She knew from the snuffling, little Aris was fine tucked up in his furs, but she still had to look. With her husband, Vassilis, not yet back from the Plains of Fire, her nerves were frayed. The army had been victorious, but still the stragglers were coming home. Every time the hoplites went out, she was a tortured mess until Vassilis walked through the door and seated himself by the hearth. Without either of them needing to utter a word, she would tend his wounds and pour him wine. Any other man might have stopped off at a tavern to get drunk and boast of bloody deeds on the battlefield, but not her Vassilis. He’d learned his manners and his morals at the Academy. His duty was to his family first, and the city-state next. Anything that got in the way of either was dross and vanity, to his way of thinking. Aris stirred when she pulled his covers up, but he was soon lightly snoring once more. Eumelia turned down the oil lamp, leaving the alcove that served as the baby’s bedroom wreathed in flickering shadows from the hearth fire.
