To my Dearest Festus

To my dearest Festus, health and fortune, from your loving wife Vesta,

Your letter reached me at last, and I held it as though it were your very hand upon mine. The children crowded close, all clamouring to hear your words, though only little Marcellus truly understands. Even Livilla, barely walking, pattered her chubby hands upon the wax tablet as if she could summon you forth from it. They miss you, as do I. Every day, they ask when you will return, and I tell them what comfort I can: that their father serves Rome and will return with honour. But oh, Festus, how long it feels!

Life here flows on, though never quite the same without you. My sister and I are each other’s refuge, and Mother, though frailer than before, watches over us with her sharp eyes and sharper tongue. The children keep her young, I think, though she would never admit it. She scolds me for letting them grow wild, but they are Romans, not little statues in the forum! Marcellus has taken to play-battles with his cousins, swinging his wooden sword and declaring himself a centurion like his father. He swears he will command a legion one day, and who am I to say no to such ambition? Even little Lucius, though barely four, follows behind him, demanding his own helmet of bronze.

The city is as you left it, always teeming, always loud. The smell of fresh bread from the baker on the corner mingles with the stench of the tanner’s shop down the street. The water sellers cry their wares, and the fruit vendor charges me more than you would approve of, but what can I do? Prices rise, and I must keep our table full. The boys eat like young wolves, and even Livilla has a hunger fit for a gladiator.

Our building still stands firm, though the stairs creak more than before, and the neighbor’s goats—yes, goats!—have made a nuisance of themselves in the alley. My sister swears she will throttle the owner if she finds another hoofprint in her laundry. The insula may not be grand, but it is home. I light the lamp every evening, hoping you do the same, so that somewhere, under the same sky, we share that small moment of light.

You mentioned the bitter cold in Britannia, and it troubles me to think of you shivering in that damp and wretched place. So I have set myself to knitting you a new pair of woolen socks. I choose the thickest, warmest wool I could find, and though my fingers ache at times, I think of you with every stitch. As soon as they are finished, I will send them along with my next letter, and I hope they will keep you warm until you return to me.

Tell me, is Britannia as dreadful as they say? Do you eat well? Are the natives truly as wild as the gossip claims? More than once, I have heard tales of red-haired warriors and druids whispering curses to their gods. Rome is full of stories, and I know not which to believe. But I do know this: you are strong, and you are ours. Return to us when you can, Festus. Until then, know that we wait for you, with love, with longing, and with a home that will always be yours.

Your Vesta