#torre-hispania

[laus-deo]

Francisco Torres: «El Cid es un arquetipo, que suma lo histórico, lo mitológico y lo literario»

La revista «Laus Hispaniae» lleva en portada, en su último número, la imagen de Rodrigo Díaz de Vivar y como rótulo el título de un interesante artículo «El Cid Campeador. El héroe necesario». Javier Navascués entrevista a su autore el historiador y catedrático de secundaria Francisco Torres García. Leer más… »

[threezhang]

Torre de Bujaco

The Ummayyad Caliphate conquered the Christian Visigothic kingdom of Hispania in the 8th century BC, including Cáceres. The following centuries saw conflict over Al-Andalus (Spain) between the Muslim rulers and Christians from the north. While Cáceres was under Christian rule thanks to the conquest in 1170 by Ferdinand II of Leon, the Order of the Knights of Santiago was established in the city.

Until they yielded to the Muslim’s six month long siege in March 1173, the tower had served as a defensive bastion for the Knights of Santiago. It was at this time of reconquest that the Arabs rebuilt much of the city, including a wall, palaces and defensive towers including the Bujaco Tower. The namesake of Bujaco Tower was Caliph Abú-Ya’qub, who led his troops to victory in conquering Cáceres.

Cáceres was reconquered by the Christians led by the Kingdom of Castile in 1229. The successful cohabitation of Christians, Muslims and Jews in the city was later disturbed when the Catholic Monarchs, Queen Isabella and Ferdinand of Aragon in 1492, expelled the Jewish population from the city’s important Jewish quarter, home to almost 140 families in the 15th century.

In the 16th and 17th centuries, as Spain and Cáceres prospered from the Reconquista and colonial venture in the Americas, the tower became known as ‘the Clock Tower’.

[toilingintorah]

How can a Spanish speaking Puerto Rican have Jewish roots?

The Spanish Inquisition was a judicial institution that lasted between 1478 and 1834. Its ostensible purpose was to combat heresy in Spain, but, in practice, it resulted in consolidating power in the monarchy of the newly unified Spanish kingdom. Its brutal methods led to widespread death and suffering. -Britannica

Thus, the mass expulsions of late medieval Spain drew on centuries of hate, even as they marked a turning point. In 1492, and during the years that followed, tens of thousands of Jews fled Spain (estimates range from 40,000 to over 150,000) - PBS

Ancient Spain was called Iberia or the Iberian Peninsula from the Hebrew word (עבריI baryath meaning Hebrew & Greek (Ιβηρία) Ibēría. The 1st people in Spain were the Carthaginians (Hebrews). The Roman Empire changed the name to Hispania after they defeated us in the Punic. The arrival of the Jewish people to the Iberian Peninsula is thought to date back to the times of the high peak of King Solomon’s glory in Israel and among the nations. The core vocabulary of Judaeo-Spanish is Old Spanish, and it has numerous elements from the other old Romance languages of the Iberian Peninsula: Old Aragonese, Astur-Leonese, Old Catalan, Galician-Portuguese, and Mozarabic. The language is also called Judeo-Espanyol

(1 Kings 10: 21-22).

After the discovery of the New World and as a result of the Spanish Inquisition many sephardi converted to Christianity, took Spanish surnames ( i.e. Montes, Ríos, Valle, Fuentes, Arroyo, Martínez, de Jesús, Rivera, Ramírez, Rodríguez, García, Torres, Maldonado), and dispersed towards the Americas (during the Spanish colonization period), among other countries. This study intends to determine what level of Jewish ancestry exists among contemporary Puerto Ricans.

https://www.familytreedna.com/groups/sepharad-puerto-rico/about

Luis de Torres who spoke Hebrew among other languages and accompanied Columbus as his interpreter, was the 1st converso Jew to set foot in Puerto Rico. The Jews who arrived and settled in Puerto Rico were referred to as Crypto-Jews. November 19, 1493.

A collection of mysterious statuettes from Puerto Rico, long ago believed to have been made by Jews from the 10 Lost Tribes exiled from the land of Israel in ancient times, are now closer to being understood thanks to Israeli technology.

Secrets of mysterious stone artifacts revealed in Israeli lab - ISRAEL21c

A Jewish pirate named Moses Cohen Henriques crossed the Caribbean in the 17th century to rob ships of the Spanish silver fleet. Moses was a descendant of the Sephardim from the Iberian peninsula. The hunt for him was a retaliation on Catholic Spain.

Moses Cohen Henriques - Wikipedia

Conversos: The Story of Latin America's Crypto Jews | Unpacked (youtube.com)

And Why Spain Expelled Jews in the First Place | Unpacked (youtube.com)

Inquisition & Exile - Journey Through the Wilshire Boulevard Temple Murals (wbtla.org)

[ivanreycristo]

..GUTI tras ser relacionado con la TRANSEXUAL "BIBIANA FERNANDEZ" [BIBI ANDERSEN en su época de ACTRIZ DEL DESTAPE q es como 25 años mayor como lo de era de un Cubano llamado ASDRUBAL] y verle en la disco BARNON dándose el PALO con una CUALQUIERA mientras RAUL se camelaba en la barra de arriba a la camarera y su futura mujer MAMEN [=CHUPEN] tras su cacareado mini_affaire con Alejandra PRAT [q luego salio SEMIDESNUDA en una REVISTA diciendo que NO ERA NINGUN FIERA]..se caso ISO_FACTO siendo un PARDILLO MULTIMILLONARIO CHUPA_BANQUILLOS [q debuto con seleccion Española en la inaguracion de mi estadio TALISMAN u oLIMPIcO de SEVILLA=3 Maratones, una nocturna d GUADALQUIVIR y mi unico concierto d grupo español en un ESTADIO=EXTREMO_DURO presentando cd PARA TODOS LOS PUBLICOS cuya portada es una EXPLOSION EN UNA CIUDAD y q son autores del directo IROS TODOS A TOMAR X CULO cuya portada es la TIERRA COMO UNA BOMBA cuya MECHA ENCIENDE EL SOL asi como del cd YO MINORIA ABSOLUTA con CRISTO ARMADO en la PORTADA]..de 22 años con la presentadora musical ARANTXA DE BENITO de 30 años [con la q me lo encontré en la tienda de Informática de EL CORTE INGLES del entonces RECIEN INCENDIADA TORRE WINDSOR x lo q no pudo repartir miles de pedidos x día d SAN VALENTIN'05 al producirse la madrugada del 13_FEB]..saltándose la cola para casarse en los GERONIMOS [Tribu de INDIOS cuyo jefe era GERONIMO] acabando muy mal y diciendo ella q sus HIJOS eran para él un CERO A LA IZQUIERDA tras casarse con la ARGENTINA romina BELLUSCIO.. DIVORCIADA del ACTOR de la serie HISPANIA [y TRIATLETA semi_profesional] CESAR Pereira..q fue presentadora en ESPAÑA de TONTERIAS LAS JUSTAS

[mercadologo]

Cuidado con GIG DESARROLLOS INMOBILIARIOS, No respetan ni a su Propia Familia los Gómez Flores, mucho menos tienen respeto por el cliente, las quejas suman miles en Internet de clientes arrepentidos de haber caído en el engaño de GIG con La Rioja Tijuana por Abel Jimenez Mercadologo Tijuana Por Flickr:

La Rioja Residencial Deficiencias en los Procesos de Construcción y Entrega de Vivienda, Presumiblemente Elaborada con Materiales de pobre calidad y sobre rellenos sanitarios en peligrosa zona de Tijuana Rellenos Sanitarios Pestilentes y Putrefactos son los Terrenos Donde Se Construye la Segunda Etapa de La Rioja Tijuana, en la vaporear express para el próximo gobierno, la zona de Colinas de California, en donde el hartazgo de clientes para con la inmobiliaria GIG DESARROLLOS INMOBILIARIOS Crece a razón del mal olor que se percibe ya a kilómetros. La Rioja Tijuana Precios de Locura en Departamentos Sobre Rellenos Sanitarios en Narco Zona con Enfrentamientos Violentos que van desde Homicidios a Secuestros de Más de 8 Días de Vecinos Mafiosos en el Mismo Interior de los Departamentos Modelo Zircón con ubicación en Colinas de California, Zona de la Delegación Sánchez Taboada en Tijuana, una de las más pobres e inseguras del Norte del País. GIG Desarrollo Inmobiliarios Acumula Denuncias de Clientes y Vecinos Histéricos a Nivel Nacional por el que Afirman es un Bajo Nivel de Vida en Construcciones que dejan Mucho que desear.

La Rioja Residencial Tijuana y Colinas de California de GIG Desarrollos Inmobiliarios Comparten la Muerte y la Violencia de la Z from Lic. Abel Jimenez on Vimeo.

[phykios]

the marble king, part 9 [read on ao3]

“Have you ever seen snow before?” Alejandro asked him, one bright and startlingly cold morning, as though all mornings here were not equally startlingly cold.

He had enlisted Percy’s participation in a round of hunting this morning, something light-hearted and fun to occupy their time while their spouses dealt with the latest political nonsense from the big cities, something to do with a union of nations and a dissatisfied noble class. Annabeth had done her best to explain it to him plainly, but his ears simply could not hold onto all the people, places, and events she discussed, and he had unwittingly begun to filter out her words after a few minutes or so. Rather than volunteer his no-doubt clumsy and ill-witted assistance, he had reluctantly agreed to be dragged outside.

At the very least, the garments the family provided him were quite warm. Still, he had a very large nose, and he was certain he could no longer sense the very tip of it.

“I have, sir,” he grumbled, flexing his frozen fingers inside of their large, furred mittens. “It did, in fact, snow on occasion in the South. As well, I have spent some time in Dardania, where it would snow heavily and frequently.” That had been the few months he had spent under the tutelage of Lupa, mother of Rome. She had been a harsh teacher, sterner and far less forgiving than Chiron, but she had beaten into him a kind of fastidiousness and respect for the harsh, wild climate of the mountains, teaching him to see the beauty in the rugged, barren landscapes.

“Terrible stuff, no?”

“Absolutely wretched.”

“In my hometown, Sevilla,” he said, “there usually falls a soft layer of snow, but only up in the mountains. When Magnus first brought me here, I had assumed the land was under some sort of magical spell, and we had been charged with freeing the people from the grip of endless winter. Alas, imagine my sorrow when the curse was not lifted, and winter came once again in a few short months.” He sighed, melodramatic, and Percy snorted. “Still, I have grown used to it. It is not so bad if you dress warmly, as you have discovered for yourself. The summers are my favorite, of course--I believe you may feel the same.”

Percy, wisely, held his tongue. To admit to your host that the thought of staying here for nearly a full year made your stomach roil, was nearing the absolute height of rudeness. Rather, he swallowed instead, stretching his mouth in a grimacing smile that, he prayed, looked convincing.

“You would not think it, but the summers can be quite warm. Not nearly the temperature to which you are accustomed, obviously, but warm all the same. But the true joy is the length of days; to make up for this endless, blasted darkness, the summer days are stretched far beyond their natural limit, and believe you me, my friend, by the end of summer, you will tire so much of the bright nights that you will beg for a little darkness.”

“I have heard tell,” he said, with a faint touch of horror, “that some days, the sun never rises, and the people are plagued with eternal night. Is this true?”

He shook his head. “Not so far South, but yes. The ancient peoples of this land lived quite comfortably in such darkness, and still do, if you can believe it.”

Closing his eyes against the bright glare of the sun on the snow, he tried to imagine a life lived in perpetual night, to never have seen the glory of Apollo’s light, to live only in the wan glow of fire, to never be able to ascend the tip of a mountain and look out into the beyond, the peaks and valleys bathed in the warm, golden glow of the sun.

He found he could not.

“You mentioned you had lived in, what was the name? Sev--Sevi--”

“Sevilla,” he said. “Perhaps you may know it better as Hispalis, or Isbiliyah?”

Oh, blast these slippery tongues which he could not speak! “Hispalis, yes,” said Percy. “I have never been myself, though I could indicate its location on a map.”

“In that, we are once again quite similar,” joked Alejandro, “for I could say the same of your fair city.”

“What was it like?” he asked, hoping that all this talk of warmer climes would help him to forget the cold. “Your Hispalis?”

Alejandro smiled, bright and free, his face shining in the sunlight. “Even I have heard tell of the beauty of your Constantinople, and though I have never seen the famed St. Sophia, I know in my heart that Sevilla outshines her even on her darkest days. The summers are long and hot, the wind from the sea bringing the scent of salt and spice in through the open windows of the old stone walls, curling and twisting as they wend their way towards the sky! Oh, Perseus, you have not known true beauty until you have seen the arches and gardens of the Real Alcázar, or watched the sun set from atop the Torre del Oro!”

So ecstatic was he, that Percy could not help but smile alongside him. “Do you ever miss it?”

“Only every day of my life. Well,” he amended, “the city, yes. There is no fairer jewel in the world than Sevilla, and I shall fight any man to the death who should disagree, but I can say with certainty that all that I have here, with Magnus, is infinitely better than what I had left behind.”

“What did you leave behind?” Percy asked. “If you are comfortable sharing with a stranger, of course, I should very much like to know.”

Trudging forward in the snow, Alejandro shook his head fondly. “You are no longer a stranger, brother, and I am happy to share. Much like your wife, I, too, was sent by my father to live in a religious order at a young age--the Monasterio de San Clemente --only I did not run away before my foot ever touched consecrated ground. Though,” he acknowledged with a sardonic tilt of his head, “I am certain you can imagine just how little I cared for monastic life.”

“Because of your…” he trailed off, unsure of how to phrase such a delicate topic. “Your situation,” he finished, lamely.

Alejandro snorted a laugh, the corner of his lips curling upwards. “My situation, yes. In any case, by the time I was expected to take certain vows, it came to the attention of the Abad that not only had I been shirking my duties at the monastery to a level previously unheard of, but I had, at the same time, also been in training at the convent around the corner, as one of the sisters.”

Startled right out of his chest, Percy laughed, a bark in the cold, quiet forest. “Malaka,” he chuckled. “I cannot even imagine what they might have thought.”

“It was quite the eventful week,” he said, suffused with an odd sort of nostalgia. “But, unlike my dear sister, my own father was not so accommodating, nor so open minded. There was nothing for me in Sevilla but beautiful buildings and a family who no longer wanted me--thus, I had no qualms about accompanying my husband to his ancestral home. After all,” he shrugged, gesturing to the dense forest, its dark green needles nearly black against the bright, white snow, “one could argue that this is my ancestral home as well.”

Yes, that was a topic about which Percy was somewhat perplexed. “Forgive me if my question is indelicate, sir,” he said, “but I confess, I am not so knowledgeable about your pantheon. If the Aesir hail from the far North, how is it that Loki came to sire you in Hispania?”

“You misunderstand me, friend, for Bölvasmiðr was not my father, but my mother instead.”

Percy blinked, stopping in his tracks. “Oh.”

And he had thought his family tree was complicated.

A rustle in the trees, then Alejandro held up his fist, a gesture for quiet and stillness. He cocked his head, listening intently, slowly turning round. Only when no further sound presented itself did he relax.

Percy blinked again, suddenly feeling as though he had somehow lost a handful of time.

“Well,” said Doña Alejandra, “onward, good sir.”

Trudging forward, she charged on ahead, leaving Percy to scramble behind her in her wake.

“Think you,” she asked, “that the Magians did not command the southern seas as skillfully as they did the northern ones?”

“The Magians?” he repeated, dumbly. Percy’s head swam, the cold freezing all his thought processes until he was as stupid as all his enemies claimed him to be.

“Ah, I do not know the word in your tongue,” she said, frowning. “The northern raiders, the ones whom Anja tells me were contracted to protect your precious emperor.”

Percy looked away, attempting to recall the word. Annabeth had said it, months ago, in the little room with the single candle in Athens--”The Varangians?”

“Yes!” she snapped her fingers. “That’s the one. Magian, Varangian, here they call them Vikinga, meaning one who seeks adventure. Charming, no? They certainly ventured as far as their ships could carry them, all the way round the western coast of Christendom until they sacked Sevilla some six hundred or so years ago. They must have brought their gods with them, I presume, and then the cabrónes never left. How amusing it must have been,” she laughed, “to suddenly find themselves in a land of endless summer, vying for attention with all the rest of the divinities who had already made themselves quite at home.”

“I suppose,” said Percy.

“Sevilla has always been a city of many faiths, all bumping up against each other. The Christians, the Moors, the Jews; they all brought their Lord with them when they settled on the beaches of Andalusia. What is one more, I say? The gods, without fail, shall always follow their believers.”

Would that were true, Percy mused, at least as it pertained to himself.

He shivered, a cold wind blowing against his face quite unexpectedly.

“Hold.” Alejandra thrust out her hand, stopping Percy in his tracks. “Quiet.”

Magnus had authorized Percy the use of his crossbow for hunting, but given how hopeless Percy was with a standard bow and arrow, he did not have much hope that he would be able to successfully target and kill any mobile creature with it, but Alejandra appeared to have the situation well in hand, raising her own crossbow, her mismatched eyes staring intently above the tree line, her finger near caressing the trigger.

With a crack, a thwack, and a loud braying noise, something large toppled over beyond a few trees, landing in a snowdrift with a soft thump.

“¡Guau!” she crowed, pumping her fist in the air. “We shall have a feast tonight, I can promise you! Now, make haste, thalassinos, for it is cold, and I am in dire need of a skirt.”

They did, indeed, have a feast that night, a feast of venison and good, red wine. Percy had been privately dreading what strange and terrible creation might the cook have prepared, such as the sour, fermented cabbage, or the meatballs in a brown, cream sauce which Annabeth had sworn up and down tasted just like his mother’s keftedes. She had been so incorrect in that assumption, Percy had briefly considered divorcing her on the spot for such an infraction.

Yet the meat was simply, marvelously prepared tonight, roasted with salt and paired with a wine imported from somewhere in Francia which was a little too sour for his taste, though Percy certainly was not one who frequently partook of the beverage. At the agoge, wine had been strictly forbidden as part of Lord Dionysus’ punishment, and so Percy had only really gotten to have it during his brief period with Legion.

After days and days of salmon, Percy almost felt guilty to be enjoying meat other than fish, as if his father would somehow be aware of it, and be displeased with him.

The thought strikes him about as quickly and severely as a bolt from the heavens--a sensation with which he was, unfortunately, well acquainted.

His father. Gods above, his father.

Startled, he dropped his cut of meat, wincing internally as it landed on the wooden table with a soft thud, disrupting what had been a lively conversation which he still could not understand. As a hawk, Annabeth sharply turned towards him, grey eyes full of concern. “Percy? Are you alright?” Fredrik, Magnus, and Alejandra looked on him as well, all in varying degrees of worry or bewilderment.

“Ah--yes. I am fine. Please, do not let me interrupt.”

She raised a brow, unconvinced, but with pursed lips, turned back towards her cousin, resuming what must have been an utterly fascinating debate.

Alejandra reached out towards him, laying her hand on his upper arm. “Truly, you are well?” she asked, her voice low.

He nodded. “Yes, of course. I merely--remembered something which I had forgotten.”

“Oh?”

A part of him, deeply held and strikingly jealous, did not really wish to share with Alejandra, even though he considered her his closest friend in Svealand, but given how patient she had been with him, how supportive and understanding she had been, he supposed he owed it to her. “At the agoge,” he said, slowly, “before every meal, it was our custom to make an offering to the gods. We would take a portion of our food, the best portion, and toss it into the hearth, so that our parents may bestow us with their blessing when next we had need of it.”

“Into the fire?” Her expression was dubious, one eyebrow delicately arched.

He had the distinct sense that she did not believe him. “The gods, they feed off the smoke,” he said, somewhat embarrassed. “They do not eat food like you and me.”

“Oh, I do not doubt that,” she said, “I am merely surprised, is all.”

He frowned. “Regarding?”

“That your father demands so much praise.” She tilted her head, considering. “My divine progenitor expected quite a lot from me as well, but usually not so much sycophancy.”

“It--he--” Percy stammered. “He did not--it was not demanded of us, that we praise them so.”

“Was it not?”

“No,” he insisted. “It was respect, politeness, not… not groveling or fawning or the like.”

Alejandra still looked quite skeptical, but she did not push the issue further. “Well, if you feel so strongly, then you are free to use the fire,” she said, indicating towards the large hearth against the wall. “Go on. Make your offering.”

It was a simple enough task. There was a particularly fatty piece of meat, glistening in the firelight, all ready to go. All Percy had to do was walk over to the hearth, place the food onto the coals, and speak the words which he must have said thousands of times: here’s to the gods. The ritual was uncomplicated.

And yet.

Percy glanced towards Annabeth, deep in conversation with her father.

He racked his brain, but he could not recall a single instance of Annabeth making an offering during their stay in Birka. Styx, he could not even recall a single instance of her making an offering during their journey North. If he truly thought about it, long and hard, he vaguely remembered throwing a fish into the fire one night, camped next to those horrid, horrid rapids, as he gave thanks for Annabeth’s life, and then… and then the days had begun to blur together, day after day of endless sailing, of a sick, hard pit in his stomach that screamed at him to turn ‘round, to go back to where he belonged.

“Would it be rude, do you think,” he asked his hostess, “to make such an offering to the Olympians in the land of the Aesir?”

“I should think not,” said Alejandra. “Certainly, neither Magnus nor Uncle Fredrik would take offense.”

“And you?”

“Oh, I care not,” she said, with a twist of a grin. “Neither, I think, would your wife.”

Would she? He could not say. Perhaps she would think him a fool to be chasing after the approval of one who had long since abandoned him, or perhaps she would take it to mean that he was ungrateful to the land and the family which had housed him during these long winter months.

In the end, he could not make a decision. The evening meal stretched on, with Alejandro, for he had become a man during the meal, attempting to corral him into some kind of conversation, and sadly failing, until only Percy remained. “Will you be along shortly?” his wife had asked him.

Percy had nodded, though he could not say for certain how long he would linger at the table. To be alone in the dining hall was far different than it was to be alone in his bedroom. At least out here, he could pretend that he was still in the pavilion at the agoge, or the villas of the Legion, lingering over a pleasant meal and more pleasant company.

The fire still glowed, nearly burned all the way down to its embers, warm and soft, pulsing.

Many years ago, on the eve of the final day of a great and terrible battle, he had met with the spirit of the flame, the goddess of the hearth, and had entrusted her with the task of safe-guarding Hope so that he would not be tempted to give it up, and surrender to despair. She had challenged him to a riddle, of sorts, and in solving it, he had gained the key to defeating Lukas and the Titan king.

Hope survives best at the hearth, he had told her.

Hope now fluttered in his breast, weak and small, but there, alive.

If he made his offering, here in this foreign land, even after all this time… would his father, somehow, hear him?

He stood up, the chair scraping on the floor. Snatching up the last portions of his dinner, he stepped over to the hearth, whose light slowly dimmed with every passing second.

Percy went down on one knee, and laid the last slice of wheat bread on the still-glowing coals. His fingers trembled so much, he nearly dropped it.  “Lord Poseidon,” he murmured, “ Asphaleios, Epoptes, father.”

For a moment, there was only quiet.

Nothing happened. The flames did not rise, sudden and hot. There were no voices, speaking to Percy within the corners of his mind.

There was nothing. Nothing, just as it was when he was but a child, and he did not yet know of his father who had been too much of a coward to claim him until it was nearly too late.

Slowly, he blew out a breath, his shakes easing. At least now he knew.

When he returned to his bedroom, Annabeth was already asleep. Wasting not a moment, he shed his daytime clothing, slipping on as many pairs of socks and undergarments as he could get away with, then slid in beside her, turning on his side away from her.

At least now he was certain.

***

There is the smell of salt. Figs. Flowers, and smoke.

Percy opens his eyes. There is sunlight, bright and pulsating, the sun itself far closer to the earth than it should be.

He sits up, taking in his surroundings. Lush, green fields, an undulating sea of flowers in full bloom. Sea birds calling overhead, crying out for each other, swooping careless and free.

He knows precisely where he is.

Having gone to bed bundled up in the warmest clothes he could find, it is something of a shock when he stands up and sees himself clothed in nothing but a chiton and a pair of sandals. It is all well, however; the morning sun is hot, and the rocks are sharp, and he is grateful for the protection.

The wind, sharp and tangy, pushes him towards the edge of the plateau, and he goes willingly. It is one, two, three, ten steps before he reaches the edge of the cliff, the breeze buffeting his clothes, his hair, and he holds out his arms, letting the force of the air weave between his outstretched fingers. Dried grass crunches beneath his feet. Before him, the bluest expanse of the water, a dip-dyed cloth of lapis lazuli stretched all around him, bunching about the islands off in the distance. Far, far off, he can see the top of a mountain, can see the snow as it dusts the very points and tips, the fingers of the earth which still reach for the dome of the sky.

Down on the beach, at the very edge of the water, he sees a man. A moment’s hesitation, then he begins the long trek down the cliff.

With each step forward, the earth comes up to meet him, a staircase down from heaven, until he has joined the man on the beach. The man does not turn to greet him.

He is tall, with thick, curly black hair, skin tanned nut brown from hours in the sun, hours upon hours and days upon days of burning, peeling, healing, over and over and over again. He, too, wears a plain white chiton, a rope tied about his waist in a simple sailor’s knot, and on his head, a crown of celery leaves.

Beside him, his trident has been stuck in the sand.

“Father.”

The earth-shaker turns to him, his twinkling eyes the color of the water beneath his feet, the same as his own. “Perseus,” he rumbles in return. “There you are! I was wondering where you had gotten off to.”

A child all of twelve, Percy had knelt upon first meeting his father. Now, he does not move a muscle.

With a groan, Poseidon eases himself down onto a nearby rock, one hand pressed to his back. “Come,” he says. “Come and sit with me awhile. You have traveled quite far, no? I would hear one or two of your adventures, should you wish to share them.”

Percy cannot move, too busy drinking in the sight of him.

During the war, the great Titanomachy, he had looked every bit as ancient as he truly was, with white hair and deep furrows carved into the skin of his face, but he does not look so haggard now. Indeed, he looks much the same as when Percy last left him. Still, Percy can plainly see that he is hounded by some grievance, some great worry that will not leave him, hung around his neck like a stone collar. He can plainly see, for it is the very look Percy himself wears when something is troubling him.

His request rebuffed, still Poseidon does not appear to be too bothered by Percy’s immobility. He looks out to the sea, lifting his face to the salty breeze coming off of the water. “Thálatta, thálatta,” he murmurs, an ancient litany. “The sea is never the same twice, but oh, how I have missed this view.”

Heart slowly rising up his throat, Percy tries to calm his breathing. It would not do, he thinks, to go into hysterics before the lord of the sea.

Above them, Helios’ chariot races across the sky, faster and more quickly than any natural day, shadows shifting from West to East before his very eye, growing longer with each breath.

“Our time is short,” says Poseidon, gently, the calm, even push and pull of the tides. “I know you must have questions. Speak, and I shall answer.”

Questions, yes. He has a thousand, each one vying for his breath and his tongue. But there is one question which will always come first. “My mother?” he croaks, his voice hoarse.

The god of the deep smiles, affection softening the harsh lines of his face. “Safe,” he promises. “She and her family both. Where they landed, I cannot say, but I saw to it myself that they passed the blockade unharmed.”

Good. That is good. His mother, Paul, dearest Esther; they are all of them safe.

His heart thumps wildly, sorrow and rage blocking his throat. The core of him shakes so violently that he is worried he will shake himself apart, here on the rocks, dissolving into nothing more than sea air.

“You have always been a good son to your mother,” Poseidon says, “and you are right to ask after her, yet I cannot imagine that you have no more questions for me. Go on.”

Percy draws in a shuddering breath.

“That night, in the city…” It haunts him still, the flash of light above St. Sophia, the vision he’d had of the lords of Olympus as they took flight. “What happened?”

He looks towards Percy, frowning, his thick, bushy brows drawing together. “I am sorry that you bore witness to it. Such sights are not made for mortal eyes.”

“Rachael saw it, too,” he says.

“Indeed. My nephew’s oracles are blessed, yes, but cursed as well, to see more and know more than any of their peers. No doubt she still suffers as well, wherever she is now.”

“But what was it?” he presses. He will not be denied answers, not after so long.

Poseidon sighs, casting his gaze down to the sandy beach. The wind blows in cool from the placid waters, ruffling the fabric of his clothes.

In his mind, in his memory, Poseidon always looms so large. The first time he ever saw him, his father had towered above him on his fisherman’s throne, a pillar of might, a beacon of strength, the power humming just beneath his skin, even when he brought himself down to Percy’s size. To see him among the mortals, no one would have mistaken him for anything other than what he is; a lord, a king, a divinity of unimaginable strength.

Now, though. Now he simply looks tired.

“What you witnessed,” he says, “has happened twice before. Always have we accompanied our believers, even through metamorphosis and transfiguration. Once, we dwelt atop Olympos, and there we ruled over the land of Hellas; then, they built temples to our glory on Roma’s mightiest hill. And then when the emperor moved his seat of power to that village on the coast, the place they called Constantinopolis, there we followed, and there we remained for a thousand years. But no empire can last forever, my son. Not even Rome, for all its glories, all its might and all its power.” He smiles, softly, sadly. “Not even us.”

The birds call overhead, singing as they soar above the caldera, as they always have, as they always will. Percy cannot hear it for the pounding of his heart.

His father’s shadow falls over him as the sun begins to more fully set, dipping below those far off mountains. The dome of the sky burns a bright orange now at its edges, blue turning to deep, inky purple, as a few glittering stars appear, a latticework of light.

“The hour grows late,” intones the god of the sea. “Choose your last question wisely.”

He raises his head, looking into his father’s gaze. He can feel his edges blurring, his fading form as he is called away from this sacred space.

There is only one thing he wishes to know.

“Why?”

His father does not require him to further specify.

He sighs, turning finally to face him.

“Because it was our time,” is all he says.

The sky shifts above him, the blue glow of the moon as she rises above the horizon casting the waters in a cool, otherworldly green. “What,” Percy breathes, “what does that mean?”

“It means, my son, that there are powers far older and stronger than my brothers and I. Powers that we cannot overcome. Laws that we must obey.” His eyes are hard, sharp like the cliffs. “I could not have stopped the siege anymore than I could have stopped the tides--and even if I had possessed such power, I would not have used it.”

The cries of the city echoed in his ears, phantom screams and ghostly wails from nowhere but the inside of his own mind. “All those people,” he whispers. “The city of Constantine stood for a thousand years, and you simply sat by and watched it happen.”

“Yes,” he agrees. “We did.”

Percy shakes his head. “I know--I know that the Romans gave themselves over to the trinity god, and I understand why your lord brother would be angry with such disrespect, but all of those who still believed--everyone at the agoge --what reason did you have for abandoning them? I--we made our sacrifices to you every day, walked the earth and vanquished monsters in your names and for your glories. We died for you,” his voice rises with each word, a dragon in his chest, “Carlo and Silena and Lukas and countless others--and what of the sailors who prayed in your name without knowing it every time they put to sea? Or the soldiers who petitioned the heavens for mercy, or the women and children who ran through the streets in fear and in terror and begged for your protection,” and he is weeping now, tears falling easily from his eyes, “were we not enough? Had we offended you in some way? Had I--was I--”

He cuts himself off with a curse, turning his head to the side. He cannot go on.

A hand comes to rest on his shoulder. Percy looks up through the veil of his grief and sees its mirror image in his father. “Of course not,” he murmurs.

“Then,” he sobs, his chest heaving with the force of his breath, stuttering, shaking, “then why? Why did the lady Athena abandon her ancient temple? Why did you l-leave me?”

Valiantly, he holds his grief to his chest, his fists wrapped tightly around it, nails digging into his palms. Yet Poseidon sees right through him. “Do not hold back your tears, my son,” he kindly commands. “I see that you have not given yourself the time to grieve. There is no shame in your sorrow. Let your lamentations fill the sea, until its very borders have burst, and you have drowned us all with the force of it.”

And so he shatters.

He weeps, weeps for the end of the world and the passing of time. He weeps for the thousand year old walls reduced to ash and dust, for the celestial dome of St. Sophia, for the last breath of Rome and the desecration of her body.

He weeps for his mother, cast adrift from the only home she had ever known. He weeps for his friends and allies, vanished into the air. He weeps for Annabeth, for the shattered look on her face when she first beheld the ruined Parthenon, for the loss of her home and her freedom, so indelibly tied to him as she is now.

And he weeps for himself, for the loss of the city which had raised him.

“There,” says his father. “Let your grief be a raging river--let it wash all away.”

Percy crashes to his knees, the sand rough against his skin, and he weeps, his hands tearing at his hair, beating his breast.

And then, eventually, he can cry no more.

Poseidon has fallen to the ground with him, down on one knee, his hand still on Percy’s shoulder. There is no shame in his gaze, no cloying pity, only understanding. “I prayed to you,” he says, broken, battered, bereaved. “Every night, I prayed to you. And I know Annabeth did the same. Was it not enough?”

“You could have martialed the whole of the world to our ways,” Poseidon says. His voice is impossibly soft, the whisper of a rope on a sail. “It still would not have been enough.”

Percy dips his head to the earth, his eyes stinging. “And so the city is lost,” he murmurs. “And the gods alongside it.”

All those temples and shrines, the streets and churches, the ancient walls and the little alcoves, the city cats and crowded marketplace, all that history--lost, lost forever, swallowed up by the inexorable march of time.

“Lost?” Poseidon hums, rubbing at his chin. “I suppose, yes. I daresay, should you ever return to the city of Constantine, you shall find it a very different place from how you left it. Buildings shall have gone. Streets shall have been renamed. Even their beloved St. Sophia shall become unrecognizable. Such things are static, and easily taken by prideful men who reanimate corpses in order to demonstrate their own sick sense of superiority.” He speaks with such authority, such sureness, it cuts deep at the heart of Percy, that even one of the city’s protectors could cast it aside so easily.

“And yet,” he goes on, “are there not still people within those walls? Are there not men and women, at this very moment, who will slowly come to call it their home? Who will learn to love the street corners and the smell of spice markets, and the way the sun rises over the seven hills?”

Percy tilts his gaze up towards his father.

“There are many thousands of people to come who shall make their homes within the ancient walls--more than you could possibly imagine,” Poseidon says. “The city shall not die, but endure; perhaps not in the way that you remembered it, but endure nonetheless. Countless souls will come to live, love, and die in the city of Byzantion, in the footsteps of all who have come before them. And as for the gods, my boy,” and then he grins, roguish and knowing, as though he is privy to a humor which no one else can tell, “think you so little of us? Though we may no longer haunt the dome of St. Sophia, we are by no means gone.”

Despite himself, he gasps lightly, filling his lungs with air and with hope. “Truly?”

His father nods. “ Olympos, this thing that they shall come to call the flame of the West: it still lives, somewhere in this world, and it can still be found, by those brave enough to seek it out.”

Standing, Poseidon rises from his crouch as a tidal wave, a fluid column of grace and strength, and turns to the sea, stepping forward. Before his very eyes, the years seem to fall from his countenance, his shoulders pulling back, shedding the pain and sorrow of a thousand years until he looks out onto the sea with nothing but unbridled wonder, sheer curiosity, unfettered joy.

Was this how he was before the dawn of mankind, Percy wonders, when the world was new?

Percy joins his father again on the edge of the beach, that liminal place between land and sea, night and day, life and death, dream and wakefulness.

“Do you know why the gods have children?” his father asks. Percy shakes his head. “It is so that they can do the things that we cannot. Immortal we are, yes, yet not omnipotent, nor all-powerful. There are restraints on our hearts, chains around our hands, even as we ourselves so desperately desire it to be otherwise--and so we sire heroes, to undertake the mightiest and noblest of quests, to bring about the changes we wish we could do ourselves. Yet there is another reason, one far greater and more powerful to my mind.”

He lifts his face to the night sky, gazing into the blackness between the pinpricks of light.

“Try as we may, nothing lasts forever in this world--no man, nor empire, nor thought. Not even the gods. One day, we, too, shall fade from the memory of man, and the last traces of us shall only be found in the ink of the poets--and in you.” Turning to Percy, then, he puts a hand on his shoulder, warm and heavy. “You, Perseus. You carry me within you, as surely as you carry the power of the sea itself. You and your children, and your children’s children, they shall carry the echoes of us into eternity: proof of our very existence. What is it your wife likes to say? Ah, yes,” he says, eyes twinkling. “‘Something permanent,’ I believe.”

Percy flushes. He was not aware that his father knew about that particular development.

Night has fallen in the dreamlike wilderness. The stars wheel overhead, thousands of them, in shapes and stories more vast and complex than Percy can make sense of, even as the fog of morning begins to set in.

“Oh, my son,” says his father, faintly, as if from very far away, “it seems our time has ended. Soon the dawn shall break, and so I must go now.”

Caught in that soft place between wakefulness and sleep, Percy reaches out his hand, suddenly so full of fear. He has so many more questions. He has so much more to know. “Wait--” he pleads, “Father--”

“If you should like,” he says, “you may seek me out in the city of old soldiers. Even so, I do not think we shall see each other again.”

The city of--“Where are you going?” he cries.

“When you see your mother again,” Poseidon says, smiling, “do give her all my love.” The lord of the sea then raises his hand, a final salute. “Know that whatever else you do in this life, it has been an honor to be your father. Hail, Perseus, prince of the Diolkos, hero of Olympus. Hail, and farewell.”

“Father!” Percy begs. “Please!”

The mist covers him in totality, swallowing him up like the stone of the Erechtheion, stealing him back out to sea, leaving Percy alone on the cold, dark beach.

He awoke to the cold, dark bedroom of the manor on Lake Malӓren. Annabeth had already vacated the marriage bed.

It was all very well, for there was no way Percy could hide from her the tears as they fell onto his cheeks.

***

Winter persisted, its grip on the land fierce and unyielding, and the festival season came to an end--not that Percy could tell, cooped up in the manor as he was. For what purpose was there to go outside? The sun did not shine in the accursed North, it seemed, a heady dream for those who had never known its warmth and splendor.

He was aware, distantly, that something was wrong with the state of his emotions. This constant, endless disinterest and apathy, it was not like him. Food did not satisfy, rest did not soothe him, nor company chase away his grey, drab feelings. One night, Annabeth had even invited him to accompany her on a midnight excursion; the moon had been dark, she had said, and the stars very beautiful. But he had declined, turning over in his--their--bed, and attempting, in vain, to find some kind of unconsciousness.

Tonight, during the evening meal, as he pushed his food around his plate without ingesting a single bite, listening to the rest of the household prattle on about whatever the intriguing developments of the little town were, he felt it particularly strongly. The evening wore on, and all Percy could manage to stomach was a slice of bread and a little bit of fish. By his calendar, they were well into the Lenten season, and by rights should not have had such a spread before them; then again, none who ate at this table were remotely interested in a fast for a faith they did not follow, so he supposed he should be grateful that they were not obliging him to eat only bread and salt for six long, cold weeks.

His apathy must have been quite apparent, for he saw Annabeth sneaking glances towards him all during the meal.

At last, his wife was finally paying attention to him, and he could not even enjoy it.

Eventually, the noble household departed to their various evening activities, whether it be reading, writing, swordplay, what-have-you, until only Percy and Annabeth remained. Still she looked queerly on him, worry creasing her brow in that way that he remembered thinking was beyond adorable. Tonight, it barely even crossed his mind.

“Percy,” said his wife.

He grunted in response.

“You should have some more fish.”

He shrugged, pushing his meal away. “I am not hungry.”

“You have barely eaten of late,” she argued.

Be that as it may, it did not change anything, so he stayed silent.

Annabeth sighed.

More often than not, their conversations would end in an awkward, stilted silence. It was as if, during those months that they traveled together, they had spoken every possible word to each other that could be said, and now there was nothing left for them to discuss. They awoke, ate their meals, went to sleep as husband and wife, but there was no affection between them, nor friendship, nor even the bitter words of their famed, legendary rivalry. There was, plainly put, no feeling to be found. She was trying, he recognized, trying her very hardest to give him space and patience, but unfortunately for her, he had nothing left to give in return. He had nothing left at all.

Annabeth took a draught of her wine. “I was wondering,” she asked, cautious, “have you had any odd dreams recently?”

Percy glanced up from the table.

She did not look at him, but swirled her drink around in her glass, her brow furrowed. “No,” he said. “Not recently.”

It had been several weeks since he had dreamed at all. After his last one, he had preferred to keep it that way.

She nodded, lips pursed. “I only ask because I--well, I have.”

“You know as well as I that our dreams are stranger than most,” he said, turning back to his half-eaten food. “I would not dwell on it too deeply.”

“But it was not just a dream, I am sure. I am confident that I had a vision.” Setting her glass down, her tone turned pointed, urgent. “I had been transported to the Acropolis--not as we had seen it, but in its prime, every temple perfectly restored, the pride of Athens, and there I saw my mother. We even spoke for a time.”

Against his better judgement, he looked back up at her. Some details were too similar to write off entirely.

“She spoke of many things, but at the end, she told me that, if I were to ever seek her out again, then I could find her in the city of--”

“The city of old soldiers,” Percy murmured.

Taken aback, she blinked, her words momentarily lost. “Yes,” she said. “Precisely. How did you know?”

Percy closed his eyes against her shock. He did not like to think about that night, nor his frightening dream. “Because my father told me much the same.”

“Lord Poseidon spoke to you?” Annabeth gaped, a faint tinge of indignation coloring her features. “Why did you not tell me?”

Percy swallowed once, but he decided that he had one thing to hide from his wife, and one thing only. It need not be this one. “Because all I did was weep as I begged him not to leave me,” Percy said, flatly, “and that was not an experience I wished to relive.”

So much for all his heroics. Inside, it seemed he was still the same child he had always been, full of a deep, desperate longing for a distant father.

“I have never heard of this place before, this city,” he said, eager to shift her thoughts from her piss-poor husband. “Have you?”

Annabeth pursed her lips, not at all fooled by his tactics, but she relented anyway. “Sadly not,” she replied, slumping in her seat. “Old soldiers can be found in every city in the world; to find one particular city… it seems almost impossible.”

“Perhaps the gods meant it to be impossible.” It was not an idea he wished to entertain, but he felt that it had to be said. “Perhaps they wish to remain unfound.”

Despondent, she laid her head on her hand, indelicate, unladylike. “Much as I am loath to admit it,” she said, “you may be correct. If that is the case, and the gods have made themselves impossible to find, then…”  

Then, nothing. She trailed off, out of words, out of ideas, out of hope.

That, more than anything else, had proven just how far they had fallen. The Annabeth whom he had dragged from Constantinople would never have said anything of the sort, would never have given up on a quest so easily. But they were drained now, sad and broken in ways they did not realize they could be.

Silence fell between them, thick, heavy, a suffocating fog.

Then, a thought occurred to him.

“During the last crusade,” he began, slowly, knowing that this was a sore topic for her, but also giving himself time to piece together his logic, “the Latins stole several treasures of the city for themselves, yes? Some statues, gold treasures, and the like?”

She grunted her assent.

“Where did they take them?”

So exhausted, Annabeth did not even scowl as she spoke. “Your precious Venetians carried them off to their home, in Enetoi.”

Thoughts whirled inside of his head, a typhoon of barely-heard words and half-cocked theories. “My father, and Alejandro, they--they said that the gods always accompanied their believers,” said Percy. “If the spoils of Constantinople are in Venice, then perhaps that is where the people fled to after the siege--”

“And if the people are there,” said Annabeth, sitting up, fire in her eyes, “then perhaps the gods are as well.”

“Exactly,” he breathed.

They stared at each other, the same idea springing to life before their very eyes.

It was not much of a theory. There was no way to confirm it, halfway around the world, and the journey South would doubtless be just as harrowing as the journey North--if not more so.

But it was something, at the very least. Solid and tangible, something to which he could cling with both hands.

And it made his next steps so much easier.

“By your leave, then,” he said, standing from his seat, “I should like to return to the middle sea, and to seek my fortune in Venice.”

As though she had been struck, she flinched back, eyes wide. “What?”

“You and your family have been most kind and hospitable, but you know as well as I that I do not belong. I cannot learn this slippery northern tongue of yours, nor can I support you financially. But more than this, wherever it is that I end up in this world, a larger part of me will always feel the call towards the lands of our ancestors.” Of course, his most compelling reasons to leave, he could not share. If she truly wished to be his wife, then he would forget the gods entirely, and would live out the rest of his days here in Svealand, amongst the Aesir--yet he knew that she did not want that life for herself. He had allowed her to play that part on their wedding night, even when she clearly had not been of her right mind, and for that alone, the only proper thing to do would be to exile himself from this land, from her smile, from all memory of her for dishonoring her so, and the twisted pleasure he took in the act.

Wordlessly, she gaped up at him, her mouth opening and closing as she tried to form sentences. “But--I--”

“But I want you to know, I have not regretted a single moment of the adventures we shared.” He bowed to her, in the fashion of the court of Constantinople, avoiding her gaze so he could not tempt himself any further to stay. “It was an honor, my lady, to accompany you home.”

He turned, and began out of the dining hall.

From behind, he heard her stand as well.

“I understand you had limited examples of good husbands growing up, Perseus,” she nearly hissed, the use of his full name an unexpected knife in his chest. “But allow me to be blunt: abandoning your wife a few months after marriage is not generally considered desirable in a husband, even if you warn her beforehand.”

He stopped and turned, frowning at her, too stunned to be angry. “Abandon you? You and I both know you will thrive without a forced partner. You are just like my mother in this way; she, too, had to marry a man for the air of respectability, but she only truly blossomed after she was free of him.”

“You--” She thrust her hands down on the table, a sharp, angry sound. “Then I shall come with you!”

“It took us the better part of four months to bring you here,” Percy said, sternly. “Four months and gods only know how many miles. I have no desire to tear you away from your family again, not when you are clearly so happy here.”

She gazed at him, grey eyes full of an unreadable emotion. “And when you are not,” she quietly confirmed.

What was the use of being dishonest when he was sure his dissatisfaction was written so plainly on his face? “No. No, I am not happy here.”

For a brief, brief, moment, she looked as though she had been stabbed in the back, a terrible, tortured concoction of shock, pain, and disbelief. Percy had only ever seen that look on her face once before, in a dream; he had once borne magical witness as Lukas had forced her to carry the dome of the sky in his stead through the use of trickery. To have such a look directed now at him nearly shattered his resolve. It certainly broke his heart.

Clenching her fists, grinding her teeth, something clearly warred inside of her as she struggled to keep her words in her mouth. No doubt she was crafting an insulting tirade worthy of the greatest poets, something suitably cutting aimed at his manhood or his courage, or lack thereof.

But squaring her jaw, she relaxed her hands, and swallowed her anger. “That you think so lowly of yourself, Percy, it pains me in ways I cannot describe.” Coming to some sort of decision, she squared her shoulders as well, drawing herself up to meet his gaze. “As your friend, I must protest at such slander of your character.”

He laughed, a little hollow. “As your friend, I thank you.” If only she knew just how deep the rot inside of him went.

“And as your wife,” she went on, “I will not allow you leave without me.”

He sighed, unwilling to have this argument again. “Annabeth--”

“No,” she interrupted. “I know all too well what you have given up by coming here. I cannot make amends for your misery the last few months, but I can move forward with you, wherever it is that we go.”

“What of your father?” he asked. “And your brothers? What of Magnus and Alejandro?”

“I love my family, dearly,” she said, “and I am so grateful that I have been able to spend this time with them. I never imagined I would be able to have this chance, and I thank you for making it so--yet I, too, am a Hellena. Do you not think that I also long for the warmer climes and familiar coasts of Sigeion and Constantinople? Do you not think that I also wish to see our friends again, to see my mother again?” Emboldened, she stepped towards him, rounding her edge of the table to stand before him. “As you once did for me, let me now return the favor. I shall accompany you to Venice, and there we will begin our search for the soul of Olympus.”

Percy was… he was speechless. He was aware he looked like a fool, his mouth hanging open, blinking stupidly.

As though she had only now just realized the boldness of her claim, she faltered somewhat, heat rushing to her face. “And I must again repeat, phykios, that abandoned women do not usually fare well in polite society. I would prefer to stay with you, if… if you would have me.”

He could scarcely believe what he was hearing. How could she wish to stay with him, after all that he had done to her? But his weak heart could not resist her siren call; to return home with Annabeth at his side was nothing short of a dream.

“To Venice, then?” he asked, quiet, full of hope.

“To Venice,” she agreed. “And there, I pray, may we find what we seek.”

***

They set out from Birka on a cold, foggy morning.

In the weeks that had passed, Annabeth had successfully sold her inheritance to her cousin in exchange for monetary value. When Percy saw how much her lands had been worth, his eyes nearly popped out of his head. She had somewhat understated their value to him at first, claiming it was no more than a few measly acres, when, in fact, she had been in possession of two huge tracts of land, exchanged for more money than Percy had imagined could be possible.

Usually, he did not mind the matter and circumstances of his birth, his lowly station, but he allowed himself, just this once, to be passively jealous of the aristocracy, even as he, essentially, entered that class with the value of his wife’s inheritance. The whole thing made his head hurt, just a little.

In any case, Fredrik had arranged for a boatman to see them off once more to Stadsholmen, where they would board a much nicer ship than the one they had stolen which would take them South, to a city called Danzig. From there, they would travel in a westerly direction, so that they circumvented the religious struggles which had broken out in that area. Annabeth, grudgingly, even admitted that Percy’s history with the Legion might even prove useful for navigation, scowling so preciously that Percy’s heart felt three times lighter.

Fredrik had come to see them off, along with Alejandro and Magnus. A far, far cry from the first days of their previous journey, Fredrik had loaded them down with food and other supplies, fine, warm clothes, and of course, their new fortune, in both coins and official documents. There was one other new addition as well, gifted to them by Magnus and his spouse. “It was a traditional wedding gift among the Norsemen,” Alejandro promised them. “She will bring you luck.”

“She” turned out to be a small, white kitten, with large blue eyes and grey ears. She had taken one look at Percy, sniffed his hand, then immediately made herself at home in the folds of his winter cloak, purring softly.

Oh, even he could not resist the lure of a small cat. He kissed its head, scratching it behind the ears. Annabeth smiled at him, full of an emotion which he could not name, but could only describe as being soft, somehow, full of affection that just transcended the boundaries of simple friendship.

And then all at once, their things had been loaded onto the little boat, and they were ready to begin their journey. First, Stadsholmen; then, the South and the ancient lands.

He could not deny that the very thought of Italy, of its warm summers and green seas, made him feel more alive than he had in months.

“Percy,” Annabeth said, “would you permit me to linger a moment longer?”

“Of course.” He had noted her furtive glances towards her father, and assumed that she wished to give him a proper farewell. “I shall await you on the boat.”

So that he would not be left alone with a boatman who did not speak his language, Alejandro volunteered to walk him to the dock, allowing Fredrik, Magnus, and Annabeth to have their solemn goodbyes. “Despite your sour attitude, please know that we shall all miss you terribly,” he said, his mismatched eyes dancing. “Your arrival was, by far, the single most entertaining thing that has happened to this little village in years.”

“Does this include your own misadventures with Loki as he attempted to bring about Ragnarok?”

“Includes and exceeds, my friend.” Perhaps with a little impropriety, Alejandro kissed him on both cheeks, embracing him as a friend and brother. “Do watch out for my cousin, won’t you?”

“She will watch out for me, of that you can be certain.”

As he went to speak with the boatman, Percy cast his gaze to Annabeth and her father, further from the shore. They spoke very quickly, hushed words in Swedish traveling on the breeze towards him, syllables he could neither parse nor comprehend. He observed as Fredrik brought his hands to his mouth, an expression of shock and wonder, then embraced his daughter, tucking her head into his shoulder. He watched as Annabeth allowed herself to melt into his embrace, standing on her toes to reach him.

That she had willingly chosen to give all this up for him… it made him feel as though he could do anything, take on any quest. She had but to ask him.

“You are very far gone for your lady, aren’t you?” he heard Alejandro ask from behind him.

Percy nodded, for that was the beginning and end of it all, that he loved her so desperately, that he was content to let it go unreturned, as long as she deigned to keep him by her side. To deny it would be a bald-faced lie, and one easily overturned.

He chuckled. “She is fortunate to have you, then.”

“On the contrary,” said Percy. “I am fortunate to have her.” After all, this amazing woman was willing to leave her family and journey with him into some great unknown. How many men could claim such an honor?

Finally, her father brought Annabeth to shore, visibly holding back his tears. “Shall we, then?” asked his wife, shoulders squared and eyes straight ahead.

Percy held out his hand, and she took it, using it for balance as she stepped onto the craft. “We shall.”

A final word to his employer in Swedish, then the boatman pushed off from the dock. “Farewell!” called Alejandro, waving from the shore. “Safe travels!”

It was not long before they were swallowed up by the morning fog, the house on the hill disappearing into the mist, like a dream come first light.

Beside him, Annabeth yawned. “I apologize,” she said. “I had not slept well last night. Would you mind terribly if I took a brief rest?”

“Not at all. Here,” said Percy, setting the cat down on a parcel of Annabeth’s clothes. “You may use me as your pillow, if you wish.”

Grateful, she rested her head on his shoulder, nearly cuddling into his side just as enthusiastically as the cat had. “If you please, wake me when we arrive in Stadsholmen.”

“Of course, for who else shall translate for me?”

She huffed a laugh through her nose, once, sharp and short. Then, trapped between the bark of the boat and the weight of her body, Percy was content to simply bask in the feeling of her shoulder against his chest, her arms cradling her stomach for warmth, even after he wrapped his cloak around her.

[talesofealdancynedom]

Tchichi Stonechild, in fairy robes; Rocking that sporty magical girl vibe.

Tale 23: Gemini Wintersleep & The Door Boy (chapter 2 - The Colourful City  2/4 ) part 6. Stories of Wizards

abuse

Tchichi Stonechild was born, raised, and trained in capitol of the Grand East. Her weapon was an heirloom; A silver fire ji, and wand made of carved red lacquered ivory. Her fairy robes were impractical for a paladin, and made her look like a race car; But that’s because she felt sporty. Tchichi was no quitter, and an overall optimist. She had a radiant sunshine to spirit, that made everyone’s day bright.

           The wizard academy Tchichi attended, was the Sinonian Magic Center, in the preserved royal palace of the emperors. The jade, gold, and carnelian palace, was now full of magic children, ranging from thirteen to eighteen, with proven citizenship. Their paladin instructor considered himself the best in the ten kingdoms. The joke was that he believed it, and everyone played along because he was so lovable. It is worth mentioning, that The Grand East’s paladins have absolutely no international reputation.

           Tchichi realized her job market was oversaturated; If she wanted an apprenticeship, to be a licenced paladin, and make a real difference, she needed to go to the gutters of Ealden Cynedom.

“Master Mountedge, please tell me where in the world I am needed most.” She bowed. It was the graduation ceremony, and thus overly formal.

“In your country. You’re a beauty of our kingdom, and your family will worry. I know you wish to see what lies beyond our soft mountains, silk robes, and silly hats.” He said, lightheartedly.

“Well, yes. But your wisdom has taught me how to protect the world. Point me in the direction of dysfunction of the law.” Tchichi continued, bowing even lower.

“Stop bowing. I can’t tell if it’s respect or groveling.”

“Both, master.”

“I hear The Far South of Hispania, has a magic forest city, called Torres de Calendulas. This place is full of magic families, too busy fighting for the power; Great magic is needed to control their enchanted city, and care for the common folk and fey. If you can stop their feuds, and not succumb to their lustful ways, this academy may actually be able to brag for once.” He laughed. Tchichi hugged him.

           The train ride across The Central South of Indonia, and then the ship, was wonderous. The fey in the desert, jungle, and sea, felt the same but different. Magic made Tchichi’s heart flutter; It never ceased to amaze. Magic is always worth protecting and cherishing. But when Tchichi arrived at Torres de Calendulas, she didn’t find street fights; Only bright colours, sandstone arches, and vibrant buildings that looked like stacked play blocks. Each tower had a garden and front gate. The tree children were disregarding human walls, and growing where they pleased. The first order of business, was finding a place to stay. Tchichi had only taken one class in Modern Hispanian; She had no clue how to find an inn. In defeat, and worn from her journey, Tchichi went up the halved mountain, to the main square.

Tchihci heard singing, clapping, dancing and drinks clinking. While in despair, she decided she may as well do so full of sangria, rolanos, and chorizo. If the dinner was good, the show was better; Men where dancing in the square upon flour and marigold petals. Joyful music was played, on ochordians, trumpets, castanets, and guitars. The dance was lively and all about the foot work. Also, tight pants. The men’s hair was tied back with flowers, and the neckline of their embroidered loose shirts went low. Tall, dark, and handsome; The lot of them. Just as her master had warned. This euphoric dwelling felt too happy to contain abundant crime. When the dance finished, Tchichi saw two boys her age bow at each other. They looked like twins, and possessed disdain as they bowed. One was fair and blonde, wearing lilac and white; the other was tan, with dark brown eyes and hair, wearing gold and scarlet. That was the one who approached her.

           Tchichi had survived the rumoured trenches of the Far South, but had succumb to its wine and temptation. He even offered her a place to stay, and his name. Even without Tequila she would have said yes.

“I am Virgo Wintersleep. My twin brother, at the dance, was Gemini Wintersleep. He’s a failed witch. He leaves tomorrow, which means my bed will be empty if you need a place to stay. To host a beauty from a far away land, would be my pleasure.”

“Beaty? Nah; I’m a paladin from Sinononia.” Tchichi giggled.

“Then, I cannot express my gratitude enough, as we need more noble knights here. I would know, having been raised in a mage mill. When they realized beating me wouldn’t make me learn magic, I finally joined the hospitality industry. This city has an excellent custodial union. Before you patrol the streets, do let me know if you need a guide.” Virgo explained, taking her hand gently.

“Oh. Well, your welcome; And thankyou for your offer.” Tchichi blushed. He was charming; Too charming.

“What’s a mage mill?” She asked on impulse.

“I thought you’d be more curious about my brother’s white washing.”

“Yeah, now that you mention it; You both look like completely different. I bet your parents reaped that adorable aesthetic.”

“Yes, well, he went dark; After I skipped school to find him. I cut his hair. Gemini hates me so much, he tries everything to distance himself from me; Including his haircut. He got so mad, over hair! Father just said we needed to look the same to be door boys. Must be proper, calm, courteous, and perfect. We greet all who want to enter the house. Crime makes people suspicious; Cute children make people trusting. If you’re not a mage, you serve your family until there is one.” Virgo said casually. He was getting more sangria. It was heavy on the brandy. Tchichi ignored the first red flag; Virgo changed the subject of child neglect, into a story about him pranking his brother. Tchichi was so pulled into the culture, and its obsession with Virgo, she forgot about Gemini before the night was done.

           Tchichi’s apprenticeship master, was a nasty piece of work named Paloma Mothwing. She too, had rage manifest in uncontrollable magic, that turned her eyes wine, and hair ivory. Paloma’s cropped wavy hair was held in place by a pearl and ruby butterfly pin; And her fairy kingdom robes were of bridal satin, that gathered and frilled; Yet also revealing. Paloma said she needed robes that are distracting, and let her move faster. Tchichi found Paloma unsettling. She didn’t emote much, yet seemed constantly angry. Paloma said it was eldest child syndrome, and she had many siblings. All from different mothers and fathers. Anything to produce the perfect wizard. Her high status as head of the city guard, was not enough to satisfy her family. Paloma was furious; At her family, and herself.

           To train Tchichi, Paloma first dueled her. They were almost evenly matched, but Paloma took cheap shots. Tchichi realized, against her code of ethics, that she may need to do the same. Aside from daily duels form the other paladins, and degrading comments form Paloma, Tchichi sat around. If there was magic crime here, the paladins sure weren’t doing anything about it. Huge rooms of pins and thread hooked up to endless leads. It felt intentional. Like all the paladins hated each other, or were fighting to get to the top; Without knowing why.

           On a off day, Tchichi went shopping. She needed some potion ingredients and food. Virgo, who was now her fiancé, gave her a list. His cooking was amazing, and made from scratch. While paying at the market, Tchichi found Paloma’s butterfly clip in her pocket. It had been dropped in a duel, and Tchichi forgot to return it. Well, no time like the present! The magic district was on the way home. But Tchichi did not know where Paloma lived; She would have to ring every bell, to every tower. However, each house had a house symbol on it. All fairy kingdom houses. Paloma was in house mothwing; Thus, Tchichi looked for a Luna Mothkin fairy. The third house down, had one. She walked through the arch, past the turquoise wall where a kid was tagging, and right to the five-block tall house. Like the others, it had a tiny iron gate, within a tall white wall. There was a tiny bell at the top. In the yard, there was a boy in his mid teens yelling hello in Anglian at a tree. There was a well behind him, and a basket of pink chipper apples upon it’s edge. His makeup was glittering peach and coral, upon his olive skin. And his neon peachy-orange hair and eyes, matched his wizard robes. His posture was perfect, his demeanor adorable, yet his face full of woe. Intrigued, Tchichi rang the bell. The boy stopped in fear, then went calm. He grabbed the apple basket, and went up to the bared gate.

“Hello. This is a house of Mothwing. What interests you about our tower?” he said in a soulless voice.

“I am looking for lead paladin Paloma Mothwing; She dropped her accessory in training. I want to return it. Also, are you ok?” Tchichi asked.

“Thank you for returning big sisters token. Your kindness will be anonymous.” He said, with a fake smile. It was so recited and unnerving, that Tchichi nearly ran. Yet, she left calmly. Almost a block away, Tchichi couldn’t help herself; She went back and check on the boy. When she did, she saw a small girl in violet, talking to the tree fey; Getting flowers from them. The boy was gone. Paloma emerged from the house, and yelled at the girl to come inside for a nap. She called the girl Atlas.

           Two years later, Tchichi had graduated her apprenticeship. The problem was that she was the only officer actually working. Seeing work in need of doing, Tchichi decided to stay in Torres de Calendulus. Additionally, nothing says permanent residency, and citizenship, like a wedding. Virgo’s father insisted him, and his twin Gemini, have a double wedding in the plaza; He would arrange everything. Tchichi thought that was so sweet. She couldn’t wait to meet the family, and meet Gemini. Virgo had spoken poorly of him, which made her curious what all the fuss was about. While Virgo spent his days arguing with his father about the joint wedding, Tchichi was getting dead air from her family in the Grand East.

Instead of confirmation of attendance, when Tchichi sent invitations, she was sent red, gold, yellow, or indigo letters with proverbs, that contained fertility puns, and money. It’s how people apologize back home. Her school master sent her a traditional wedding dress. It was a silver moon like silk, with peach and hyacinth pattern; Complete with big sleeves, three sashes, matching slippers, and a Carnelian hair pin. Tchichi’s grandparents sent her traditional makeup. But her mom sent her homemade jasmine matcha, which made her day.

At the wedding, Tchichi met Plumba; Who dressed in a poofy Southland gown, of black and white. The dress wore her. The two of them were friends instantly. Of more interest, was Gemini. Though Tchichi said hello, and got to dance with him, they didn’t exchange many words. Sitting by a table to rest, Gemini approached Tchichi with tactless words for a wedding, yet completely legitimate advice:

“My brother is a jerk. He lies, cheats, steals, gas lights, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he has committed crimes. I understand he’s charming, and you probably do love him. Maybe he loves you; But I’ve never seen him love anyone. If he breaks your heart, I live in Pepperidge in the Grand West, on Plumba’s family property: Rosethorn Manor.” Gemini said kindly. He held a glass up for cheers. “Good luck, Tchichi.” He bowed. She was livid, and refused to believe Gemini’s words. But the best day of her life got worse, because while returning from the bathroom, as the sun set and the party really began, Tchichi heard Gemini and Virgo arguing.

“If I ever see you again, in person, I will not hold back. You will suffer at the hands of justice, for your betrayal and acts of violence in our family. Losing everything, is less then you deserve. At least you’re still father’s favourite.” Gemini yelled, splashing rum in Virgo’s face. He looked bloodied from a fight. They were wearing matching formal attire. Virgo in sunny colours, and Gemini in snowy ones. But now Virgo’s shirt was stained with spirits and blood, and he noticed Tchichi. He grabbed her roughly, and pulled her home.

           Tchichi loved her job, and new family. Her and Virgo had a son, Rah, who just turned old enough to go to school. She was living a seemingly satisfying life; Helping her in-laws, living in a nice apartment, saving fey, and more. The only part of her job she hated, was when she was told to investigate a magic family’s tower. It happened at least twice a year. Mundane law enforcement would always hire a couple paladins: Usually Tchichi and Paloma. It was always reports of emotional abuse, and neglect, of children. Many of which were only half siblings. This was mage milling. Grandparents would keep a child born to their house, and wed them to people of other magic houses in hopes of producing a talented wizard. Magic was status here, as a loyal mage would grant a family the favour of their magic forest; And thus, the city. It turned out that if you had a better magic user, you could reap the magic of fey, get a higher position, or have a paladin that would sweep it under the rug for you. Tchichi was horrified every time.

           When Tchichi got home late, she noticed things out of place: The doors and pantry were locked, Rah was left alone at home, and Virgo would disappear. She didn’t even know what job he did for his family anymore. Tchichi was becoming frustrated, by working full time, taking care of Rah, never seeing the man she loved, and running the house. Her joy was fading. She was exhausted. One day, Tchichi came home, and Virgo was there. She arrived in time to see him slap Rah, for eating an apple when he came home. Rah was dressed like a doll, and Virgo was yelling at him for crying and ruining his makeup. Rah was only six. Tchichi was overcome with horror, realizing that Virgo may have been abusing their son all along.

           Tchichi grabbed Virgo’s hand, and nicely told Rah to put his favourite things in his backpack. While Rah was distracted, Tchichi went dark from rage. The flow of magic through her, caused the house plants to light with red fire. Her eyes went scarlet, and her hair a yellow blonde; Matching her fairy robes. Then Tchichi beat Virgo until he was unconscious on the couch. She was also bleeding, and ill, from all the magic. But she managed to grab Rah without him seeing anything. She took the car, and drove to the train station at the north border, in four hours. Rah slept most of the way. He was so quiet; Normally Rah would do anything to make someone feel better, but this time he just sat there holding his plush goldfish.

“Mom. Why are we going on a trip? Why is your hair a different colour? Why are you so upset? Mom, I’m scared.” Rah whimpered.

“It’s ok now. Mom just figured out dad wasn’t being nice anymore. So, we’re going on a vacation.” Tchichi said, forcing herself together.

NEXT--->

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[infiernavit]

GIG Desarrollos Inmobiliarios del Clan Gómez Flores, Empresa Corrupta de Corruptos

GIG Desarrollos Inmobiliarios del Clan Gómez Flores, Empresa Corrupta de Corruptos Sin Escrúpulos, al Grado de Intentar Robar a su Propia Hermana Graciela Gómez su Parte del Corporativo en una Maniobra Ilegal y Falta de Moral que Debe Ser Duramente Sancionada.

Alfredo Rocha de la Garza, Gerente de Ventas de La Rioja Residencial Tijuana, Extorsionador de Empleados Protegido por Armando Gómez Flores de GIG Desarrollos Inmobiliarios. 

Alfredo Rocha de la Garza hace Valer la Autoridad Jerárquica vía humillaciones y golpes a Empleados, quienes si lo denuncian internamente, reciben el despido injustificado sin la indemnización que por ley corresponde, como respuesta de parte de GIG Desarrollos Inmobiliarios, que Viola la Ley Federal de Trabajo ante la Opacidad de las Autoridades. 

El Cinismo de la Familia Flores Gomez es de dimensiones Apoteósicas, Pues no sólo se habla de la espalda que le dan al cliente, sino a los empleados, con denuncias que se cuentan por puñados. 

La Empresa se caracteriza por PROTEGER DELINCUENTES, como en Tijuana, a Alfredo Rocha de la Garza, Gerente de Ventas de La Rioja Tijuana y Coto Bahía Tijuana. 

Bebedor Alcohólico, Según Varios Afectados por sus rachas de "IRA" en las que Golpea Empleados al amparo de GIG DESARROLLOS INMOBILIARIOS que hace con la ley federal del trabajo lo que le venga en gana sin que sus amigos del gobierno federal priísta intervengan, curiosamente. 

No Tienen Madre! Los GÓMEZ FLORES de GIG DESARROLLOS INMOBILIARIOS Le Roban a Su Propia Hermana! from Desarrollos Inmobiliarios Guadalajara GIG

Coto Bahía & La Rioja Tijuana de GIG Desarrollos Inmobiliarios · Violencia, Inseguridad y Datos de la Narco Zona

[lariojatijuana]

GIG Desarrollos Inmobiliarios del Clan Gómez Flores, Empresa Corrupta de Corruptos

GIG Desarrollos Inmobiliarios del Clan Gómez Flores, Empresa Corrupta de Corruptos Sin Escrúpulos, al Grado de Intentar Robar a su Propia Hermana Graciela Gómez su Parte del Corporativo en una Maniobra Ilegal y Falta de Moral que Debe Ser Duramente Sancionada.

Alfredo Rocha de la Garza, Gerente de Ventas de La Rioja Residencial Tijuana, Extorsionador de Empleados Protegido por Armando Gómez Flores de GIG Desarrollos Inmobiliarios. 

Alfredo Rocha de la Garza hace Valer la Autoridad Jerárquica vía humillaciones y golpes a Empleados, quienes si lo denuncian internamente, reciben el despido injustificado sin la indemnización que por ley corresponde, como respuesta de parte de GIG Desarrollos Inmobiliarios, que Viola la Ley Federal de Trabajo ante la Opacidad de las Autoridades. 

El Cinismo de la Familia Flores Gomez es de dimensiones Apoteósicas, Pues no sólo se habla de la espalda que le dan al cliente, sino a los empleados, con denuncias que se cuentan por puñados. 

La Empresa se caracteriza por PROTEGER DELINCUENTES, como en Tijuana, a Alfredo Rocha de la Garza, Gerente de Ventas de La Rioja Tijuana y Coto Bahía Tijuana. 

Bebedor Alcohólico, Según Varios Afectados por sus rachas de "IRA" en las que Golpea Empleados al amparo de GIG DESARROLLOS INMOBILIARIOS que hace con la ley federal del trabajo lo que le venga en gana sin que sus amigos del gobierno federal priísta intervengan, curiosamente. 

No Tienen Madre! Los GÓMEZ FLORES de GIG DESARROLLOS INMOBILIARIOS Le Roban a Su Propia Hermana! from Desarrollos Inmobiliarios Guadalajara GIG

Coto Bahía & La Rioja Tijuana de GIG Desarrollos Inmobiliarios · Violencia, Inseguridad y Datos de la Narco Zona

[saulcastillo]

mucho más » semana DLXIX (19S)

Acudimos un domingo más a nuestra cita programada con el repaso a todas las infografías publicadas en la prensa nacional e internacional a lo largo de esta semana. ¡Es hora del «Mucho más»!

Trabajo: Así tuvo lugar el homenaje fúnebre a Isabel II | Autora: Sabina Castagnaviz | Medio: Corriere della Sera, del 19 de septiembre | Alta resolución »

Trabajo: La dinastía eterna de España, dos décadas reinando en baloncesto | Autora: Yolanda Clemente | Medio: El País, del 19 de septiembre | Alta resolución »

Trabajo: La carrera de estaciones espaciales | Autores: Ian Bott y Bob Haslett | Medio: Financial Times, del 19 de septiembre | Alta resolución »

Trabajo: La Abadía de Westminster, el lugar del último adiós a Isabel II | Autores: Ismael F. Mira y Luisa Ortega | Medio: La Razón (México), del 19 de septiembre | Alta resolución »

Trabajo: El esplendor de la Hispania romana | Autor: Raúl Camañnas | Medio: La Vanguardia, del 19 de septiembre | Alta resolución »

Trabajo: El último paseo de la reina Isabel II | Autor: Óscar Ayerra | Medio: La Voz de Galicia, del 19 de septiembre | Alta resolución »

Trabajo: Las tres últimas grandes generaciones del tenis | Medio: La Voz de Galicia, del 19 de septiembre | Alta resolución »

Trabajo: Con el sobrecaliento, las especies invasoras se multiplican en el Mediterráneo | Medio: Le Monde, del 20 de septiembre | Alta resolución »

Trabajo: Pasaportes, sellos y monedas: cómo cambiarán los símbolos reales | Autores: Karina Zaiets y Ramón Padilla | Medio: USA Today, del 20 de septiembre | Alta resolución »

Trabajo: La cadena de valor de los productos del campo a la mesa | Autora: Belén Trincado | Medio: Cinco Días, del 22 de septiembre | Alta resolución »

Trabajo: El contraataque de Ucrania pone a Rusia contra las cuerdas | Autores: Marco Hernández y Denise Lu | Medio: The New York Times, del 23 de septiembre | Alta resolución »

Trabajo: Siete meses de guerra en Ucrania | Autores: Francesca Fattori, Delphine Papin y Victor Simonnet | Medio: Le Monde, del 25 y 26 de septiembre | Alta resolución »

Trabajo: El temblor continuo de Centroamérica | Autores: J. de Velasco y J. Torres | Medio: ABC, del 25 de septiembre | Alta resolución »

Trabajo: El ‘skyline’ de Barcelona | Autor: Eduard Forroll | Medio: Ara Diumenge (Ara) #439, del 25 de septiembre | Alta resolución »

Trabajo: La misión DART | Autor: Nacho Catalán | Medio: El País, del 25 de septiembre

Trabajo: Radiografía de Italia ante sus decisivas elecciones | Medio: La Vanguardia, del 25 de septiembre | Alta resolución »

Trabajo: La fiscalidad en Europa | Medio: La Voz de Galicia, del 25 de septiembre | Alta resolución »

__________________ inconsolata te ofrece la oportunidad de analizar en profundidad cualquier gráfico de la página. Si quieres ver u obtener alguna de estas infografías en mayor calidad, no dudes en ponerte en contacto con nosotros. También nos puedes encontrar en nuestra cuenta de Twitter.

© 2022

[castellsipalaus]

Castelo de São Jorge

El Castelo de São Jorge és situat al turó de Lisboa que porta el mateix nom. Fou un excel·lent baluard per a les successives civilitzacions que es van assentar al que avui és la capital de Portugal. Des del segle VI abans de Crist, fenicis, grecs i cartaginesos van deixar-hi la seva empremta, fins que els romans s’hi van instal·lar i la van batejar com Olissipo.

En el context de les lluites entre romans i els pobladors de la regió, els lusitans, en què el cabdill Viriat va acabar assassinat i un gran nombre dels seus seguidors es van immolar a la llunyana Numància, el cònsol Dècim Juni Brut va fer servir la ciutat com a base de les seves legions per dominar l’occident de la Península Ibèrica, llavors denominada genèricament Hispania.

Una vegada sotmesa tota Lusitània, la ciutat adquireix el nom de Felicitas Julia pels volts de l’any 60 abans de Crist i va entrar en una època de prosperitat que es va perllongar fins el segle V, quan les primeres invasions bàrbares de la Península van fer estralls per tot arreu.

Primer van conquerir Lisboa els sueus, que després es van veure desplaçats pels visigots, que van crear un regne que s’estenia des del sud de la Península fins al nord dels Pirineus, deixant inicialment als sueus un reducte al nord-oest de la ja desapareguda Hispania romana, que va arribar momentàniament fins a Lisboa.

Quan els francs van estendre’s per l’actual França, van fer desplaçar-se més cap al sud als visigots, que van aconseguir fer fora de la Península als bizantins, successors dels romans d’Occident a força regions de la Mediterrània, i assimilar el regne dels sueus, al segle VI. Del control de Lisboa pels visigots, no queda gaire rastre.

A començaments del segle VIII arriba una altra conquesta a la regió de Lisboa, aquesta vegada del sud, de l’altra banda de les Columnes d’Hèrcules, l’actual Estret de Gibraltar. Els àrabs havien emprés una campanya de conquestes poc més d’un segle abans i s’havien estés per Orient Pròxim i el Nord d’Àfrica des de Mesopotàmia fins a l’Atlàntic.

El 716 apareix a l’història Al-Ushbuna, la nova denominació de Lisboa i pren sentit el malnom que rep el Castelo de São Jorge, el Castelo dos Mouros, una denominació freqüent a tota la Península per referir-se als invassors provinents de l’antiga província romana de Mauretania.

A finals del segle VIII, els reis cristians que s’havien refugiat a les muntanyes arran de la mar Cantàbrica ja feien ràzzies que arribaven fins a Lisboa, como la del 796 per part d’Alfons II d’Astúries. A aquestes s’afegiren les d’un poble que faria tremolar les costes de tota Europa a finals del primer mil·leni després de Crist, els víkings o normands, que hi arribaren el 844 i el 966.

En aquesta època, el castell era una alcassaba, un castell de característiques andalusines i ja estava emmurallat amb nombroses torres i murs força gruixuts. El 1147 va caure en mans del rei portugués Alfons I, encara que va patir setges andalusins el 1179 i el 1183, que va ressistir amb èxit.

El 1255, en convertir-se Lisboa en capital de Portugal, el Palau Reial s’hi instal·la dins del seu recinte, que es va veure danyat per successius terratrèmols als segles XIII i XIV. No obstant va ser un bastió davant dels atacs castellans a finals del segle XIV.

Més endavant, als segles XVI i XVII va tornar a patir nous terratrèmols, que van fer-lo entrar en decadència, quan els reis de la restauració que va posar fi a la ocupació espanyola van acabar abandonant-lo per instal·lar-se a palaus més a prop de la riba del riu Tejo.

El terratrèmol de 1755, que va destruir Lisboa, va sentenciar-lo, en iniciar-se una degradació que va arribar fins a mitjans del segle XX, quan es va començar una restauració que va estendre’s ben bé durant mig segle.

[alejbastidas13-blog]

Sobre la entrada en wikipedia

Recibí la notificación de que mi contribución fue borrada. Por ello decidí aprovechar este espacio para publicar la información que logre recuperar:

Medicina Romana

La presencia de la medicina en la Historia de Roma presenta etapas diferentes, también en directa relación con la historia política y la evolución de la ciencia; la primera de ellas fue de carácter pre-científico, o proto-científico, en la cual la curación estaba muy ligada a la magia, pese a lo cual, incluso en ella debe reconocerse también el intento de explicación a partir de la observación. Ejemplo son las múltiples referencias a las pestilentiae en la Roma republicana[1]

Considera como pre-científica, la medicina romana desde sus inicios, en los siglos IV a.C y III a.C, se halló Íntimamente ligada a un desarrollo esencialmente religioso y en su contenido es sencillo rastrear la influencia del conocimiento griego. Como en muchas otras culturas, la medicina sobrenatural romana sobrevivió con mucha popularidad varios siglos después de la caída del imperio romano. Su naturaleza esencialmente religiosa, le permitió integrarse con facilidad a las posteriores ideas del imperio bizantino y a las que prevalecieron durante toda la edad media.[2] Es importante señalar que el uso de productos provenientes de las plantas fue un rasgo sustancial en la medicina de la roma antigua, y en general en las culturas de la antigüedad, ejemplo de ello la mandrágora usada como anestésico en las cirugías.

Herencia Griega

En el año 293 a.C una terrible plaga, asoló Roma. Los ancianos encontraron una respuesta en los libros sibilinos, la respuesta fue buscar ayuda en el dios griego Asclepio, en Epidauro.[3] La leyenda cuenta que se envió una expedición especial en un navío que el dios aceptó y en el cual viajó adoptando la forma de una serpiente; cuando se halló frente a la ciudad de Roma abandonó la nave por si mismo, nadó hasta la isla de Tiber y retomó su figura terminando con el azote que apremiaba a los romanos. El primer médico griego en Roma fue Archagathus del Peloponeso. [4] En sus inicios, muchos de los médicos en Roma eran griegos, esto explica en gran medida la presencia de las ideas griegas en la medicina romana, Una parte importante de la tradición médica romana fue alimentada desde sus inicios por el griego Hipócrates. Sin embargo, con el discurrir del tiempo la teoría hipocrática de los humores empezó a ser criticada por corrientes como el metodismo. Puede considerarse la medicina como una fuente de la helenización y la romanización.

Avances de la medicina romana

Algunos de los progresos romanos en el campo médico estuvieron relacionados con la cirugía y la anatomía (aunque algunas prácticas relacionadas fueron condenadas en ocasiones, por Tertuliano y San Agustín por ejemplo, por considerar que alteraban la naturaleza armónica del cuerpo). Para comprender los aportes romanos en la medicina es indispensable lo que se ha recuperado de la obra de Aulio Corneilo Celso y Claudio Galeno. En general, algunas innovaciones romanas fueron la medicina militar y la medicina pública.

Aulio Cornelio Celso (ca. 30 a.C-50 a.C)

Enciclopedista y posible médico romano. De su obra se conoce De Medicina, un volumen de una obra más extensa, organizado en ocho libros y acorde a la división médica establecida por Hipócrates y Asclepio (Dieta, farmacología y cirugía) [5] Sus escritos tuvieron gran influencia en la medicina posterior, especialmente en la cirugía, aunque durante la Edad Media se le relegó siendo en esa época Plablo de Engina la autoridad médica primordial. Sus doctrinas quirúrgicas, constantemente cercanas a la hipocráticas, le garantizaron un lugar en los más importantes textos dedicados a esa disciplina durante el renacimiento. El libro octavo de De Medicina se inicia con un breve y preciso estudio del esqueleto humano concebido como mínimo de conocimientos anatómicos para exposición patológica tratada en el resto del libro. Realizó importantes aportes a la osteopatología, fundamentales para el tratamiento de lesiones craneales y la fractura apéchema (fractura en un lugar del cráneo diferente al lugar golpeado) [6]

Claudio Galeno (ca. 130 - 200 d.C)

Nació en Pérgamo, vivió en varias ciudades (entre ellas Alejandría y Corínto) pero finalmente se estableció en Roma. Fue un médico práctico, aprendió geometría de su padre y la aplicó en su teoría de la visión. Afirmó que la razón venía del cerebro y no del corazón. Escribió sobre la necesidad de conocer a los enfermos cuando están sanos y que para diagnosticar se precisa de observar y razonar.[7]  Tiene el mérito de iniciar el conocimiento ordenado de la Anatomía Comparada y Topográfica basado en la observación.[8]

Medicina militar

El valentudinaria es la principal contribución romana a la medicina militar. En los campamentos, los valentudinaria (de valere, ‘tener salud’) aparecen por primera vez en la época de Augusto. La rehabilitación de soldados enfermos y heridos había cobrado importancia debido a las constantes guerras que el pueblo romano libro durante la República y el Imperio. Los valentudinaria se encontraban siempre situados dentro de los grandes campamentos de legión y cercanos a los limes (Conjunto de muralllas y torres dispuestas en las fronteras para la defensa). Presentaban todos gran uniformidad, tenía oficinas, quirófanos, salas de recepción para visitas, despensas, baños y lugares de higiene, como también, habitaciones para internos y personal. Se considera el antecesor de las más modernos instalaciones médicas. Aún hoy, se implementan las dos puertas para acceso al quirófano en todos los hospitales. El análisis de instrumentos quirúrgicos encontrados en los campamentos legionarios permite confirmar que no existieron diferencias entre el médico militar y el civil. [9]

Referencias

 ↑ Gozalbes, Enrrique; García, Inmaculada (2010). Entorno a la medicina romana en: Hispania Antiqua núm, 33-34. Ediciones Universidad de Valladolid.

↑ Pérez Tamayo, Ruy (2003). De la magia primitiva a la medicina moderna. México D.F: Fondo de Cultura Económica. ISBN 968-16-6948-7.

↑ Pérez Tamayo, Ruy (2003). «La medicina en el imperio Romano (siglos III a.C a VI d.C)». De la magia primitiva a la medicina moderna. México D.F: Fondo de cultura económica. p. 43.

↑ Soubiran, Andre; De Kearney, Jean (1963). El diario de la medicina. Barcelona: Luis de Caralt.

↑ «On Medicine - De medicina». World Digital Library.

↑ Conde Parrado, Pedro (2008). Por el orden de Celso: Aspectos de la influencia del De Medicina en la cirugía europea del Renacimiento. Granada: Dynamis

↑ Zamudio, Leonardo (2003).  Hisoria de la medician: Galeno ayer y hoy. En: Rev Fac Med. México: UNAM

↑ Romero, A. et al (2011).  Galeno de Pérgamo: Pionero en la historia de la ciencia que introduce los fundamentos científicos de la medicina. En: Análes Médicos vol. 56 núm. 4

↑ Monteagudo García, Luis (2000). La cirugía en el Imperio Romano. España: Anuario Brigantino, núm 23. p. 86-150

[munove]

Los principales puertos de la Hispania Romana

La Hispania de la época de dominación romana contaba con numerosas instalaciones portuarias, tanto en la zona cantábrica como en la atlántica y la mediterránea. El puerto más occidental era el de “Brigantium” con su mayestático faro conocido por la Torre de Hércules, al pié de la ciudad de La Coruña y que fue diseñada por Gaius Sevius Lupus de origen lusitano.

etiquetas: hispania, portuaria

» noticia original (www.nauticadigital.com)

[valenciabonitaoficial]

La Torre Sant Josep, el mayor monumento funerario de época romana de Hispania

La mayor torre funeraria romana y el mayor recinto funerario más amplio de época romana de Hispania, están en la Comunidad Valenciana, concretamente en La Vila Joiosa (Alicante). La tumba, que en realidad es un complejo funerario privado para el señor romano de la Villa, está rodeada por uno de los mayores recintos funerarios conocidos en Europa, lo que convierte a este enclave en un lugar de…

[missaceras]

Arquitectura Bella Vistina.

"En los últimos años la importancia de cuidar nuestro patrimonio se a envuelto en un peligro, nuestra sociedad no es capaz de ver la gravedad del asunto".

El corregimiento de Bella Vista, sin dudar su don aire su estilo neoclonial llegado 1911 de cuyas familias de San Felipe buscaban un lugar más saludable y mejor. Lleva consigo un arquitectura de una mezcla española, portuguesa, francesa, británica y mexicana, el estilo lleva el uso de yeso en sus interiores, las baldosas terracotas de arcilla y adornos de hormigón en la fachada, que simulan las antiguas decoraciones en madera o piedra que tenía las construcciones coloniales originales. Otra característica que suelen incluir pequeños porches o balcones, arcos romanos, patios con arcadas, ventanas y puertas de madera de doble altura, toldos de lona y molduras decorativas de hierro.

Foto de Luis Alfaro: (https://twitter.com/luisealfarom/status/990196004329844736)

El estilo Bellavistino se debe gracias a diversos arquitectos extranjeros ya que en aquellas épocas en Panamá no había tal carrera entre ellos destacamos: El peruano Leonardo Villanueva Meyer, el norteamericano James Wright y su socio húngaro Gustavo Schay quienes se les atribuye el diseño de los aún sobrevivientes Sousa e Hispania (1935), Riviera (1935) y la antigua residencia Toledano (1937).

En estos tiempo la capitalización es un factor que derrumba el patrimonio de nuestras edificaciones como parte del Conjunto Monumental Histórico de Calidonia y Bella Vista, durante años diversos políticos han querido tomar cartas en el asunto como el aquel entonces en 2004 el director general del Instituto Nacional de Cultura, Reinier Rogruíguez que firmó una resolución cual declaraba el área del corregimiento de Bella Vista como "Zona de Interés Cultural". Sin embargo en el 2007 se intento llevar acabo un proyecto de ley que presento el diputado del PRD Denis Arce y Jose I. Blandón que en aquella época era diputado.

En el tiempo poco a poco las casa y edificaciones históricas empezaban a desaparecer, al imponer grandes torres de apartamentos, oficinas y centro comerciales. A medida del tiempo nuestro neocolonial estilo se pierde a través de estos imponentes edificios. En dos artículos del documento causaron descontento de muchos des- arrolladores de proyectos inmobiliarios: la prohibición de edificios muy altos o de demoler edificaciones de más de medio siglo. Los intereses comerciales se encargaron de destruir el proyecto de ley tal cual con decir que no llego ni a primer debate. Y considerando que el grupo de Documentación y Conversación de Monumento Modernos detallo un documento del valor patrimonial y arquitectónico de 84 inmuebles de los barrida de la exposición y Bella Vista.

Los dueños de casa neocoloniales temían que sus residencias se convirtieran en patrimonio histórico, fue dar un benefició propio a que conservar nuestro legado, que hacía distinto de otras barriadas los arboles en las aceras las hermosas casas con su propio estilo el detenerte y observar detenidamente sus detalles de arriba a abajo algo majestuoso que hemos perdido en estos tiempos..

En este caso hay un nombre Jaime Salas el ingeniero municipal que fue investigado por enriquecimiento ilícito y blanqueo de capitales, fue quien dio los permiso de demolición. ¿En este caso que vale más una tierra que valga millones de dolares o conservar el patrimonio cultural en Bella Vista? sin dudar el gobierno y la sociedad civil nos hemos alejado de nuestra propia cultura y como dice el urbanístico Alvaro Uribe "si no cuidamos del lugar donde vivimos mucho menos vamos a considerar nuestra cultura, porque la cultura no se come, es el alimento espiritual".

Y si los tiempos cambian pero debemos cambiar la forma de ver nuestro país más allá de verlo como una inversión millonaria veamos lo como una inversión cultural, hacer que Panamá vuelta a sus orígenes volvamos a rescatar estilos, tradiciones y culturas. Somos una cuidad en pleno crecimiento pero no podemos apartar el patrimonio como si fuera basura a duras penas es lo que pasa en nuestra sociedad.

La esperanza de una lucha que si lleva causa y no dejar a un lado el patrimonio Bellavistino y también porque no de otras comunidades, enseñarle a la comunidad a apreciar el patrimonio cultural, "es lamentable la desaparición de muchas edificaciones de diversos estilos en Bella Vista".

"¿Querer ser el primer mundo es destruir tu patrimonio?".

-2017.

Enlace alterno: https://www.laestrella.com.pa/cafe-estrella/cultura/160918/patrimonio-desamparado-arquitectura-bellavistina

[mercadologo]

La Rioja Residencial, Torre Hispania, Hermanadas en la Muerte y la Violencia