Daria let her limbs float loosely in the warm pool of the hot springs’ final natural terrace above the river. She let her mind drift as her gaze wandered from the first evening stars to the torchlight all around the Rocca, the terrible fortress high above the far side of the river below. When dark came completely, she would reclaim her tunic, cloak, pack and stave. She would descend to the forest-shrouded ford below. The colors of the painted caravan in the woods would not be visible, but the travelers had brought her friend Giuditta accompanied by her venerable father Solomone. The three of them would take the trail up toward the hamlet that crouched under the high fortress. The moonless night would keep secret their arrival at Daria’s home in the village beyond. Castiglion, its stone walls and ancient cypresses encircling its crowning castle, empty tonight but for the servants, would turn a blind eye to her guests. There was little risk.
Warm from her bath and nearly invisible in her gray green hooded cloak, Daria forded the river soundlessly and followed the sound of quiet laughter to the banked camp fire’s glow. Stefano, the young leader of the troupe, tensed as she stepped into view and then he relaxed and smiled a greeting.
“Salve, Daria,” he said softly. “You are still safe from the Lombardi?”
“They pay me no heed as yet,” she answered. “Giuditta and her father are ready?”
“We are,” Giuditta piped up and arose from her place among the women by the fire, hefting a sack over her shoulder. Solomone stepped out of the shadow of the caravan and embraced Daria in silence. He had aged so, but he did not lean too heavily on his tall stave. They would be able to climb past the Rocca in good time.
Whispered good wishes and farewells saw them out of Stefano’s camp and it was soon out of sight in the woods as they wended their way up the trail. Ancient olive trees clinging to the steep rise screened them from the sight of any soldiers who might be awake and outside the ring of torch lights. Boulders above the trees became their shields as they passed. The only soul stirring was the smith at the edge of the village, but not only was Checco her friend, he was too busy sweating at his stoked forge to notice their passing. The smith had orders to fill. But Daria’s dark gray cat had waited in the warmth of the workshop’s doorway for her and bounded ahead toward the short passageway where the entrance to their shared home was the only thing between him and a long anticipated meal before curling up at the foot of her bed.
Daria could see the exhaustion on Solomone’s face and even Giuditta had been unusually quiet on the trail. Having lit the fires and offered bread, cheese, wine and water to them before leading them to her guestroom, Daria prepared a hot sage tea to stem the sweat she had worked up on the climb. She kicked off her good leather boots in favor of soft slippers and carried the tea up to her chambers where she stripped off her tunic, washed from a basin of chamomile scented water, and fell into bed after opening her shutters to the starlight. Sleep came fast on the heels of the night sounds, the owls and crickets and Argentino’s deep-throated purr.
