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The Scent of Hyacinth: Seven Kings of Rome Novels
The Scent of Hyacinth: Seven Kings of Rome Novels
The Scent of Hyacinth: Seven Kings of Rome Novels
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The Scent of Hyacinth: Seven Kings of Rome Novels

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The Scent of Hyacinth weaves a romantic adventure around the legend of Numa Pompilius, Rome's second king, and a water nymph named Egeria. Tradition ran that Egeria was the mistress of wise King Numa, that he consorted with her in the secrecy of a sacred grove, and that the laws which he gave the Romans were inspired by communion with her divinity.

Prima, the daughter of assassinated King Romulus, holds precariously onto the reins of power and survives the dangerous machinations of ambitious senators only by advancing her friend Numa Pompilius to the heights of government.

Numa, whose training as a religious scholar intensifies his innate distaste for politics, decries the intrigues and power plays that accost him in Rome. With divine advice from his mistress, this gentle lawgiver brings an end to war and institutes the priesthood, augurs and vestals for the rough-edged Romans.

The language is rich with specificity of details, rhythm and sound in this lovely yet disturbing rendering of a very distant Roman era. The author seems to know this story so well and the setting so precisely, that it doesnt seem researched at all. As a writer, Ms. Goff inhabits her setting as if she had lived there in a previous life. Whats more, it doesnt come across as a historical or genre novel, but pure literature that uses sophisticated fictional elements to render a story that holds themes to which contemporary readers can relate. Brilliantly accomplished! - Writer's Digest Book Awards

LanguageEnglish
PublisheriUniverse
Release dateMar 13, 2005
ISBN9780595791286
The Scent of Hyacinth: Seven Kings of Rome Novels
Author

Sherrie Seibert Goff

Sherrie Seibert Goff currently lives in Idaho with her husband Stiofain. She has published four books in a series subtitled Seven Kings of Rome Novels. Her rousing tales set in early Romes regal period are known for their in-depth research and historical imagination. Visit the author at www.sherrieseibertgoff.com.

Read more from Sherrie Seibert Goff

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    The Scent of Hyacinth - Sherrie Seibert Goff

    Copyright © 2005 by Sherrie Seibert Goff

    All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

    iUniverse books may be ordered through booksellers or by contacting:

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    ISBN: 0-595-34361-9

    ISBN: 978-0-5957-9128-6 (ebk)

    Printed in the United States of America

    Contents

    P A R T I

    P A R T II

    P A R T Ill

    P A R T IV

    P A R T V

    Author’s Note

    Seven Kings of Rome Series

    For My Parents Wayne & Hazel Seibert With Gratitude and Love

    P A R T I  

    CHILDREN OF THE OAK

    THE WOODCUTTER’S TALE

    1     

    They returned past supper time, puffed up, bragging and drunk. My mother laid her mending down on the hearth stool and stirred up the dying fire to reheat her stew.

    When Caius stomped his dusty feet and dropped his hunting net and weapons in the middle of the floor, my mother bent to gather up the heavy gear. I started to help her carry the spears and hunting packs out to the storeroom, when Caius kicked the rucksack out of my grasp and forced a huge belch.

    I hesitated, and he laughed meanly. You don’t want to see what’s in that poke, boy.

    I picked up the shepherd’s sling and glared at my stepbrother. Dead critters, no doubt.

    Caius reached into the bag, pulled out two bloody wolf ears and tossed them at my narrow chest. I couldn’t help flinching. My recoil made my stepfather howl with derision. The old man grabbed my tunic and growled his fetid breath in my face, calling my mother to see what a puling milksop she’d raised. Caius’ attempt to make merry had caught the full attention of his father, a development that I knew would only encourage my stepbrother’s efforts to make game of me. Indeed, my stepbrother snatched at the tail of his stained hunting net and tried to toss it over my head.

    I kicked and screamed for him to get the bloody thing off me.

    My stepfather gave me a shake and hissed. Where’s your sport, boy?

    My mother’s face looked taut and strained. Caius, have you nothing better to do than pester your little brother? When Caius simply laughed at her, she appealed to Ambrosius. If you’d deal with your son, we might enjoy peace in this house for one night.

    The old man got to his feet and swayed. Look to the little brother for your troubles, woman. He let go my tunic and shoved me towards her. Your precious Marcus is a crybaby. Your poor dead husband, may he feast with the gods, would weep bitterly at the sight of him.

    Mama trembled at my shame and for once could not contain herself. Lucius was always proud of his son. The only thing he’d weep at is the sight of me in the bed of a drunk and his beloved vineyard in your lazy hands.

    Ambrosius’ big fist shot out to punish, but my mother dodged the blow, grabbed me and rushed us out to the stable yard. Curses and shouts sounded from the house, upsetting the animals. Then we heard a loud crash, and my mother moaned, wondering what valued possession of hers he had smashed.

    The shouting and ranting continued as we slipped away into the beech forest behind the house. The cool breezes soughed through the treetops, and the long grasses felt damp underfoot. Mama paused with a trembling hand on my shoulder.

    She knelt by my side and whispered, Listen to me, my son. Your father would have been very, very proud of you, and don’t ever let anyone tell you different. She kissed my forehead, and I felt damp tears on her cheek. She said, You must stay brave, young Marcus Virbius Robur, and know that your father loved you with all his heart.

    One of my earliest memories of the man Ambrosius Nigidius Milo had been at my father’s funeral. It seemed no decent interval before he and his oafish son were moving in and taking over our vineyard and animals. I had cried when Mama told me she would marry Ambrosius, that awful man with coarse hair, big bones, great devouring square jaw and sullen features.

    From that day forward, Ambrosius’ whelp took to ordering me about, a thing I took in bad part. Though neighbors called me Robur after the mighty oak, Caius found my very name a reason for derision. Bent on remaining the only son who shined in his father’s eyes, Caius always belittled me to his father. When Caius was cruel, my mother would comfort me in secret, assuring me that, though I was still small and maybe not so strong, I was a sight handsomer and more clever than my older stepbrother.

    I had the looks of my father, with straight, nut-brown hair and umber eyes, sharp features and slim limbs. To haul the wood, I needed donkey and cart. To lift water bucket from the well, I needed help. Knocked about too easily feeding the pigs in their crib, I bore the bitter knowledge that my mother was forced to remarry because my callow attempts to take over my father’s work had fallen short.

    Even Ambrosius had judged me unmanly that day when he and his son went out with the men of Aricia hunting wolves. It was an annual springtime custom of the locals to search out the wolf dens and kill all the newborn cubs in their dugouts, but I had cringed at home with Mother, pitying the forest creatures.

    We heard the door to the house slam back against the bench, surely loosening the hinge. Ambrosius stumbled out to the porch. He paused to piss, then bellowed, Orbiana, where are you? Wife!

    Mama pushed me along the path and whispered, Go! Run to Carmenta’s and ask her if you can sleep in her crib with the goat. Stay there all night; then come back and help me with the vines in the morning.

    I stared at her, wondering if she were going to return home to my stepfather.

    Go! Now! Obey me, Marcus. Quickly.

    I ran up through the dark woods and along a moonlit ridge, then slid down the brush-filled draw to the old wise-woman’s hut. As I pushed through the hedgerow and stumbled into her yard, Carmenta’s she-goat started up a panicked bleating that brought the household awake.

    The next morning, after a warm bowl of kind Carmenta’s gruel, I set off for our vineyard to help with the thinning of blossoms and tying of vines. Mother was there already working with her shears and nippers to train the tendrils and thin and shape the clustered grape blossoms.

    Marcus, run to the house and grab a crust of bread before your stepfather wakes. Step quietly. He and Caius are still slugabeds.

    I already ate the wise woman’s porridge, Mama.

    She nodded. Good boy. Mother seemed disheartened, and she moved stiffly. As we worked the row, tying and cutting, my mother fell silent, occasionally pointing to a wayward vine I had missed or something she wanted done, but saying little to me.

    Even so, I enjoyed our time working alone, without Ambrosius and Caius around. As the morning progressed and the sun rose higher to warm our cheeks and dry the damp grape leaves, I sensed that the task at hand soothed my mother’s troubled spirit and lifted her melancholy heart. My mother and I still shared my late father’s pride in the Robur vineyard and drew immense satisfaction from our labors, from the spring cleaning of the vineyard all the way to the harvesting, pressing and special aging that produced the fine earthy wines of Ari-cia.

    Later that morning, Ambrosius and his foot-dragging son came out to stare at the grapevines we had finished. Caius looked as though he had slept in his clothes. Mother acknowledged them with a nod and kept working, her nimble fingers moving rapidly through the vines.

    Ambrosius shaded his eyes and studied the sky to gauge the heat of the day. Orbiana, don’t you think the sun’s getting a might high for this? What say we go in for lunch and get another start in the afternoon shade?

    Caius rubbed his bleary eyes. Better yet, an early start tomorrow morning.

    Mama sighed and brushed back her light-brown hair. Just let me finish this row. I’ll be in shortly.

    Ambrosius winked at her and tweaked her bottom fondly before turning on his heel and heading back to the house.

    I said loudly to Mama, Father never stopped until the vines were done.

    My stepbrother raised a backhand full of starting sinews and iron muscles to threaten me, but didn’t follow through. At my mother’s sharp look, he flipped his arm up, chucking me under the chin and making me bite my tongue. Your father no longer runs this place, smart-mouth.

    I shot back at him, Sluggard. Loafer. Idle drunk. Mama grabbed my shoulder and gave it a little shake to silence me. Out by the well, Mother and I washed the green smell and hue from our hands and scraped the moist dirt clods from our sandals. She went in to feed the men, taking a full pot of well water with her, for men are always thirsty after a night of drunkenness.

    I lingered on the porch and listened to Mama set out a loaf of her golden crusty bread and a wooden plate of goat’s cheese and olives for the men.

    Orbiana, Ambrosius roared. Where’s that puling son of yours?

    Doing some chores, she lied.

    I got up and started to creep away from the door, but Caius was on me in an instant. Laughing at my plight, he caught me by the ear and ran me into the house. Here’s the milksop, he said, shoving me at his father’s feet.

    My stepfather had pulled off his huge sweat-stained sandals and was rubbing his foot. I thought, he’ll probably eat with those stinky hands, too.

    Ambrosius noticed my wrinkled up nose, and his eyes flashed. Your son’s a weak stick. If his father were alive, he’d resent your coddling him. By Jove! He’d resent me even more, being the man in his house and not training his son to the proper course.

    Mama pulled me up by the arm and said, We already talked about this last night, if you remember, husband. She glared at him meaningfully. Come, sit down and eat now.

    Fetch me some ale from the cistern.

    My mother looked at him in dismay. I’ve got cool well water to thin your morning wine. You know we must be early to bed tonight, with much pruning to do and many young vines still untrained to the stake.

    Ambrosius grunted in acceptance. My stepfather ripped off a hunk of bread and dipped it in olive oil. He sighed heavily and rubbed his forehead with the palm of his huge paw. Orbiana, fetch me some of that headache powder. When she didn’t move, he opened one eye and looked at her.

    I’m sorry. I used it last moon and haven’t had time…Marcus will run over to the wise-woman’s and fetch some more.

    Ambrosius slammed his fist down hard enough to make the table jump. Well, why’d you let our supply deplete, woman? You should always keep remedies on hand, lest one of us suffer the lack.

    I saw tears of frustration start to my mother’s eyes, but was too young then to realize that her anguish sprang from the abuse she had suffered in bed the previous night at the hands of Ambrosius Nigidius Milo.

    My mother’s too busy working on the vines, I defended.

    Ambrosius’ eyes glittered with hatred at my rebuke.

    Caius carped, Meaning what, little blowhard? I didn’t see you doing your part, with the rest of us out dispatching vile wolves and pesky varmints for the good of the neighborhood.

    Marcus is too young for hunting, Mama reminded.

    Ambrosius tipped up the water jug and swallowed in long thirsty gulps. He’ll have to learn, Orbiana. Mars’ boots, wife! Hard as you try to fight against it, Marcus must become a man if he wants to eat and survive in this world.

    Caius threw back his head and guffawed at the rafters. Never happen, he said. Couldn’t even get him to kill that stringy goat for your wedding supper, Pa.

    The old man threw down his bread and smirked at me in disgust. Then a slow smile crept across my stepfather’s big jaw. Ambrosius caught his son’s eye and said to me, Go, fetch your Mus, boy.

    I froze in trepidation. Mus was the tamed mouse I kept in a lidded basket. I had made her a little bed and every day fed her bits of cheese and bread and a leaf full of water.

    When I said nothing, he roared, Go!

    I glanced at Mother, my mind racing frantically. But Caius read my thoughts, for he dashed from the house and reached the shed where I kept little Mus before I could move a muscle. Laughing, my stepbrother presented Mus’s basket like a gift to his father, then sat down on the hearth stool and leaned back against the wall.

    My stepfather said carefully, Now, boy, I want you to take that verminous animal and drown it in this water jug before it has a hundred babies in our grain store.

    Mother threw down her ladle. Dear Gods! Is this necessary, husband?

    Ambrosius plucked a small bowl off the table and clanked it down as a lid for the jar. And no tricks, or I’ll thrash you within a hair of your life. He shoved Mama aside with a back-sweep of his muscular arm. You’ll thank me for this someday, Marcus.

    Caius giggled hysterically.

    Ambrosius shot his son a reproving look. The big man softened his voice, trying to be persuasive. Come! Do this for me, and I’ll reward you with a new hunting bow of your own, son.

    No! I won’t.

    If I have to do it, you’ll not get the bow, he warned.

    I don’t want the bow, I sobbed. Mother,…?

    Keep back, wife!

    My mother hesitated, wringing her hands, while I repeatedly refused to do what this cruel man asked of me.

    I could tell the precise moment when his patience reached its end. My heart began to pound in my ears. He lifted the lid a bit to peep inside, then jammed his huge paw under it and poked around inside Mus’s basket. There was a lot of scraping about and scuffling noises, and I stopped breathing. When I heard a high-pitched squealing, blinding tears welled from my eyes. Ambrosius pulled out his big fist and tossed Mus into the water jug, slamming the bowl down on top of her.

    I screamed, Swim, Mus! Swim! while the two men bellowed with laughter.

    Ambrosius was saying, You’ll stand there and watch, Marcus, if it takes all day for this vermin to drown. My senses swirled in anguish.

    Earlier Mother had left her pruning tools on the bench for Caius to sharpen. I barely remember grabbing the shears and screaming, Noooo!

    I rushed across the room with upraised shears intending to kill Ambrosius if the gods would allow. Hooting with glee, Caius shot out his crusty feet to trip me. I plummeted forward into my stepfather’s lap.

    His knee knocked the wind out of me, and the pruners plunged down with all the force of my fall, embedding themselves in my stepfather’s thigh. Ambrosius howled with pain and threw me against the wall.

    For a moment, I couldn’t rise. I heard the old man screaming, Caius, do something. Orbiana!

    The two of them dithered in horror about the wounded man. My breath would not come, but all I could see was little Mus drowning in her dark prison. I struggled to my feet, but my legs buckled. Gasping for air, I forced myself up and staggered to the table. My back hurt as if something were broken. I grabbed the water jug in my arms and stumbled blindly towards the door.

    Caius made a grab for me, but was distracted by the yowling of his father.

    When I reached the shed, hot tears began to flow. I quickly dumped out the water to rescue my pet. He had fooled me. There was no mouse in the jug. Terrified at what I had done to Ambrosius, I had no courage to go back to look for Mus.

    I screamed in rage and threw the vessel to smash against the side of the house.

    Sometime during that afternoon, I found myself near Carmenta’s dwelling. The wise-woman’s girl saw me sitting on a rock, weeping, and called Carmenta out to see to me.

    That was the first day I really noticed little Egeria—a girl my own age, slim as a fawn, with wild, dark hair and sable eyes, large and kind.

    Coming up the dusty path and finding me with wounded heart, she had stamped her bare, tanned foot and, with hand on her hip, demanded, What have those blasted Milos done to you now, Robur?

    I was so heartsick, I could not speak. The old woman hobbled up the path and took hold of my hand. She said nothing, just clucked her tongue, gave my narrow shoulders a squeeze and led me back down to her musty old house.

    Egeria skipped along behind me, chattering about the birds who had built a nest in the big apple tree in their garden. We sat on the porch, and the old woman put the two of us to shelling big flat beans, while she milked the she-goat.

    Carmenta’s timeworn house was an ancient pastoral dwelling, a one-room oval-shaped hut with a steep roof and overhanging eaves. The openings beneath the roof let in a goodly amount of light and permitted the escape of smoke. Age-old foundations of volcanic stone rose a foot above the ground, and the walls were of sturdy wooden frame covered with sun-dried daub, the lintel and porch of heavy oak.

    Beside the tumbled-down stall lay a well and, closer to the house, a cistern for catching rainwater. The large flat yard in front was planted with aromatic beds of tender vegetables and young herbs enclosed by a hedgerow of laurels and protected by the surrounding stand of trees.

    The old wise-woman gave us each a fourth-cup of milk. Boy, looks like you’ve had another long-faced day.

    Instantly, I felt ashamed at having left Mama to fend off the Milos alone. But I was too small to help her once again. If truth be told, I was the cause of most of her troubles.

    I thought of my mouse and railed, He’s probably killed her by now.

    Bona Dea, where is your mother?

    I had to leave ‘em both there. Mama and Mus, my pet mouse. I wiped my eyes and explained, He tried to drown my mouse.

    Instantly, young Egeria was upset. Those evil, evil Milos. Bring Mus to me. I’ll take care of her for you.

    I nodded my gratitude. I shall. If Mus is still alive. Sweet Egeria looked as though she would cry with me.

    The old woman clucked her tongue. Your Ma may be wondering where you are, boy. Maybe you should trot on home soon. Bring Mus over to Egeria tomorrow. She has a hundred pets of her own. Egeria danced with delight, and I dared to hope I had found a safe haven in which to keep little Mus.

    Then my spirits fell again. But I can’t go home, I admitted. I took a pruning tool after my stepfather and hurt his leg badly. I’m sure he’ll beat the life out of me.

    Oh, dear! Carmenta struggled to her feet, groaning with the effort. Why didn’t you tell me? Fetch my medicine sack, girl.

    I must have looked ready to bolt, for the old wise-woman squeezed my shoulder and said, I’ll not let him beat you, boy. We’ll say it was you came here to fetch my medicine to help the old scoundrel and that you’re very, very sorry.

    2     

    Ambrosius roared at Carmenta’s attempts to clean his wound. Must you aggravate my injury, old witch? Just wrap it and give me something for pain.

    The old woman barely concealed the contempt on her face. Sir, do you want my skills or not?

    Ambrosius’ thigh had begun to bleed freely at Carmenta’s chafing. He muttered, Clumsy crone. Now see, blood all over Orbiana’s bed woolens.

    The old midwife pressed a cloth soaked with dark astringent wine over my stepfather’s wound. She turned to instruct my mother while she waited for his bleeding to subside. The rest of us hung about near the doorway.

    You’ll need some broad bandages. On the wound itself a compress anointed with white salve, Carmenta advised. Change the dressing every other day. Keep your husband at rest and on a light diet. Also, fetch a sheepskin to spread under your man’s leg, to make free course for discharges.

    The healer woman lifted the compress to check the bleeding. Egeria, girl. Come here. Take Marcus and go back home to fetch me that basket of yarrow.

    At mention of my name, Ambrosius’ look skewered me like a spear. Nay. That boy goes nowhere.

    Carmenta said, I’ll not have my tender girl traipsing the woods alone, sir.

    Then send Caius with her.

    Hah! Carmenta looked my stepbrother up and down. My girl would be safer alone, I fear. Caius growled at her insult.

    I’ll not be done with your leg ‘til I get that yarrow, so let the children fetch it for us. The old medicine woman pressed on Ambrosius’ wound until he cried out.

    Mother shooed me and Egeria off on our errand. The two of us fled straight to the shed to search for Mus. We came upon her basket upended in the corner woodpile, but my whiskery little pet was nowhere to be found. We rooted carefully through the stack of wood and searched the far corners of the dusty shed, checking under tools and tarps and musty straw. My heart beat heavy with grief. I stifled a sneeze and sat down on an old milk-stool with my chin in my hands.

    Egeria jumped in surprise. Caius, peering around the door jamb, expelled a burst of derisive laughter. I knew better than to ask him about Mus and took Egeria by the hand and ran past him towards the forest path.

    He yelled at me, If you’re looking for Mus, I threw her in the fire.

    I told Egeria he was lying and to pay no heed, as we hadn’t had a fire that day.

    When we reached the hilltop, Egeria stopped running and tripped merrily along the path behind me. Do you think that oaf will follow us?

    I hope not. I turned to peer down the trail, but saw nothing moving among the trees.

    Egeria picked up a switch and beat the dusty path with it as she walked. I hate that big bully.

    When we reached the shade of her porch, I plopped down on Carmenta’s bench and wished I could stay there forever and never return home. Egeria removed the barring twig that Carmenta had threaded through the holes in her rough-cut door posts, and went on into the cool, dark recesses of their hut.

    Shortly, I heard her call to me. Can you see the nest up high in the apple tree? We have three baby birdies there this spring.

    I shaded my eyes and searched among the old blossom-laden branches until I spied a darkened clump of twigs. Aye, I said with little enthusiasm.

    I rested my elbows on my knees and with chin in hand bemoaned my unhappy life. Wishing my father still alive more that anything in the entire world, I barely noticed sweet Egeria had come to sit quietly beside me. She shaded her eyes and admired the tree, pointing out the promising signs of fruits among the white blossoms and tender green leaves.

    Trying to cheer me, my new friend said, I think Mus probably escaped and is hiding under the floorboards or in one of your mother’s baskets.

    Or she could be dead and tossed to rot in the kitchen midden.

    Egeria frowned. Ask your mother.

    Oh, I shall. I just wish I didn’t have to go home, ever. Perhaps I should run away.

    But that might break your mother’s heart, she said wisely. She swatted at a pestering fly, and the sunshine through the leaves dappled her face with shadows.

    Suddenly her eyes widened and I followed her gaze. Oh, no.

    Caius came clumping down the trail towards the house and saw us sitting on the bench. Why are you children dawdling?

    He looked past me to Egeria and smiled. The healer woman needs what she sent you for. Come, I’ll help you fetch it.

    He reached out to Egeria to pull her up. The girl cringed and slapped at his hand, scrambling away. I’ll get it myself. Stay out here.

    When Egeria disappeared into the shadows of her home, Caius kicked at my feet. What’ve you been telling her about me, Robur?

    Nothing, I said, rubbing my sandaled foot. I thought to myself, she loathes you of her own accord.

    Egeria emerged with a herb hamper full of feathery, delicate fronds topped by tiny, white flower heads. Caius tried to take the basket from her, but she resisted. He clucked his tongue and scolded, I can carry it for you, little maid. He smiled at Egeria with more charm than I have ever seen in the oaf.

    She made no reply, but relinquished Carmenta’s yarrow to him. Caius shifted the basket under his other arm and took hold of Egeria’s hand. Laughing over his shoulder at me, he called, Come, Robur! Your punishment awaits.

    We were not out of Carmenta’s glade before Egeria pulled her hand away from my stepbrother’s big fist. He made a grab for her, as though fearing her escape. Egeria evaded him and took hold of my hand instead, glaring at Caius with hatred.

    Hah! You’re a spicy little maid. And pretty, too. He put a grimy finger under Egeria’s chin and smiled warmly. I don’t know what my little stepbrother’s told you, sweet girl, but I’m really a friendly chap.

    Egeria twisted her chin out of his grasp and spat in the dirt. Her dark eyes flashed dangerously.

    Caius curled up his fat lip and growled. Then he kicked at my sandals again to goad us up the steep trail.

    The next day, Mama kept me pulling weeds from sunup to sundown in her vegetable garden. The day after that, she sent me out to weed the vineyard, anywhere far from Ambrosius’ sight. Soon enough Ambrosius would be up and about, and my delayed punishment would descend like the Furies on me.

    One morning, Carmenta hobbled down the trail towards our house, using Egeria’s shoulder for a crutch. I tossed down my trowel, wiped the sweat from my face, and headed in from the vines to greet my friend and grab a noontime bite to eat. I dipped a small bucket of brownish water from the cistern, washed the green stains and dirt from my blistered hands and rubbed my aching back.

    When I slipped quietly into the house, the wise woman and Egeria were tending to my stepfather.

    Carmenta comforted her suffering patient. Today, I’ve brought you some fresh flower-heads for a soothing tea. It’ll reduce the pain and swelling. Ambrosius groaned in agony as she unwrapped his thigh. The hair stood up on the back of my neck when I heard the old woman’s intake of breath at the sight of his wound. I crept across the room to the kitchen box where I could see Egeria and Carmenta at their task.

    Carmenta clucked her tongue and turned to my mother. ‘Tis grown red and angry. You should’ve sent for me yesterday."

    And friggin’ painful, Ambrosius yelled. Oww! Easy.

    How long’s it looked this bad?

    I’m not sure. He won’t let me touch it. Mama gave my stepfather a reproving look.

    My stepfather regarded the old woman with the desperate eyes of a frightened child and whined, My entire leg’s always cold, and there’s a dull ache that flares up if I try to move around or get up for a piss.

    Carmenta sucked her breath in through her remaining teeth. The gentleman’s wound is a dandy, Orbiana. Feel how the reddened area’s swollen and hard. Doesn’t seem to be draining well.

    Should we open the wound again? Mama asked.

    Ambrosius protested, Oh, no!

    Later I sat beside the low hearthfire and lost my appetite watching my mother and the healer woman soak more compresses in warm dark wine. The two women paused in their efforts and mopped their brows and commented about the day’s heat so early in spring. Carmenta whispered, Regards the weather, he’s lucky. Drought’s better than rain for deep wounds.

    Mama sighed. You shouldn’t climb that hill in this heat.

    The old midwife patted Mama’s arm. I had to come today for your husband’s sake, my dear. Usually the third or fourth day sees the tendency to inflammation and foulness in a wound.

    Well, I’ll fix you a bladder of cool water for your walk back. Egeria can carry home a loaf of fresh bread and some cheese for your supper tonight.

    The two of them filed back in to my stepfather with a bowl full of wool compresses and a stack of clean bandages.

    As Carmenta bathed my father’s thigh, she frowned and clucked her tongue. I’ll send Egeria over tomorrow with some horse thistle to dull his pain.

    The next morning Carmenta and Egeria both returned. The girl sought me out in the vineyard, bringing me a crust of bread from my mother at the house. I laid aside my shovel and sat with her under the big oak tree. A squirrel scampered down a branch and ventured across the ground to beg.

    Egeria piped, Hello, Sciura. Where’s your babies? The fluffy squirrel stood up on her hind legs, showing us her distended dugs, and twitched her tail. Egeria laughed, a sound as beautiful as a clean, babbling brook. I tossed a chunk of bread to the animal. Sciura snatched up the morsel, turned it around a few times in her paws then scampered around the tree trunk with her prize.

    I sighed and nodded towards the house. How’s he look today?

    Be at peace, Robur. Your punishment is not nigh. She smiled warmly at me, and her sweet beauty stabbed my heart. Suddenly, I felt a flush at her nearness, and an aching weakness flooded through

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