Greetings Dear Readers,
This week I had the pleasure to visit my editor's English classes at one of America's finest high schools. I found her studnets both intelligent and energetic. As a challenge to them and to all learners, I would like to say that I found it refreshing that improvment of vocabulary is still a high school require. I challenge all of you to let me know when you come accross a word in my writing that is new to you. Feel free to ask why I chose and for your own benenfit, always read with a dictinoary near by.
Wishing you joy in the journey,
Aramis Thorn
13 October 2005
29 September 2005
Name My Novel
Greetings Faithful Readers,
I have almost finished editing my third novel and am still in want of a title. Belowe is a chapter and it gives the gist of the novel and the character's first impression. Let me know through comments on this post what you think the title should be.
Wishing you joy in the journey,
Aramis Thorn
Working Title: Portimus
Introduction
Most of the Jews who appear in this tale appear in an unfavorable light. Most of the Jews who have lived and do live are noble people who hold passionately to an honorable faith. So that I have said it clearly, no single race, faith, or person is responsible for the death of Jesus Christ. We all are. Our sin cost his life. The politicos of the time are all guilty of conspiracy but they acted their part in a divine plan to redeem us all.
Jesus said that no man could take his life from him but that he laid it down freely. In a previous tale you met Portimus, a Roman soldier who befriended Joseph and his family in Nazareth. He would not leave me alone as he had more to say about Jesus and the nature of man. Time has kept its undying, unstoppable pace and we rejoin Portimus, now a Praetor at the beginning of holy week. He has been hunting Zealots for the empire.
That I believe in the Resurrection of Christ is not a doubt. Beyond that are many questions as to how it was dealt with politically, socially, and practically by many of the parties involved. Many have given the evidence of the Resurrection of Christ as factual material to be viewed through the eyes of scholarly consideration. Portimus is the first century equivalent of a detective.
While in Jerusalem over the Passover holy day, events surrounding the Crucifixion begin to unfold. Involuntarily Portimus becomes embroiled in the crime of eternity and a mystery that will cause man to ponder its details for the rest of history. Other deaths surrounding the death of Christ cause the Roman to realize that a conspiracy lies before him.
He deals with several issues during the week of the crucifixion and the following cover-up by the Pharisees and the Romans. Please join me as a man who cares only for truth tracks down the information necessary to decide the questions of the Resurrection and assign them logical legal answers.
Covering the truth for political gain is not new. Questioning the truth to avoid embracing it is deadly. I believe that some of the ruling counsel of Jerusalem and of Rome acted politically for their own gain. I also believe that thousands of witnesses and direct evidence are available to the honest.
Please remember dear reader that I write fiction with respect to the truth. In this tale, I ask you to seek the truth of the Resurrection of Christ while enjoying the unfolding of a mystery. Should you find my musing offensive, please remember that I am a storyteller and claim no right to impeccable understanding of Roman history or detective work.
Enjoy and as always, feel free to share with me your thoughts.
A Stitch in Time
Brilliant stars and an even brighter moon illuminate the landscape of a chill Judean night. Unaffected by the night air, an angel sits astride a ruddy mare. Both Polemos, the Angel of War, and Eman, his mount are untouched by the elements and invisible to the eyes of man. He waits at the end of a flower field near the Jerusalem gate. The man for whom he waits enters the opposite end of the field. Polemos hastens to his side, aware that his mount will not harm any of the flowers nor leave any trace of his passage. The War Angel knows that he is to observe the man and protect him. He wonders why but obediently takes his place beside the rider.
The rider makes his way silently across the field of night blooming Narcissus. Out of respect for the unknown owner, he guides his horse through the narrow path used to tend and irrigate the ocean of fragrant flowers. The scent of the Narcissus provides welcome relief from the coppery stench of the blood still damp on his tunic. Checking the puncture wound between his third and fourth rib the Roman solider notes with relief that the bleeding has stopped. Pulling the arrow from his pack, he studies it under the moonlight. Looking up into the night sky, he whispers to no one in particular, “Zealots.”
The timber of his single word accusation is more anguish than anger. He knows that Rome grows weary of the lack of assimilation in this region. Even their great celebration of Passover is celebration of freedom from oppressors. Portimus does not see that Rome oppresses Israel but he also knows that how he sees it did not matter to the recently dispatched band that ambushed him in the mountains near Gaza.
Having tracked them there from the site of their attack on a Greek caravan, the Roman offers the four men the opportunity to surrender and live. Their response, attacking on foot against a mounted soldier, proves unwise. That this particular Praetor could best any four other Centurions any given day proves fatal for the untrained inexperienced assailants.
Weapons and will do not complete a fighter. The Zealots have both but lack the confidence of practice and wisdom of action. The first two of them rush him, flailing their swords wildly as if to scare him. Although this tactic works on caravans of merchants and women, a sidestep with his horse, a parry, and two quick thrusts cut the number of opponents in half, literally.
The third, the one with the bow, becomes overconfident when a lucky shot pierces the Roman’s side. Portimus shifts his gladius to the hand holding his mount’s reins at the same moment the emboldened Zealot stands and aims for a second shot. With speed uncommon for his size the mounted warrior grasps a javelin from his quiver and lets fly. The bow shot sails far over the soldier’s head as the force of javelin drives the Zealot into the rock wall behind him.
Fear shows in the eyes of the fourth Zealot. Unfortunately, for him bravado and
rage soon replace his fear. He charges Portimus screaming epithets, his sword raised high. Portimus nudges his horse back and to the left. The Zealot’s swing goes wide and the soldier calls to him in flawless Aramaic, “You cannot beat me. Surrender and you will live.”
The assailant screams at the soldier. “I would rather die than receive mercy from a Roman.” He spits on the ground and charges again. Seeing that there will be no parley with the Zealot Portimus grants his request. The soldier kicks his horse to the right and beheads the rebel as he passes. The Roman takes no pleasure in killing but has dispatched all four Zealots efficiently and professionally in a matter of seconds.
He takes a moment to carefully remove the arrow from his side and wash the wound. It is not life threatening but will need professional attention. He gathers the fallen men’s belongings and the camels and items taken from the caravan. Returning to the place where the caravan survivors wait, he delivers their belongings to them.
Bidding the travelers well, he presses on toward his assignment in Jerusalem. He knows that the gates are already closed for the night and makes his way around to the needle’s eye. This small gate is guarded and allows access to travelers only via a narrow passage. There is an opening through which animals must stoop to pass. The guards recognize the Roman’s rank and hasten to open the larger gate for him.
Portimus rides through the crowded streets to the garrison. The pre-Passover bazaar makes the going slow but he is determined to clean up and assess the city before reporting to the Governor. Pilate does not mind late night chats but he prefers clean officers in his presence. The night watch at the garrison snaps to attention and salutes as he rides up. To his credit, one of them notices the blood on the Praetor’s armor and summons aid. To his further credit, he rouses the garrison commander, alerting him to the arrival of a higher-ranking officer.
Polemos moves away, aware that his charge will be well for now. The War Angel’s brothers are gathering. Something requires his attention and there is a sense of foreboding in all of creation. Whatever is on the horizon, his new interest will play a part in it.
The soldier retreats from his commander’s quarters and guides the Praetor to an empty officer’s billet. Portimus gingerly removes his armor and lays it with his pack and weapons by the bed. He checks that his letters to Pilate are safely in the baggage and asks direction of the solider to the baths.
While waiting, Portimus enters the bath to soak away his road weariness. A Greek physician arrives, bleary eyed and groggy. Inspecting the wound carefully he announces that there is no infection, applies some foul smelling ointment, and stitches it closed. Two servants enter with food for the soldier and he thanks them. The leader of the garrison, Castor, notices this and wonders why a Praetor would bother to thank a servant.
Portimus dines in silence listening to Castor report of activities in the city. Having attended the Passover celebration in Jerusalem a number of years ago, he is used to the common complaints of overcrowding and various petty crimes surrounding the bazaar. The Praetor’s attention focuses when Castor mentions problems with the ruling religious council of the Jews, the Sanhedrin.
He listens intently as the officer explains the problem the council has with one of the local religious fanatics. “Apparently, the fanatic in question is rumored to work miracles and has defied the Pharisees’ abuses of their religious law for personal gain. It seems that this rogue teacher is going to enter the city tomorrow and the Jews are worried about a public uprising in his favor. If you ask me they make too much fuss over a carpenter from Nazareth.”
Only his keen discipline keeps Portimus from visible reaction. He knows the only carpenter from Nazareth that could cause such a stir. He has not seen him in over five years, but he knows him and is sure that the stir and the rumors are genuine. He will look further into it tomorrow, after he reports to Pilate. For now he needs rest and apparently preparation.
* * * * *
The sun rarely rises before Portimus. The wound offers a degree of stiffness but he dons a clean tunic and his body armor, ignoring the pain. Most officers of his rank wear the decorative Lorica Musculata, a vain, poorly functional bronze cuirass. Portimus prefers the subtlety and protection of his Lorica Hamata, a chain mail shirt that covers all of his torso and usually turns away any weapon. The massive strength of this man more than compensates for the additional weight of the mail shirt. Most other officers chide him about his lack of show. He always points out that his sporran, the leather belt he wears, signifies his rank and that his armor tells other legionnaires that he will fight at their side not watch from the rear.
After girding on his sporran holding his gladius and pugio, then donning his cloak of rank, he spends some time in quiet meditation. Following his morning rituals, the officer assures that he has the proper look for his position. To him example is vital to command authority.
Once up he dines with the men in the garrison common room. Dining with men of lower rank often yields much more information than any inquiry. Those who do not know him will not immediately know his rank if he is already seated when they arrive. He listens as men assigned to keeping the peace among a less than peaceful people discuss the duties of the day. Their concerns over the influx of pilgrims and the associated threats monopolize the conversations.
A young soldier with clear eyes and clean face takes the seat opposite Portimus. The morning fare of bread and cheese goes well with the warm wine they share. He learns from the young legionnaire that during the end of his watch, in the early morning, a celebration broke out in the city.
The legionnaire’s eyes sparkle as he reports the spectacle, “The Jewish prophet entered the city riding a white donkey. People gathered at the Golden Gate, laying down palm fronds for him to rider over. They laid down their cloaks in front of him hailing him as King of the Jews. The man waved at the crowds but said nothing. People began to chant ‘Blessings on the King who comes in the name of the Lord; peace in heaven and glory in the highest places.’
Our captain ordered our squad to follow him through the city. He arrived at the Mount of Olives and dismounted. All the Jews there were praising him as if her were a god. I overheard people speak of him raising the dead and healing people.”
The legionnaire lowers his voice conspiratorially as he continues, “Some of the Pharisees called for him to rebuke his followers, accusing them of blasphemy. He paused just long enough to see that all present would hear him. His reply was simple and enraged the priests. He said, ‘What good would it do to stop them. If they fall silent the very stones will immediately cry out the same.’
This made the Pharisees so angry that they stormed away to the temple. He sat down to speak quietly to the crowed just before my watch ended. I fear that the crowed will cause trouble over their holy days. There were thousands of them.”
Portimus reassures the young soldier, “I do not think you need to fear this man. I have heard of his kind. He is not a Zealot. Tell me something. Did you hear his name mentioned.”
A moment of thought and a sip of wine are enough for the legionnaire to recall it, “Yes, his friends called him Jesus, and he came from Nazareth.”
The Praetor’s smile spreads slowly across his face, “I spent some years in Nazareth. Zealots do not come from there. The people you speak of are kind and peaceful. Save your fear for the trouble the Pharisees may yet bring because of this man’s popularity.”
As he finishes his statement, Castor enters. The legionnaire sees his commander approach and rises to attention. Out of courtesy, Portimus rises as well. The young soldier looks confused when his breakfast companion fails to salute the commander.
Castor returns the legionnaire’s salute in turn originating one to Portimus. The younger man’s confusion only deepens until his commander speaks, “Praetor, the Governor sends word that he will receive you any time this morning. Apparently matters with the Jews need your attention.”
Portimus acknowledges the information with a nod, “This young legionnaire has given me an excellent report of events at the Jews’ Golden Gate this morning. Although he is young, he is alert and intelligent. Please see that he gets an opportunity to put those skills to better use than as a night watchman.”
Castor beams at the excellent favor of a Praetor. “Flavius Silva is a good soldier and will be given opportunity at your word. May I begin by assigning him as your escort while you are in Jerusalem?”
At this, the young legionnaire merely stands straighter and sputters slightly. Portimus laughs and nods his agreement, “Give him time to rest and he may meet me at the Governor’s after midday. Get him some better armor and a new tunic. Have the stables assign him a good horse and proper equipment for travel.”
Castor snaps an affirmative reply, “All will be ready by midday.” Turning to Silva he continues, “Go to your rest and then to one of the private baths on my authority. If you are to stand before the Governor, you must represent us all well. I will give you a letter of entry.”
The color drains from the young soldier’s face as he realizes how quickly his life has just changed. He can only think to obey his training. Snapping off a salute, he turns briskly and exits. The two officers share a laugh at the young man’s expense after he is out of earshot.
Portimus collects his helm and cloak then addresses Castor, “I wish to be kept informed about the activities of the prophet from Nazareth. Should there be trouble surrounding him I want to know at once. Keep me informed quietly, but keep me informed.”
Castor, a politically wise officer ignores his minds questions as to the Praetor’s interest in a Jewish prophet. “I will see to it,” is all he allows.
“Excellent,” allows Portimus, “I will be with the Governor most of the day. Keep your men alert. Something is on the move.”
I have almost finished editing my third novel and am still in want of a title. Belowe is a chapter and it gives the gist of the novel and the character's first impression. Let me know through comments on this post what you think the title should be.
Wishing you joy in the journey,
Aramis Thorn
Working Title: Portimus
Introduction
Most of the Jews who appear in this tale appear in an unfavorable light. Most of the Jews who have lived and do live are noble people who hold passionately to an honorable faith. So that I have said it clearly, no single race, faith, or person is responsible for the death of Jesus Christ. We all are. Our sin cost his life. The politicos of the time are all guilty of conspiracy but they acted their part in a divine plan to redeem us all.
Jesus said that no man could take his life from him but that he laid it down freely. In a previous tale you met Portimus, a Roman soldier who befriended Joseph and his family in Nazareth. He would not leave me alone as he had more to say about Jesus and the nature of man. Time has kept its undying, unstoppable pace and we rejoin Portimus, now a Praetor at the beginning of holy week. He has been hunting Zealots for the empire.
That I believe in the Resurrection of Christ is not a doubt. Beyond that are many questions as to how it was dealt with politically, socially, and practically by many of the parties involved. Many have given the evidence of the Resurrection of Christ as factual material to be viewed through the eyes of scholarly consideration. Portimus is the first century equivalent of a detective.
While in Jerusalem over the Passover holy day, events surrounding the Crucifixion begin to unfold. Involuntarily Portimus becomes embroiled in the crime of eternity and a mystery that will cause man to ponder its details for the rest of history. Other deaths surrounding the death of Christ cause the Roman to realize that a conspiracy lies before him.
He deals with several issues during the week of the crucifixion and the following cover-up by the Pharisees and the Romans. Please join me as a man who cares only for truth tracks down the information necessary to decide the questions of the Resurrection and assign them logical legal answers.
Covering the truth for political gain is not new. Questioning the truth to avoid embracing it is deadly. I believe that some of the ruling counsel of Jerusalem and of Rome acted politically for their own gain. I also believe that thousands of witnesses and direct evidence are available to the honest.
Please remember dear reader that I write fiction with respect to the truth. In this tale, I ask you to seek the truth of the Resurrection of Christ while enjoying the unfolding of a mystery. Should you find my musing offensive, please remember that I am a storyteller and claim no right to impeccable understanding of Roman history or detective work.
Enjoy and as always, feel free to share with me your thoughts.
A Stitch in Time
Brilliant stars and an even brighter moon illuminate the landscape of a chill Judean night. Unaffected by the night air, an angel sits astride a ruddy mare. Both Polemos, the Angel of War, and Eman, his mount are untouched by the elements and invisible to the eyes of man. He waits at the end of a flower field near the Jerusalem gate. The man for whom he waits enters the opposite end of the field. Polemos hastens to his side, aware that his mount will not harm any of the flowers nor leave any trace of his passage. The War Angel knows that he is to observe the man and protect him. He wonders why but obediently takes his place beside the rider.
The rider makes his way silently across the field of night blooming Narcissus. Out of respect for the unknown owner, he guides his horse through the narrow path used to tend and irrigate the ocean of fragrant flowers. The scent of the Narcissus provides welcome relief from the coppery stench of the blood still damp on his tunic. Checking the puncture wound between his third and fourth rib the Roman solider notes with relief that the bleeding has stopped. Pulling the arrow from his pack, he studies it under the moonlight. Looking up into the night sky, he whispers to no one in particular, “Zealots.”
The timber of his single word accusation is more anguish than anger. He knows that Rome grows weary of the lack of assimilation in this region. Even their great celebration of Passover is celebration of freedom from oppressors. Portimus does not see that Rome oppresses Israel but he also knows that how he sees it did not matter to the recently dispatched band that ambushed him in the mountains near Gaza.
Having tracked them there from the site of their attack on a Greek caravan, the Roman offers the four men the opportunity to surrender and live. Their response, attacking on foot against a mounted soldier, proves unwise. That this particular Praetor could best any four other Centurions any given day proves fatal for the untrained inexperienced assailants.
Weapons and will do not complete a fighter. The Zealots have both but lack the confidence of practice and wisdom of action. The first two of them rush him, flailing their swords wildly as if to scare him. Although this tactic works on caravans of merchants and women, a sidestep with his horse, a parry, and two quick thrusts cut the number of opponents in half, literally.
The third, the one with the bow, becomes overconfident when a lucky shot pierces the Roman’s side. Portimus shifts his gladius to the hand holding his mount’s reins at the same moment the emboldened Zealot stands and aims for a second shot. With speed uncommon for his size the mounted warrior grasps a javelin from his quiver and lets fly. The bow shot sails far over the soldier’s head as the force of javelin drives the Zealot into the rock wall behind him.
Fear shows in the eyes of the fourth Zealot. Unfortunately, for him bravado and
rage soon replace his fear. He charges Portimus screaming epithets, his sword raised high. Portimus nudges his horse back and to the left. The Zealot’s swing goes wide and the soldier calls to him in flawless Aramaic, “You cannot beat me. Surrender and you will live.”
The assailant screams at the soldier. “I would rather die than receive mercy from a Roman.” He spits on the ground and charges again. Seeing that there will be no parley with the Zealot Portimus grants his request. The soldier kicks his horse to the right and beheads the rebel as he passes. The Roman takes no pleasure in killing but has dispatched all four Zealots efficiently and professionally in a matter of seconds.
He takes a moment to carefully remove the arrow from his side and wash the wound. It is not life threatening but will need professional attention. He gathers the fallen men’s belongings and the camels and items taken from the caravan. Returning to the place where the caravan survivors wait, he delivers their belongings to them.
Bidding the travelers well, he presses on toward his assignment in Jerusalem. He knows that the gates are already closed for the night and makes his way around to the needle’s eye. This small gate is guarded and allows access to travelers only via a narrow passage. There is an opening through which animals must stoop to pass. The guards recognize the Roman’s rank and hasten to open the larger gate for him.
Portimus rides through the crowded streets to the garrison. The pre-Passover bazaar makes the going slow but he is determined to clean up and assess the city before reporting to the Governor. Pilate does not mind late night chats but he prefers clean officers in his presence. The night watch at the garrison snaps to attention and salutes as he rides up. To his credit, one of them notices the blood on the Praetor’s armor and summons aid. To his further credit, he rouses the garrison commander, alerting him to the arrival of a higher-ranking officer.
Polemos moves away, aware that his charge will be well for now. The War Angel’s brothers are gathering. Something requires his attention and there is a sense of foreboding in all of creation. Whatever is on the horizon, his new interest will play a part in it.
The soldier retreats from his commander’s quarters and guides the Praetor to an empty officer’s billet. Portimus gingerly removes his armor and lays it with his pack and weapons by the bed. He checks that his letters to Pilate are safely in the baggage and asks direction of the solider to the baths.
While waiting, Portimus enters the bath to soak away his road weariness. A Greek physician arrives, bleary eyed and groggy. Inspecting the wound carefully he announces that there is no infection, applies some foul smelling ointment, and stitches it closed. Two servants enter with food for the soldier and he thanks them. The leader of the garrison, Castor, notices this and wonders why a Praetor would bother to thank a servant.
Portimus dines in silence listening to Castor report of activities in the city. Having attended the Passover celebration in Jerusalem a number of years ago, he is used to the common complaints of overcrowding and various petty crimes surrounding the bazaar. The Praetor’s attention focuses when Castor mentions problems with the ruling religious council of the Jews, the Sanhedrin.
He listens intently as the officer explains the problem the council has with one of the local religious fanatics. “Apparently, the fanatic in question is rumored to work miracles and has defied the Pharisees’ abuses of their religious law for personal gain. It seems that this rogue teacher is going to enter the city tomorrow and the Jews are worried about a public uprising in his favor. If you ask me they make too much fuss over a carpenter from Nazareth.”
Only his keen discipline keeps Portimus from visible reaction. He knows the only carpenter from Nazareth that could cause such a stir. He has not seen him in over five years, but he knows him and is sure that the stir and the rumors are genuine. He will look further into it tomorrow, after he reports to Pilate. For now he needs rest and apparently preparation.
* * * * *
The sun rarely rises before Portimus. The wound offers a degree of stiffness but he dons a clean tunic and his body armor, ignoring the pain. Most officers of his rank wear the decorative Lorica Musculata, a vain, poorly functional bronze cuirass. Portimus prefers the subtlety and protection of his Lorica Hamata, a chain mail shirt that covers all of his torso and usually turns away any weapon. The massive strength of this man more than compensates for the additional weight of the mail shirt. Most other officers chide him about his lack of show. He always points out that his sporran, the leather belt he wears, signifies his rank and that his armor tells other legionnaires that he will fight at their side not watch from the rear.
After girding on his sporran holding his gladius and pugio, then donning his cloak of rank, he spends some time in quiet meditation. Following his morning rituals, the officer assures that he has the proper look for his position. To him example is vital to command authority.
Once up he dines with the men in the garrison common room. Dining with men of lower rank often yields much more information than any inquiry. Those who do not know him will not immediately know his rank if he is already seated when they arrive. He listens as men assigned to keeping the peace among a less than peaceful people discuss the duties of the day. Their concerns over the influx of pilgrims and the associated threats monopolize the conversations.
A young soldier with clear eyes and clean face takes the seat opposite Portimus. The morning fare of bread and cheese goes well with the warm wine they share. He learns from the young legionnaire that during the end of his watch, in the early morning, a celebration broke out in the city.
The legionnaire’s eyes sparkle as he reports the spectacle, “The Jewish prophet entered the city riding a white donkey. People gathered at the Golden Gate, laying down palm fronds for him to rider over. They laid down their cloaks in front of him hailing him as King of the Jews. The man waved at the crowds but said nothing. People began to chant ‘Blessings on the King who comes in the name of the Lord; peace in heaven and glory in the highest places.’
Our captain ordered our squad to follow him through the city. He arrived at the Mount of Olives and dismounted. All the Jews there were praising him as if her were a god. I overheard people speak of him raising the dead and healing people.”
The legionnaire lowers his voice conspiratorially as he continues, “Some of the Pharisees called for him to rebuke his followers, accusing them of blasphemy. He paused just long enough to see that all present would hear him. His reply was simple and enraged the priests. He said, ‘What good would it do to stop them. If they fall silent the very stones will immediately cry out the same.’
This made the Pharisees so angry that they stormed away to the temple. He sat down to speak quietly to the crowed just before my watch ended. I fear that the crowed will cause trouble over their holy days. There were thousands of them.”
Portimus reassures the young soldier, “I do not think you need to fear this man. I have heard of his kind. He is not a Zealot. Tell me something. Did you hear his name mentioned.”
A moment of thought and a sip of wine are enough for the legionnaire to recall it, “Yes, his friends called him Jesus, and he came from Nazareth.”
The Praetor’s smile spreads slowly across his face, “I spent some years in Nazareth. Zealots do not come from there. The people you speak of are kind and peaceful. Save your fear for the trouble the Pharisees may yet bring because of this man’s popularity.”
As he finishes his statement, Castor enters. The legionnaire sees his commander approach and rises to attention. Out of courtesy, Portimus rises as well. The young soldier looks confused when his breakfast companion fails to salute the commander.
Castor returns the legionnaire’s salute in turn originating one to Portimus. The younger man’s confusion only deepens until his commander speaks, “Praetor, the Governor sends word that he will receive you any time this morning. Apparently matters with the Jews need your attention.”
Portimus acknowledges the information with a nod, “This young legionnaire has given me an excellent report of events at the Jews’ Golden Gate this morning. Although he is young, he is alert and intelligent. Please see that he gets an opportunity to put those skills to better use than as a night watchman.”
Castor beams at the excellent favor of a Praetor. “Flavius Silva is a good soldier and will be given opportunity at your word. May I begin by assigning him as your escort while you are in Jerusalem?”
At this, the young legionnaire merely stands straighter and sputters slightly. Portimus laughs and nods his agreement, “Give him time to rest and he may meet me at the Governor’s after midday. Get him some better armor and a new tunic. Have the stables assign him a good horse and proper equipment for travel.”
Castor snaps an affirmative reply, “All will be ready by midday.” Turning to Silva he continues, “Go to your rest and then to one of the private baths on my authority. If you are to stand before the Governor, you must represent us all well. I will give you a letter of entry.”
The color drains from the young soldier’s face as he realizes how quickly his life has just changed. He can only think to obey his training. Snapping off a salute, he turns briskly and exits. The two officers share a laugh at the young man’s expense after he is out of earshot.
Portimus collects his helm and cloak then addresses Castor, “I wish to be kept informed about the activities of the prophet from Nazareth. Should there be trouble surrounding him I want to know at once. Keep me informed quietly, but keep me informed.”
Castor, a politically wise officer ignores his minds questions as to the Praetor’s interest in a Jewish prophet. “I will see to it,” is all he allows.
“Excellent,” allows Portimus, “I will be with the Governor most of the day. Keep your men alert. Something is on the move.”
26 August 2005
Book Crossings - Setting Books Free
Greetings Dear Readers,
It has been a great writing week and I have had the unique opportunity to set a book free. There is a site called book crossings that tracks books that are left out in the open for others to take and read. See the above site. Let me know what you think.
TO RJ's STUDENTS:
I have not had anyone take me up on the challenge. Is she working you too hard? See the post on the encroaching fall.
Wishing you all joy in the journey,
Aramis Thorn
It has been a great writing week and I have had the unique opportunity to set a book free. There is a site called book crossings that tracks books that are left out in the open for others to take and read. See the above site. Let me know what you think.
TO RJ's STUDENTS:
I have not had anyone take me up on the challenge. Is she working you too hard? See the post on the encroaching fall.
Wishing you all joy in the journey,
Aramis Thorn
19 August 2005
The Encroaching Fall
Greetings Dear Readers,
Because I dwell in the Northern Midwest, the summer drifts away sooner than for most of the nation. Even though it is August and the temperatures still hover in the low eighties, the very subtle hints that Summer is packing her bags linger in the air. The morning temperature are in the mid to low fifties. The dew lies heavier on the lawn and my thoughts turn to camp fire, hot chocolate, and corn mazes.
I would like to give you all a writing challenge. Capture the essence of fall in one five sentence paragraph. Submit them via email to aramisthorn@aol.com. I will choose the best one and send you a free copy of my newest book. I will also publish it in this blog. Let me see who can make fall come alive for me while the AC is still running.
Wishing you joy in the journey,
Aramis Thorn
Because I dwell in the Northern Midwest, the summer drifts away sooner than for most of the nation. Even though it is August and the temperatures still hover in the low eighties, the very subtle hints that Summer is packing her bags linger in the air. The morning temperature are in the mid to low fifties. The dew lies heavier on the lawn and my thoughts turn to camp fire, hot chocolate, and corn mazes.
I would like to give you all a writing challenge. Capture the essence of fall in one five sentence paragraph. Submit them via email to aramisthorn@aol.com. I will choose the best one and send you a free copy of my newest book. I will also publish it in this blog. Let me see who can make fall come alive for me while the AC is still running.
Wishing you joy in the journey,
Aramis Thorn
29 July 2005
When Ideas Leap from the Head
Greetings Dear Readers,
One of the things in a writer's life is both a bane and a blessing. It is that moment when you are somewhere, concentrating on something else, and an idea leaps into your brain without so much as a "good day, may I enter?" These events are survivable but you must be prepared. Here are some steps to take.
1. Realize that this is going to happen and be prepared to get the idea into something permanent.
2. If you are in a social situation, excuse yourself if possible. People will know that you are a writer and assume you are a little nuts.
3. Keep a small pad and pen or a voice recorder with you to get the idea into recallable form.
4. If the story demands it, stay up all night and write it. I do not recommend getting into a habit of this. It is to controlling on the part of your muses.
5. Be as detailed as possible in recording your idea.
6. Get back to the idea soon so that you may begin to develop it.
These steps will assure you that you do not lose those gems and sit in front of a blank page begging the writing muse to whisper those sweet somethings back into your brain.
Wishing you joy in the journey,
Aramis Thorn
One of the things in a writer's life is both a bane and a blessing. It is that moment when you are somewhere, concentrating on something else, and an idea leaps into your brain without so much as a "good day, may I enter?" These events are survivable but you must be prepared. Here are some steps to take.
1. Realize that this is going to happen and be prepared to get the idea into something permanent.
2. If you are in a social situation, excuse yourself if possible. People will know that you are a writer and assume you are a little nuts.
3. Keep a small pad and pen or a voice recorder with you to get the idea into recallable form.
4. If the story demands it, stay up all night and write it. I do not recommend getting into a habit of this. It is to controlling on the part of your muses.
5. Be as detailed as possible in recording your idea.
6. Get back to the idea soon so that you may begin to develop it.
These steps will assure you that you do not lose those gems and sit in front of a blank page begging the writing muse to whisper those sweet somethings back into your brain.
Wishing you joy in the journey,
Aramis Thorn
22 July 2005
Papago's Passing
Recently my closest and dearest friend lost one of her favorite cats. She knew the end was coming but that never makes loss less. I grieve with you and know that your tears are from the heart.
Papago’s Passing
By Aramis Thorn – July 16, 2005
Our calico hunter, sleek and demure,
Slipped away the bounds mortality,
Leaving behind human mourners unsure,
Of how to carry this finality.
Having fought for life against blight and age,
Improved movement and energy gave thought,
That our friend might yet have time upon this stage,
To bird and mouse and share of what was caught.
On the stoop, no more barely allowed strokes,
Or talks of news from the surrounding wood.
An earthly lingering sadness evokes
Hope that in wisdom the Creator would
Have a peculiar secret realm he keeps,
For the mouse police who forever sleeps.
Papago’s Passing
By Aramis Thorn – July 16, 2005
Our calico hunter, sleek and demure,
Slipped away the bounds mortality,
Leaving behind human mourners unsure,
Of how to carry this finality.
Having fought for life against blight and age,
Improved movement and energy gave thought,
That our friend might yet have time upon this stage,
To bird and mouse and share of what was caught.
On the stoop, no more barely allowed strokes,
Or talks of news from the surrounding wood.
An earthly lingering sadness evokes
Hope that in wisdom the Creator would
Have a peculiar secret realm he keeps,
For the mouse police who forever sleeps.
18 July 2005
This Week's Reading 07-18-2005
Greetings Dear Readers,
I am still rereading Steven King's On Writing and also I have returned to a tome I find invaluable for refilling my well. It is Julie Cameron's The Artist's Way. I find the exercises in this second book invigorating and challenging all at once.
I will be cracking open the J.K. Rowling's novel, Harry Potter and the Half Blood Price this week so that I can keep pace with my writer's and artist's discussion group. I would love to hear your about reactions to Rowling's work.
Remember that no one steel the books we have already read.
Wishing you joy in the journey,
Aramis Thorn
I am still rereading Steven King's On Writing and also I have returned to a tome I find invaluable for refilling my well. It is Julie Cameron's The Artist's Way. I find the exercises in this second book invigorating and challenging all at once.
I will be cracking open the J.K. Rowling's novel, Harry Potter and the Half Blood Price this week so that I can keep pace with my writer's and artist's discussion group. I would love to hear your about reactions to Rowling's work.
Remember that no one steel the books we have already read.
Wishing you joy in the journey,
Aramis Thorn
16 July 2005
When Writing is Hard
Most mornings I get up ready to write and anxious to create. There are a few mornings when I am distracted, concerned, or down right empty. All the players in my head are silent and the wonders of my several created worlds are hidden from me. It is frustrating, daunting, and even frightening to find this place. Quickly awakened are the haunts of my place as a writer, my self doubt, and the temptation to chuck it all and go dig ditches somewhere.
It is important to do two things when you feel this way. One is to write something anyway. Make yourself pound out some words. Do some free writing to loosen up your brain. Get some words down no matter what their quality or lack of quality. If you feel later that you should line the parakeet cage with what you have written, that is all well and good. The important thing is that you are only a writer if you write. You can then move on to the second thing knowing that you are still a writer and have worked today. Make yourself write every day that you are supposed to write.
The second thing is to do something to recreate yourself. What is it that recharges you? Go for a walk. Visit a museum or library. Watch some little kids play your favorite sport. Do something to rebuild who you are from the inside out. Clear your mind and see the beauty of the universe in some new way. Do something to recharge your battery.
Even if it takes a day or two or three to get back to your stride, you will get it back. The important thing is to keep at it. A writer writes, always.
Wishing you joy in the journey,
Aramis Thorn
It is important to do two things when you feel this way. One is to write something anyway. Make yourself pound out some words. Do some free writing to loosen up your brain. Get some words down no matter what their quality or lack of quality. If you feel later that you should line the parakeet cage with what you have written, that is all well and good. The important thing is that you are only a writer if you write. You can then move on to the second thing knowing that you are still a writer and have worked today. Make yourself write every day that you are supposed to write.
The second thing is to do something to recreate yourself. What is it that recharges you? Go for a walk. Visit a museum or library. Watch some little kids play your favorite sport. Do something to rebuild who you are from the inside out. Clear your mind and see the beauty of the universe in some new way. Do something to recharge your battery.
Even if it takes a day or two or three to get back to your stride, you will get it back. The important thing is to keep at it. A writer writes, always.
Wishing you joy in the journey,
Aramis Thorn
11 July 2005
This Week's Reading - 07-11-05
Greetings Dear Readers,
This week I am delving into some oddly different areas. I am reading Steven King's On Writing, a must for any writer. I read this annually to remind me of some of the things I do to keep my writing going. I am also reading The Person and Work of the Holy Spirit: The Holy Spirit Effects in Us What Christ Has Done for Us by Donald T. Williams. The book has a long title but is one of the best tomes I have found on the Holy Spirit. I am also still working my way through The Last Best League. I usually read very quickly but when I read about baseball I tend to adopt the easy pace of the game as if it were August and I was in the old Atlanta Stadium surrounded by hope and humidity.
Go find a good book and tell me about it.
Wishing you joy in the journey,
Aramis Thorn
This week I am delving into some oddly different areas. I am reading Steven King's On Writing, a must for any writer. I read this annually to remind me of some of the things I do to keep my writing going. I am also reading The Person and Work of the Holy Spirit: The Holy Spirit Effects in Us What Christ Has Done for Us by Donald T. Williams. The book has a long title but is one of the best tomes I have found on the Holy Spirit. I am also still working my way through The Last Best League. I usually read very quickly but when I read about baseball I tend to adopt the easy pace of the game as if it were August and I was in the old Atlanta Stadium surrounded by hope and humidity.
Go find a good book and tell me about it.
Wishing you joy in the journey,
Aramis Thorn
10 July 2005
On Editors
Greetings Dear Readers,
Many things, both wonderful and woeful pass through out lives. Sometimes they stay. Occasionally, when the timbre of the great song is just right, the universe sings out an amazing and kind editor. In my mind, editors are mostly curmudgeonly old men with red pens and sour stomachs. Since God loves to shatter my stereotypes he sent me an editor who is kind, vibrant, and very encouraging.
None of the things I have mentioned are requirements to good editing but what they do for the author is unchartable. I have had three professional editors in my writing career. The first was critical, mean spirited, and chemical dependent. His goal was more my destruction than the healing of my writing flaws. He almost drove me away from writing all together. My second editor, truly one of God's greatest creations, was too busy to be great. I have retained her as my first reader. (If you do not know what that is read Steven King's On Writing, heck read it anyway, as a matter of fact I think that I will reread it today.) She is an awesome first reader and will always fill that role as often as she wishes. My third editor is also a singularly clear note in the universe. She is efficient, encouraging, and pushes me to be a better writer.
When you choose someone to edit your work, do not rest until you find someone who loves editing and gets you as a writer. Avoid frustrated authors who became editors so that they could hang onto the edge of the writing world without really living in it. True editors like mine are not standing on the edge waiting for the courage to write. They find their passion in making writers better at their craft.
Here are some things to look for in an editor
Skill in the language
A passion for excellence
Kindness - Kind Editors exist, therefore, we should use them and drive the others out of business
Good communication skills
A teaching aptitude - My editor is great at showing me flaws in my grammar without making me feel like and idiot. After all I have a Ph.D., I just have trouble with things like spelling and split infinitives.
Above all, it is vital to entrust your writing to someone you trust. You are handing them a piece of your life. Your time, thoughts, and heart went into what is on the page. Your editor should respect this. I know mine does. She is a joy and a blessing.
Wishing you joy in the journey,
Aramis Thorn
Many things, both wonderful and woeful pass through out lives. Sometimes they stay. Occasionally, when the timbre of the great song is just right, the universe sings out an amazing and kind editor. In my mind, editors are mostly curmudgeonly old men with red pens and sour stomachs. Since God loves to shatter my stereotypes he sent me an editor who is kind, vibrant, and very encouraging.
None of the things I have mentioned are requirements to good editing but what they do for the author is unchartable. I have had three professional editors in my writing career. The first was critical, mean spirited, and chemical dependent. His goal was more my destruction than the healing of my writing flaws. He almost drove me away from writing all together. My second editor, truly one of God's greatest creations, was too busy to be great. I have retained her as my first reader. (If you do not know what that is read Steven King's On Writing, heck read it anyway, as a matter of fact I think that I will reread it today.) She is an awesome first reader and will always fill that role as often as she wishes. My third editor is also a singularly clear note in the universe. She is efficient, encouraging, and pushes me to be a better writer.
When you choose someone to edit your work, do not rest until you find someone who loves editing and gets you as a writer. Avoid frustrated authors who became editors so that they could hang onto the edge of the writing world without really living in it. True editors like mine are not standing on the edge waiting for the courage to write. They find their passion in making writers better at their craft.
Here are some things to look for in an editor
Skill in the language
A passion for excellence
Kindness - Kind Editors exist, therefore, we should use them and drive the others out of business
Good communication skills
A teaching aptitude - My editor is great at showing me flaws in my grammar without making me feel like and idiot. After all I have a Ph.D., I just have trouble with things like spelling and split infinitives.
Above all, it is vital to entrust your writing to someone you trust. You are handing them a piece of your life. Your time, thoughts, and heart went into what is on the page. Your editor should respect this. I know mine does. She is a joy and a blessing.
Wishing you joy in the journey,
Aramis Thorn
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