dreams will allow him to lug an arsenal of first aid kit, useful items, and small firearms around; others won't, or will turn them into contemporary equivalents.

He opens the knapsack and quickly feels around inside. There's a violin case down there, at least. Here's to hoping it contains a violin. Although a tommy gun might also solve some problems.

Una might, at this moment, vote for the tommy gun. As it is, she gives Ravn another of those slightly wide-eyed glances and nods. "Good plan," she agrees. "Distract him with music, before the fire--" Before the fire distracts with a whole new set of issues, presumably. Of the food, she's currently looking a little bilious in anticipation, but-- look. Fine. She can do this. It's only food, and there's probably going to be so much of it, in such handy little bit-sized pieces, that maybe it'll go relatively unremarked upon if it doesn't get eaten.

She can hope.

Dubiously, she steps further into the room and gingerly sits down on the end of one of the couches. It's at the end, so it's not going to be Nero's couch, right? It's fine. This is fine. She's just in time, too, because a whole cluster of slaves arrive moments later, carrying water and cloths and scented oils. Is this really what happened in Roman tricliniums, she has to wonder; really, who can say?

One slave woman kneels at Ravn's feet, staring up at him wide-eyed. Another does likewise above Una.

Another offers beakers of wine. There's another thing Una knows about Roman cuisine: the wine gets watered, and sometimes spiced and honeyed, and it still probably tastes revolting by modern standards.

The one good thing Ravn has to say about spiced, honeyed, and watered wine is that at least it won't get you drunk; now is not a good time to get distracted by alcohol.

First, though, he needs to keep his wits about him for this ordeal. He stretches a leg at a time, allowing the slave girl to remove his sandal, and then the other. She knows what she's supposed to do -- and he will endure it, just have to keep watching her hands, know what's coming. After all, if he suddenly yelps out loud from pain because an unexpected touch convinced his nerve system he's being tasered, the girl is the one who's likely to be punished for somehow causing him pain. Are people in Dreams real? Are they Dream-stuff given form and shape for the occasion, and do they continue to exist once the Dreamer leaves? As far as Ravn is concerned the jury is out, and he does not want to see a girl whipped because his nerve system is perpetually drunk.

He watches the girl work while his hands rummage around the knapsack until he finds the violin case and takes it out. Inside, a violin the colour of old mahogany -- an instrument that has travelled the world with him, and while it is certainly no Stradivarius, it is of good make and quality. Time to rosin that bow, take several deep breaths, and hope that the man who -- a year from now -- has the temper to kick his pregnant wife to death, is interested in foreign and strange instruments. Because that seems one hell of a safer conversation piece than admitting to being the one patrician in Rome who has no bloody idea who's hot and who's not at the Colosseum.

Una takes a careful sip from her goblet and winces: it really is as awful as she expects it to be. Nor is she particularly fond of the whole foot washing thing, which is weird and a little intrusive, and also, slavery and-- but at least she doesn't have to worry about being hurt by it. She casts a quick glance back at Ravn, but says nothing further: these people may or may not be real, but whatever they are, you can't ever assume the Dream won't use them for its own ends if you slip up. Silence is significantly safer.

It's a little uncomfortable, though, sitting there on the edge of a dining couch, having someone wash first your feet and then your hands, in silence, waiting for the inevitable. Like waiting for your doom, Una thinks, and tries not to think.

"Darlings," says Sabina, appearing in the doorway. Of course, that's not actually what she says, but the intent of her Latin is clear enough. "My husband will join us in a moment-- oh, my goodness, what is it that you have there? Are you going to make certain he bores us all with his music all night? Do I need to rethink my invitation? It's so tiresome."

"With your permission, Augusta, I hoped to perhaps distract your divine husband," Ravn quickly changes course -- grifter, run with the flow. He nods towards Una and explains, "That way, you ladies may discuss things that truly matter for our little community of faith, undisturbed."

The irony is not lost on the violinist. Nero fiddled while Rome burned, or so his enemies claimed. Any historian worth his salt rejects that myth -- because violins had yet to be invented. How it suits the irony of Dreams, though, if it turns out to be the actual case, at least in this mock reality? That Emperor Nero really did fiddle while Rome burned, and the fiddle in question was Ravn's?

Oh well. It would make sense, in that twisted, bizarre way that Dreams often do. And fortunately, it's not real. He's still pretty certain Nero isn't even supposed to be in Rome.

One thing is absolutely certain: Sabina is not a lover of music. Or is it that she's not a fan of her husband's music? The two may be so deeply intertwined that it's difficult to separate them, by now, after even only two years of marriage (we're not counting the period before that when she was his mistress). She considers Ravn's words with a dubious glance, and then abruptly brightens. "By all means," she agrees, the gracious hostess as she claims her couch, snapping her fingers to encourage the slaves to approach: fresh water, fresh cloths, fresh wine for the Augusta, thank you. "My cousin and I shall have a delightful natter, I think. while you men entertain yourselves. Out of earshot. Philetus, where is my husband? He's late."

"I shall fetch him at once, Domina," promises the slave in question, hurrying through the door.

It leaves a pause, and Una, reluctantly attempting to position herself on the couch now that the slave at her feet has moved on-- it's presumably to be expected, as awkward as it is-- seems briefly at a loss to fill it.

She's saved by the bell-- or rather, in fact, the emperor: Nero himself, stocky and fair, togate despite being at home amongst supposed family.

Say, what is the appropriate greeting for a Roman Emperor in an intimate setting?

Questions Ravn never thought to ask of his teachers back in high school. He'll just have to guess and pray he guessed right. The Emperor of Rome is a living god, and this specimen is known to history to have quite the high opinion of his own artistic talents. History does not record whether he actually is talented -- but he certainly thinks he is. A grifter's conclusion: Mix formal with waving a new toy in his face.

Ravn stands and raises his right arm in the proper greeting -- Ave, Imperator -- and tactically 'forgets' to let go of the violin bow as he does so. The instrument cradled in his left hand, here is to hoping that His Neckbeardness cares more to see what that fancy new thing is than he does about formalities.

Unfortunately for Ravn, His Neckbeardness really does care for the formalities, and between Una-- who scrambles to her feet but doesn't seem to know what else to do (curtsy? No, definitely not. Uh. Shit. Okay.)-- and Ravn, well, his expression turns from jovial enough to something distinctly more sinister, in the space of a moment.

Sabina seems perplexed, not by her husband's face but by the actions of her guests, who seem to have misjudged so distinctly the basic modes of conduct. Indeed, the whole room seems to freeze, icy cold and distinctly unpleasant.

There are worse Emperors to have pissed off, though Sabina's eventual fate doesn't entirely ease the concern of what this one will do. Still, dangerous disquiet aside, Nero Claudius Caesar Augustus Germanicus has not failed to miss the presence of that unusual-- and distinctly interesting-- piece of wood in Ravn's grasp.

Tension twangs, sharp and unpleasant, and then he says, "You have brought me a gift, I see."

Oh shit.

Ravn does the quickest mental calculation in his life: When you leave here, do you want to leave for your own house, or for the Colosseum's slave quarters, to be part of tomorrow's lion show?

Much as he's a cat person, that's not a difficult choice. He smiles at the Emperor in a fashion that he hopes conveys a musician's absentmindedness -- his faux pas was surely due to his excitement in getting present the August One with this strange and rare instrument, to bring a gift worthy of a god's musical talent. "It is an instrument that requires some patience to master. Once one does, though -- no other string measures in sound and reach. I can play it somewhat humbly -- and once my Emperor has had a little time to master its finesse, what music might not a god make for us?"

Sabina shoots a look at Ravn: betrayed. Now they're never going to escape, and who is going to suffer for it? She is. This is exactly what she didn't want to happen. Una-whoever-you-are, you're never being invited back here with your whoever-he-is.

Una makes an apology with her eyes, both to Sabina and to Ravn. This is... not going to plan, whatever the plan was. This is horrific... and Nero hasn't even started playing yet.

The Emperor plucks the violin and bow out of Ravn's hands with an expression of pure, distracted glee. The lions are on hold for now (so's the Tarpeian Rock): this is new, and much more exciting. Novelty, it seems, wins out over most things.

He has not, of course, ever seen a violin before, nor any instrument remotely like it. It has strings-- that's not unfamiliar. Unfortunately, that's about the only thing he does recognise. Strings get plucked, right? But what's the bow for? He starts by shaking it, like a drum; nothing happens. Then he tries bracing the (poor, unfortunate, cursed) instrument against his hip, jabbing at it with the bow, which he holds in a fist. Then he tries stabbing the bow between the strings... and then at the f holes, too.

That's all very unfortunate for the violin, but has nothing on what happens when a moment later he attempts to slide the bow over the strings, up at fingerboard level.

It just gets worse from there.

Ravn shoots Nero the same look Sabina just shot him: Betrayed. Of all the horrors he has ever seen and heard inflicted on an innocent violin, this is the worst. Even a student being handed an instrument back home knows what a violin is. Hint: It's not a weird-ass ukulele, and this neckbeard needs to go eat his own chitara. He feels his temper flare, simply because of the agony of hearing and watching this. He can feel all nine Muses collectively handing in their resignations.

He manages to stop himself from tearing his instrument out of the madman's hands. Barely.

"If it pleases you, August One, I will show you how the people of my mother's country play. It may prove a platform from which true Roman genius can spring -- a foundation stone upon which may be built an Imperial palace." Nero may not know this man well, but Una at least won't need to be very observant in order to note the strain in her friend's voice and the tightness of his jaw. "The music of Teutons and Angles is unworthy of the Imperial Court, but it may inspire the Emperor to compose something truly worthy of his divine ancestry."

Gimme me my goddamn violin. Please.

Una is not, as has been established in the past, a musical person. She knows it. Anyone who's ever heard her try to sing (or hum) knows it. That doesn't mean she doesn't know the difference between good violin playing and horrendously bad. She's heard good playing. This is not good playing.

This doesn't deserve to be mentioned in the same universe as good playing.

Nonetheless, it's clear that it hurts her physically rather less than it does Ravn: she's composed enough that she has the wherewithal to shoot a concerned glance at the Dane, but otherwise maintain a reasonably impassive expression.

Sabina, too, has had enough exposure to the whims of her husband to be able to maintain her expression. Such a tight, thin smile-- but a smile nonetheless.

That helps, in the end. Nero is not amused by Ravn's interruption, that much is certain, but the big man (metaphorically, and even then, arguably) is apparently more interested in making the poor violin work than in taking down the one man who might be able to show him. However: "I give you leave to demonstrate with my hands," he decrees, imperiously.

In other words: use your hands to position mine (or lions are back on the menu).

It's something. It's certainly better than watching the man try to beat the violin with the bow. Ravn walks to stand behind the Emperor. "I will have to touch you, Divine One," he warns -- just in case that is another serious faux pas.

He places the violin in the man's left hand and under his neck(beard) and then helps him elevate the bow to its proper place (not on the goddamn frets, you monster). "You control the strings on the fretboard with the left hand, and use the bow to draw out the notes. It is a complex instrument, and if you wish, I will play a tune upon it for you." One last attempt to convince the Emperor to hand the instrument over: "It takes a mortal man ten years or longer to learn to play well. A god such as your holy self surely will master it in a year or less."

Keep the expectations low. Allow the man some wiggle room so that perhaps, taking instruction seems like less of a divine failure.

Yes, yes: touch him. Permission has been granted, and Ravn had better consider himself lucky, to be in such close proximity to the divine. It's equally clear, however, that the emperor is no longer used to being touched by mere mortals who are neither his slaves nor his wife (or for that matter, his mistress: he's had one, after all, it's entirely likely there are others). He flinches, and Sabina, sitting upon her couch, makes a soothing noise that just makes him glower.

Still, he allows his hands to be positioned, the violin to be positioned. "I will master it in less," he announces, so determined, as he slides the bow across the strings.

Nope, still not a great sound.

"Why," blurts out Sabina, sunnily, "don't we save the music until after we've eaten? You know you concentrate better after you've eaten, my dove."

Ravn curses himself inwardly; it's been almost two years in Gray Harbor and he's lost most of his grifter's touch. How to convince this chubby amateur musician and wife murderer in spe to save face by ordering Ravn to play instead? Sometimes, allowing people to save face means all but picking their face up and putting it back in place with a stapler, duct tape, and super glue. Unfortunately, his knapsack contains none of those.

"If it pleases you, Augustus, I can play while you eat," he suggests, hopefully, consciously aiming for that slightly pitiful undertone of I have practised so hard in the hope of impressing the divine Emperor. Do him the courtesy, Nero. Grant him the boon.

And by Jupiter, Hestia, Vesta, Mars, and any other God of the Roman pantheon, save the man from having to eat heartily in order to not be seen as scoffing at his Emperor's fare. This is a really shitty time to have an eating disorder.

"What a lovely offer," trills the Augusta, accepting on behalf of her husband who is rather more reluctant, but-- well, she's not wrong, is she, his wife? He will absolutely concentrate better, and this is, of course, a very convenient way to avoid losing face. Thank you, Ravn.

(Una's little sigh of relief largely goes unnoticed, thankfully.)

The emperor extends the bow towards Ravn with a mulish, dissatisfied expression, but before he's gotten further than that, there's the sound of heavy footsteps outside the door, and then a man, red-faced and breathless, appears in the doorway. "There's a fire in the city, Augustus! It threatens the Circus Maximus, and the wind blows it further and further. What will you have us do, divine Dominus?"

Sabina freezes, one hand lifting to her mouth, her eyes wide, but any other thoughts-- fears, concerns, dread-- are banished as she rises seamlessly to her feet. "Are we safe, Pistus?"

(Una? Is that more relief, or is it more fear? It's so hard to tell, though her face is pale and hard.)

And there it is. Now what?

Behind door one we have shutting up, waiting for the imperial couple to run off to do whatever they do at a time of potential disaster, and then slipping out real quiet. Behind door number two, shutting up and playing the damned violin, because did Nero tell you to shut up and stay quiet? Did he now? Maybe you should just do exactly what the Emperor told you to do, until he tells you to do something else.

And then slip out real quiet once he dashes out to do whatever emperors do when their capital city is on fire.

Ravn knows how to hold a violin -- and it quickly becomes evident to at least one person in the room that when he claims to 'play a little', he may have been doing that thing he does where he tries to not draw too much attention to himself; Vivaldi's Spring is a piece familiar to the very most (even if not all can name it) -- and playing it without a note sheet testifies to how many times Ravn has played it, indeed. Maybe he is in fact not just Rosencrantz' pity job.

Not that he's not going to grab Una's arm and run for the door the instant the August Two get busy.

Una's expression says it all: 'play a little', my ASS.

Nero's expression is a little more circumspect, but what's particularly notable is that he stops paying attention to poor Pistus, or his wife, and just listens. He's still standing there, but instead of doing anything, he's just... listening, his mouth ever so slightly open (mouth breather), his eyes fixed sharply on Ravn.

"Augustus?" prompts Pistus.

"My dove?" prompts Sabina.

He ignores them both.

All kinds of thoughts flash through Ravn's head as his fingers go through the motions pretty much on their own; this will not be his most inspired performance but then, who's judging? The one who is judging has never heard Vivaldi before, and he's never heard a violin before, and if any mistakes are made, he will think they're part of the performance. Somewhere in Italy, Vivaldi's distant Roman ancestor no doubt feels a strange sensation of foreboding, though.

Pistus, trying to get his Emperor's attention. Sabina, same. It doesn't take a psychologist to suss out which of the August Two has the brains. Ravn feels another twinge of guilt for knowing what her fate is going to be and not warning her -- but it gives way to the notion that perhaps it'd be better for Rome and its millions of citizens if the one taking charge is also the one possessed of the one Imperial brain cell to go around.

He gives the Empress a significant look and while Nero is busy watching his fingers on the fretboard he mouths to her, Save the city. Save the Christians. It is God's will.

Save the city. Save the Christians. It is God's will.

Sabina straightens. No, she's not the most intelligent of women, and no, not the most cunning, either-- but this self-professed Christian has given her an instruction, and she's lip-read just enough of it to take the hint. She turns on her heel to face Pistus and says, "Call out the Praetorians, and the Vigiles. Let no one say that his most August self did not do everything he could to assist."

It's a pity, then, that Pistus is almost certainly a disgruntled slave, oh-so-happy to spread the word: yeah, Nero was too busy with his music to help. He let it all burn. Blame him for everything.

Una, too, rises to her feet, half-edging towards the door that Pistus disappears through. Sabina looks shaken and concerned, and the glance she aims at her husband is now edged in loathing.

Nero notices nothing. Nero is entranced.

Everything is fine. Except the part where you get the Emperor of Rome to stop staring at you so you can sneak off. Sometimes, Ravn wants to kick his own arse. That's another fine mess you got yourself into here, Abildgaard.

He also kind of shares poor Poppaea Sabina's impression of her husband -- but that's not the story being told here. No, this is pretty obviously the story of why popular history records that Nero fiddled while Rome burned, though in fact Nero wasn't even supposed to be in Rome and the fiddle wouldn't exist for another thousand years.

He reaches the end of the Season -- and instead of bleeding into Summer, the violinist smiles at the Emperor and says gently, "I am but a mortal man, divine one. Twenty years, it has taken me to learn to play well enough to not offend an imperial ear. Will you try again? Perhaps your music may appease Vulcan's fires?"

While the rest of us go do something useful, like saving Christians or, you know, doing as the Romans do and running for the Tiber.

Sabina scoffs, stalking out the door: a woman on a mission. The slaves have disappeared, too-- and who can blame them? It just leaves the fiddler, the emperor, and poor Una, clasping her hands uncomfortably at her sides, each grasping a handful of insanely fine wool and crumpling it irrevocably.

The emperor reaches greedily for the violin, eager to demonstrate his immortal greatness. He has, at least, more or less remembered how to hold it, though the sound that escapes is no more tuneful than it was the first time: truly, a screeching, dying cat.

His eyes close as he plays, though, and Una ought to take that as a cue to move-- but she's too busy staring at the violin. They're not just going to leave it, right?

Ravn hesitates a moment as well. They were not told to leave -- but neither were the slaves and they certainly cleared out fast. The gorilla-in-a-toga is still holding (torturing) his violin.

You don't tell an Emperor to hand the damn thing back. And he's not going to be sitting here until Nero eventually gets bored or passes out, or gets forced to pay attention to what happening outside his domus in the end. History will record that he opened his palaces to the people rendered destitute by the fire -- so either Sabina did in his name or the sestertius dropped eventually. Either way, Ravn does not want to sit here and wait.

It's a violin. It's not Limon -- it's not Rosencrantz' beautiful piece of personalised art. It's just a violin -- quality, yes, excellent sound, but just a violin. He deliberately did not go travelling with a precious antique because shit happens, and instruments can be lost or damaged on planes, buses, and trains.

It's just a violin. He nods to Una and attempts to steer her towards the door, too. Quietly, "Let's get the hell out of here."

Una casts a glance back over her shoulder: one last look at the emperor, fiddling (badly, so badly) while Rome burns. It's a thing to remember, maybe, bittersweet.

Still, she's steered easily enough, and as soon as she's turned her attention back to facing forward, she picks up her skirts and begins to run. It would be vain to hope for an immediate ejection through the door they pass through, or through the next. Una only vaguely remembers the way out of the palace, but her feet seem to know where they're going.

There's smoke in the air, rising up from the city, and then it's there, spread out in front of them: Rome is burning. Rome is burning fast. It's beautiful, in its way. The view from the Palatine Hill is spectacular on a clear day, and this evening may not be clear anymore, but it's still something. This is really Rome, eternal city, city of the seven hills.

"Now what?" she wonders.

Any minute now they'll get vanished back home, right?

"Now the story either ends on some kind of conclusion, or we spend the next week sitting in the Tiber along with everyone, and bloody hell, I hope for the first option," Ravn murmurs. "Let's give the Veil a helping hand. Say something profound about Emperors and responsibility and how history cannot be changed. And then we turn to walk away, towards the Tiber, like our Roman selves would. And hope really hard that that was it because I really don't want to sit in a muddy river along with a million other sweaty Italians, all of them praying that their house doesn't burn."

"Well, fuck," says Una, which is neither profound nor especially helpful. It's probably related to the idea of sitting on the banks of the Tiber for a week, and not getting stabbed, robbed and left for dead in the process.

"History is fucked up," is what she goes with, then. "Because people are. And I deeply resent that we didn't get to save Sabina, whoever we are, because... a just God would let us."

There are no gods here, though, just or otherwise-- or if there are, they're holding their tongues. It's the Veil, instead, which seems to take that as a conclusion and a half. A moment later? Una's back in her kitchen, staring at the blackened remains of her cookies, a kitchen full of smoke.