The tinkling of water from the cascade fountain provided a soothing contrast to the heavy frowning which was going on in the colonnade which surrounded the small garden. The scent of flowers and herbs, and the chirping of many small birds also served to ease the hearts of the group gathered in the shaded arcade. Philandros sat on a couch with a scroll spread across his lap, and his eyes wandered from the text to where he could see Olaf and Titus wrangling; the German was highly frustrated, and the Roman was doing his best to keep the blond calm and focussed on their task at hand--the writing of Olaf's story of slavery and freedom.

Eirik, Olaf's father had suggested the idea when they visited him at Villa Rufiana the day before...and it had occurred to Titus that the idea might be a good one, at least until Eirik produced some myths for them to sell in Pallas' shop. Since work had started on improving the shop itself, the place was too busy and noisy for any creative activity, and both Titus and Giton's apartments were too small, Olaf had asked Philandros if they could use his garden--and the Greek had agreed at once. Philandros felt that he owed the boy far more than the use of his garden--since Olaf had proven his value many times over when he had been Philandros' slave.

A loud bang and a stream of curses in Olaf's native tongue caused Philandros to chuckle, and he set his book aside. He took a cup of wine over to the boy, and urged him to take a drink, and rubbed the massive shoulders gently. "What's the problem, Olaf?"

The blond rubbed his hand where he had banged it on the table, and growled. "I know what I want to say--I can hear the words in my head--but I can't put them into Latin!" More grumbles came from the boy before he could continue in a calmer tone. "Such a stupid language...it doesn't even rhyme!"

Titus showed Philandros the tablets he had been working on...there were many signs of rubbing out, but only a few lines of actual text. "The boy can organise the events, but he doesn't know the proper words to describe them...he lapses into his own tongue, and I can't follow it at all!"

Philandros persuaded Olaf to try telling him part of the story, first in Latin, and then in his northern dialect, but finally had to shake his head. "I know you've taught me a bit of your language, but I just can't follow that either....Let's have some lunch, and maybe we can get further afterwards!" He motioned for Phobos to see when lunch would be ready, and the boy soon returned with Archelaus the steward in tow.

"Dinner will be just a few minutes, sir...Corinna is planning a nice lamb with sauce. I assume that your guests are staying?"

Just then, Deimos entered with Pallas coming behind him, excited and smiling. When he saw Titus scowling face, and the scattered tablets, he went over and shyly gave his lover a hug. Titus sighed and gave the Greek a stronger hug, and pulled the boy's face down within kissing range. Pallas blushed redder than the cloth on Philandros' couch.

"I don't suppose, my evening star, that somewhere in that pretty head of yours, you have learnt any northern languages like Olaf's?"

The Greek looked at the blond with a rueful grin. "I take it that he can't tell you what he really wants to--and you can't read minds?" Titus grabbed the boy's hand and pulled him closer so he could cuff his ears, then kiss him again.

"No...and we can't have a new story unless I can find someone who can speak to him in his own tongue!"

A quiet cough came from the doorway, where Archelaus had been waiting to see how many there would be for the mid-day meal. All eyes turned to him, expressing anything from curiosity to hope. The old man gave a small smile and his voice broke the tense silence which had begun to fill the room.

"If I may, sir...I can speak Gallic, and one or two of the Germanic dialects; you may have forgotten with all the events of the past year or two, but I was asked to help Olaf learn Latin...."