“The wound is deep,” he said, “but I believe we got to it in time. The gods were with you, and none of your organs have been damaged, but there is still much risk of infection. You must rest now until you are healed.”
“How long?”
“Three, perhaps four weeks. If there is infection, much longer.”
Groaning, I shook my head. I glared at the medicus and hissed a breath between my teeth, but his look was determined and unyielding.
“It is the only way to heal,” he insisted.
“I have a war to fight,” I replied. “I cannot abandon my charge for the sake of a minor wound.”
“Minor?” the medicus scoffed.
“You said no organs were damaged,” I reminded him.
“That does not mean you are not seriously hurt, Tribunus.”
I continued to glare in his direction, but my ire was lessened by the slave’s gentle touch on my arm.
“For now, you fight your wounds.” The medicus stood and motioned the woman over as he walked to the far side of the torch-lit room. She stood and moved quickly to his side, and the skin of my arm chilled from the lost touch of her hand.
I tried to take a few deep breaths, but the pain was too great. Shallow panting was all I could manage. It was making my head dizzy, but the woozy feeling in my stomach was worse—nearly enough to take my mind from the pain in my side.
Nearly.
“Is that all you need from me, Sergius?” the young slave asked.
“Do you know who he is?” the doctor snapped at the young slave. His voice was low, as if he was trying to keep me from hearing, but the echoes in the room brought his words to me clearly.
“No, I have never seen him before.”
“That is Lucius Aurelius Faustus,” the doctor informed her as he leaned close. “Tribunus to the Emperor’s army in the west. He is a favorite in the Senate and very rich as well.”
“I have heard of him,” the slave said.
He glanced in my direction and pointed a finger at her before he continued in a quiet voice.
“If Tribunus Faustus dies, we will likely pay the price for it. Do not leave him for a second. Do anything he asks of you, provided it will not do him harm, and watch his wound. We cannot risk any infection. Do you understand me, slave?”
“I will do as you ask,” she replied softly. She dropped her gaze to the ground and nodded her head in deference.
The old surgeon moved back to my side, checked the dressings once again, and nodded to himself. He withdrew his wrinkled fingers from my side and nodded to me once more.
“Stay with him,” the doctor commanded the woman again. “Care for him as if he were your own, and retrieve me immediately if his condition worsens.”
“Of course,” she said quietly with another bow of her head. Her simple dress billowed out around her hips as she slipped quickly to my side. She sat on the small bench next to the bed where I lay and reached over to retrieve a cup of water and bring it to my lips.
The doctor took his leave, and the woman turned her eyes to mine as I drank. When she took the cup away, I ran my tongue over my lips to catch the last of the moisture. Her cheeks darkened in a blush, and she quickly looked away.
“Am I so terrible to gaze upon?” I asked with a slight chuckle. Though I was used to attention from women of many stations, I was surely not a pleasant sight at that moment. I immediately regretted the jest, for laughing shook my side and caused me to wince in pain.
“No, Tribunus,” she said as her blush darkened. “You should stay still, or you may pull out the stitching. Try to sleep.”
I examined myself as best I could, noting the crusted blood on my chest and arms. I wondered if it was from the Gaul who slashed me or one of his companions. It didn’t matter—they were all dead now.
“I despise sleeping on my back,” I growled. “It is most uncomfortable on a good day, and today has not been a good day!”
The slave woman cringed at my outburst. I closed my eyes a moment to center myself before I looked to her again.