Sunlight dappled skin through the leaves of the olive tree growing in the middle of the ruined temple. Cassandra perched atop a fallen, cracked block of marble, two thick books resting in her lap. Two days remained in the semester before she had to go home.
Her spot was silent and heavy with the weight of centuries. Across the rural amphitheater, the students' cottage stood white and gray atop a hill. Just beyond, the small complex of old, mostly makeshift buildings hid behind the hills as if to keep the present from intruding on the past. Across the clear, soft air floated a series of chimes from the headmaster's grandfather clock, the most expensive piece of furniture in the whole complex.
Two professors appeared on the top of the hill and walked down toward a smattering of students seated on various broken pillars at the other end of the amphitheater. One had a stack of papers in his hands that fluttered with the ends of his suit jacket.
Cassandra watched the class hail the professor, quick greetings in silence, sounds drowned by distance. Watched books flick open. She opened her own book, running her fingers over pages soft with use.
She'd taken Professor Junian's class two semesters ago, and she would never forget it. Never forget the moment of recognition and understanding that passed between them when she took up a whole extra broken pillar—the only seats in his class; he would only conduct class outside amidst the ruins—with her stack of musty old books from her father's library.
Her father. Cassandra closed her book gently. She would see him again in just a couple of days. last communication had been full of quiet joy at the prospect of seeing her again.
But to see him again would mean leaving the dappled sunlight, just out of range of Junian's voice, the bubble of quiet and peace that she had consecrated with many frustrated tears.
"You're likely tired and homesick," Junian had announced, that first day of class. "Welcome to Rome. Fatigue is no excuse. We will begin with Julius Caesar."
After the first week, Cassandra found that the reading—the man was insane; he could read a hundred pages in an hour and expected his students to do the same—filled the gaps in her mind as she struggled to settle in. She didn't have time to think about the empty spot at the table back home.
Cassandra ruffled the pages of her books between her fingers, letting the familiar musty scent of the pages, tinged with spilled coffee, waft upward. The first time she'd ever smelled the uniquely powerful scent of a book out of print for twenty years had been in Junian's class. He'd handed her his copy of the textbook to look over.
"Try the used bookshops. It's been out of print for decades."
It was fall, and the crisp wet smell in the air had mingled with the musty pages and something else—smoke, maybe—and Cassandra had gasped and Junian had laughed, or as close as he came to laughing, which was a slight crease around the eyes.
"I think you're going to enjoy this class."
Across the amphitheater, Professor Fitzgerald wandered toward her office, carrying a metal washtub full of books. She met Cassandra's eye and winked.
Cassandra closed her eyes. As a sophomore she'd been caught out past curfew, beneath the same olive tree she sat under now. She'd been trying to catch up on her reading all afternoon and the sun had gone down on her. Somewhere between the sun going down and the moon coming up, she'd stopped reading for duty and lost herself in the ancient words. Tears streaked beneath her chin as she read.
"What are you doing?"
Cassandra could still hear Professor Fitzgerald's voice as though she were standing right there. She remembered the guilty look, the twist in her stomach, the pressure of the older woman's hand on her shoulder.
"Oh. The poets. How are you liking them?"
Cassandra had looked up, sniffling, and Professor Fitzgerald had given her a pat and a wink and a tissue and moved on, leaving her to the beautiful words that drowned her in meaning.
Beneath the olive tree, Cassandra pulled her feet up onto the block she was sitting on and hugged her books and knees to her chest as if holding onto them would help her hold onto the moments. The voices of the students and the quiet chirps of the birds and the rustle of the grass in the breeze felt far away and muffled, and Cassandra filled with an aching consciousness that she was not going to come back for a long time. Possibly never.
Already the edges on her memories blurred, melting into each other. The things she vowed to never forget had dropped out of her head years ago, replaced by the words of Homer and Cato. Her first love—puppy love, as it turned out—was hardly a shape in her imagination, no matter how hard she tried to recover him.
Cassandra put her chin down on top of her knees and pressed her lips together, trying not to cry. A small flock of students crested the hill on the other side of the amphitheater, dressed in full graduation regalia. They made for the remains of the temple in the center of the amphitheater. One carted a huge, heavy camera.
Cassandra never saw things like that at home. But now she had to leave.
A wave of sadness crested over Cassandra's head as she perched. Images of her apartment, half-packed, full of carefully stacked boxes, walls full of pinholes, flashed through her mind. For a moment she wondered how much it would cost to get those boxes home.
But...she was home. This little school, nestled among broken ruins, full of people and places that had become dearer to her than her family and childhood friends—
Junian's class finished and he gathered his materials, tucking papers into his suit jacket. He looked across the amphitheater and caught Cassandra's eye. Bidding farewell to the last student to leave, he strode across the space toward her.
"Heading home soon?"
Cassandra gave a tiny nod.
"Good. Best of luck over the summer."
"Thank you," Cassandra said, and that was that. Junian walked away. Halfway across the amphitheater he joined another pair of professors, and the three walked amiably together across the rest of the space, their words lost to the distance and the sky.
Once again Cassandra felt very small in the face of an immense stretch of time and change. Nothing would ever be the same after the summer, she felt. Nothing could recapture the magic of finding herself here in Rome. She put her head down and let herself cry for a while.
When she had cried all she could, the shade had deepened and she sat in near-twilight. She took a deep breath. She felt a little lighter, a little more at ease. There would be more, she could feel it. But it was enough.
Hugging her books to her chest, Cassandra left the shade of the olive tree and walked toward home.
