“Medicus! Medicus!” The shout brought both relief and dread.
Felix spun to see slaves rushing a litter toward his clinic. “We’ll speak another time,” he shouted over his shoulder.
Felix tied off the last bandage, covering the third and shallowest puncture wound from the trident of aretiarius.“You’re all set, Gaiseric.”
The tall, thinsecutorwinced as he eased himself off the operating table.
“Rest in your cell and come back in the morning. I’ll put more salve on it. If it begins to bleed again or ooze, come back immediately.”
The secutor had barely limped through the doorway before two slaves with a stretcher shoved into the room, heaving their load onto the operating table.
“The Gaul took a sword to the side,” one of them clipped.
The three of them rolled the man off the stretcher, Felix noting the blood-soaked bandages wrapping the man’s middle. The slaves left without another word, dragging the bloodied stretcher behind them.
The man groaned, locking Felix in a tight-lipped stare.
“What’s your name?” Felix tucked two fingers beneath the man’s jaw to check the strength of his pulse.
“G... Gaul.”
That wasn’t what he meant, but the man clearly couldn’t manage both pain and a conversation. His pulse was weak. Felix rushed to reorganize his supplies on the stand next to him. What he wouldn’t give for an assistant at times like these. Thankfully, times like these were not daily occurrences. Peeling back Sergius’s bandages, he revealed a deep gash slicing from the man’s side to his belly button. He cleaned the wound with wine-soaked rags, mind racing. He’d need to stitch in deep, full-length stitches, rather than in layers as he might do for a gash on a thigh or arm. None of the internal organs had been ruptured by the blow—that he could tell. The recovery would be long, but possible.
“I’m going to stitch you up now.” Felix gave his clammy shoulder a pat and then measured a draught of painkiller in a small, one-sip cup of wine. “Take this first.” He tilted the man’s head and poured the painkiller into his mouth. The Gaul groaned as he lay back, shutting his eyes and not making another sound while Felix stitched.
He was still stitching when the slaves stumbled in with the short-haired gladiatrix who promptly threw up on his feet. She was bleeding from a blow to the head, but she was mostly upright.
Felix drew a shallow breath. “Lay her in the infirmary, and wrap a bandage around her head.” Why hadn’t Sergius done it before she’d left the arena? There must be something more pressing coming up the line. “I’ll get to her next.”
XIV
ADEL SLOUCHED ON THE GROUNDin the cell reserved for the Gallic School, her back pressed against the coolness of the peeling wall. Her shield arm throbbed. She’d have lost if the Strix hadn’t stumbled and allowed her the upper hand. A lucky win, and unfortunate, because it meant she would have to fight again. She swept a hand over the stones, gathering grit into a pile and wishing it smelled of sun and living things, and not sweat and blood.
“Drink this for your strength.” Ignacio crouched in front of her and offered a cup.
Over his shoulder, Berit caught Adel’s eye, her expression held tight in the anxious stillness before all broke loose. Adel took the cup and threw it back, the bitter wine making her shudder as she swallowed. She shoved to her feet, pushing the cup back at Ignacio. “Can I go to the fountain?”
Ignacio glanced at the fountain and frowned at the fighters milling about it. Some stretched or shook out their limbs in preparation. Others splashed water over their sweaty faces and necks.
“Better wait until it’s cleared a bit.”
Adel rolled her eyes. “I promise I will not start any fights this time.”
He grunted in a way that said he didn’t quite believe her. “I’ll bring you water.”
As soon as his back was turned, Adel strode for the girl, who twisted her fingers into the fabric of her skirted loincloth.
“Are you well?” Adel squinted. Due to their similar features and coloring, Jovan had called Berit Hippolyta, after a mythical Amazon queen, but her lack of ferocity in the arena had set them apart instead of making them an Amazonian team.
Berit flipped her braid over a shoulder marred with a greening bruise, and shrugged. Her gaze flicked to the blood-smeared floor.
Adel gripped her shoulders and gave a little shake. “Do not look at it. Do not think about it. If you want to survive here—”
“I don’t know if I want to survive.” The words came on a quivering breath.
“No. Look at me.” A blade of fear slipped between her ribs. Adel gave another shake until Berit’s big blue eyes connected with hers. “You will not speak like that. You will not think like that.” She ducked her head, forcing the girl to meet her firm glare. “You will not give up. Not now. Not ever. Say it.”
“I will not...” Berit took a breath. “I will not...”
