He was sound of stature.
He was still keen of ear, and ate and drank as freely as any rash
youth. He suffered no impairment of bone, limb, or mind, and had
suffered no ailment since the day of his birth.
His eye was not dim, nor his natural force abated, and he craved a good
physical match or a hard bet as much as any man 500 years his junior.
It was morning, and Nelatha labored steadily beside Si'Wren. Nelatha
had been originally sold into slavery at birth for the unfortunate
offense of having been a firstborn female, and her first owner had been
fond of tatoos and ritual scars, of which Nelatha had received many all
over her body.
Nelatha was accustomed to making no little ado of her mere five years
seniority over Si'Wren, though not in an unkindly way. Nelatha's limbs
were tireless and unfailing, for she was a large woman of short stature
and powerful girth. The plenteous flesh of her upper arms rippled to an
odd meter as she worked, grinding successful handfuls of spices and
herbs in the stone pestle and mortise, to be portioned out into equal
shares for each lot of balm.
The balm was made with fresh olive oil, pressed and drained out of a
great wooden casement and ram located in the back yard of the compound.
The ram was comprised of a flat, wheel-like lid, with many heavy stones
laid on over the top of the lid by two powerful male slaves, crushing
it down onto the open-topped barrel of olives.
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