Chapter 35The forest was grey with morning mist. Icicles dangled from the laurel boughs. The ragged mass of humans had formed a ring as though for one of their savage contests of strength. In the middle of the circle stood the gnarled stump on an olive tree.
Turnus had his foot on the stump, doing lunges. Then he shifted his weight from foot to foot like a spry mountain goat. He puffed out, seeing his breath, warm and vital.
At the back of the crowd, unnoticed by any, stood a crone and an old greybeard. About three cubits apart, not touching. Their faces were lined, their cheeks hollow. Strands of white hair straggled in the breeze. They huddled in their black cloaks, each bent under a terrible weight. None of these mortals could ever comprehend the wounds they carried.
They watched as
