Nothing that you recognize belongs to me.

DRUSILLA

The day had begun gloriously, a gift from spring dropped into the lap of autumn. The smell of late blooming honeysuckle drifted in through the open windows of the Surgery's stillroom, where I had spent the afternoon replenishing stores. Hands and mind pleasantly occupied, twilight had crept over the wall and almost into the room before I realized the lateness of the hour. Voices and a commotion in the main hall caught my attention as I cleaned, then footsteps. Paulus called my name as he threw the curtain back from the doorway.

"Drusilla? Will you go to a patient tonight? I do not like to send you out after nightfall, after what happened the last time," His voice was tight with concern as he continued. "But no one else is available right now."

"You fret like an old woman, Paulus. I will be safe enough." I smiled to take the sting from my words. "What's to do?"

He reached behind him, and pulled a young boy into the room. "Here's the messenger. Tell her what you told me, boy. My thanks, Drusilla. "

The child was breathless, but coherent enough. "Jols sent me for a physician, Lady. 'Tis the commander, he took a nasty cut and now he's feverish and it is all swolled up and will not heal."

I sorted through this wealth of information. "Jols? Commander? Do you mean Arthur Castus?" "

Yes, Lady." My heart thumped hard against my ribs, but I kept my voice steady as I asked, "What of Dagonet? Does he not care for the Sarmatians?"

" He got a wicked cut across his eye, and a knock on the head, and he ails as well."

The boy was too far gone in a tale of Saxon raiders to notice my trembling hands; I collected the last of what I thought to need, stowing all inside a cloth carry sack and catching up my cloak, followed him out the door.

Night had fallen; stars glittered like glass shards as I followed young wing-footed Hermes. I had good reason to bless the local weaver, autumn's chill breath had pushed away the last of the day's warmth and the Sarmations' quarters were halfway across the post, it seemed. Arthur Castus and his Knights were fodder for every gossiping tongue in the marketplace, I heard most often the assumption that the Sarmations were barbarians, one and all. Jols, I knew, was Arthur's body servant or squire; he had collected medicines for Dagonet on occasion.

Dagonet certainly looked the part of a savage; he had frightened me near out my wits at our first meeting, moving silent-footed as a cat, to stand behind me. When I turned, stepping onto his feet instead of the floor, I had fallen backwards into the wooden table, sending scrolls flying like agitated birds. We had a merry little dance trying to stay upright and had finished by laughing at one another. Rather, I had laughed, he merely smiled, and that slow smile had altered his somber face into something… most pleasant. I remember that day, last spring. He had given me the first laughter I had known since my daughter's death at midwinter.

I pushed those thoughts aside and called out. "Here, Fleetfoot, slow yourself. I shall be lost in a moment!" A grin flashed across the boy's face as he slowed his long-legged pace to more match mine. "

I'm sorry, Lady. We are almost there, just around the corner here."

My teeth were beginning to chatter, despite the long walk, and I was most grateful to enter the warmth of the commander's quarters'. Oil lamps had been lit, as well as a fire kindled, giving me enough light to find a table to hold my carry sack. Rosemary had been tossed into the fire; the sharp odor stung my nose, but did not quite mask the fact that someone had neglected to clean his boots after visiting the stables. A shadow moved near the fireplace, and I turned towards it.

"Drusilla. I expected Paulus."

" Well, you will have to make do with me."I dropped my cloak on a chair and went to him. "Sit down, let me see your eye. Did it cut the eyelid? Who stitched it?"I reached for his face, but Dagonet caught my hands in his and left a hasty kiss on my fingers.

"It is nothing. I will see to Arthur first."

I closed my eyes against the burning of unshed tears, wanting nothing more for that moment than the warmth of his hands around mine. "As you wish. But afterwards I will see to that hard head of yours."

LANCELOT

I was dreaming, of that I was certain, but in the way of dreams I could not rouse myself. I saw the thatched roof of a cottage catch flame from the one beside it, heard the keening cries of women, and the dull thwap of arrows as they struck flesh or leather. Gawain was snarling somewhere to my left, dealing out two-fisted death with axe and dagger, Arthur was far ahead of me. I had my boot on a throat, freeing my sword from bone when I saw him unhorsed. He went down hard on his shoulder, rolling an instant too late to meet the blade that slashed down his back. He found his feet and met the attack,but too late. I saw the blood gush, but I could not reach him.

I jerked to wakefulness, swearing softly, fists tight around blades that were not there. The chair I had dragged into Arthur's sleeping room was not built for a man with my length of leg to sit in, much less sleep in, and my bones were protesting heartily. Scrubbing my face with both hands, I took the few paces to the side of the bed. Arthur still dozed fitfully; the high color of fever splotched his face. Low voices in the outer room caught my ear, and I made for the curtained doorway, thinking that I had best find the damned physician had arrived.

Dagonet stood near the fireplace. At my approach, he released the hands of the thin, sharp-featured woman standing before him.

" Lady?" I sent a look of inquiry at Dag.

"This is Drusilla. She works at the Surgery with Paulus. She has brought the medicines I sent for."

I must have gaped like a half-wit, the lady's nose went up and the look she directed at me came near to raising blisters across my face.

"Forgive me, Lady. I did not know that Rome allowed her daughters to practice medicine." I bit back irritation and gave her my second-best smile.

"We are not in Rome, are we? I assure you, I am more than competent." Her voice was level as she gave me the back of her head and spoke to Dag. "The messenger spoke of fever, and a wound that does not heal?"

"Yes. It must be opened and drained. I want poppy syrup for that. You brought some?"

" Enough to send half a Legion to Morpheus." The woman replied.

"Good. Lancelot, you and I will hold him, Drusilla will do the rest."

I shot Dagonet a horrified glare. One side of his mouth lifted in something that was not quite a smile. "Even with the poppy, he'll most likely fight. Besides, she sews a finer seam than I do."

The hour that followed stays in my memory alongside certain battles, the ones that I relive in the deepest of black night. Drusilla showed more gentleness than I would have credited to her, cajoling Arthur to drink the poppy wine and turn onto his stomach. He made little sound, but Dag was right, he fought. Gods, how he fought. I would sooner take on a Saxon raiding party alone than repeat that night. I had his feet, Dagonet his arms; kneeling by the bed, Drusilla worked quickly enough, I suppose, but not quickly enough to suit me. There were harsh words between us, enough that the usually patient Dagonet growled at both impartially. I swear, the woman could flay skin from bones with her words.

Finally, the worst of it over, she began setting stitches. I heard the outer door open, and glanced up; Tristran and Gawain had come in from the courtyard. When I looked back, Drusilla's fingers were still, I watched as beads of sweat broke out across her forehead.

"Drusilla?" Dagonet's voice was sharp.

"Nothing. A-a cramp. It will keep." She finished the last stitch and sat back, wiping her face with the sleeve of her tunic.

Dagonet spoke quietly to Arthur, and then over his shoulder to Drusilla. "Make a poultice."

She nodded, and rose to her feet, hands full of bloodstained cloths. Dagonet had moved to Arthur's side, smearing something from a small pot over the neatly stitched wound. Gawain came in to peer over his shoulder.

"How does he?"

"He'll do better now." Dagonet replied.

What I saw next stayed with me for many days, I am still not certain that what I saw was not imagined. Tristran was standing in the doorway; as Drusilla rose to her feet, their eyes met. I have seen that expression on the battlefield, never elsewhere. It was cold and calculating, the look of one opponent gauging another's strengths, and searching for weakness. It sat ill on the woman's face, like ravens before a battle, the sight chilled my blood.

I shut my eyes, rubbed them hard, certain that weariness was having her way with me. When next I looked, Tristran was standing beside Gawain; Dagonet had followed the woman into the front room. I heard water splash into a basin, and over that, the murmur of voices.

"Lancelot." Gawain greeted me. "You look like you've gone around the practice yard with Bors when he's hung-over and mad at his woman."

"I feel worse than that. Next time, you hold him down whilst he gets sewn up."

He half turned, braids swinging, to peer into the other room. "So that's who she is. I'd heard the Romans had a widow woman working in the surgery. Figured that she was as old as dirt and twice as ugly. Hmmm. I wonder if she needs an escort home."

He grinned at me, irrepressible as usual, and I sighed.

"Best advice, my friend. Stay far away from that one. She's got a tongue like an adder, and besides, Dag's axe is bigger than yours."

Gawain snorted in mock disgust. "Maybe the one he uses on the field."

DRUSILLA

Fortune had smiled on Arthur Castus, in the form of Dagonet's vigilance. Infection had not taken root, but merely knocked at the door, so to speak; it was a simple task to open and drain the wound. It was not so simple to suppress the urge to stitch Lancelot's mouth shut at the same time I stitched Arthur's wound. The man was as irritable as a stag in the autumn, and his arrogance would have done a Roman proud.

Focused on my work as I was, I was unprepared for the vague echo of a familiar, unwelcome pain that bloomed at the base of my skull. Somehow, by the grace of the Mother, I managed to finish my stitches, and gathering up my courage with the bloody cloths on the floor, turned to study the face of the man standing in the doorway. A tall man, lean and powerful, the tattoos on his face marked him as one of the eastern tribes. He scarcely glanced at me; all of his attention was on Arthur as I brushed by him to the outer room.

I had disposed of the mess, made a poultice and was washing my hands again when Dagonet came up behind me.

"What ails you tonight, woman? " The words would have been harsh from another man, but his voice was gentle, as was the hand that slid along the braid of hair that hung down my back.

I was frightened witless by a garbled message delivered by a fool of a boy."Your Lancelot has a sharp temper." I said and turned to him. "I have a salve for your cheek. If you tell me that it does not ache, I will know that you lie."

He smiled, and replied, "I'll not lie to you." The smile left his face, then. " 'Silla, Lancelot has not left Arthur's side these past two days. He has good cause to be short-tempered. You are a healer. I know you have more kindness in you than I saw tonight." His blue eyes were steady, holding mine; my own eyes slid away under that calm scrutiny.

I handed him the poultice and said,"Hypericum. We should alternate with borage, for the swelling."

Another hour saw Arthur's fever break. I kept to the front room, made poultices and medicated wine. I had finally convinced Dagonet to sit and allow me to tend the cut on his cheek, when Lancelot came into the room, accompanied by a blonde man in desperate need of a barber.

"Dagonet. He's sleeping more naturally. I'll be in my quarters for a few hours. You'll send for me if anything changes?" " Yes. I'll send for you."

Lancelot inclined his head slightly in my direction and I put out my hand, not quite touching his arm. "Lancelot. Forgive my words earlier. I am certain that if" I ignored the warning tug on my braid. "If I spent two days at the side of an ailing friend, I, too, would smell like a goat. It was… ill-mannered of me to point it out."

The corners of his mouth twitched, and I saw the humor gleam in his dark eyes. "Forgive my words, Lady. It was ill-mannered of me to refer to you as an arrogant Roman bitch."

" Yes, it was." I agreed, and offered him a wry smile. "I am not Roman."

He laughed at that, and took his leave. His companion managed to control his merriment until the door had closed behind them, and his laughter floated back.

"She called you a goat?"

"No, you fool! She said that -"

"She called you a goat!"

Dagonet pulled on my braid, and this time, I met his eyes. He was smiling in that slow way of his that made my bones melt. "I should beat you, woman."

I smiled at him. "Yes, you should. But first, perhaps, you will allow me to wash my hands?"

I have cursed Fate, more often than not, in my life. The Fate that keeps me here, when I should have joined the dead long ago. The Fate that forces me to fight for my life, or be trapped in evil for eternity. But the same Fate that brought me to this miserably cold island, and took the child of my heart away at such a young age, had finally given something to balance the scales. So I thought. Now, I find that Fate's gift has led me straight to another that will become one such as I. With the Sarmatians' freedom so close at hand, I pray that he will be far away from me when his Fate finds him.