The best he could do for the Visigoths was collect names for Telemachus’s list and mend wounds.
Felix clenched his fists, resisting the urge to slam them into the clinic wall in frustration, to stoop to the violence he tried to protest.
“Why doYounot stop it?” he growled at the ceiling. “Why don’tYoudo something?”
Conviction smote in the next instant. A gentle voice, a solid knowledge.
I sent you.
He swept the thought aside as easily as the debris on the floor, busying body and mind with cleaning, reordering the shelves of supplies, wiping down the operating table and preparing the side table with everything he’d need for a traumatic arrival: threaded needles, herbal tinctures, rags to mop up blood.
He refused to think any more on Telemachus’s request. Liberation from this place was impossible. And risking the lives of his family felt an equal impossibility.
Footsteps rushed up the colonnade outside the open door.
Already?
Felix poked his head outside, relieved to find only a slave approaching and not a litter.
“A delivery for you, sir.” The man’s hands were empty.
Felix frowned. “Where?”
“At the gate. It’s the blade sharpener. Wants to talk to you about scalpels.”
“This isn’t a good time. I’ll see him next week.”
“He’s insistent.”
“I need to be here if anyone comes.”
“I’ll wait here and fetch you if there’s a need.”
Perhaps a distraction would be nice after all. Felix sighed. “See that you do.”
A young man fidgeted in the hall of heroes, eyeing the niches and jars and doing his best to keep near the gate, as if he feared the ludus might trap him forever if he stepped farther in. Not likely, given his scrawniness. Felix shot a glance over his shoulder toward the clinic where the slave leaned against the wall by the door. No litter yet.
“How can I help you?”
The man looked up—if one could call him a man with barely a beard to his name—and gave a sharp bow. He was not the blade sharpener Felix usually employed on Caelian Hill.
“I am Ilias. Bladesmith at the Markets of Trajan.” As he straightened, he withdrew a knife from his belt and extended it toward Felix. The guards at the gate lurched forward, but Ilias held up his free hand.
“I mean no harm!” With a flick of his wrist, he offered the blade to Felix resting on both palms.
The guards relaxed, but kept watchful eyes trained on the man.
Felix made no move to take it. It wasn’t one of his scalpels, or even a medical blade. “I thought you were here about scalpels.”
“I am, but I also dabble in forgery, and thought you might be interested in—”
“Forging,you mean?” Felix took a half step back. There was no way he was buying a blade from a man who didn’t even know the name of the process used to make one. “I’m the medicus, not the weapons purchaser. You’ll have to speak with—”
“You are Felix Cassianus, are you not?” His brows drew together.
“I am but—”
“If we can speak in private, I promise you’ll—”
