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The streets of Judea already stressed with the tension the recent public death has caused, has now reached fever pitch. Not only was the body of a young Judean found on the border of the Taengean soldiers' encampment but now a new horror has been displayed for all of morbid curiosity and xenophobic hatred to see... A high wall identifies the circumference of the Taengean barracks. At each point of the compass, a large archway breaks the dividing structure, five men wide. This morning, the people of Israel have awoken to a harsh reminder of the hatred between two races of people. From one of these archways hangs a severed arm, blood still running from its truncated base down to its fingers and dripping to the floor, congealing black on the sandy brick below. One might not realise the origin of the victim if it wasn't for the tefillin still fastened around the limb and fingers, a glaring black chord identifying the victim not only as Jewish but in mid-prayer when the violence was committed upon him... The people of Israel gather with violence on their minds...
JD
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JD
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The streets of Judea already stressed with the tension the recent public death has caused, has now reached fever pitch. Not only was the body of a young Judean found on the border of the Taengean soldiers' encampment but now a new horror has been displayed for all of morbid curiosity and xenophobic hatred to see... A high wall identifies the circumference of the Taengean barracks. At each point of the compass, a large archway breaks the dividing structure, five men wide. This morning, the people of Israel have awoken to a harsh reminder of the hatred between two races of people. From one of these archways hangs a severed arm, blood still running from its truncated base down to its fingers and dripping to the floor, congealing black on the sandy brick below. One might not realise the origin of the victim if it wasn't for the tefillin still fastened around the limb and fingers, a glaring black chord identifying the victim not only as Jewish but in mid-prayer when the violence was committed upon him... The people of Israel gather with violence on their minds...
Hand of Malice Event - Judea
The streets of Judea already stressed with the tension the recent public death has caused, has now reached fever pitch. Not only was the body of a young Judean found on the border of the Taengean soldiers' encampment but now a new horror has been displayed for all of morbid curiosity and xenophobic hatred to see... A high wall identifies the circumference of the Taengean barracks. At each point of the compass, a large archway breaks the dividing structure, five men wide. This morning, the people of Israel have awoken to a harsh reminder of the hatred between two races of people. From one of these archways hangs a severed arm, blood still running from its truncated base down to its fingers and dripping to the floor, congealing black on the sandy brick below. One might not realise the origin of the victim if it wasn't for the tefillin still fastened around the limb and fingers, a glaring black chord identifying the victim not only as Jewish but in mid-prayer when the violence was committed upon him... The people of Israel gather with violence on their minds...
The streets of Israel had changed so much... Not the buildings or roads - for the layout of the western-most city of the Six was mapped in the same pattern of streets and structures, as she remembered. What had changed was the imprint of the culture, the feeling of the people; the sentiment of its society that had soaked into the porous rock of its makeup. The city felt different. Oozed a different atmosphere out into the air where it hung like staid tension on the breeze before being absorbed into the skin and spirits of its residents.
When she had first arrived in Judea, fresh from the boat that brought her from the bright and opulent Taengea of her childhood, Hannah had found the look of the southern realm both bland and harsh. Its sharp corners made for sharper shadows and the constant colour of beige sandstone was softly dull in dusky light, whilst oppressive and uncomfortable on the eyes in the noon day sun. There was no green. No fertility that was not cultivated in window boxes or relegated to their distinctive areas. No natural or organic growth of nature. The land just didn't cater for it. Instead, anything that was living had to be nurtured by the hand of the Hebrews... their religion and acceptance of their home's natural desolation a motivation to promote flora. It was at once saddening and curiously optimistic.
Now, as she headed down one of the residential streets that she knew from years ago, her simlah brushing over the slabbed pathway beneath her feet and trailing a light orange dust in its wake, Hannah could see the consistencies between reality and memory. The buildings were still sharp, the colour of the city still never extending the palette of ochre, the window boxes and small patches of land that sported the rare greenery were still carefully babysat by their owners in the dim early morning light.
The difference that she felt, she determined with a curious mind, was the atmosphere of the people and their way of approaching the world outside their front door. There was a certain set of their shoulders, a manner of look that they cast upon strangers. A feeling of tension that was different from the general disagreements of the people eight years ago.
Hannah removed her gaze from a woman of middle age tending to her washing over a hanging line in the alley between her house and her neighbour's. She kept her stare downwards, unsure of the glances her light eyes and pale skin promoted in the laundress.
She had always been stared at before. When her Greek origins had been obvious in her chitons and the curls of her uncovered hair. She had stood out with a regality that, at the time, she had considered flattering and uniquely identifying of her personage. Now, she saw it as the hubris and ignorance it was and could not help but feel pity for the girl she had once been.
Sometimes she felt pity for the woman she had become but that was far different reasons.
But the gazes that had fallen upon her eight years ago had been looks of dismissal. Of distaste and the horror of foreign dress and culture. It had been a look of separation, distinction and segregation. There had been a strong element of the impersonal because it had been impersonal. It had been a rejection of her culture and her difference; not of her as an individual.
Now, the looks were different...
Instead of caution, there was distrust. Instead of segregation, there was blame. Instead of dismissal, there was hatred.
Whatever had occurred across the years she had been gone from the streets of Israel, the wall between the Greeks and the Hebrews had ceased to be a division of culture and was now a weapon being slowly dismantled, the rocks of its structure held in bated hands for the order to attack.
There might not have been soldiers and swords, chariots and steeds roaming the streets. But it was clear that the people of Israel were at war. A war that permeated the feeling of the people and set their gazes lingering with cruelty and pessimistic mistrust.
Hannah shouldered into her simlah and shifted her load into one hand in order to reach up and adjust her mitpahath. She swept the loose shift over her face in the style of the Bedouin burqa, in the hopes of hiding some of her more obvious foreign features. The light blue of her eyes, however, was impossible to mask.
Taking back the balance of the basket she carried, full of freshly sewn and mended linens that she had prepared for her master and owner - the owner of a washing service for the rich, Hannah was quick to locate her destination of delivery; a residence of a wealthy Judean just a street away from the Grecian owned area of the city. It was a province of town that she knew very well.
A tarrying thought struck her as to whether Commander Alexios was still in charge of the Taengean soldiers across the bordering wall but she cast it aside. Whilst she would never be able to consider herself a true Judean - for those around her would never permit her to forget her origin - she was far more Hebrew in herself than Greek. Taengea was no longer her home, now was Greek her primary language or her faith.
She spoke Hebrew, she praised Yahweh, she observed the lessons and teachings of the Judean people. She was married to a Jew. Had God been willing, she would have birthed a Jew. To every eye but that of prejudice, she was home in the dull and harsh lands of the Israelis.
It took little more than a few moments of time and conversation to successfully deliver her charge. The slaves of the household in question knew her after regular use of her master's services and were quick to take the basket from her arms when she offered it. There was no money to be given in return - no coin to be transferred, for the wealthy tradesman paid her master on a monthly retainer. As soon as the basket of blankets and servant uniforms was handed over, she was clear of her duties for the day and expected to return immediately to her master's store.
And yet, curiosity had her feet pausing, na'alyim shifting in the dust and her head turning in the direction of a large crowd slowly starting to culminate towards one of the arching entrances of the Greek quarters.
It was still early, with few people wandering the streets and no likelihood of blocks or accidents causing hold ups on the roads. Yet, even so, the few who had woken so early seemed intent on grouping together around the high arch that defined the western gate of the land rented to the Taengean forces.
Glancing around, as if she feared her master was loitering around some corner ready to catch her in the act of subterfuge and independent thought, she increased the speed of her steps. She was sure that she could reach the crowd, assuage her inquisitive nature, and then return to her owner without a suspicious delay, provided she moved quickly enough.
Unable to push herself through the crowd, or insist that they moved as a woman of Greece might have been able to demand, Hannah accepted her position as a Judean woman, kept in a position of inferiority. She skirted around the outside of the group, in the hopes of seeing what had drawn the attention of so many so close to dawn.
As soon as she was able to witness it for herself, Hannah gasped, her right hand - bandaged in a manner that hid her mutilation - rising to smother the sound. But she needed have feared. The sound was engulfed by the noise of the people around her, the cries of horror and anger that rose from the men, the wailing of denial from the women.
Hannah felt her right hand ache with phantom pain as she stared with wide eyes at the entire limb hanging from beneath the apex of the Greek archway. The blood, running crudely black now hung from the tefillin that was still wrapped around the arm, identifying it as belonging to a Judean. She felt bile rise in her throat but swallowed it down, as she looked to the people on her left and then right.
All were violent in their emotions but none reached out to act. Whilst this was likely a benefit upon them all, for she doubted any actions on their part would be peaceful to their fellow man, it also meant that the arm continued to hang unretrieved. To remained there, still in the morning air, spurring distaste and cruelty as loud as any horn; sending ripples of violent cruelty out into the growing crowd where it sparked the waiting xenophobia in the Hebrew people.
"Someone should get it down." Hannah found herself thinking, not realising the words had breached her lips until a woman turned to glance at her. "Someone should get it down." She said deliberately this time, with more force. She didn't know who she was talking to - possibly to herself - but no-one was listening.
Licking her lips, behind the mask of her mitpahath, she took a step forward, leaving the crowd a little behind her and moving closer to the archway. No-one stopped her. No-one shouted. Many turned to look.
Nervous, she hesitated and then stepped forward another pace, glancing over her shoulder at the people behind, hoping someone might join her. But they all simply watched.
"Someone should get it down." She said again, in the lulling quiet as people stopped crying in order to watch. Her tone was sure in sentiment but uncertain, clearly hoping that someone else would volunteer.
When no-one did, she moved to stand beneath the retched arm, avoiding the small puddle of congealed, inky blood in the sand beneath her feet and, ensuring that her simlah did not sway to catch the dried pool, she reached up.
A moment of nausea threatened at the bizarrity of trying to take a hand that held no person on the other end. She looked directly up towards the lowered fingers and whilst she could reach the trailing end of the tefillin, she could only brush the very tips of her own digits to the nails of the severed arm. Even as she extended onto her toes, she was not tall enough to take hold of the limb, let alone have the strength to pull it hard enough to break the hold of its leather ties.
Self-conscious of her right hand - her dominant hand - that she had instinctively reached up to use, Hannah lowered it and shook out the sleeve of her garments to hide the bandages she wrapped daily around her palm. The white strips hid the body of her hand as if her last two fingers were curled into her palm, leaving three digits bare for use. She glanced at the crowd, all of whom watched her with shock upon their faces.
Did they not wish to retrieve the ghastly thing? Did they not wish that it be returned to the family of whomever had lost it - their shame no longer displayed in public? Hannah imagined if her own fingers had somehow been dangled for the entertainment of others, or to make a political point. The very notion made it feel impossible to breathe. What did these people want? For the reminder of apparent Grecian cruelty to remain... like some kind of testimony against the trust of strangers?
Yes... she realised quickly looking at their faces. They saw her attempts to take down the limb as a means of hiding the abominations they had all suspected the Grecians to be. To seek the lowering of the arm, was to seek the cover-up of blame, she realised, when no-one stepped forward to aid her.
She felt her heart sink.
All she sought was a peer who recognised the consequences of prolonging something that taunted conflict and stoked the flames of loathing.
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The streets of Israel had changed so much... Not the buildings or roads - for the layout of the western-most city of the Six was mapped in the same pattern of streets and structures, as she remembered. What had changed was the imprint of the culture, the feeling of the people; the sentiment of its society that had soaked into the porous rock of its makeup. The city felt different. Oozed a different atmosphere out into the air where it hung like staid tension on the breeze before being absorbed into the skin and spirits of its residents.
When she had first arrived in Judea, fresh from the boat that brought her from the bright and opulent Taengea of her childhood, Hannah had found the look of the southern realm both bland and harsh. Its sharp corners made for sharper shadows and the constant colour of beige sandstone was softly dull in dusky light, whilst oppressive and uncomfortable on the eyes in the noon day sun. There was no green. No fertility that was not cultivated in window boxes or relegated to their distinctive areas. No natural or organic growth of nature. The land just didn't cater for it. Instead, anything that was living had to be nurtured by the hand of the Hebrews... their religion and acceptance of their home's natural desolation a motivation to promote flora. It was at once saddening and curiously optimistic.
Now, as she headed down one of the residential streets that she knew from years ago, her simlah brushing over the slabbed pathway beneath her feet and trailing a light orange dust in its wake, Hannah could see the consistencies between reality and memory. The buildings were still sharp, the colour of the city still never extending the palette of ochre, the window boxes and small patches of land that sported the rare greenery were still carefully babysat by their owners in the dim early morning light.
The difference that she felt, she determined with a curious mind, was the atmosphere of the people and their way of approaching the world outside their front door. There was a certain set of their shoulders, a manner of look that they cast upon strangers. A feeling of tension that was different from the general disagreements of the people eight years ago.
Hannah removed her gaze from a woman of middle age tending to her washing over a hanging line in the alley between her house and her neighbour's. She kept her stare downwards, unsure of the glances her light eyes and pale skin promoted in the laundress.
She had always been stared at before. When her Greek origins had been obvious in her chitons and the curls of her uncovered hair. She had stood out with a regality that, at the time, she had considered flattering and uniquely identifying of her personage. Now, she saw it as the hubris and ignorance it was and could not help but feel pity for the girl she had once been.
Sometimes she felt pity for the woman she had become but that was far different reasons.
But the gazes that had fallen upon her eight years ago had been looks of dismissal. Of distaste and the horror of foreign dress and culture. It had been a look of separation, distinction and segregation. There had been a strong element of the impersonal because it had been impersonal. It had been a rejection of her culture and her difference; not of her as an individual.
Now, the looks were different...
Instead of caution, there was distrust. Instead of segregation, there was blame. Instead of dismissal, there was hatred.
Whatever had occurred across the years she had been gone from the streets of Israel, the wall between the Greeks and the Hebrews had ceased to be a division of culture and was now a weapon being slowly dismantled, the rocks of its structure held in bated hands for the order to attack.
There might not have been soldiers and swords, chariots and steeds roaming the streets. But it was clear that the people of Israel were at war. A war that permeated the feeling of the people and set their gazes lingering with cruelty and pessimistic mistrust.
Hannah shouldered into her simlah and shifted her load into one hand in order to reach up and adjust her mitpahath. She swept the loose shift over her face in the style of the Bedouin burqa, in the hopes of hiding some of her more obvious foreign features. The light blue of her eyes, however, was impossible to mask.
Taking back the balance of the basket she carried, full of freshly sewn and mended linens that she had prepared for her master and owner - the owner of a washing service for the rich, Hannah was quick to locate her destination of delivery; a residence of a wealthy Judean just a street away from the Grecian owned area of the city. It was a province of town that she knew very well.
A tarrying thought struck her as to whether Commander Alexios was still in charge of the Taengean soldiers across the bordering wall but she cast it aside. Whilst she would never be able to consider herself a true Judean - for those around her would never permit her to forget her origin - she was far more Hebrew in herself than Greek. Taengea was no longer her home, now was Greek her primary language or her faith.
She spoke Hebrew, she praised Yahweh, she observed the lessons and teachings of the Judean people. She was married to a Jew. Had God been willing, she would have birthed a Jew. To every eye but that of prejudice, she was home in the dull and harsh lands of the Israelis.
It took little more than a few moments of time and conversation to successfully deliver her charge. The slaves of the household in question knew her after regular use of her master's services and were quick to take the basket from her arms when she offered it. There was no money to be given in return - no coin to be transferred, for the wealthy tradesman paid her master on a monthly retainer. As soon as the basket of blankets and servant uniforms was handed over, she was clear of her duties for the day and expected to return immediately to her master's store.
And yet, curiosity had her feet pausing, na'alyim shifting in the dust and her head turning in the direction of a large crowd slowly starting to culminate towards one of the arching entrances of the Greek quarters.
It was still early, with few people wandering the streets and no likelihood of blocks or accidents causing hold ups on the roads. Yet, even so, the few who had woken so early seemed intent on grouping together around the high arch that defined the western gate of the land rented to the Taengean forces.
Glancing around, as if she feared her master was loitering around some corner ready to catch her in the act of subterfuge and independent thought, she increased the speed of her steps. She was sure that she could reach the crowd, assuage her inquisitive nature, and then return to her owner without a suspicious delay, provided she moved quickly enough.
Unable to push herself through the crowd, or insist that they moved as a woman of Greece might have been able to demand, Hannah accepted her position as a Judean woman, kept in a position of inferiority. She skirted around the outside of the group, in the hopes of seeing what had drawn the attention of so many so close to dawn.
As soon as she was able to witness it for herself, Hannah gasped, her right hand - bandaged in a manner that hid her mutilation - rising to smother the sound. But she needed have feared. The sound was engulfed by the noise of the people around her, the cries of horror and anger that rose from the men, the wailing of denial from the women.
Hannah felt her right hand ache with phantom pain as she stared with wide eyes at the entire limb hanging from beneath the apex of the Greek archway. The blood, running crudely black now hung from the tefillin that was still wrapped around the arm, identifying it as belonging to a Judean. She felt bile rise in her throat but swallowed it down, as she looked to the people on her left and then right.
All were violent in their emotions but none reached out to act. Whilst this was likely a benefit upon them all, for she doubted any actions on their part would be peaceful to their fellow man, it also meant that the arm continued to hang unretrieved. To remained there, still in the morning air, spurring distaste and cruelty as loud as any horn; sending ripples of violent cruelty out into the growing crowd where it sparked the waiting xenophobia in the Hebrew people.
"Someone should get it down." Hannah found herself thinking, not realising the words had breached her lips until a woman turned to glance at her. "Someone should get it down." She said deliberately this time, with more force. She didn't know who she was talking to - possibly to herself - but no-one was listening.
Licking her lips, behind the mask of her mitpahath, she took a step forward, leaving the crowd a little behind her and moving closer to the archway. No-one stopped her. No-one shouted. Many turned to look.
Nervous, she hesitated and then stepped forward another pace, glancing over her shoulder at the people behind, hoping someone might join her. But they all simply watched.
"Someone should get it down." She said again, in the lulling quiet as people stopped crying in order to watch. Her tone was sure in sentiment but uncertain, clearly hoping that someone else would volunteer.
When no-one did, she moved to stand beneath the retched arm, avoiding the small puddle of congealed, inky blood in the sand beneath her feet and, ensuring that her simlah did not sway to catch the dried pool, she reached up.
A moment of nausea threatened at the bizarrity of trying to take a hand that held no person on the other end. She looked directly up towards the lowered fingers and whilst she could reach the trailing end of the tefillin, she could only brush the very tips of her own digits to the nails of the severed arm. Even as she extended onto her toes, she was not tall enough to take hold of the limb, let alone have the strength to pull it hard enough to break the hold of its leather ties.
Self-conscious of her right hand - her dominant hand - that she had instinctively reached up to use, Hannah lowered it and shook out the sleeve of her garments to hide the bandages she wrapped daily around her palm. The white strips hid the body of her hand as if her last two fingers were curled into her palm, leaving three digits bare for use. She glanced at the crowd, all of whom watched her with shock upon their faces.
Did they not wish to retrieve the ghastly thing? Did they not wish that it be returned to the family of whomever had lost it - their shame no longer displayed in public? Hannah imagined if her own fingers had somehow been dangled for the entertainment of others, or to make a political point. The very notion made it feel impossible to breathe. What did these people want? For the reminder of apparent Grecian cruelty to remain... like some kind of testimony against the trust of strangers?
Yes... she realised quickly looking at their faces. They saw her attempts to take down the limb as a means of hiding the abominations they had all suspected the Grecians to be. To seek the lowering of the arm, was to seek the cover-up of blame, she realised, when no-one stepped forward to aid her.
She felt her heart sink.
All she sought was a peer who recognised the consequences of prolonging something that taunted conflict and stoked the flames of loathing.
The streets of Israel had changed so much... Not the buildings or roads - for the layout of the western-most city of the Six was mapped in the same pattern of streets and structures, as she remembered. What had changed was the imprint of the culture, the feeling of the people; the sentiment of its society that had soaked into the porous rock of its makeup. The city felt different. Oozed a different atmosphere out into the air where it hung like staid tension on the breeze before being absorbed into the skin and spirits of its residents.
When she had first arrived in Judea, fresh from the boat that brought her from the bright and opulent Taengea of her childhood, Hannah had found the look of the southern realm both bland and harsh. Its sharp corners made for sharper shadows and the constant colour of beige sandstone was softly dull in dusky light, whilst oppressive and uncomfortable on the eyes in the noon day sun. There was no green. No fertility that was not cultivated in window boxes or relegated to their distinctive areas. No natural or organic growth of nature. The land just didn't cater for it. Instead, anything that was living had to be nurtured by the hand of the Hebrews... their religion and acceptance of their home's natural desolation a motivation to promote flora. It was at once saddening and curiously optimistic.
Now, as she headed down one of the residential streets that she knew from years ago, her simlah brushing over the slabbed pathway beneath her feet and trailing a light orange dust in its wake, Hannah could see the consistencies between reality and memory. The buildings were still sharp, the colour of the city still never extending the palette of ochre, the window boxes and small patches of land that sported the rare greenery were still carefully babysat by their owners in the dim early morning light.
The difference that she felt, she determined with a curious mind, was the atmosphere of the people and their way of approaching the world outside their front door. There was a certain set of their shoulders, a manner of look that they cast upon strangers. A feeling of tension that was different from the general disagreements of the people eight years ago.
Hannah removed her gaze from a woman of middle age tending to her washing over a hanging line in the alley between her house and her neighbour's. She kept her stare downwards, unsure of the glances her light eyes and pale skin promoted in the laundress.
She had always been stared at before. When her Greek origins had been obvious in her chitons and the curls of her uncovered hair. She had stood out with a regality that, at the time, she had considered flattering and uniquely identifying of her personage. Now, she saw it as the hubris and ignorance it was and could not help but feel pity for the girl she had once been.
Sometimes she felt pity for the woman she had become but that was far different reasons.
But the gazes that had fallen upon her eight years ago had been looks of dismissal. Of distaste and the horror of foreign dress and culture. It had been a look of separation, distinction and segregation. There had been a strong element of the impersonal because it had been impersonal. It had been a rejection of her culture and her difference; not of her as an individual.
Now, the looks were different...
Instead of caution, there was distrust. Instead of segregation, there was blame. Instead of dismissal, there was hatred.
Whatever had occurred across the years she had been gone from the streets of Israel, the wall between the Greeks and the Hebrews had ceased to be a division of culture and was now a weapon being slowly dismantled, the rocks of its structure held in bated hands for the order to attack.
There might not have been soldiers and swords, chariots and steeds roaming the streets. But it was clear that the people of Israel were at war. A war that permeated the feeling of the people and set their gazes lingering with cruelty and pessimistic mistrust.
Hannah shouldered into her simlah and shifted her load into one hand in order to reach up and adjust her mitpahath. She swept the loose shift over her face in the style of the Bedouin burqa, in the hopes of hiding some of her more obvious foreign features. The light blue of her eyes, however, was impossible to mask.
Taking back the balance of the basket she carried, full of freshly sewn and mended linens that she had prepared for her master and owner - the owner of a washing service for the rich, Hannah was quick to locate her destination of delivery; a residence of a wealthy Judean just a street away from the Grecian owned area of the city. It was a province of town that she knew very well.
A tarrying thought struck her as to whether Commander Alexios was still in charge of the Taengean soldiers across the bordering wall but she cast it aside. Whilst she would never be able to consider herself a true Judean - for those around her would never permit her to forget her origin - she was far more Hebrew in herself than Greek. Taengea was no longer her home, now was Greek her primary language or her faith.
She spoke Hebrew, she praised Yahweh, she observed the lessons and teachings of the Judean people. She was married to a Jew. Had God been willing, she would have birthed a Jew. To every eye but that of prejudice, she was home in the dull and harsh lands of the Israelis.
It took little more than a few moments of time and conversation to successfully deliver her charge. The slaves of the household in question knew her after regular use of her master's services and were quick to take the basket from her arms when she offered it. There was no money to be given in return - no coin to be transferred, for the wealthy tradesman paid her master on a monthly retainer. As soon as the basket of blankets and servant uniforms was handed over, she was clear of her duties for the day and expected to return immediately to her master's store.
And yet, curiosity had her feet pausing, na'alyim shifting in the dust and her head turning in the direction of a large crowd slowly starting to culminate towards one of the arching entrances of the Greek quarters.
It was still early, with few people wandering the streets and no likelihood of blocks or accidents causing hold ups on the roads. Yet, even so, the few who had woken so early seemed intent on grouping together around the high arch that defined the western gate of the land rented to the Taengean forces.
Glancing around, as if she feared her master was loitering around some corner ready to catch her in the act of subterfuge and independent thought, she increased the speed of her steps. She was sure that she could reach the crowd, assuage her inquisitive nature, and then return to her owner without a suspicious delay, provided she moved quickly enough.
Unable to push herself through the crowd, or insist that they moved as a woman of Greece might have been able to demand, Hannah accepted her position as a Judean woman, kept in a position of inferiority. She skirted around the outside of the group, in the hopes of seeing what had drawn the attention of so many so close to dawn.
As soon as she was able to witness it for herself, Hannah gasped, her right hand - bandaged in a manner that hid her mutilation - rising to smother the sound. But she needed have feared. The sound was engulfed by the noise of the people around her, the cries of horror and anger that rose from the men, the wailing of denial from the women.
Hannah felt her right hand ache with phantom pain as she stared with wide eyes at the entire limb hanging from beneath the apex of the Greek archway. The blood, running crudely black now hung from the tefillin that was still wrapped around the arm, identifying it as belonging to a Judean. She felt bile rise in her throat but swallowed it down, as she looked to the people on her left and then right.
All were violent in their emotions but none reached out to act. Whilst this was likely a benefit upon them all, for she doubted any actions on their part would be peaceful to their fellow man, it also meant that the arm continued to hang unretrieved. To remained there, still in the morning air, spurring distaste and cruelty as loud as any horn; sending ripples of violent cruelty out into the growing crowd where it sparked the waiting xenophobia in the Hebrew people.
"Someone should get it down." Hannah found herself thinking, not realising the words had breached her lips until a woman turned to glance at her. "Someone should get it down." She said deliberately this time, with more force. She didn't know who she was talking to - possibly to herself - but no-one was listening.
Licking her lips, behind the mask of her mitpahath, she took a step forward, leaving the crowd a little behind her and moving closer to the archway. No-one stopped her. No-one shouted. Many turned to look.
Nervous, she hesitated and then stepped forward another pace, glancing over her shoulder at the people behind, hoping someone might join her. But they all simply watched.
"Someone should get it down." She said again, in the lulling quiet as people stopped crying in order to watch. Her tone was sure in sentiment but uncertain, clearly hoping that someone else would volunteer.
When no-one did, she moved to stand beneath the retched arm, avoiding the small puddle of congealed, inky blood in the sand beneath her feet and, ensuring that her simlah did not sway to catch the dried pool, she reached up.
A moment of nausea threatened at the bizarrity of trying to take a hand that held no person on the other end. She looked directly up towards the lowered fingers and whilst she could reach the trailing end of the tefillin, she could only brush the very tips of her own digits to the nails of the severed arm. Even as she extended onto her toes, she was not tall enough to take hold of the limb, let alone have the strength to pull it hard enough to break the hold of its leather ties.
Self-conscious of her right hand - her dominant hand - that she had instinctively reached up to use, Hannah lowered it and shook out the sleeve of her garments to hide the bandages she wrapped daily around her palm. The white strips hid the body of her hand as if her last two fingers were curled into her palm, leaving three digits bare for use. She glanced at the crowd, all of whom watched her with shock upon their faces.
Did they not wish to retrieve the ghastly thing? Did they not wish that it be returned to the family of whomever had lost it - their shame no longer displayed in public? Hannah imagined if her own fingers had somehow been dangled for the entertainment of others, or to make a political point. The very notion made it feel impossible to breathe. What did these people want? For the reminder of apparent Grecian cruelty to remain... like some kind of testimony against the trust of strangers?
Yes... she realised quickly looking at their faces. They saw her attempts to take down the limb as a means of hiding the abominations they had all suspected the Grecians to be. To seek the lowering of the arm, was to seek the cover-up of blame, she realised, when no-one stepped forward to aid her.
She felt her heart sink.
All she sought was a peer who recognised the consequences of prolonging something that taunted conflict and stoked the flames of loathing.
Zoser stepped foot in Israel as the first Judean stop on his trip to the University in Damascus after a relatively easy journey across the Mediterranean from Alexandria.
One of the more intriguing aspects of Israel was the permanent presence of Taengean soldiers stationed in a distinctive quarter of the city. Deep-rooted Egyptian apprehension seemed to bristle beneath his skin as he eyed the great wall that separated the barracks from the rest of the city, while some other part within him felt the prickling curiosity to peer inside.
Once in his life, he nearly favored himself more Greek than Egyptian. Eighteen years within a culture could change a person's core, if not their exterior. He did not need the apprehensive Jewish eyes that scoured his height, his dark skin, his face, and his clothes to remind him of being Egyptian. The past twelve years had done enough to do so.
Still, there was a yearning in his heart for those golden years of the past, though seeing the military presence in Judea left him wondering if Alexandria or Cairo would face the same fate should war find Egypt once again.
Regardless, the Pharoah would be very curious about his journey altogether. Zoser knew better than to come home empty-handed after being granted such a blessing in being able to leave the Palace for so long a time. The state of affairs in Judea would be of distinct interest to the King of Kings, particularly if it involved the Greeks.
The din that began earlier seemed to grow louder, with wailing and angry shouts in Hebrew drawing his curiosity out. Already a stranger in a strange land, he knew he needed to proceed cautiously. The Judeans were a highly xenophobic group, as he had learned prior to this journey. Suspicion was ripe. Still, as he stepped closer, the words cloaked in wails of outrage were easier to understand and drew his attention to the severed arm dangling above the entrance to the barracks.
Zoser would admit if asked to knowing very little of the Hebrew faith, despite having taken the time to read through several scrolls while at the University on the topic. He had, however, seen the cord of holy script that the men of the university would wrap around their arm before their prayers.
Had this victim been attacked during prayer?
It was not a pleasant thought, and it seemed to enrage the populace.
Where he stood, the nearby Judeans seemed to move out of his way, as if repelled by some force. While their anger paused only briefly to sear him with a hate-filled stare, their focus was once again on the sight before them - and the Greek offenders.
Out of the crowd, a young woman seemed to step forward, attempting to take down the offending sight. Zoser felt a slight bit of relief that the Judeans were not so emotional as to let something exist simply to fuel their anger, but when the crowd's volume dropped low, with whispers of seething suspicion hissing through the air, he understood.
The woman was Greek.
Despite her traditional Judean wear and the attempt to cover her face, there was no mistaking the ivory skin and blue eyes that looked around at the crowd, pleadingly. No one moved. Zoser shifted his weight uncomfortably at the scene, and watched as the woman attempted once again.
While he was not one to meddle, he began to wonder if this crowd would turn on her. It seemed they were looking for a Greek to blame, and while it was highly unlikely that the petite woman before them all had done this deed, wrath was notoriously blind.
Distraction might be helpful. After all, he was not Greek.
Taking a deep breath and feeling the dread of hesitation deep below his liver, he uncrossed his arms and made his way through the Judeans before him, drawing a few curses against him as well before he reached the semi-circle of space surrounding the door.
Doing his best to ignore the eyes boring holes into his back and neck and the spat curses against his own foreign heritage, he approached the girl a moment and offer a reassuring nod.
"Allow me," he offered in his stilted Hebrew, before craning his neck to look up at the leather bound arm and the ties that bound it in place. He rubbed his thumb along his fingers, already dreading the sticky feel of blood that would coat them ahead of time, before he stepped cautiously onto his toes to add more height as his fingers tugged at the cords.
There were a few shouts of disgust as the blood oozed from the stump of the forearm, and it caused his lips to curl and his nose to wrinkle as more dribbled down over his fingertips and onto the ground. With his fingers now slippery, undoing the ties that held it to the archway became more and more difficult, and he grumbled slightly in Coptic beneath his breath before his feet fell flat once more to regain balance.
"A knife?" he asked, looking to the girl before him and noting the striking roundness of her eyes and the soft, light brown strands of hair that peeked out beneath her head-covering. Whoever she was, she was the epitome of delicate Greek beauty.
How wasted here in this dry, rocky desert, he caught himself thinking for the briefest of moments before he glanced at his hands then back up at the task before them.
He looked around at the crowd, finding that they seemed to be wholly unhelpful. "A knife, perhaps, to cut the cords."
When there was no immediate response, he looked to her again, a concerned expression on his face that made her no promise to be able to bring it down, he looked up once again, trying to see exactly how it had been tied to the crossbeam.
Narrowing his eyes, he saw how the tefillin had been looped around what appeared to be a nail from the board, wrapped around it and hanging like a piece of meat on a stall at the market. Seeing it in a such a light added a sense of disgust to the manner in which this had been done. Much less wondering the actual 'why' behind it all.
Were the Greeks trying to start a war? If so, then why with the Judeans?
Once again hoisting himself onto his toes he wrapped his hands higher around the appendage and unceremoniously tried to unloop the ties from around the nail that held it in place. Unsuccessful, he tried again with a grunt, and flinched as a few drops of wetness splattered his face. He blinked his eyes and shook his head at the sensation and the knowledge of it, but with one more jostling tug, he the cords failed to unwind from around the nail and he settled back onto flat feet once again, frustrated.
Taking the back of his arm, he tried to wipe away the offending spots from near his eyes and blinked a few times at the girl.
"I could...lift you? If you wish? The cord is tied on a nail."
It was likely an offensive thing to ask, having just experienced being an Egyptian man simply breathing near women in Judea was an egregious crime. Still, the longer the arm hung there, the more offended he was by the entire situation. Zoser was normally a quite patient man, but the longer this situation lingered, the more the ebb and flow of tension in the air risked becoming a tidal wave of violence.
This needed to be done quickly, and it was not happening. Any solution was better than none at this point.
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
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Zoser stepped foot in Israel as the first Judean stop on his trip to the University in Damascus after a relatively easy journey across the Mediterranean from Alexandria.
One of the more intriguing aspects of Israel was the permanent presence of Taengean soldiers stationed in a distinctive quarter of the city. Deep-rooted Egyptian apprehension seemed to bristle beneath his skin as he eyed the great wall that separated the barracks from the rest of the city, while some other part within him felt the prickling curiosity to peer inside.
Once in his life, he nearly favored himself more Greek than Egyptian. Eighteen years within a culture could change a person's core, if not their exterior. He did not need the apprehensive Jewish eyes that scoured his height, his dark skin, his face, and his clothes to remind him of being Egyptian. The past twelve years had done enough to do so.
Still, there was a yearning in his heart for those golden years of the past, though seeing the military presence in Judea left him wondering if Alexandria or Cairo would face the same fate should war find Egypt once again.
Regardless, the Pharoah would be very curious about his journey altogether. Zoser knew better than to come home empty-handed after being granted such a blessing in being able to leave the Palace for so long a time. The state of affairs in Judea would be of distinct interest to the King of Kings, particularly if it involved the Greeks.
The din that began earlier seemed to grow louder, with wailing and angry shouts in Hebrew drawing his curiosity out. Already a stranger in a strange land, he knew he needed to proceed cautiously. The Judeans were a highly xenophobic group, as he had learned prior to this journey. Suspicion was ripe. Still, as he stepped closer, the words cloaked in wails of outrage were easier to understand and drew his attention to the severed arm dangling above the entrance to the barracks.
Zoser would admit if asked to knowing very little of the Hebrew faith, despite having taken the time to read through several scrolls while at the University on the topic. He had, however, seen the cord of holy script that the men of the university would wrap around their arm before their prayers.
Had this victim been attacked during prayer?
It was not a pleasant thought, and it seemed to enrage the populace.
Where he stood, the nearby Judeans seemed to move out of his way, as if repelled by some force. While their anger paused only briefly to sear him with a hate-filled stare, their focus was once again on the sight before them - and the Greek offenders.
Out of the crowd, a young woman seemed to step forward, attempting to take down the offending sight. Zoser felt a slight bit of relief that the Judeans were not so emotional as to let something exist simply to fuel their anger, but when the crowd's volume dropped low, with whispers of seething suspicion hissing through the air, he understood.
The woman was Greek.
Despite her traditional Judean wear and the attempt to cover her face, there was no mistaking the ivory skin and blue eyes that looked around at the crowd, pleadingly. No one moved. Zoser shifted his weight uncomfortably at the scene, and watched as the woman attempted once again.
While he was not one to meddle, he began to wonder if this crowd would turn on her. It seemed they were looking for a Greek to blame, and while it was highly unlikely that the petite woman before them all had done this deed, wrath was notoriously blind.
Distraction might be helpful. After all, he was not Greek.
Taking a deep breath and feeling the dread of hesitation deep below his liver, he uncrossed his arms and made his way through the Judeans before him, drawing a few curses against him as well before he reached the semi-circle of space surrounding the door.
Doing his best to ignore the eyes boring holes into his back and neck and the spat curses against his own foreign heritage, he approached the girl a moment and offer a reassuring nod.
"Allow me," he offered in his stilted Hebrew, before craning his neck to look up at the leather bound arm and the ties that bound it in place. He rubbed his thumb along his fingers, already dreading the sticky feel of blood that would coat them ahead of time, before he stepped cautiously onto his toes to add more height as his fingers tugged at the cords.
There were a few shouts of disgust as the blood oozed from the stump of the forearm, and it caused his lips to curl and his nose to wrinkle as more dribbled down over his fingertips and onto the ground. With his fingers now slippery, undoing the ties that held it to the archway became more and more difficult, and he grumbled slightly in Coptic beneath his breath before his feet fell flat once more to regain balance.
"A knife?" he asked, looking to the girl before him and noting the striking roundness of her eyes and the soft, light brown strands of hair that peeked out beneath her head-covering. Whoever she was, she was the epitome of delicate Greek beauty.
How wasted here in this dry, rocky desert, he caught himself thinking for the briefest of moments before he glanced at his hands then back up at the task before them.
He looked around at the crowd, finding that they seemed to be wholly unhelpful. "A knife, perhaps, to cut the cords."
When there was no immediate response, he looked to her again, a concerned expression on his face that made her no promise to be able to bring it down, he looked up once again, trying to see exactly how it had been tied to the crossbeam.
Narrowing his eyes, he saw how the tefillin had been looped around what appeared to be a nail from the board, wrapped around it and hanging like a piece of meat on a stall at the market. Seeing it in a such a light added a sense of disgust to the manner in which this had been done. Much less wondering the actual 'why' behind it all.
Were the Greeks trying to start a war? If so, then why with the Judeans?
Once again hoisting himself onto his toes he wrapped his hands higher around the appendage and unceremoniously tried to unloop the ties from around the nail that held it in place. Unsuccessful, he tried again with a grunt, and flinched as a few drops of wetness splattered his face. He blinked his eyes and shook his head at the sensation and the knowledge of it, but with one more jostling tug, he the cords failed to unwind from around the nail and he settled back onto flat feet once again, frustrated.
Taking the back of his arm, he tried to wipe away the offending spots from near his eyes and blinked a few times at the girl.
"I could...lift you? If you wish? The cord is tied on a nail."
It was likely an offensive thing to ask, having just experienced being an Egyptian man simply breathing near women in Judea was an egregious crime. Still, the longer the arm hung there, the more offended he was by the entire situation. Zoser was normally a quite patient man, but the longer this situation lingered, the more the ebb and flow of tension in the air risked becoming a tidal wave of violence.
This needed to be done quickly, and it was not happening. Any solution was better than none at this point.
Zoser stepped foot in Israel as the first Judean stop on his trip to the University in Damascus after a relatively easy journey across the Mediterranean from Alexandria.
One of the more intriguing aspects of Israel was the permanent presence of Taengean soldiers stationed in a distinctive quarter of the city. Deep-rooted Egyptian apprehension seemed to bristle beneath his skin as he eyed the great wall that separated the barracks from the rest of the city, while some other part within him felt the prickling curiosity to peer inside.
Once in his life, he nearly favored himself more Greek than Egyptian. Eighteen years within a culture could change a person's core, if not their exterior. He did not need the apprehensive Jewish eyes that scoured his height, his dark skin, his face, and his clothes to remind him of being Egyptian. The past twelve years had done enough to do so.
Still, there was a yearning in his heart for those golden years of the past, though seeing the military presence in Judea left him wondering if Alexandria or Cairo would face the same fate should war find Egypt once again.
Regardless, the Pharoah would be very curious about his journey altogether. Zoser knew better than to come home empty-handed after being granted such a blessing in being able to leave the Palace for so long a time. The state of affairs in Judea would be of distinct interest to the King of Kings, particularly if it involved the Greeks.
The din that began earlier seemed to grow louder, with wailing and angry shouts in Hebrew drawing his curiosity out. Already a stranger in a strange land, he knew he needed to proceed cautiously. The Judeans were a highly xenophobic group, as he had learned prior to this journey. Suspicion was ripe. Still, as he stepped closer, the words cloaked in wails of outrage were easier to understand and drew his attention to the severed arm dangling above the entrance to the barracks.
Zoser would admit if asked to knowing very little of the Hebrew faith, despite having taken the time to read through several scrolls while at the University on the topic. He had, however, seen the cord of holy script that the men of the university would wrap around their arm before their prayers.
Had this victim been attacked during prayer?
It was not a pleasant thought, and it seemed to enrage the populace.
Where he stood, the nearby Judeans seemed to move out of his way, as if repelled by some force. While their anger paused only briefly to sear him with a hate-filled stare, their focus was once again on the sight before them - and the Greek offenders.
Out of the crowd, a young woman seemed to step forward, attempting to take down the offending sight. Zoser felt a slight bit of relief that the Judeans were not so emotional as to let something exist simply to fuel their anger, but when the crowd's volume dropped low, with whispers of seething suspicion hissing through the air, he understood.
The woman was Greek.
Despite her traditional Judean wear and the attempt to cover her face, there was no mistaking the ivory skin and blue eyes that looked around at the crowd, pleadingly. No one moved. Zoser shifted his weight uncomfortably at the scene, and watched as the woman attempted once again.
While he was not one to meddle, he began to wonder if this crowd would turn on her. It seemed they were looking for a Greek to blame, and while it was highly unlikely that the petite woman before them all had done this deed, wrath was notoriously blind.
Distraction might be helpful. After all, he was not Greek.
Taking a deep breath and feeling the dread of hesitation deep below his liver, he uncrossed his arms and made his way through the Judeans before him, drawing a few curses against him as well before he reached the semi-circle of space surrounding the door.
Doing his best to ignore the eyes boring holes into his back and neck and the spat curses against his own foreign heritage, he approached the girl a moment and offer a reassuring nod.
"Allow me," he offered in his stilted Hebrew, before craning his neck to look up at the leather bound arm and the ties that bound it in place. He rubbed his thumb along his fingers, already dreading the sticky feel of blood that would coat them ahead of time, before he stepped cautiously onto his toes to add more height as his fingers tugged at the cords.
There were a few shouts of disgust as the blood oozed from the stump of the forearm, and it caused his lips to curl and his nose to wrinkle as more dribbled down over his fingertips and onto the ground. With his fingers now slippery, undoing the ties that held it to the archway became more and more difficult, and he grumbled slightly in Coptic beneath his breath before his feet fell flat once more to regain balance.
"A knife?" he asked, looking to the girl before him and noting the striking roundness of her eyes and the soft, light brown strands of hair that peeked out beneath her head-covering. Whoever she was, she was the epitome of delicate Greek beauty.
How wasted here in this dry, rocky desert, he caught himself thinking for the briefest of moments before he glanced at his hands then back up at the task before them.
He looked around at the crowd, finding that they seemed to be wholly unhelpful. "A knife, perhaps, to cut the cords."
When there was no immediate response, he looked to her again, a concerned expression on his face that made her no promise to be able to bring it down, he looked up once again, trying to see exactly how it had been tied to the crossbeam.
Narrowing his eyes, he saw how the tefillin had been looped around what appeared to be a nail from the board, wrapped around it and hanging like a piece of meat on a stall at the market. Seeing it in a such a light added a sense of disgust to the manner in which this had been done. Much less wondering the actual 'why' behind it all.
Were the Greeks trying to start a war? If so, then why with the Judeans?
Once again hoisting himself onto his toes he wrapped his hands higher around the appendage and unceremoniously tried to unloop the ties from around the nail that held it in place. Unsuccessful, he tried again with a grunt, and flinched as a few drops of wetness splattered his face. He blinked his eyes and shook his head at the sensation and the knowledge of it, but with one more jostling tug, he the cords failed to unwind from around the nail and he settled back onto flat feet once again, frustrated.
Taking the back of his arm, he tried to wipe away the offending spots from near his eyes and blinked a few times at the girl.
"I could...lift you? If you wish? The cord is tied on a nail."
It was likely an offensive thing to ask, having just experienced being an Egyptian man simply breathing near women in Judea was an egregious crime. Still, the longer the arm hung there, the more offended he was by the entire situation. Zoser was normally a quite patient man, but the longer this situation lingered, the more the ebb and flow of tension in the air risked becoming a tidal wave of violence.
This needed to be done quickly, and it was not happening. Any solution was better than none at this point.
The violent undertones of the gathered crowd had leaked through the whole city. Whispers and cries echoed around corners and through archways. The market, usually such a bustling place, was subdued. It was as though a rare rain storm was coming and people wanted to sell what they had quickly and leave. Amiti had never felt such an atmosphere. It was toxic and troubling. Unable to ignore the gossip, he made his way in quick, though acceptable, strides, finding the crowd gathered outside the Greek’s encampment with little trouble. This was not his city and he didn’t have to deal with the Greeks often, which was fine for him.
As a result, he was both intrigued and disgusted by them - knowing their salacious habits from hearsay but liking some of their less dangerous philosophies. He had not ever thought them to be a terribly violent people and to see this hand, clearly mid prayer, hanging by a leather thong over the Greek soldier’s arch - it was a shock to the system. What was worse was he saw a foreigner there, messing with it.
This was not to be borne.
“Let go,” he shouted but couldn’t be heard from his position. The man was still fiddling with the hand in a macabre display of ignorance. That was even worse.
“Don’t touch it!” Amiti shouldered and pushed his way through the crowd, eyes ever on Zoser and the woman with him. “Leave it alone!” he shouted. It was unbecoming to shout but he’d developed tunnel vision. “Get away from that blood!” This was offensive in about a dozen ways. To the woman, Amiti pointed.
“Do not touch that blood or you will be unclean. You will not be welcomed into the temple for seven days. Yahweh will not hear you. And you.” He pointed to Zoser. “This is not your country. You know nothing. Get away from the hand.”
This was why no one was moving to take the hand off. They’d have to go through the purification ritual. They would be banned from seeing their friends at the temple and be forced to stay at home. Not only that, but perhaps there was a reason this was left there? The teffilin might have been left there on purpose and this may not be what it seemed.
“If you pull that down, you might incite war. Stop it at once!” he demanded in an uncharacteristic display of vehemence that he rarely allowed out. Most of the time he pushed strong emotions of any kind back down. But this foreigner had no business in their affairs, egregious or otherwise. This was a Judean problem. Not someone else’s. It was insulting to for this man to assume it was his problem to fix. They could take care of themselves!
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
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The violent undertones of the gathered crowd had leaked through the whole city. Whispers and cries echoed around corners and through archways. The market, usually such a bustling place, was subdued. It was as though a rare rain storm was coming and people wanted to sell what they had quickly and leave. Amiti had never felt such an atmosphere. It was toxic and troubling. Unable to ignore the gossip, he made his way in quick, though acceptable, strides, finding the crowd gathered outside the Greek’s encampment with little trouble. This was not his city and he didn’t have to deal with the Greeks often, which was fine for him.
As a result, he was both intrigued and disgusted by them - knowing their salacious habits from hearsay but liking some of their less dangerous philosophies. He had not ever thought them to be a terribly violent people and to see this hand, clearly mid prayer, hanging by a leather thong over the Greek soldier’s arch - it was a shock to the system. What was worse was he saw a foreigner there, messing with it.
This was not to be borne.
“Let go,” he shouted but couldn’t be heard from his position. The man was still fiddling with the hand in a macabre display of ignorance. That was even worse.
“Don’t touch it!” Amiti shouldered and pushed his way through the crowd, eyes ever on Zoser and the woman with him. “Leave it alone!” he shouted. It was unbecoming to shout but he’d developed tunnel vision. “Get away from that blood!” This was offensive in about a dozen ways. To the woman, Amiti pointed.
“Do not touch that blood or you will be unclean. You will not be welcomed into the temple for seven days. Yahweh will not hear you. And you.” He pointed to Zoser. “This is not your country. You know nothing. Get away from the hand.”
This was why no one was moving to take the hand off. They’d have to go through the purification ritual. They would be banned from seeing their friends at the temple and be forced to stay at home. Not only that, but perhaps there was a reason this was left there? The teffilin might have been left there on purpose and this may not be what it seemed.
“If you pull that down, you might incite war. Stop it at once!” he demanded in an uncharacteristic display of vehemence that he rarely allowed out. Most of the time he pushed strong emotions of any kind back down. But this foreigner had no business in their affairs, egregious or otherwise. This was a Judean problem. Not someone else’s. It was insulting to for this man to assume it was his problem to fix. They could take care of themselves!
The violent undertones of the gathered crowd had leaked through the whole city. Whispers and cries echoed around corners and through archways. The market, usually such a bustling place, was subdued. It was as though a rare rain storm was coming and people wanted to sell what they had quickly and leave. Amiti had never felt such an atmosphere. It was toxic and troubling. Unable to ignore the gossip, he made his way in quick, though acceptable, strides, finding the crowd gathered outside the Greek’s encampment with little trouble. This was not his city and he didn’t have to deal with the Greeks often, which was fine for him.
As a result, he was both intrigued and disgusted by them - knowing their salacious habits from hearsay but liking some of their less dangerous philosophies. He had not ever thought them to be a terribly violent people and to see this hand, clearly mid prayer, hanging by a leather thong over the Greek soldier’s arch - it was a shock to the system. What was worse was he saw a foreigner there, messing with it.
This was not to be borne.
“Let go,” he shouted but couldn’t be heard from his position. The man was still fiddling with the hand in a macabre display of ignorance. That was even worse.
“Don’t touch it!” Amiti shouldered and pushed his way through the crowd, eyes ever on Zoser and the woman with him. “Leave it alone!” he shouted. It was unbecoming to shout but he’d developed tunnel vision. “Get away from that blood!” This was offensive in about a dozen ways. To the woman, Amiti pointed.
“Do not touch that blood or you will be unclean. You will not be welcomed into the temple for seven days. Yahweh will not hear you. And you.” He pointed to Zoser. “This is not your country. You know nothing. Get away from the hand.”
This was why no one was moving to take the hand off. They’d have to go through the purification ritual. They would be banned from seeing their friends at the temple and be forced to stay at home. Not only that, but perhaps there was a reason this was left there? The teffilin might have been left there on purpose and this may not be what it seemed.
“If you pull that down, you might incite war. Stop it at once!” he demanded in an uncharacteristic display of vehemence that he rarely allowed out. Most of the time he pushed strong emotions of any kind back down. But this foreigner had no business in their affairs, egregious or otherwise. This was a Judean problem. Not someone else’s. It was insulting to for this man to assume it was his problem to fix. They could take care of themselves!
Unsure what to do now, left without aid or reciprocity when she looked out to the crowd with hopes of a supporter, Hannah felt herself held in a moment of stasis. She could not reach the hand and remove it from its position of hanging notoriety but neither did she feel as if she could now simply melt back into the crowd. In the few steps she had taken across the wasteland of sandy stone, she had crossed a threshold of conviction; a path that was not able to be retraced. She swallowed nervously behind her head shawl, her feet shifting and causing light sounds of grit beneath the soles. She was unsure what to do.
It was then that a body detached himself from the mass of the crowd. A gentleman of skin too dark for his setting and hair greying with salt and pepper maturity. Her eyes widened as she realised him to be a foreigner - perhaps Egyptian? Or middle eastern? Having never travelled anywhere but her homeland of Greece and her new native world of Judea, she had not the experience to place his heritage with any more accuracy than that.
When he spoke, he spoke in Hebrew. But as a learner of the language second hand herself, she spotted the broken phrasings and the broken fluidity of the tongue. He was neither experienced nor highly competent in the language, but he clearly knew enough to understand the significance of the events that unfolded around him.
By asking her for space, he engendered a soft step backwards in her, her gaze lowered and turned away from him, her shoulder bowed a little. Her frame expressed neither receptibility nor familiarity with him, her stare flickering into the crowd in a plea that communicated she had no knowledge or relationship to this man; this foreigner who had invaded proceedings. She wished not to be looked at too closely for fear that her own non-Judean blood would be noticed.
But, when she did turn to meet his gaze as he requested a knife, her eyes held a strong sense of gratitude.
For his requirement, however, she could do nothing. Spreading her hands a little in order to indicate that she had nothing of a blade nor anything that would substitute for one - for slaves were never allowed a form of weapon - she could do nothing to aid him as he had done her. A sense of helplessness flickered, cold beneath her skin.
When she could offer nothing but an apologetic look to her eye, the man turned his request to the crowd but she could have told him he was wasting his breath. The people around them seemed to shrink backwards, as if the foreigner's word drifted from him like a toxic cloud and they wished to avoid contagion. Their eyes turned away or simply glared with distrust and Hannah's sense of worry only increased. Now she stood in no man's land with a foreigner's tainting presence at her side. For while she personally believed in no such thoughts of xenophobic antagonism, she was a woman of her adopted people and a slave to her master. She could not risk being turned out of her standing and society based on an acquaintance of strangers.
Seeing the request for aid to be of no use, the foreigner turned back to the arm and Hannah felt herself gasp along with the crowd when specks of blood flickered upon his brow and cheek. His fingers dripped with the inky, oozing red that churned with dried black and she felt her stomach roll.
When he offered the lift her, so that she could reach down the limb, Hannah was tempted to accept. Wanted to accept. The arm had to be brought down and returned to the family of the deceased, allowed to be put to rest and not used as a weapon of malice. But, at the same time, she could not make contact with a man now tainted by such blood, nor accept the touch of a foreigner before the eyes of the Hebrew people.
She relied too heavily on her life with this adopted culture, held too great a need to remain within the walls of its cities, to risk being rejected and exiled for shame.
She was saved the awkward moment of rejecting the foreigner's offer, however, by the approach of an Elder from the crowds. The Councilman wore finer clothes than most of his male brethren and was easy to identify despite having never met the man before. If his garments were not an indicator of his stature, then the reactions and behaviour of the men he parted to reach the scene were definitive enough. They bowed, stepped backwards and kept their distance as he waded in to do what prominent Judeans did best; spit judgment and cast opinionated conclusions.
Hannah reacted in the same manner as those around her.
She drew her hands together meekly before her pelvis, took several steps back and bowed her head, offering a respectful bow and never meeting the man's gaze, even as he pointed in her direction.
"I did not." She assured him, with a sense of meek submission. "I was careful not to touch it, Councilman." She confirmed; truth in that she had been careful with her simlah and her placement of trying to hold the hand, avoiding the fingers that had carried the blood to the floor.
When he admonished them for attempting to pull the limb down, Hannah let her head bow lower.
"Apologies, Councilman." She murmured in sweet and well-practiced Hebrew, thankful that he had not noticed her lack of Judean blood alongside that of the obvious foreigner. Her mitpahath was her shield from the same venom and distaste. "I did not wish to cause anger. Only closure. I wished to return the arm to the family. To save them the shame."
Whilst her tone and frame were all subservient and appropriate of her station as a slave, Hannah was a woman of a soft and pliable strength. In a moment where the Elder turned to look and assess the arm hanging above them, Hannah held out a hand to the foreigner behind his back, offering him a small square of linen that she kept within her sleeve to clean his face. She was careful not to let others see but she did not wish to leave his efforts to help unappreciated...
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Unsure what to do now, left without aid or reciprocity when she looked out to the crowd with hopes of a supporter, Hannah felt herself held in a moment of stasis. She could not reach the hand and remove it from its position of hanging notoriety but neither did she feel as if she could now simply melt back into the crowd. In the few steps she had taken across the wasteland of sandy stone, she had crossed a threshold of conviction; a path that was not able to be retraced. She swallowed nervously behind her head shawl, her feet shifting and causing light sounds of grit beneath the soles. She was unsure what to do.
It was then that a body detached himself from the mass of the crowd. A gentleman of skin too dark for his setting and hair greying with salt and pepper maturity. Her eyes widened as she realised him to be a foreigner - perhaps Egyptian? Or middle eastern? Having never travelled anywhere but her homeland of Greece and her new native world of Judea, she had not the experience to place his heritage with any more accuracy than that.
When he spoke, he spoke in Hebrew. But as a learner of the language second hand herself, she spotted the broken phrasings and the broken fluidity of the tongue. He was neither experienced nor highly competent in the language, but he clearly knew enough to understand the significance of the events that unfolded around him.
By asking her for space, he engendered a soft step backwards in her, her gaze lowered and turned away from him, her shoulder bowed a little. Her frame expressed neither receptibility nor familiarity with him, her stare flickering into the crowd in a plea that communicated she had no knowledge or relationship to this man; this foreigner who had invaded proceedings. She wished not to be looked at too closely for fear that her own non-Judean blood would be noticed.
But, when she did turn to meet his gaze as he requested a knife, her eyes held a strong sense of gratitude.
For his requirement, however, she could do nothing. Spreading her hands a little in order to indicate that she had nothing of a blade nor anything that would substitute for one - for slaves were never allowed a form of weapon - she could do nothing to aid him as he had done her. A sense of helplessness flickered, cold beneath her skin.
When she could offer nothing but an apologetic look to her eye, the man turned his request to the crowd but she could have told him he was wasting his breath. The people around them seemed to shrink backwards, as if the foreigner's word drifted from him like a toxic cloud and they wished to avoid contagion. Their eyes turned away or simply glared with distrust and Hannah's sense of worry only increased. Now she stood in no man's land with a foreigner's tainting presence at her side. For while she personally believed in no such thoughts of xenophobic antagonism, she was a woman of her adopted people and a slave to her master. She could not risk being turned out of her standing and society based on an acquaintance of strangers.
Seeing the request for aid to be of no use, the foreigner turned back to the arm and Hannah felt herself gasp along with the crowd when specks of blood flickered upon his brow and cheek. His fingers dripped with the inky, oozing red that churned with dried black and she felt her stomach roll.
When he offered the lift her, so that she could reach down the limb, Hannah was tempted to accept. Wanted to accept. The arm had to be brought down and returned to the family of the deceased, allowed to be put to rest and not used as a weapon of malice. But, at the same time, she could not make contact with a man now tainted by such blood, nor accept the touch of a foreigner before the eyes of the Hebrew people.
She relied too heavily on her life with this adopted culture, held too great a need to remain within the walls of its cities, to risk being rejected and exiled for shame.
She was saved the awkward moment of rejecting the foreigner's offer, however, by the approach of an Elder from the crowds. The Councilman wore finer clothes than most of his male brethren and was easy to identify despite having never met the man before. If his garments were not an indicator of his stature, then the reactions and behaviour of the men he parted to reach the scene were definitive enough. They bowed, stepped backwards and kept their distance as he waded in to do what prominent Judeans did best; spit judgment and cast opinionated conclusions.
Hannah reacted in the same manner as those around her.
She drew her hands together meekly before her pelvis, took several steps back and bowed her head, offering a respectful bow and never meeting the man's gaze, even as he pointed in her direction.
"I did not." She assured him, with a sense of meek submission. "I was careful not to touch it, Councilman." She confirmed; truth in that she had been careful with her simlah and her placement of trying to hold the hand, avoiding the fingers that had carried the blood to the floor.
When he admonished them for attempting to pull the limb down, Hannah let her head bow lower.
"Apologies, Councilman." She murmured in sweet and well-practiced Hebrew, thankful that he had not noticed her lack of Judean blood alongside that of the obvious foreigner. Her mitpahath was her shield from the same venom and distaste. "I did not wish to cause anger. Only closure. I wished to return the arm to the family. To save them the shame."
Whilst her tone and frame were all subservient and appropriate of her station as a slave, Hannah was a woman of a soft and pliable strength. In a moment where the Elder turned to look and assess the arm hanging above them, Hannah held out a hand to the foreigner behind his back, offering him a small square of linen that she kept within her sleeve to clean his face. She was careful not to let others see but she did not wish to leave his efforts to help unappreciated...
Unsure what to do now, left without aid or reciprocity when she looked out to the crowd with hopes of a supporter, Hannah felt herself held in a moment of stasis. She could not reach the hand and remove it from its position of hanging notoriety but neither did she feel as if she could now simply melt back into the crowd. In the few steps she had taken across the wasteland of sandy stone, she had crossed a threshold of conviction; a path that was not able to be retraced. She swallowed nervously behind her head shawl, her feet shifting and causing light sounds of grit beneath the soles. She was unsure what to do.
It was then that a body detached himself from the mass of the crowd. A gentleman of skin too dark for his setting and hair greying with salt and pepper maturity. Her eyes widened as she realised him to be a foreigner - perhaps Egyptian? Or middle eastern? Having never travelled anywhere but her homeland of Greece and her new native world of Judea, she had not the experience to place his heritage with any more accuracy than that.
When he spoke, he spoke in Hebrew. But as a learner of the language second hand herself, she spotted the broken phrasings and the broken fluidity of the tongue. He was neither experienced nor highly competent in the language, but he clearly knew enough to understand the significance of the events that unfolded around him.
By asking her for space, he engendered a soft step backwards in her, her gaze lowered and turned away from him, her shoulder bowed a little. Her frame expressed neither receptibility nor familiarity with him, her stare flickering into the crowd in a plea that communicated she had no knowledge or relationship to this man; this foreigner who had invaded proceedings. She wished not to be looked at too closely for fear that her own non-Judean blood would be noticed.
But, when she did turn to meet his gaze as he requested a knife, her eyes held a strong sense of gratitude.
For his requirement, however, she could do nothing. Spreading her hands a little in order to indicate that she had nothing of a blade nor anything that would substitute for one - for slaves were never allowed a form of weapon - she could do nothing to aid him as he had done her. A sense of helplessness flickered, cold beneath her skin.
When she could offer nothing but an apologetic look to her eye, the man turned his request to the crowd but she could have told him he was wasting his breath. The people around them seemed to shrink backwards, as if the foreigner's word drifted from him like a toxic cloud and they wished to avoid contagion. Their eyes turned away or simply glared with distrust and Hannah's sense of worry only increased. Now she stood in no man's land with a foreigner's tainting presence at her side. For while she personally believed in no such thoughts of xenophobic antagonism, she was a woman of her adopted people and a slave to her master. She could not risk being turned out of her standing and society based on an acquaintance of strangers.
Seeing the request for aid to be of no use, the foreigner turned back to the arm and Hannah felt herself gasp along with the crowd when specks of blood flickered upon his brow and cheek. His fingers dripped with the inky, oozing red that churned with dried black and she felt her stomach roll.
When he offered the lift her, so that she could reach down the limb, Hannah was tempted to accept. Wanted to accept. The arm had to be brought down and returned to the family of the deceased, allowed to be put to rest and not used as a weapon of malice. But, at the same time, she could not make contact with a man now tainted by such blood, nor accept the touch of a foreigner before the eyes of the Hebrew people.
She relied too heavily on her life with this adopted culture, held too great a need to remain within the walls of its cities, to risk being rejected and exiled for shame.
She was saved the awkward moment of rejecting the foreigner's offer, however, by the approach of an Elder from the crowds. The Councilman wore finer clothes than most of his male brethren and was easy to identify despite having never met the man before. If his garments were not an indicator of his stature, then the reactions and behaviour of the men he parted to reach the scene were definitive enough. They bowed, stepped backwards and kept their distance as he waded in to do what prominent Judeans did best; spit judgment and cast opinionated conclusions.
Hannah reacted in the same manner as those around her.
She drew her hands together meekly before her pelvis, took several steps back and bowed her head, offering a respectful bow and never meeting the man's gaze, even as he pointed in her direction.
"I did not." She assured him, with a sense of meek submission. "I was careful not to touch it, Councilman." She confirmed; truth in that she had been careful with her simlah and her placement of trying to hold the hand, avoiding the fingers that had carried the blood to the floor.
When he admonished them for attempting to pull the limb down, Hannah let her head bow lower.
"Apologies, Councilman." She murmured in sweet and well-practiced Hebrew, thankful that he had not noticed her lack of Judean blood alongside that of the obvious foreigner. Her mitpahath was her shield from the same venom and distaste. "I did not wish to cause anger. Only closure. I wished to return the arm to the family. To save them the shame."
Whilst her tone and frame were all subservient and appropriate of her station as a slave, Hannah was a woman of a soft and pliable strength. In a moment where the Elder turned to look and assess the arm hanging above them, Hannah held out a hand to the foreigner behind his back, offering him a small square of linen that she kept within her sleeve to clean his face. She was careful not to let others see but she did not wish to leave his efforts to help unappreciated...
Zoser saw the uncertainty in the young woman's eyes as he made his offer. Had he said the wrong word? No, not to his recollection of simple phrases and words, it was right. However, apparently it had crossed a line of being inappropriate - which did not seem hard to do here in Judea. His eyes shifted in shape in a slight wince of an apology as he watched her shift away, leaving him as the foreign man with physical blood on his hands in the middle of a crowd.
Great.
Well, best to be done with the whole thing then. Seeing that a knife was not going to appear before him, he started to recalculate ways to remove the firestarter of an appendage from the frame, when a shout began to rise over the rumbling crowd. Lowering his hands from where he had lifted them again, he looked over his shoulder at the furious man who approached, his shouts in Hebrew taking a moment to translate in Zoser's mind.
Ah, there was more to this than Zoser considered. Thinking as he had all his life, to serve in a way of placating troubles with logic, he had purely from a peacekeeping manner and to keep some Greek girl from being served on a platter as the perfect scapegoat for simply being foreign. No good deed goes unpunished, it seemed. Not even when trying to stop a mob in some way.
Hearing the man and processing what felt like every other word, Zoser looked up at the hand and then down at the blood, piecing it together. It dawned on him that blood may have a different meaning in their religion, as the words seemed to fall into place like mosaic tiles, and his eyes looked down at the pool of blood and then to his hands as the man explained it to the Greek-Judean girl the religious impact.
Then, the man turned his words to Zoser, and he could not help but look at the finger before him disdainfully, offended at the gesture. While Zoser may not have many aggressive tendencies, a finger pointed at someone's face was enough to draw some sense of ire. Zoser bit his tongue a moment, knowing the man was right, but not wanting to start much more of an issue.
When the man turned to appraise the arm again, Zoser sensed some movement off and behind him, and noted the girl's hand moving to hand him something. A cloth. There was a soft sense of emotion in the moment, seeing the difficult position she was in, and his eyes reflected that as he held he delicately pinched one corner of the cloth between two bloodied fingers, as far from her skin as possible, and pulled it away lightly.
The corner of his mouth flickered slightly and his lips pressed together a moment in the ghost of a smile. The tiniest dip of his head served as thanks as he ran the cloth over the dampest portions of his hands. Her small gesture gave him an odd sense of resolve as he chose to speak.
"You are right. I know not much. But I see angry people," Zoser started, his accented Hebrew likely the strongest offense yet, as his bloodied hand gestured lightly towards the crowd, "They want to blame, she is Greek. It is not hard to see, Councilman." The words tasted weird on his tongue, and he hoped that even though his brow was furrowed that the slowness of his speech and the obedience in stopping would offer some consolation.
Still, though, he looked at the hand once more, then back to them.
"I am not Judean," he started, "No Temple for me. I am not scared of the blood. If I take it down, it can go home. They can go home. No blood on you. No blood on her. It will be over." Zoser gestured at each of the indicated things to emphasize the point he tried to make. As a whole, people were silly things and tended to forget quickly. Yes, meddling was a problem that Zoser had created for himself, but now knowing that the Judeans could not touch blood, it seemed a simple enough solution.
Whether the man could see past his offense, Zoser did not know.
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Zoser saw the uncertainty in the young woman's eyes as he made his offer. Had he said the wrong word? No, not to his recollection of simple phrases and words, it was right. However, apparently it had crossed a line of being inappropriate - which did not seem hard to do here in Judea. His eyes shifted in shape in a slight wince of an apology as he watched her shift away, leaving him as the foreign man with physical blood on his hands in the middle of a crowd.
Great.
Well, best to be done with the whole thing then. Seeing that a knife was not going to appear before him, he started to recalculate ways to remove the firestarter of an appendage from the frame, when a shout began to rise over the rumbling crowd. Lowering his hands from where he had lifted them again, he looked over his shoulder at the furious man who approached, his shouts in Hebrew taking a moment to translate in Zoser's mind.
Ah, there was more to this than Zoser considered. Thinking as he had all his life, to serve in a way of placating troubles with logic, he had purely from a peacekeeping manner and to keep some Greek girl from being served on a platter as the perfect scapegoat for simply being foreign. No good deed goes unpunished, it seemed. Not even when trying to stop a mob in some way.
Hearing the man and processing what felt like every other word, Zoser looked up at the hand and then down at the blood, piecing it together. It dawned on him that blood may have a different meaning in their religion, as the words seemed to fall into place like mosaic tiles, and his eyes looked down at the pool of blood and then to his hands as the man explained it to the Greek-Judean girl the religious impact.
Then, the man turned his words to Zoser, and he could not help but look at the finger before him disdainfully, offended at the gesture. While Zoser may not have many aggressive tendencies, a finger pointed at someone's face was enough to draw some sense of ire. Zoser bit his tongue a moment, knowing the man was right, but not wanting to start much more of an issue.
When the man turned to appraise the arm again, Zoser sensed some movement off and behind him, and noted the girl's hand moving to hand him something. A cloth. There was a soft sense of emotion in the moment, seeing the difficult position she was in, and his eyes reflected that as he held he delicately pinched one corner of the cloth between two bloodied fingers, as far from her skin as possible, and pulled it away lightly.
The corner of his mouth flickered slightly and his lips pressed together a moment in the ghost of a smile. The tiniest dip of his head served as thanks as he ran the cloth over the dampest portions of his hands. Her small gesture gave him an odd sense of resolve as he chose to speak.
"You are right. I know not much. But I see angry people," Zoser started, his accented Hebrew likely the strongest offense yet, as his bloodied hand gestured lightly towards the crowd, "They want to blame, she is Greek. It is not hard to see, Councilman." The words tasted weird on his tongue, and he hoped that even though his brow was furrowed that the slowness of his speech and the obedience in stopping would offer some consolation.
Still, though, he looked at the hand once more, then back to them.
"I am not Judean," he started, "No Temple for me. I am not scared of the blood. If I take it down, it can go home. They can go home. No blood on you. No blood on her. It will be over." Zoser gestured at each of the indicated things to emphasize the point he tried to make. As a whole, people were silly things and tended to forget quickly. Yes, meddling was a problem that Zoser had created for himself, but now knowing that the Judeans could not touch blood, it seemed a simple enough solution.
Whether the man could see past his offense, Zoser did not know.
Zoser saw the uncertainty in the young woman's eyes as he made his offer. Had he said the wrong word? No, not to his recollection of simple phrases and words, it was right. However, apparently it had crossed a line of being inappropriate - which did not seem hard to do here in Judea. His eyes shifted in shape in a slight wince of an apology as he watched her shift away, leaving him as the foreign man with physical blood on his hands in the middle of a crowd.
Great.
Well, best to be done with the whole thing then. Seeing that a knife was not going to appear before him, he started to recalculate ways to remove the firestarter of an appendage from the frame, when a shout began to rise over the rumbling crowd. Lowering his hands from where he had lifted them again, he looked over his shoulder at the furious man who approached, his shouts in Hebrew taking a moment to translate in Zoser's mind.
Ah, there was more to this than Zoser considered. Thinking as he had all his life, to serve in a way of placating troubles with logic, he had purely from a peacekeeping manner and to keep some Greek girl from being served on a platter as the perfect scapegoat for simply being foreign. No good deed goes unpunished, it seemed. Not even when trying to stop a mob in some way.
Hearing the man and processing what felt like every other word, Zoser looked up at the hand and then down at the blood, piecing it together. It dawned on him that blood may have a different meaning in their religion, as the words seemed to fall into place like mosaic tiles, and his eyes looked down at the pool of blood and then to his hands as the man explained it to the Greek-Judean girl the religious impact.
Then, the man turned his words to Zoser, and he could not help but look at the finger before him disdainfully, offended at the gesture. While Zoser may not have many aggressive tendencies, a finger pointed at someone's face was enough to draw some sense of ire. Zoser bit his tongue a moment, knowing the man was right, but not wanting to start much more of an issue.
When the man turned to appraise the arm again, Zoser sensed some movement off and behind him, and noted the girl's hand moving to hand him something. A cloth. There was a soft sense of emotion in the moment, seeing the difficult position she was in, and his eyes reflected that as he held he delicately pinched one corner of the cloth between two bloodied fingers, as far from her skin as possible, and pulled it away lightly.
The corner of his mouth flickered slightly and his lips pressed together a moment in the ghost of a smile. The tiniest dip of his head served as thanks as he ran the cloth over the dampest portions of his hands. Her small gesture gave him an odd sense of resolve as he chose to speak.
"You are right. I know not much. But I see angry people," Zoser started, his accented Hebrew likely the strongest offense yet, as his bloodied hand gestured lightly towards the crowd, "They want to blame, she is Greek. It is not hard to see, Councilman." The words tasted weird on his tongue, and he hoped that even though his brow was furrowed that the slowness of his speech and the obedience in stopping would offer some consolation.
Still, though, he looked at the hand once more, then back to them.
"I am not Judean," he started, "No Temple for me. I am not scared of the blood. If I take it down, it can go home. They can go home. No blood on you. No blood on her. It will be over." Zoser gestured at each of the indicated things to emphasize the point he tried to make. As a whole, people were silly things and tended to forget quickly. Yes, meddling was a problem that Zoser had created for himself, but now knowing that the Judeans could not touch blood, it seemed a simple enough solution.
Whether the man could see past his offense, Zoser did not know.
Rayla had been bouncing around the house the entire morning and while Maeri loved the high energy dog, it seemed that everyone else did not. After Talora finally got fed up with the dog’s antics and snapped at Rayla, Maeri was ordered to take the dog out for some exercise. So Maeri and Nedevah had found themselves walking out in the streets of Israel, Rayla on a leash, happily trotting alongside. Or rather, running all over the place and sniffing out all the interesting smells of the city, with Maeri desperately hanging on so that Rayla wouldn’t escape.
Nedevah had been more agreeable than Maeri expected about being volunteered to go walk the dog with her. Maybe Nedevah was just as bored as she had been, cooped up inside. Or perhaps people were just less likely to complain about having to help out when you were about to be married. She wondered if this was some small taste about what it might be like to be a wife. She’d be important enough that people might actually take her seriously then.
They had been walking towards the Greek section of town, when suddenly Rayla started barking like crazy, pulling at the leash, and pulling Maeri off her feet. She landed hard on the cobblestones, ripping her robe at her knee, and scraping her palms. Luckily, Nedevah’s quick reflexes saved the dog from running off down the street. Maeri wiped her palms off on her robe, trying to clean them from the mud of the street.
It was then that she noticed the crowd at the end of the street. What could that possibly be? Maeri was up like a shot curious about what could be drawing such a crowd, her sister's protestations left completely unheeded. Her own recent bad experiences with an angry crowd already a distant memory. She pushed her way to the front of the crowd and what she found when she got there was horrifying.
A severed arm hanging from the wall. A foreign man covered in blood, and another girl up at the wall with him. Maeri almost wanted to just cover her face and run away, but it was then that she noticed Amiti. Maybe he could make sense of this whole situation. He seemed angry, but at least she knew him. She approached him tentatively, trying to keep her eyes off the arm. "Amiti? What's going on here?" Her voice was full of concern at the situation. Clearly something was horribly wrong. Amiti would know what to do.
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Rayla had been bouncing around the house the entire morning and while Maeri loved the high energy dog, it seemed that everyone else did not. After Talora finally got fed up with the dog’s antics and snapped at Rayla, Maeri was ordered to take the dog out for some exercise. So Maeri and Nedevah had found themselves walking out in the streets of Israel, Rayla on a leash, happily trotting alongside. Or rather, running all over the place and sniffing out all the interesting smells of the city, with Maeri desperately hanging on so that Rayla wouldn’t escape.
Nedevah had been more agreeable than Maeri expected about being volunteered to go walk the dog with her. Maybe Nedevah was just as bored as she had been, cooped up inside. Or perhaps people were just less likely to complain about having to help out when you were about to be married. She wondered if this was some small taste about what it might be like to be a wife. She’d be important enough that people might actually take her seriously then.
They had been walking towards the Greek section of town, when suddenly Rayla started barking like crazy, pulling at the leash, and pulling Maeri off her feet. She landed hard on the cobblestones, ripping her robe at her knee, and scraping her palms. Luckily, Nedevah’s quick reflexes saved the dog from running off down the street. Maeri wiped her palms off on her robe, trying to clean them from the mud of the street.
It was then that she noticed the crowd at the end of the street. What could that possibly be? Maeri was up like a shot curious about what could be drawing such a crowd, her sister's protestations left completely unheeded. Her own recent bad experiences with an angry crowd already a distant memory. She pushed her way to the front of the crowd and what she found when she got there was horrifying.
A severed arm hanging from the wall. A foreign man covered in blood, and another girl up at the wall with him. Maeri almost wanted to just cover her face and run away, but it was then that she noticed Amiti. Maybe he could make sense of this whole situation. He seemed angry, but at least she knew him. She approached him tentatively, trying to keep her eyes off the arm. "Amiti? What's going on here?" Her voice was full of concern at the situation. Clearly something was horribly wrong. Amiti would know what to do.
Rayla had been bouncing around the house the entire morning and while Maeri loved the high energy dog, it seemed that everyone else did not. After Talora finally got fed up with the dog’s antics and snapped at Rayla, Maeri was ordered to take the dog out for some exercise. So Maeri and Nedevah had found themselves walking out in the streets of Israel, Rayla on a leash, happily trotting alongside. Or rather, running all over the place and sniffing out all the interesting smells of the city, with Maeri desperately hanging on so that Rayla wouldn’t escape.
Nedevah had been more agreeable than Maeri expected about being volunteered to go walk the dog with her. Maybe Nedevah was just as bored as she had been, cooped up inside. Or perhaps people were just less likely to complain about having to help out when you were about to be married. She wondered if this was some small taste about what it might be like to be a wife. She’d be important enough that people might actually take her seriously then.
They had been walking towards the Greek section of town, when suddenly Rayla started barking like crazy, pulling at the leash, and pulling Maeri off her feet. She landed hard on the cobblestones, ripping her robe at her knee, and scraping her palms. Luckily, Nedevah’s quick reflexes saved the dog from running off down the street. Maeri wiped her palms off on her robe, trying to clean them from the mud of the street.
It was then that she noticed the crowd at the end of the street. What could that possibly be? Maeri was up like a shot curious about what could be drawing such a crowd, her sister's protestations left completely unheeded. Her own recent bad experiences with an angry crowd already a distant memory. She pushed her way to the front of the crowd and what she found when she got there was horrifying.
A severed arm hanging from the wall. A foreign man covered in blood, and another girl up at the wall with him. Maeri almost wanted to just cover her face and run away, but it was then that she noticed Amiti. Maybe he could make sense of this whole situation. He seemed angry, but at least she knew him. She approached him tentatively, trying to keep her eyes off the arm. "Amiti? What's going on here?" Her voice was full of concern at the situation. Clearly something was horribly wrong. Amiti would know what to do.
Nausea roiled around in his stomach as he looked up at the arm. The congealing blood, turning black from air exposure, gave off a metallic, sweet scent that inspired nothing but primal fear. Just seeing human blood was enough to make a person’s pupils dilate, heart race, muscles tensing, ready to dart away at the merest hint of danger. And there was danger. Who had put the arm there? The invisible presence, the unknown entity, the architect of disquiet and malcontentment had done their job admirably.
Added to this stress was the presence of this foreigner, now lobbing an accusation at the Judean girl behind Amiti, merely made him jerk his head in Hannah’s direction. It was easy to see, now that he looked. Her clothes had hidden her from scrutiny before, but now that he could see the light whisps of hair peeking out from under her head covering, he felt the resigned sigh coming up long before it seeped through his nose in a deep exhale of irritation.
Her origin was not his problem at present. Zoser’s blood covered hands, were. Amiti could not bring himself to waste time berating a woman who was absolutely nothing to him or to society. She was a servant, despite her birth and that was enough evidence of punishment from on high to satisfy him for the present. If she was his servant, that would be a different story. As it was now made abundantly clear to him that she was not truly Judean, he couldn’t care less if she touched the hand. Her master most certainly would. And Yahweh would surely punish her further and without mercy for her audacity, if she’d ever truly converted at all.
Paying her no more attention than that, he turned his attention back to the Egyptian who was now speaking in the most abominable Hebrew that Amiti’s eyes narrowed while he tried hard to understand what Zoser was saying. "You are right. I know not much. But I see angry people. They want to blame, she is Greek. It is not hard to see, Councilman."
“You dolt,” Amiti pointed behind him at Hannah. “None of these people gathered here for a Greek slave woman. Just as they wouldn’t gather for you.” He was hyper offended at the notion that anyone would care about that woman enough to congregate in a square and try to blame her for such an offense. A soldier, certainly. But her? She was no more important than the stones at their feet. Serviceable and forgettable.
"I am not Judean. No Temple for me. I am not scared of the blood. If I take it down, it can go home. They can go home. No blood on you. No blood on her. It will be over."
“Except for why it’s there in the first place,” Amiti argued, moderating his tone only slightly to keep it calm but still forceful. “Someone did this and someone might be angry it is removed.” He took a deep breath, attempting to regain some sort of calm. The crisis was over and Zoser didn’t actively have his hands on the arm. This could now be discussed with a modicum more of civility than previously displayed.
Putting his own hands together, as though in prayer, he kept his eyes on Zoser. “Let us think for a moment, Egyptian. Why is it there? It is disturbing, yes, but the people are stilled for the moment. If it is decided to take the thing down, then you most certainly will be the one to do it. But I want to know why it’s there first. Before we go creating more trouble without forethought. Is this something you can agree to do?”
He wasn’t entirely sure what he would do if Zoser said ‘no’. Amiti was used to being obeyed simply because of his position. Probably he could have Zoser thrown in jail but, then that might start some other incident. He didn’t know who this man was but he wasn’t dressed like some nobody commoner. Taking a step back, Amiti looked him over and then put a hand on his own chest, though he did not bow. “I am Councilman Amiti of Tzephaniah. Who are you?”
The tail end of his little speech was just a tad rude, but only for a Judean. Zoser was Egyptian, and therefore, by the unfortunate circumstances of his birth of not being the superior race, did not deserve quite as much deference as Amiti would have given to one of his own kind.
"Amiti? What's going on here?" He hadn’t heard Maeri approach but upon hearing her voice, his shoulders dropped and he turned around, vaguely alarmed to find her and her sister here, of all places. Then his gaze landed on Rayla and he understood. Of course. The dog. Because they were not married, or even properly engaged, he didn’t dare put a single finger on her. Instead, his hands hovered over her arms like he wanted to gently push her back away from the scene.
“It’s too gruesome for you, Maeri,” he kept his voice even and steady. Convincing. “Please return to your home. It’s safer there.”
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Nausea roiled around in his stomach as he looked up at the arm. The congealing blood, turning black from air exposure, gave off a metallic, sweet scent that inspired nothing but primal fear. Just seeing human blood was enough to make a person’s pupils dilate, heart race, muscles tensing, ready to dart away at the merest hint of danger. And there was danger. Who had put the arm there? The invisible presence, the unknown entity, the architect of disquiet and malcontentment had done their job admirably.
Added to this stress was the presence of this foreigner, now lobbing an accusation at the Judean girl behind Amiti, merely made him jerk his head in Hannah’s direction. It was easy to see, now that he looked. Her clothes had hidden her from scrutiny before, but now that he could see the light whisps of hair peeking out from under her head covering, he felt the resigned sigh coming up long before it seeped through his nose in a deep exhale of irritation.
Her origin was not his problem at present. Zoser’s blood covered hands, were. Amiti could not bring himself to waste time berating a woman who was absolutely nothing to him or to society. She was a servant, despite her birth and that was enough evidence of punishment from on high to satisfy him for the present. If she was his servant, that would be a different story. As it was now made abundantly clear to him that she was not truly Judean, he couldn’t care less if she touched the hand. Her master most certainly would. And Yahweh would surely punish her further and without mercy for her audacity, if she’d ever truly converted at all.
Paying her no more attention than that, he turned his attention back to the Egyptian who was now speaking in the most abominable Hebrew that Amiti’s eyes narrowed while he tried hard to understand what Zoser was saying. "You are right. I know not much. But I see angry people. They want to blame, she is Greek. It is not hard to see, Councilman."
“You dolt,” Amiti pointed behind him at Hannah. “None of these people gathered here for a Greek slave woman. Just as they wouldn’t gather for you.” He was hyper offended at the notion that anyone would care about that woman enough to congregate in a square and try to blame her for such an offense. A soldier, certainly. But her? She was no more important than the stones at their feet. Serviceable and forgettable.
"I am not Judean. No Temple for me. I am not scared of the blood. If I take it down, it can go home. They can go home. No blood on you. No blood on her. It will be over."
“Except for why it’s there in the first place,” Amiti argued, moderating his tone only slightly to keep it calm but still forceful. “Someone did this and someone might be angry it is removed.” He took a deep breath, attempting to regain some sort of calm. The crisis was over and Zoser didn’t actively have his hands on the arm. This could now be discussed with a modicum more of civility than previously displayed.
Putting his own hands together, as though in prayer, he kept his eyes on Zoser. “Let us think for a moment, Egyptian. Why is it there? It is disturbing, yes, but the people are stilled for the moment. If it is decided to take the thing down, then you most certainly will be the one to do it. But I want to know why it’s there first. Before we go creating more trouble without forethought. Is this something you can agree to do?”
He wasn’t entirely sure what he would do if Zoser said ‘no’. Amiti was used to being obeyed simply because of his position. Probably he could have Zoser thrown in jail but, then that might start some other incident. He didn’t know who this man was but he wasn’t dressed like some nobody commoner. Taking a step back, Amiti looked him over and then put a hand on his own chest, though he did not bow. “I am Councilman Amiti of Tzephaniah. Who are you?”
The tail end of his little speech was just a tad rude, but only for a Judean. Zoser was Egyptian, and therefore, by the unfortunate circumstances of his birth of not being the superior race, did not deserve quite as much deference as Amiti would have given to one of his own kind.
"Amiti? What's going on here?" He hadn’t heard Maeri approach but upon hearing her voice, his shoulders dropped and he turned around, vaguely alarmed to find her and her sister here, of all places. Then his gaze landed on Rayla and he understood. Of course. The dog. Because they were not married, or even properly engaged, he didn’t dare put a single finger on her. Instead, his hands hovered over her arms like he wanted to gently push her back away from the scene.
“It’s too gruesome for you, Maeri,” he kept his voice even and steady. Convincing. “Please return to your home. It’s safer there.”
Nausea roiled around in his stomach as he looked up at the arm. The congealing blood, turning black from air exposure, gave off a metallic, sweet scent that inspired nothing but primal fear. Just seeing human blood was enough to make a person’s pupils dilate, heart race, muscles tensing, ready to dart away at the merest hint of danger. And there was danger. Who had put the arm there? The invisible presence, the unknown entity, the architect of disquiet and malcontentment had done their job admirably.
Added to this stress was the presence of this foreigner, now lobbing an accusation at the Judean girl behind Amiti, merely made him jerk his head in Hannah’s direction. It was easy to see, now that he looked. Her clothes had hidden her from scrutiny before, but now that he could see the light whisps of hair peeking out from under her head covering, he felt the resigned sigh coming up long before it seeped through his nose in a deep exhale of irritation.
Her origin was not his problem at present. Zoser’s blood covered hands, were. Amiti could not bring himself to waste time berating a woman who was absolutely nothing to him or to society. She was a servant, despite her birth and that was enough evidence of punishment from on high to satisfy him for the present. If she was his servant, that would be a different story. As it was now made abundantly clear to him that she was not truly Judean, he couldn’t care less if she touched the hand. Her master most certainly would. And Yahweh would surely punish her further and without mercy for her audacity, if she’d ever truly converted at all.
Paying her no more attention than that, he turned his attention back to the Egyptian who was now speaking in the most abominable Hebrew that Amiti’s eyes narrowed while he tried hard to understand what Zoser was saying. "You are right. I know not much. But I see angry people. They want to blame, she is Greek. It is not hard to see, Councilman."
“You dolt,” Amiti pointed behind him at Hannah. “None of these people gathered here for a Greek slave woman. Just as they wouldn’t gather for you.” He was hyper offended at the notion that anyone would care about that woman enough to congregate in a square and try to blame her for such an offense. A soldier, certainly. But her? She was no more important than the stones at their feet. Serviceable and forgettable.
"I am not Judean. No Temple for me. I am not scared of the blood. If I take it down, it can go home. They can go home. No blood on you. No blood on her. It will be over."
“Except for why it’s there in the first place,” Amiti argued, moderating his tone only slightly to keep it calm but still forceful. “Someone did this and someone might be angry it is removed.” He took a deep breath, attempting to regain some sort of calm. The crisis was over and Zoser didn’t actively have his hands on the arm. This could now be discussed with a modicum more of civility than previously displayed.
Putting his own hands together, as though in prayer, he kept his eyes on Zoser. “Let us think for a moment, Egyptian. Why is it there? It is disturbing, yes, but the people are stilled for the moment. If it is decided to take the thing down, then you most certainly will be the one to do it. But I want to know why it’s there first. Before we go creating more trouble without forethought. Is this something you can agree to do?”
He wasn’t entirely sure what he would do if Zoser said ‘no’. Amiti was used to being obeyed simply because of his position. Probably he could have Zoser thrown in jail but, then that might start some other incident. He didn’t know who this man was but he wasn’t dressed like some nobody commoner. Taking a step back, Amiti looked him over and then put a hand on his own chest, though he did not bow. “I am Councilman Amiti of Tzephaniah. Who are you?”
The tail end of his little speech was just a tad rude, but only for a Judean. Zoser was Egyptian, and therefore, by the unfortunate circumstances of his birth of not being the superior race, did not deserve quite as much deference as Amiti would have given to one of his own kind.
"Amiti? What's going on here?" He hadn’t heard Maeri approach but upon hearing her voice, his shoulders dropped and he turned around, vaguely alarmed to find her and her sister here, of all places. Then his gaze landed on Rayla and he understood. Of course. The dog. Because they were not married, or even properly engaged, he didn’t dare put a single finger on her. Instead, his hands hovered over her arms like he wanted to gently push her back away from the scene.
“It’s too gruesome for you, Maeri,” he kept his voice even and steady. Convincing. “Please return to your home. It’s safer there.”
Hannah bowed her head as she was summarily glanced towards and then immediately dismissed from the Councilman's attentions. This was a common and expected reaction to her position and rank as a slave. Worth nothing but the gold someone might pay to have her complete tasks without argument, if you were not the said owner of a slave, they meant entirely nothing to you in terms of value. Hannah, as an individual, was worth less than the clothes she had been gifted and allowed to wear by her master.
When she had first become a slave, it had been difficult for Hannah to adjust to such a mindset and social attitude. She had been raised as close to noble as it was possible for money to take a family and then had had to adjust her expectations when she had taken on the choice of becoming her husband's wife. The pull into slavery had not been of her choice but it had been a similar step down. Somehow, however, despite the gradual descent in valuation, Hannah had maintained her dignity and her self-esteem. For while she knew that she meant nothing in terms of culture and social rules, she knew she meant something to at least one person out there... that she had intrinsic worth within her own character. Even if that counted for nothing in the eyes of the entire Judean race.
Keeping her head low, her gaze down, Hannah's eyes narrowed a little, her lower eyelid rising as she offered a soft smile to the Egyptian whose expression thanked her for the proffered cloth with which he could clean himself. She gave no other reactions or interactions with either of the men as they spoke, allowing her presence to be diminished into that of a hovering shadow. Her eyes were sharp as she watched the exchange back and forth from beneath her long, dark blonde lashes, but she gave no outward reaction and made no moves that might draw attention her way.
When the man named Amiti spoke of the reasons behind the hand being hung above their heads, from the archway, and how the removal of it might enrage the perpetrator, Hannah felt the unsettling bubbling of fear smoulder in her lower chest. Focused entirely on the shame and horror that the hand was causing to those affected and those who were insulted, Hannah hadn't given a moment's thought to the person that might have committed such an act of violence.
If she was given the chance to speak, she would have suggested that the Greeks were hardly stupid enough to offend the natives in their host land in such a bold manner. That the guilt was so plainly obvious to the foreigners - men who were so decidedly disliked - that it was more likely to have been a singular individual from either side of the archway who was deliberately trying to spark a riot. Which meant the safest thing to assume was that they were little threat in themselves and that the arm needed to be taken down.
Then again... Hannah knew personally the pain and horror of losing a body part - and not even one as large and necessary as an entire arm. The man who had done such a thing must be at least a risk in some form. Hannah shivered at the idea of drawing such anger upon herself, and her arms curled around her waist inside her robes.
When the little group was interrupted by a pretty girl whose features have the strong indication of innocence, painted with curving lines and open angles, she was quickly established as a friend of the angry Councilman. As she was dressed in fine clothing that identified her as a member of the upper classes, Hannah avoided her direct eye contact as well, careful not to offend a woman who was clearly an acquaintance of a man she had already risked the wrath of. Instead, she offered a dipping of her knees in a gesture of respect and tried to make herself as invisible as possible.
Unfortunately, the young woman's little dog had other plans.
For whatever reason, the animal took an immediate fancy to Hannah and was busy funnelling its nose beneath the hems of her robes, his paws padding at the fabric and playing with a frayed end that she had yet to fix...
Almost immediately, Hannah felt the insides of her nose begin to tickle, awareness shooting through her cheeks and her throat swallowing more than normal. Raising a hand to try and muffle the noise, Hannah was helpless against the sneeze that broke through her lips, loud and harsh in the still and tension-filled air.
Damnit, but dogs - no matter how small - always did make her sneeze...
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Hannah bowed her head as she was summarily glanced towards and then immediately dismissed from the Councilman's attentions. This was a common and expected reaction to her position and rank as a slave. Worth nothing but the gold someone might pay to have her complete tasks without argument, if you were not the said owner of a slave, they meant entirely nothing to you in terms of value. Hannah, as an individual, was worth less than the clothes she had been gifted and allowed to wear by her master.
When she had first become a slave, it had been difficult for Hannah to adjust to such a mindset and social attitude. She had been raised as close to noble as it was possible for money to take a family and then had had to adjust her expectations when she had taken on the choice of becoming her husband's wife. The pull into slavery had not been of her choice but it had been a similar step down. Somehow, however, despite the gradual descent in valuation, Hannah had maintained her dignity and her self-esteem. For while she knew that she meant nothing in terms of culture and social rules, she knew she meant something to at least one person out there... that she had intrinsic worth within her own character. Even if that counted for nothing in the eyes of the entire Judean race.
Keeping her head low, her gaze down, Hannah's eyes narrowed a little, her lower eyelid rising as she offered a soft smile to the Egyptian whose expression thanked her for the proffered cloth with which he could clean himself. She gave no other reactions or interactions with either of the men as they spoke, allowing her presence to be diminished into that of a hovering shadow. Her eyes were sharp as she watched the exchange back and forth from beneath her long, dark blonde lashes, but she gave no outward reaction and made no moves that might draw attention her way.
When the man named Amiti spoke of the reasons behind the hand being hung above their heads, from the archway, and how the removal of it might enrage the perpetrator, Hannah felt the unsettling bubbling of fear smoulder in her lower chest. Focused entirely on the shame and horror that the hand was causing to those affected and those who were insulted, Hannah hadn't given a moment's thought to the person that might have committed such an act of violence.
If she was given the chance to speak, she would have suggested that the Greeks were hardly stupid enough to offend the natives in their host land in such a bold manner. That the guilt was so plainly obvious to the foreigners - men who were so decidedly disliked - that it was more likely to have been a singular individual from either side of the archway who was deliberately trying to spark a riot. Which meant the safest thing to assume was that they were little threat in themselves and that the arm needed to be taken down.
Then again... Hannah knew personally the pain and horror of losing a body part - and not even one as large and necessary as an entire arm. The man who had done such a thing must be at least a risk in some form. Hannah shivered at the idea of drawing such anger upon herself, and her arms curled around her waist inside her robes.
When the little group was interrupted by a pretty girl whose features have the strong indication of innocence, painted with curving lines and open angles, she was quickly established as a friend of the angry Councilman. As she was dressed in fine clothing that identified her as a member of the upper classes, Hannah avoided her direct eye contact as well, careful not to offend a woman who was clearly an acquaintance of a man she had already risked the wrath of. Instead, she offered a dipping of her knees in a gesture of respect and tried to make herself as invisible as possible.
Unfortunately, the young woman's little dog had other plans.
For whatever reason, the animal took an immediate fancy to Hannah and was busy funnelling its nose beneath the hems of her robes, his paws padding at the fabric and playing with a frayed end that she had yet to fix...
Almost immediately, Hannah felt the insides of her nose begin to tickle, awareness shooting through her cheeks and her throat swallowing more than normal. Raising a hand to try and muffle the noise, Hannah was helpless against the sneeze that broke through her lips, loud and harsh in the still and tension-filled air.
Damnit, but dogs - no matter how small - always did make her sneeze...
Hannah bowed her head as she was summarily glanced towards and then immediately dismissed from the Councilman's attentions. This was a common and expected reaction to her position and rank as a slave. Worth nothing but the gold someone might pay to have her complete tasks without argument, if you were not the said owner of a slave, they meant entirely nothing to you in terms of value. Hannah, as an individual, was worth less than the clothes she had been gifted and allowed to wear by her master.
When she had first become a slave, it had been difficult for Hannah to adjust to such a mindset and social attitude. She had been raised as close to noble as it was possible for money to take a family and then had had to adjust her expectations when she had taken on the choice of becoming her husband's wife. The pull into slavery had not been of her choice but it had been a similar step down. Somehow, however, despite the gradual descent in valuation, Hannah had maintained her dignity and her self-esteem. For while she knew that she meant nothing in terms of culture and social rules, she knew she meant something to at least one person out there... that she had intrinsic worth within her own character. Even if that counted for nothing in the eyes of the entire Judean race.
Keeping her head low, her gaze down, Hannah's eyes narrowed a little, her lower eyelid rising as she offered a soft smile to the Egyptian whose expression thanked her for the proffered cloth with which he could clean himself. She gave no other reactions or interactions with either of the men as they spoke, allowing her presence to be diminished into that of a hovering shadow. Her eyes were sharp as she watched the exchange back and forth from beneath her long, dark blonde lashes, but she gave no outward reaction and made no moves that might draw attention her way.
When the man named Amiti spoke of the reasons behind the hand being hung above their heads, from the archway, and how the removal of it might enrage the perpetrator, Hannah felt the unsettling bubbling of fear smoulder in her lower chest. Focused entirely on the shame and horror that the hand was causing to those affected and those who were insulted, Hannah hadn't given a moment's thought to the person that might have committed such an act of violence.
If she was given the chance to speak, she would have suggested that the Greeks were hardly stupid enough to offend the natives in their host land in such a bold manner. That the guilt was so plainly obvious to the foreigners - men who were so decidedly disliked - that it was more likely to have been a singular individual from either side of the archway who was deliberately trying to spark a riot. Which meant the safest thing to assume was that they were little threat in themselves and that the arm needed to be taken down.
Then again... Hannah knew personally the pain and horror of losing a body part - and not even one as large and necessary as an entire arm. The man who had done such a thing must be at least a risk in some form. Hannah shivered at the idea of drawing such anger upon herself, and her arms curled around her waist inside her robes.
When the little group was interrupted by a pretty girl whose features have the strong indication of innocence, painted with curving lines and open angles, she was quickly established as a friend of the angry Councilman. As she was dressed in fine clothing that identified her as a member of the upper classes, Hannah avoided her direct eye contact as well, careful not to offend a woman who was clearly an acquaintance of a man she had already risked the wrath of. Instead, she offered a dipping of her knees in a gesture of respect and tried to make herself as invisible as possible.
Unfortunately, the young woman's little dog had other plans.
For whatever reason, the animal took an immediate fancy to Hannah and was busy funnelling its nose beneath the hems of her robes, his paws padding at the fabric and playing with a frayed end that she had yet to fix...
Almost immediately, Hannah felt the insides of her nose begin to tickle, awareness shooting through her cheeks and her throat swallowing more than normal. Raising a hand to try and muffle the noise, Hannah was helpless against the sneeze that broke through her lips, loud and harsh in the still and tension-filled air.
Damnit, but dogs - no matter how small - always did make her sneeze...
Being a man of a meritoriously earned status in Egypt and a decorated man of academia in Greece, Zoser found himself endlessly frustrated with almost everything in Judea...and it had only been a few hours. Had it not been for his own frustration with his linguistic struggles and the berating tone in which the other man addressed him, Zoser could have very clearly seen how cultural differences could have been avoided if he had just kept his hands to himself an off, well, the hand.
Instead, Zoser found his catlike eyes narrowing sharply at the man's tone primarily and then with each words that he captured in understanding, immediately disliking the entire approach that had been taken.
Never in his life between Greece and Egypt had Zoser found a man to be so highly offended by anything. That, in and of itself, seemed to somehow offend Zoser himself, a sensation that was as foreign as the ground he tread upon. His tongue pressed harshly against the roof of his mouth as if to keep his own Coptic curses from spilling forward at the disrespect he had just been shown. After all, he was a guest here - and Israel, thanks be to the gods, was not his primary destination but a stop along the way.
However, the dam could not hold, and more to himself than directly toward the man, Zoser slipped into Coptic and spoke under his breath as he vigorously rubbed the proffered cloth against his hands to remove the worst of the blood.
"Ah, so it is a common practice for Judeans to remove their arms and hang them upon Greek doorways, then?" Zoser muttered in frustration, his focus more on removing the blood from his hands than gauging the man's reaction, "And yet, they call Egyptians the barbaric ones."
Irritation only seemed to mount further as the cloth's efficiency had nearly met its end, with removing the worst of the blood but leaving thing streaks of brown created by the cloth's rough weave. An agitated sigh rumbled in his throat a moment when the man asked if he would abide with pausing before continuing further, at which Zoser gestured a sweeping, upfaced palm before them, "As you wish it."
When the man offered his name and title, Zoser's eyes narrowed a bit and a single brow raised.
Judeans were so...odd.
Also refusing to offer a proper bow under the circumstances - were Councilmen equivalent to the Hei's of Egypt? No matter. Zoser simply mirrored the gesture, offering, "Zoser of Thebes, Advisor to the King of Kings, Pharaoh Iahotep of Egypt and Her Evening Radiance, Queen Hatshepsut, here as bid by the scholars of Damascus to attend to business at the University."
Upon saying the words, Zoser released a breath he had not realized he had been holding in a puff. No sooner had he offered his own introduction had the voice of a younger girl drawn his attention and that of Councilman Amiti. Apparently, they were familiar with one another, and Zoser returned his attentions to cleaning his hands.
His eyes shifted back towards the Greek woman - a slave, as mentioned by the Councilman. His eyes flickered briefly back to the distracted Councilman for a moment before addressing the young woman in his stilted Hebrew, "Mistress, is there a well nearby? I wish to wash this away before causing more...offense."
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Being a man of a meritoriously earned status in Egypt and a decorated man of academia in Greece, Zoser found himself endlessly frustrated with almost everything in Judea...and it had only been a few hours. Had it not been for his own frustration with his linguistic struggles and the berating tone in which the other man addressed him, Zoser could have very clearly seen how cultural differences could have been avoided if he had just kept his hands to himself an off, well, the hand.
Instead, Zoser found his catlike eyes narrowing sharply at the man's tone primarily and then with each words that he captured in understanding, immediately disliking the entire approach that had been taken.
Never in his life between Greece and Egypt had Zoser found a man to be so highly offended by anything. That, in and of itself, seemed to somehow offend Zoser himself, a sensation that was as foreign as the ground he tread upon. His tongue pressed harshly against the roof of his mouth as if to keep his own Coptic curses from spilling forward at the disrespect he had just been shown. After all, he was a guest here - and Israel, thanks be to the gods, was not his primary destination but a stop along the way.
However, the dam could not hold, and more to himself than directly toward the man, Zoser slipped into Coptic and spoke under his breath as he vigorously rubbed the proffered cloth against his hands to remove the worst of the blood.
"Ah, so it is a common practice for Judeans to remove their arms and hang them upon Greek doorways, then?" Zoser muttered in frustration, his focus more on removing the blood from his hands than gauging the man's reaction, "And yet, they call Egyptians the barbaric ones."
Irritation only seemed to mount further as the cloth's efficiency had nearly met its end, with removing the worst of the blood but leaving thing streaks of brown created by the cloth's rough weave. An agitated sigh rumbled in his throat a moment when the man asked if he would abide with pausing before continuing further, at which Zoser gestured a sweeping, upfaced palm before them, "As you wish it."
When the man offered his name and title, Zoser's eyes narrowed a bit and a single brow raised.
Judeans were so...odd.
Also refusing to offer a proper bow under the circumstances - were Councilmen equivalent to the Hei's of Egypt? No matter. Zoser simply mirrored the gesture, offering, "Zoser of Thebes, Advisor to the King of Kings, Pharaoh Iahotep of Egypt and Her Evening Radiance, Queen Hatshepsut, here as bid by the scholars of Damascus to attend to business at the University."
Upon saying the words, Zoser released a breath he had not realized he had been holding in a puff. No sooner had he offered his own introduction had the voice of a younger girl drawn his attention and that of Councilman Amiti. Apparently, they were familiar with one another, and Zoser returned his attentions to cleaning his hands.
His eyes shifted back towards the Greek woman - a slave, as mentioned by the Councilman. His eyes flickered briefly back to the distracted Councilman for a moment before addressing the young woman in his stilted Hebrew, "Mistress, is there a well nearby? I wish to wash this away before causing more...offense."
Being a man of a meritoriously earned status in Egypt and a decorated man of academia in Greece, Zoser found himself endlessly frustrated with almost everything in Judea...and it had only been a few hours. Had it not been for his own frustration with his linguistic struggles and the berating tone in which the other man addressed him, Zoser could have very clearly seen how cultural differences could have been avoided if he had just kept his hands to himself an off, well, the hand.
Instead, Zoser found his catlike eyes narrowing sharply at the man's tone primarily and then with each words that he captured in understanding, immediately disliking the entire approach that had been taken.
Never in his life between Greece and Egypt had Zoser found a man to be so highly offended by anything. That, in and of itself, seemed to somehow offend Zoser himself, a sensation that was as foreign as the ground he tread upon. His tongue pressed harshly against the roof of his mouth as if to keep his own Coptic curses from spilling forward at the disrespect he had just been shown. After all, he was a guest here - and Israel, thanks be to the gods, was not his primary destination but a stop along the way.
However, the dam could not hold, and more to himself than directly toward the man, Zoser slipped into Coptic and spoke under his breath as he vigorously rubbed the proffered cloth against his hands to remove the worst of the blood.
"Ah, so it is a common practice for Judeans to remove their arms and hang them upon Greek doorways, then?" Zoser muttered in frustration, his focus more on removing the blood from his hands than gauging the man's reaction, "And yet, they call Egyptians the barbaric ones."
Irritation only seemed to mount further as the cloth's efficiency had nearly met its end, with removing the worst of the blood but leaving thing streaks of brown created by the cloth's rough weave. An agitated sigh rumbled in his throat a moment when the man asked if he would abide with pausing before continuing further, at which Zoser gestured a sweeping, upfaced palm before them, "As you wish it."
When the man offered his name and title, Zoser's eyes narrowed a bit and a single brow raised.
Judeans were so...odd.
Also refusing to offer a proper bow under the circumstances - were Councilmen equivalent to the Hei's of Egypt? No matter. Zoser simply mirrored the gesture, offering, "Zoser of Thebes, Advisor to the King of Kings, Pharaoh Iahotep of Egypt and Her Evening Radiance, Queen Hatshepsut, here as bid by the scholars of Damascus to attend to business at the University."
Upon saying the words, Zoser released a breath he had not realized he had been holding in a puff. No sooner had he offered his own introduction had the voice of a younger girl drawn his attention and that of Councilman Amiti. Apparently, they were familiar with one another, and Zoser returned his attentions to cleaning his hands.
His eyes shifted back towards the Greek woman - a slave, as mentioned by the Councilman. His eyes flickered briefly back to the distracted Councilman for a moment before addressing the young woman in his stilted Hebrew, "Mistress, is there a well nearby? I wish to wash this away before causing more...offense."
Amiti had not answered Maeri’s question. She looked around to try to find an answer for herself if her soon-to-be fiance was not going to provide one for her, and immediately regretted this decision. She could feel the bile rising in her throat as she spotted the dismembered arm hanging from the wall. She quickly turned away from the horrible sight, covering her face with the loose end of her mitzpahath as fir that might protect her from her own disgust. At the very least, it hid her face as she gagged slightly and she was thankful for that. She would hate to give Amiti any more evidence of her weaknesses.
Maeri turned to hurry away from this horrific scene before her before she had to deal with the gruesome sight any longer than she absolutely had to. “Come Rayla!” she called to her dog to get it to follow her, but she didn’t hear the expected padding of footsteps and happy panting of her dog rejoining her at her side. What had that dog gotten up to now?
Maeri spun around to quickly scan for Rayla, her eyes passing quickly over the arm so that she could avoid having to register that image again, not that she was convinced that she ever truely be able to remove that picture from her mind. A sneeze drew her attention, and it was there that she spotted her dog. Rayla, as per usual, had found a new friend. Maeri made her way over to the woman who Rayla was excitedly nosing, although that meant walking closer to the arm, which was dangling as a constant reminder just at the edge of her vision. Maeri avoided looking that way, instead focusing on the dog.
“I’m sorry if she’s bothering you.” Maeri addressed to the woman. “She just gets really excitable. I think she likes you!” Maeri grinned broadly at the woman, hoping that Rayla’s goodwill would make up for her persistent pestering. Maeri knew it would for her, but not everyone liked Rayla as much as she did.
“Here Rayla!” Maeri said cheerfully as she grabbed for the dog’s collar. Rayla dodged and bounded away, thinking this was nothing more than an enjoyable game. Maeri sighed, she couldn’t go home without her dog, but she couldn’t chase her dog through this tense crowd. Not in front of Amiti. She didn’t want to give him a bad impression.
Perhaps she didn’t need to worry about his reaction though. Amiti seemed to be in some sort of argument with the foreign man. I wasn’t until he turned towards the women asking to wash his hands that she noticed the blood on his hands. Maeri’s eyes went wide and she took a step back. He hadn’t been the one to put the arm on the wall had he? Then she instantly berated herself for her idiocy. If he was, she knew Amiti wouldn’t just be standing there letting him ask for water, not to mention the others gathered around. She gathered her courage to answer his question, despite the fact that it had not been addressed to her.
“I think there’s one down that way,” she said hesitantly, looking to the other woman for confirmation. She never had to fetch water herself, so it was only her knowledge from wandering around the city, and she wasn’t certain that was very reliable.
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Amiti had not answered Maeri’s question. She looked around to try to find an answer for herself if her soon-to-be fiance was not going to provide one for her, and immediately regretted this decision. She could feel the bile rising in her throat as she spotted the dismembered arm hanging from the wall. She quickly turned away from the horrible sight, covering her face with the loose end of her mitzpahath as fir that might protect her from her own disgust. At the very least, it hid her face as she gagged slightly and she was thankful for that. She would hate to give Amiti any more evidence of her weaknesses.
Maeri turned to hurry away from this horrific scene before her before she had to deal with the gruesome sight any longer than she absolutely had to. “Come Rayla!” she called to her dog to get it to follow her, but she didn’t hear the expected padding of footsteps and happy panting of her dog rejoining her at her side. What had that dog gotten up to now?
Maeri spun around to quickly scan for Rayla, her eyes passing quickly over the arm so that she could avoid having to register that image again, not that she was convinced that she ever truely be able to remove that picture from her mind. A sneeze drew her attention, and it was there that she spotted her dog. Rayla, as per usual, had found a new friend. Maeri made her way over to the woman who Rayla was excitedly nosing, although that meant walking closer to the arm, which was dangling as a constant reminder just at the edge of her vision. Maeri avoided looking that way, instead focusing on the dog.
“I’m sorry if she’s bothering you.” Maeri addressed to the woman. “She just gets really excitable. I think she likes you!” Maeri grinned broadly at the woman, hoping that Rayla’s goodwill would make up for her persistent pestering. Maeri knew it would for her, but not everyone liked Rayla as much as she did.
“Here Rayla!” Maeri said cheerfully as she grabbed for the dog’s collar. Rayla dodged and bounded away, thinking this was nothing more than an enjoyable game. Maeri sighed, she couldn’t go home without her dog, but she couldn’t chase her dog through this tense crowd. Not in front of Amiti. She didn’t want to give him a bad impression.
Perhaps she didn’t need to worry about his reaction though. Amiti seemed to be in some sort of argument with the foreign man. I wasn’t until he turned towards the women asking to wash his hands that she noticed the blood on his hands. Maeri’s eyes went wide and she took a step back. He hadn’t been the one to put the arm on the wall had he? Then she instantly berated herself for her idiocy. If he was, she knew Amiti wouldn’t just be standing there letting him ask for water, not to mention the others gathered around. She gathered her courage to answer his question, despite the fact that it had not been addressed to her.
“I think there’s one down that way,” she said hesitantly, looking to the other woman for confirmation. She never had to fetch water herself, so it was only her knowledge from wandering around the city, and she wasn’t certain that was very reliable.
Amiti had not answered Maeri’s question. She looked around to try to find an answer for herself if her soon-to-be fiance was not going to provide one for her, and immediately regretted this decision. She could feel the bile rising in her throat as she spotted the dismembered arm hanging from the wall. She quickly turned away from the horrible sight, covering her face with the loose end of her mitzpahath as fir that might protect her from her own disgust. At the very least, it hid her face as she gagged slightly and she was thankful for that. She would hate to give Amiti any more evidence of her weaknesses.
Maeri turned to hurry away from this horrific scene before her before she had to deal with the gruesome sight any longer than she absolutely had to. “Come Rayla!” she called to her dog to get it to follow her, but she didn’t hear the expected padding of footsteps and happy panting of her dog rejoining her at her side. What had that dog gotten up to now?
Maeri spun around to quickly scan for Rayla, her eyes passing quickly over the arm so that she could avoid having to register that image again, not that she was convinced that she ever truely be able to remove that picture from her mind. A sneeze drew her attention, and it was there that she spotted her dog. Rayla, as per usual, had found a new friend. Maeri made her way over to the woman who Rayla was excitedly nosing, although that meant walking closer to the arm, which was dangling as a constant reminder just at the edge of her vision. Maeri avoided looking that way, instead focusing on the dog.
“I’m sorry if she’s bothering you.” Maeri addressed to the woman. “She just gets really excitable. I think she likes you!” Maeri grinned broadly at the woman, hoping that Rayla’s goodwill would make up for her persistent pestering. Maeri knew it would for her, but not everyone liked Rayla as much as she did.
“Here Rayla!” Maeri said cheerfully as she grabbed for the dog’s collar. Rayla dodged and bounded away, thinking this was nothing more than an enjoyable game. Maeri sighed, she couldn’t go home without her dog, but she couldn’t chase her dog through this tense crowd. Not in front of Amiti. She didn’t want to give him a bad impression.
Perhaps she didn’t need to worry about his reaction though. Amiti seemed to be in some sort of argument with the foreign man. I wasn’t until he turned towards the women asking to wash his hands that she noticed the blood on his hands. Maeri’s eyes went wide and she took a step back. He hadn’t been the one to put the arm on the wall had he? Then she instantly berated herself for her idiocy. If he was, she knew Amiti wouldn’t just be standing there letting him ask for water, not to mention the others gathered around. She gathered her courage to answer his question, despite the fact that it had not been addressed to her.
“I think there’s one down that way,” she said hesitantly, looking to the other woman for confirmation. She never had to fetch water herself, so it was only her knowledge from wandering around the city, and she wasn’t certain that was very reliable.
Hannah felt a little assaulted with all of the attention suddenly offered her way. As a slave, she was expected to be useful but not seen and spoken to but not heard. She was never directly addressed, nor turned to for an answer or opinion. Instead, she was the shadow within the room meant to enact the spoken will of her master without the need for it to be sent to her directly from his lips. An extension of his arm or tool for his use.
Now, she had not one but two individuals addressing her as an informed equal, or at least a person of thought and intelligence. Three if the dog was to be counted.
As the animal continued to yap and paw at her robes, its owner was quick enough to step forward but ineffective in her commands over the creature. Having grown up with several animals around her parents' estate back in Taengea, Hannah was fully aware that the young girl was using the wrong tone with which to command the little canine; talking to her as if she were a friend or human in state, rather than the subservient creature that she was.
Funny how Judeans were so comfortable utilising other humans in a way of servitude but not the animals to which they gave their hearts...
With a soft shake of her head - for Hannah did not wish to say something of impropriety to the girl who was clearly not only noble herself but also a friend to the man that had already scolded her once in as many matter of minutes - she tried to silently communicate that the dog was no problem, despite the fact that her presence drew from her another sneeze that she tried to muffle behind her mitzpahath. She raised her hand to try and stifle the noise and then held it out palm outwards to accompany the shaking of her head. She hoped that her body language gave enough of an impression that she was not offended by the dog's apparent fascination with the hems of her robes.
As the dog bounded a few steps away, Hannah's attention was then drawn by the man who spoke to her in broken Hebrew. It was clear that the language was not his best, but as a scholar she suspected that he was a quick learner. Perhaps a short time within the Judean kingdoms would improve his knowledge of the spoken word of the Chosen People.
Before she could respond to him, the young noble lady - who seemed to follow few of the expected routes of decorum - spoke up to offer the same information that Hannah had been willing to give. For there was, in fact, a well just down the street at the next open junction. The problem was, such a well was for public drinking and bathing... the man might cause further offence in washing the blood from his hands there. He would be better cleaning up at the coastline, the other side of the Grecian barracks.
"Yes, my lady." She told the woman, however, not wishing to contradict her in public, with a lowering of her head and a bending of her knees. Her eyes were watering a little from the presence of the dog and the sneezing, but she managed to lighten them; to give the impression of a smile beneath her headpiece.
She then turned to the Egyptian, hoping to keep her voice low, as she tried to advise him.
"You would be better at the harbour." She told him, her mitzpahath covering barely shimmering with the breath of her words. "I can show you the way?"
She thought it past time that she left the site of this horror behind, for her presence seemed to be drawing too much attention already...
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Hannah felt a little assaulted with all of the attention suddenly offered her way. As a slave, she was expected to be useful but not seen and spoken to but not heard. She was never directly addressed, nor turned to for an answer or opinion. Instead, she was the shadow within the room meant to enact the spoken will of her master without the need for it to be sent to her directly from his lips. An extension of his arm or tool for his use.
Now, she had not one but two individuals addressing her as an informed equal, or at least a person of thought and intelligence. Three if the dog was to be counted.
As the animal continued to yap and paw at her robes, its owner was quick enough to step forward but ineffective in her commands over the creature. Having grown up with several animals around her parents' estate back in Taengea, Hannah was fully aware that the young girl was using the wrong tone with which to command the little canine; talking to her as if she were a friend or human in state, rather than the subservient creature that she was.
Funny how Judeans were so comfortable utilising other humans in a way of servitude but not the animals to which they gave their hearts...
With a soft shake of her head - for Hannah did not wish to say something of impropriety to the girl who was clearly not only noble herself but also a friend to the man that had already scolded her once in as many matter of minutes - she tried to silently communicate that the dog was no problem, despite the fact that her presence drew from her another sneeze that she tried to muffle behind her mitzpahath. She raised her hand to try and stifle the noise and then held it out palm outwards to accompany the shaking of her head. She hoped that her body language gave enough of an impression that she was not offended by the dog's apparent fascination with the hems of her robes.
As the dog bounded a few steps away, Hannah's attention was then drawn by the man who spoke to her in broken Hebrew. It was clear that the language was not his best, but as a scholar she suspected that he was a quick learner. Perhaps a short time within the Judean kingdoms would improve his knowledge of the spoken word of the Chosen People.
Before she could respond to him, the young noble lady - who seemed to follow few of the expected routes of decorum - spoke up to offer the same information that Hannah had been willing to give. For there was, in fact, a well just down the street at the next open junction. The problem was, such a well was for public drinking and bathing... the man might cause further offence in washing the blood from his hands there. He would be better cleaning up at the coastline, the other side of the Grecian barracks.
"Yes, my lady." She told the woman, however, not wishing to contradict her in public, with a lowering of her head and a bending of her knees. Her eyes were watering a little from the presence of the dog and the sneezing, but she managed to lighten them; to give the impression of a smile beneath her headpiece.
She then turned to the Egyptian, hoping to keep her voice low, as she tried to advise him.
"You would be better at the harbour." She told him, her mitzpahath covering barely shimmering with the breath of her words. "I can show you the way?"
She thought it past time that she left the site of this horror behind, for her presence seemed to be drawing too much attention already...
Hannah felt a little assaulted with all of the attention suddenly offered her way. As a slave, she was expected to be useful but not seen and spoken to but not heard. She was never directly addressed, nor turned to for an answer or opinion. Instead, she was the shadow within the room meant to enact the spoken will of her master without the need for it to be sent to her directly from his lips. An extension of his arm or tool for his use.
Now, she had not one but two individuals addressing her as an informed equal, or at least a person of thought and intelligence. Three if the dog was to be counted.
As the animal continued to yap and paw at her robes, its owner was quick enough to step forward but ineffective in her commands over the creature. Having grown up with several animals around her parents' estate back in Taengea, Hannah was fully aware that the young girl was using the wrong tone with which to command the little canine; talking to her as if she were a friend or human in state, rather than the subservient creature that she was.
Funny how Judeans were so comfortable utilising other humans in a way of servitude but not the animals to which they gave their hearts...
With a soft shake of her head - for Hannah did not wish to say something of impropriety to the girl who was clearly not only noble herself but also a friend to the man that had already scolded her once in as many matter of minutes - she tried to silently communicate that the dog was no problem, despite the fact that her presence drew from her another sneeze that she tried to muffle behind her mitzpahath. She raised her hand to try and stifle the noise and then held it out palm outwards to accompany the shaking of her head. She hoped that her body language gave enough of an impression that she was not offended by the dog's apparent fascination with the hems of her robes.
As the dog bounded a few steps away, Hannah's attention was then drawn by the man who spoke to her in broken Hebrew. It was clear that the language was not his best, but as a scholar she suspected that he was a quick learner. Perhaps a short time within the Judean kingdoms would improve his knowledge of the spoken word of the Chosen People.
Before she could respond to him, the young noble lady - who seemed to follow few of the expected routes of decorum - spoke up to offer the same information that Hannah had been willing to give. For there was, in fact, a well just down the street at the next open junction. The problem was, such a well was for public drinking and bathing... the man might cause further offence in washing the blood from his hands there. He would be better cleaning up at the coastline, the other side of the Grecian barracks.
"Yes, my lady." She told the woman, however, not wishing to contradict her in public, with a lowering of her head and a bending of her knees. Her eyes were watering a little from the presence of the dog and the sneezing, but she managed to lighten them; to give the impression of a smile beneath her headpiece.
She then turned to the Egyptian, hoping to keep her voice low, as she tried to advise him.
"You would be better at the harbour." She told him, her mitzpahath covering barely shimmering with the breath of her words. "I can show you the way?"
She thought it past time that she left the site of this horror behind, for her presence seemed to be drawing too much attention already...
Curveball Hand of Malice
As the crowds around the entryway to the Grecian barracks grow, a young Captain in Grecian uniform approaches the archway from the opposing side. Stepping around the severed arm and the small puddle of blood it has created, the man, in full armour and sporting a blade at his hip, turns an assessing eye upon the crowd.
"You are asked to disperse." He ordered loudly, in a tone of voice that showed his opinion upon having to 'ask' Judeans anything. "This mess will be cleared and your presence here promotes antagonism. Please leave."
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As the crowds around the entryway to the Grecian barracks grow, a young Captain in Grecian uniform approaches the archway from the opposing side. Stepping around the severed arm and the small puddle of blood it has created, the man, in full armour and sporting a blade at his hip, turns an assessing eye upon the crowd.
"You are asked to disperse." He ordered loudly, in a tone of voice that showed his opinion upon having to 'ask' Judeans anything. "This mess will be cleared and your presence here promotes antagonism. Please leave."
Curveball Hand of Malice
As the crowds around the entryway to the Grecian barracks grow, a young Captain in Grecian uniform approaches the archway from the opposing side. Stepping around the severed arm and the small puddle of blood it has created, the man, in full armour and sporting a blade at his hip, turns an assessing eye upon the crowd.
"You are asked to disperse." He ordered loudly, in a tone of voice that showed his opinion upon having to 'ask' Judeans anything. "This mess will be cleared and your presence here promotes antagonism. Please leave."
It was primarily the man’s difference from himself that was his greatest crime. The look of contained fury blazed behind Zoser’s eyes and Amiti could clearly see it. He could see it in Zoser’s clenched jaw and the jerking movements he used to clean the blood off his skin. Amiti wouldn’t touch this man, not for ten thousand shekels. His own blood boiled anew when Zoser had the audacity to speak in his own heathen tongue and not for any useful purpose. Only to complain. Amiti knew Coptic well enough - needed to because the Egyptians did have a habit of coming to trade and also he’d be remiss to not at least passably speak the languages of the region, as well as Greek, when they were so very entrenched in their midst.
As much as he wanted to argue and belabor the point that, yes, the Egyptians were the barbaric ones, he kept his tongue still. Like Zoser had been, Amiti pressed his to the roof of his mouth and counted backwards from one hundred in order to keep his composure. He’d already lost it righteously in front of this crowd. To do so again would not be a champion of the people but would show gross negligence in his own conduct and betray an uneven temper. He could not afford this, and, as he suspected he was one of the few who could even understand Zoser, much less hear him, calling the man out in a public forum was simply courting an argument for argument’s sake. A pointless endeavor since the task at hand was still...well...the hand.
As soon as Zoser introduced himself and where he was going, Amiti felt his eyes widen. They were going to be stuck with each other. He looked back at the hand, and then at the blood on Zoser’s arm, and then at Zoser’s face. Yahweh did have a sense of humor, at times, didn’t he? “Welcome to Judea,” he said stiffly, not meaning a word of it.
Seeing Maeri answering Zoser’s question about the well, Amiti moved toward her. Obviously she had a kind heart, but it was incredibly misplaced. It was clear that she needed a husband, since she had no idea what was good for her and what was not. He could protect her, in that way. “You’re too kind to people,” he said once he got closer, eyeing Zoser. He wouldn’t have told the man the way to the well. Who was going to draw the water for him? Better he go with his own hosts in this city, than to impede on the good women of Judea.
However, the slave was taking care of Amiti’s worry with the well already, directing the man to the harbor. This was better and Amiti nodded in approval. “Listen to her,” he said, pointing to the thin waif of a girl. “Where is your master, girl?” He asked. “Show this man the way and then go home. You should not be out while this foul business is going on.” He was already planning on taking Maeri back to her home, more concerned about her status than the servant’s, but not wanting to draw over much attention to his intended.
It was at that moment that a Greek Captain addressed them all. Amiti spun around, leveling the man with an impressive glare, but he didn’t disagree with the order...much. What he did want to know was what was to be done with the arm, but he didn’t immediately spot a priest, who was the one who should actually be taking care of this nonsense. Did no one in Israel know their business?
Immediately he pressed fingers to his lips. That was unkind and he’d been more than his share of uncharitable today. Damascus was lucky in its leaders. Perhaps Israel was less so.
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It was primarily the man’s difference from himself that was his greatest crime. The look of contained fury blazed behind Zoser’s eyes and Amiti could clearly see it. He could see it in Zoser’s clenched jaw and the jerking movements he used to clean the blood off his skin. Amiti wouldn’t touch this man, not for ten thousand shekels. His own blood boiled anew when Zoser had the audacity to speak in his own heathen tongue and not for any useful purpose. Only to complain. Amiti knew Coptic well enough - needed to because the Egyptians did have a habit of coming to trade and also he’d be remiss to not at least passably speak the languages of the region, as well as Greek, when they were so very entrenched in their midst.
As much as he wanted to argue and belabor the point that, yes, the Egyptians were the barbaric ones, he kept his tongue still. Like Zoser had been, Amiti pressed his to the roof of his mouth and counted backwards from one hundred in order to keep his composure. He’d already lost it righteously in front of this crowd. To do so again would not be a champion of the people but would show gross negligence in his own conduct and betray an uneven temper. He could not afford this, and, as he suspected he was one of the few who could even understand Zoser, much less hear him, calling the man out in a public forum was simply courting an argument for argument’s sake. A pointless endeavor since the task at hand was still...well...the hand.
As soon as Zoser introduced himself and where he was going, Amiti felt his eyes widen. They were going to be stuck with each other. He looked back at the hand, and then at the blood on Zoser’s arm, and then at Zoser’s face. Yahweh did have a sense of humor, at times, didn’t he? “Welcome to Judea,” he said stiffly, not meaning a word of it.
Seeing Maeri answering Zoser’s question about the well, Amiti moved toward her. Obviously she had a kind heart, but it was incredibly misplaced. It was clear that she needed a husband, since she had no idea what was good for her and what was not. He could protect her, in that way. “You’re too kind to people,” he said once he got closer, eyeing Zoser. He wouldn’t have told the man the way to the well. Who was going to draw the water for him? Better he go with his own hosts in this city, than to impede on the good women of Judea.
However, the slave was taking care of Amiti’s worry with the well already, directing the man to the harbor. This was better and Amiti nodded in approval. “Listen to her,” he said, pointing to the thin waif of a girl. “Where is your master, girl?” He asked. “Show this man the way and then go home. You should not be out while this foul business is going on.” He was already planning on taking Maeri back to her home, more concerned about her status than the servant’s, but not wanting to draw over much attention to his intended.
It was at that moment that a Greek Captain addressed them all. Amiti spun around, leveling the man with an impressive glare, but he didn’t disagree with the order...much. What he did want to know was what was to be done with the arm, but he didn’t immediately spot a priest, who was the one who should actually be taking care of this nonsense. Did no one in Israel know their business?
Immediately he pressed fingers to his lips. That was unkind and he’d been more than his share of uncharitable today. Damascus was lucky in its leaders. Perhaps Israel was less so.
It was primarily the man’s difference from himself that was his greatest crime. The look of contained fury blazed behind Zoser’s eyes and Amiti could clearly see it. He could see it in Zoser’s clenched jaw and the jerking movements he used to clean the blood off his skin. Amiti wouldn’t touch this man, not for ten thousand shekels. His own blood boiled anew when Zoser had the audacity to speak in his own heathen tongue and not for any useful purpose. Only to complain. Amiti knew Coptic well enough - needed to because the Egyptians did have a habit of coming to trade and also he’d be remiss to not at least passably speak the languages of the region, as well as Greek, when they were so very entrenched in their midst.
As much as he wanted to argue and belabor the point that, yes, the Egyptians were the barbaric ones, he kept his tongue still. Like Zoser had been, Amiti pressed his to the roof of his mouth and counted backwards from one hundred in order to keep his composure. He’d already lost it righteously in front of this crowd. To do so again would not be a champion of the people but would show gross negligence in his own conduct and betray an uneven temper. He could not afford this, and, as he suspected he was one of the few who could even understand Zoser, much less hear him, calling the man out in a public forum was simply courting an argument for argument’s sake. A pointless endeavor since the task at hand was still...well...the hand.
As soon as Zoser introduced himself and where he was going, Amiti felt his eyes widen. They were going to be stuck with each other. He looked back at the hand, and then at the blood on Zoser’s arm, and then at Zoser’s face. Yahweh did have a sense of humor, at times, didn’t he? “Welcome to Judea,” he said stiffly, not meaning a word of it.
Seeing Maeri answering Zoser’s question about the well, Amiti moved toward her. Obviously she had a kind heart, but it was incredibly misplaced. It was clear that she needed a husband, since she had no idea what was good for her and what was not. He could protect her, in that way. “You’re too kind to people,” he said once he got closer, eyeing Zoser. He wouldn’t have told the man the way to the well. Who was going to draw the water for him? Better he go with his own hosts in this city, than to impede on the good women of Judea.
However, the slave was taking care of Amiti’s worry with the well already, directing the man to the harbor. This was better and Amiti nodded in approval. “Listen to her,” he said, pointing to the thin waif of a girl. “Where is your master, girl?” He asked. “Show this man the way and then go home. You should not be out while this foul business is going on.” He was already planning on taking Maeri back to her home, more concerned about her status than the servant’s, but not wanting to draw over much attention to his intended.
It was at that moment that a Greek Captain addressed them all. Amiti spun around, leveling the man with an impressive glare, but he didn’t disagree with the order...much. What he did want to know was what was to be done with the arm, but he didn’t immediately spot a priest, who was the one who should actually be taking care of this nonsense. Did no one in Israel know their business?
Immediately he pressed fingers to his lips. That was unkind and he’d been more than his share of uncharitable today. Damascus was lucky in its leaders. Perhaps Israel was less so.
It was remarkable how the chaos of the moment seemed to pinpoint its focus on the few sho stood in the center of the self-formed ring. Some found that this Councilman Amiti of Tzephaniah's presence was enough for them to linger away, though the whispers and eyeing of his presence held the attention of many, letting them linger.
The spice behind the man's postured welcome had Zoser pressing his tongue to the roof of his mouth once more and offering just the faintest nod of his head that only under the most generous of circumstances could have been viewed as a slight bow of thanks. He once again attempted to refocus his frustrations on futile attempts to wipe away the offending blood.
The young woman who attempted to tame her dog had suggested the direction of the well, though the suggestion of the harbor by the slave was supported by the Councilman far more swiftly. Still, the young woman and her feisty pet had attempted to help, and Zoser offer a courteous bow of his head and a soft smile to her, "Thank you for your kindness."
No sooner had Zoser thanked her for such a thing was she reprimanded for even showing kindness here. An expression of utter incredulity scampered across his face, almost disgusted by the man's lack of hospitality or even common courtesy. Zoser hoped to the heavens above - well, perhaps not these particular heavens - that not every person in this forsaken place would end up being like Amiti.
Once the Councilman issued orders in the ring of chaos did the gates of the fortress swing open. Zoser's brows raised in uncertainty as the Captain stepped forth, looking unamused at best as he issued an order for the area to be cleared. Curiosity piqued by the nonchalance of the Taengean soldier and the lack of opposition from many who remained around the arm, Zoser had his suspicions that there was something off about the entire circumstance. While he was not nearly as suspicious as the entirety of Judea, apparently, he knew when things did not sit well.
His eyes could not resist a glance over to the Councilman Amiti's reaction, or odd lack thereof, noting only the narrowing of eyes and the covering of his lips, as if he had thoughts that he wished to voice but chose not to in that moment.
From his understanding, however, the province of Israel was different from that of Damascus, a few days ride hence. With his feet having only stepped foot in Judea for hardly a few hours time, he sent up a prayer to whichever Kemetic god might hear him here that he would be able to leave this province swiftly for Damascus, among scholarly minds who would hopefully bear less vitriol towards a guest in their lands - after all, they had invited him.
Perhaps, then, he would be blessed enough for his path to never cross with any of those present during the remainder of his time in Judea. Gods willing.
Cautious to let most of the crowd pass so that he would not risk marring them with the blood on his hands, Zoser raised a slight brow to Amiti, a faint scoff in his throat and a glance down to the severed hand and back again as if to issue his own silent and insincere 'good luck' to the man before returning the cast of his eyes to the Greek slavewoman.
"Please, lead the way," he urged, unable to think himself capable enough of leaving the sight of the chaos and the face of the most irritating man he had ever had the misfortune to encounter behind him without a backwards glance.
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It was remarkable how the chaos of the moment seemed to pinpoint its focus on the few sho stood in the center of the self-formed ring. Some found that this Councilman Amiti of Tzephaniah's presence was enough for them to linger away, though the whispers and eyeing of his presence held the attention of many, letting them linger.
The spice behind the man's postured welcome had Zoser pressing his tongue to the roof of his mouth once more and offering just the faintest nod of his head that only under the most generous of circumstances could have been viewed as a slight bow of thanks. He once again attempted to refocus his frustrations on futile attempts to wipe away the offending blood.
The young woman who attempted to tame her dog had suggested the direction of the well, though the suggestion of the harbor by the slave was supported by the Councilman far more swiftly. Still, the young woman and her feisty pet had attempted to help, and Zoser offer a courteous bow of his head and a soft smile to her, "Thank you for your kindness."
No sooner had Zoser thanked her for such a thing was she reprimanded for even showing kindness here. An expression of utter incredulity scampered across his face, almost disgusted by the man's lack of hospitality or even common courtesy. Zoser hoped to the heavens above - well, perhaps not these particular heavens - that not every person in this forsaken place would end up being like Amiti.
Once the Councilman issued orders in the ring of chaos did the gates of the fortress swing open. Zoser's brows raised in uncertainty as the Captain stepped forth, looking unamused at best as he issued an order for the area to be cleared. Curiosity piqued by the nonchalance of the Taengean soldier and the lack of opposition from many who remained around the arm, Zoser had his suspicions that there was something off about the entire circumstance. While he was not nearly as suspicious as the entirety of Judea, apparently, he knew when things did not sit well.
His eyes could not resist a glance over to the Councilman Amiti's reaction, or odd lack thereof, noting only the narrowing of eyes and the covering of his lips, as if he had thoughts that he wished to voice but chose not to in that moment.
From his understanding, however, the province of Israel was different from that of Damascus, a few days ride hence. With his feet having only stepped foot in Judea for hardly a few hours time, he sent up a prayer to whichever Kemetic god might hear him here that he would be able to leave this province swiftly for Damascus, among scholarly minds who would hopefully bear less vitriol towards a guest in their lands - after all, they had invited him.
Perhaps, then, he would be blessed enough for his path to never cross with any of those present during the remainder of his time in Judea. Gods willing.
Cautious to let most of the crowd pass so that he would not risk marring them with the blood on his hands, Zoser raised a slight brow to Amiti, a faint scoff in his throat and a glance down to the severed hand and back again as if to issue his own silent and insincere 'good luck' to the man before returning the cast of his eyes to the Greek slavewoman.
"Please, lead the way," he urged, unable to think himself capable enough of leaving the sight of the chaos and the face of the most irritating man he had ever had the misfortune to encounter behind him without a backwards glance.
It was remarkable how the chaos of the moment seemed to pinpoint its focus on the few sho stood in the center of the self-formed ring. Some found that this Councilman Amiti of Tzephaniah's presence was enough for them to linger away, though the whispers and eyeing of his presence held the attention of many, letting them linger.
The spice behind the man's postured welcome had Zoser pressing his tongue to the roof of his mouth once more and offering just the faintest nod of his head that only under the most generous of circumstances could have been viewed as a slight bow of thanks. He once again attempted to refocus his frustrations on futile attempts to wipe away the offending blood.
The young woman who attempted to tame her dog had suggested the direction of the well, though the suggestion of the harbor by the slave was supported by the Councilman far more swiftly. Still, the young woman and her feisty pet had attempted to help, and Zoser offer a courteous bow of his head and a soft smile to her, "Thank you for your kindness."
No sooner had Zoser thanked her for such a thing was she reprimanded for even showing kindness here. An expression of utter incredulity scampered across his face, almost disgusted by the man's lack of hospitality or even common courtesy. Zoser hoped to the heavens above - well, perhaps not these particular heavens - that not every person in this forsaken place would end up being like Amiti.
Once the Councilman issued orders in the ring of chaos did the gates of the fortress swing open. Zoser's brows raised in uncertainty as the Captain stepped forth, looking unamused at best as he issued an order for the area to be cleared. Curiosity piqued by the nonchalance of the Taengean soldier and the lack of opposition from many who remained around the arm, Zoser had his suspicions that there was something off about the entire circumstance. While he was not nearly as suspicious as the entirety of Judea, apparently, he knew when things did not sit well.
His eyes could not resist a glance over to the Councilman Amiti's reaction, or odd lack thereof, noting only the narrowing of eyes and the covering of his lips, as if he had thoughts that he wished to voice but chose not to in that moment.
From his understanding, however, the province of Israel was different from that of Damascus, a few days ride hence. With his feet having only stepped foot in Judea for hardly a few hours time, he sent up a prayer to whichever Kemetic god might hear him here that he would be able to leave this province swiftly for Damascus, among scholarly minds who would hopefully bear less vitriol towards a guest in their lands - after all, they had invited him.
Perhaps, then, he would be blessed enough for his path to never cross with any of those present during the remainder of his time in Judea. Gods willing.
Cautious to let most of the crowd pass so that he would not risk marring them with the blood on his hands, Zoser raised a slight brow to Amiti, a faint scoff in his throat and a glance down to the severed hand and back again as if to issue his own silent and insincere 'good luck' to the man before returning the cast of his eyes to the Greek slavewoman.
"Please, lead the way," he urged, unable to think himself capable enough of leaving the sight of the chaos and the face of the most irritating man he had ever had the misfortune to encounter behind him without a backwards glance.