Work the fields

After breakfast the hall slowly emptied, villagers drifting off to their assigned tasks with the easy rhythm of long habit. Nereus lingered at the long table, turning the clay cup of watered wine between his palms while the fire crackled down to embers. Juno sat across from him, watching quietly.

“I’ve decided,” he said at last. “I’ll stay—at least until I’ve met your Lady Ziva in person. I want to understand what this place truly is before I choose to leave or remain.”

Juno’s smile was small but bright. “A fair answer. Many arrive curious and leave certain. We’ll see what the days do to you.” She rose and gestured toward the door. “Then come. Your first task begins today. The fields need hands.”

The sun had climbed well above the treetops by the time they reached the southern plots. A dozen villagers were already at work: some hoeing between rows of young barley, others thinning carrot tops, still others carrying water from the nearby stream in clay jars balanced on their shoulders. The air smelled of turned soil, crushed green stems, and the faint metallic tang of sweat.

A sturdy woman named Leda, broad-shouldered and sun-browned, handed Nereus a short-handled hoe and pointed him toward a long row of lentils that needed weeding. “Start here,” she said cheerfully. “Pull anything that doesn’t belong. Mind the roots—we want the lentils to thrive, not the intruders.”

Two younger women joined him soon after—Callia, with short-cropped auburn hair and freckles across her nose, and Thalia, taller, dark-haired, her linen shift already clinging damply to her curves from the morning’s labor. Both greeted him with frank, appraising smiles.

“You’re the new one Juno brought in,” Callia said, crouching beside him to tug a stubborn weed from the earth. Her arm brushed his deliberately as she worked. “Strong hands. Good. We can use those.”

Thalia laughed low in her throat, bending forward so the neckline of her tunic gaped enough to reveal the swell of her breasts and the shadow between them. “And the rest of you looks promising too. We’ll have to test how well you keep up.”

Nereus felt heat rise to his face but kept his eyes on the soil, yanking another weed free. “I’ve worked harder fields than this,” he said, voice steady. “I’ll manage.”

The morning passed in steady rhythm: bend, grasp, pull, toss the unwanted plant aside, move forward a step, repeat. The sun climbed; sweat darkened the linen at his back and chest. Callia and Thalia stayed close, their teasing never quite letting up.

Callia straightened once to stretch, arching her back so her breasts lifted against the thin fabric, nipples faintly visible through the damp cloth. “Gods, it’s hot already,” she murmured, then glanced sideways at him with a sly grin. “You’re not wilting yet, stranger. Impressive.”

Thalia, kneeling a few paces away, let her knees drift apart as she worked, the hem of her tunic riding high enough to flash the smooth skin of her inner thighs and the shadowed cleft between them. She caught him looking and winked. “Eyes on the lentils, Nereus. Unless you’d rather look somewhere else?”

He laughed despite himself—short, surprised—and shook his head. “I’m trying to earn my keep, not lose my focus.”

“Lose it a little,” Callia suggested, leaning close enough that he caught the warm scent of her skin mingled with crushed herbs. “We don’t mind distractions. In fact, we encourage them.”

By midday the heat pressed down like a hand. They paused beneath the shade of a lone olive tree to drink from a shared waterskin and eat bread, olives, and sharp cheese passed hand to hand. Callia sat close on one side, thigh pressed to his; Thalia on the other, her fingers brushing his arm whenever she reached for food. Their laughter came easily, their glances lingering. Neither touched him outright, yet the air between them crackled with invitation.

The afternoon brought more of the same: hoeing, weeding, carrying water jars to thirsty rows. His shoulders burned, his palms blistered where the handle rubbed, but the steady labor felt cleansing—honest in a way begging never had. The women’s flirting never ceased, a constant undercurrent of glances, light brushes, teasing remarks about his form, his stamina, the way sweat traced paths down his neck and chest.

When the sun finally dipped toward the western hills, Leda called an end to the day’s work. Nereus returned to the square aching in every muscle, dirt streaked across his arms and tunic, yet strangely content.