springy Posted April 4, 2021 Share Posted April 4, 2021 Spring, 67 CE , Cumidava, Dacia Sometimes… he wondered. He wondered if his cousin did these things simply to annoy him and make his life more difficult. Of course, she didn’t. He knew that. But he also knew that she would fully realize how her headstrong and impetuous decisions so often wreaked havoc on his own affairs, and that Zia wouldn’t give a toss that they did. That was so her. An idea came into her head and it must be done, immediately. Tarbus wondered if age would ever soften her sharp edges, or bring wisdom to sit more easily with impulse. He seriously doubted that it would. Yet one should never give up hope. The days stretched long here, in Cumidava, and sat uneasily upon his shoulders. Nights were longer still, without the comforts – both of the body and the mind – that his sweet Docia brought to him so willingly and tenderly. He missed her. He missed their son, Duras, who had taken his first steps only weeks before this petulant move of his cousin. They passed word back and forth, regularly. And the distance between them was not great. But it felt like he might have passed into some other world, sequestered here to the north, forced into segregation by Zia’s wounded pride. Yet another night was already well on its way to claiming the clear sky above. Soon Bendis would begin her ascent, and her path would sparkle with stars in the high vault of the heavens. Inside the homes of the village, behind wattle and daub walls and under snug thatched roofs, oil lamps would be lit, before families readied to retire and sleep. Wooden shutters and doors would be closed against the lingering chill of late spring, and the fire pits would be carefully tended to make sure warmth lasted through the dark hours. Having seen to his horse already, Tarbus sighed inwardly and squared his already square shoulders, before pushing aside the leather flap that added an extra layer of insulation at the doorway. Four skinned and gutted hares he carried in one hand, tied by their feet with twine. In his other dully gleamed his knife, clean yet in need of sharpening, which he intend to do before he slept. Stepping inside he smelled meat roasted on a spit and other fare, seasoned with local herbs, such as dill, parsley, celery leaf, lovage and thyme. Salt mines right in the area provided an abundance of that precious commodity for all. He nodded at a servant who came forward to relieve him of the hares, asking, “Is your mistress returned?” With Zia, there was never any telling where she might be, or what she might be about, although nine times out of ten, the answer to both might be ‘making mischief, somehow.’ 1 1 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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