For my dear friend oberon24. Happy Birthday, honey! I hope you enjoy some sick and suffering Aramis for your birthday. Have a wonderful day!
Many thanks to fredbasset from AO3 for doing the beta and helping me to get this story into a publishable form. Once again, she did a great job! Remaining errors, typos and holes in the plot are all mine. Also, in a couple of scenes I'm hopping between POVs, apologies if this causes confusion.
This is the story Athos refers to in While You Live, Your Troubles Are Manyabout how hope is never lost if Porthos is in charge, even if it looks like you're not going to make it out alive. It's the story no one asked for but I needed to write anyway... Enjoy!
CHAPTER 1
"And his answer is no." Athos finished his report. "Not the worst, given the circumstances." He tapped his hat to his thigh and a cloud of snowflakes that had unyieldingly stuck to the leather, erupted from his headgear. He had returned to the garrison as fast as possible, and not only to get the Duke's message back to Tréville in time, but to get out of the unpleasant weather as well. His gauntleted fingers were still stiff from the cold.
Tréville sighed. "Richelieu won't be delighted to hear it."
"And that's what makes it even more enjoyable," Athos replied with a lopsided grin, earning himself a stern look.
"Where's d'Artagnan?"
Athos raised an eyebrow. "How should I know? I returned less than five minutes ago."
"Well, since you brought him here it's only fair that you keep an eye on him."
"I didn't bring him. He turned up here and refused to leave."
"I know." Tréville gazed absent-mindedly past Athos. "My sister once had a stray dog who followed her home and refused to go. It stayed out in the rain for three days until my sister yielded and let it in. I know how persistent they can be." He refocused on Athos. "Serge complained about him. I mean d'Artagnan, not my sister's dog. I can't remember what exactly it was the boy did wrong. Go and straighten things out, I don't want to go hungry for the next couple of days, Serge can be very resentful."
"Why me?" Athos asked in surprise, a hint of reproach in his voice. Whatever the Gascon had done, it was certainly not Athos' problem and he couldn't follow Tréville's argument.
"He followed you to the garrison, not me. He's your puppy, not mine. Clear this up." Tréville grabbed the missive Athos had returned and reached for a new sheet of paper. He turned his attention to his paperwork.
Speechless, Athos acknowledged the dismissal. He put on his hat and left the captain's office grumpily to make his way to the kitchens.
x-x-x-x-x-x-x
Aramis returned to the garrison late in the afternoon from a mission to Blois, where King Louis' bastard brother, Gaston de Bourbon, currently resided. He had delivered a personal letter from the King, waited for the Duke's response for almost a day in the servants' quarters, and finally made his way back with the letter stowed away in his saddle bags just when a cold front had reached the area. It had been a long and exhausting trip, and Aramis could already feel a cold crawling up his throat. He longed for a warm hearth, Serge's bean stew and his own bed. Leaving his horse in the middle of the courtyard for Jacques to care about it, he headed up the stairs to the captain's office, taking two steps at a time. He knocked and entered.
"Sir, I'm back from Blois with a letter for the King."
"Aramis," Tréville greeted, looking up from his desk. "I had hoped you would be back earlier. The King is already impatient. Complaining about the unreliability of his Musketeers and so on. Did everything go well?" He reached for the small bundle Aramis held out to him.
"Yes. I had to wait a day at the palace for Gaston's reply and the weather had worsened in the meantime. Otherwise I would have been back yesterday morning."
"Thank you. You're released from duty for the rest of the day. You look like you could use a hot meal and some dry clothes. Dismissed!"
Aramis nodded and left the office. For a moment he pondered whether he should get out of his wet clothes first or eat something. His hunger prevailed and he made his way to the mess. If he would seat himself beside the fire, he could kill two birds with one stone. That way, his clothes could dry and his hunger be sated.
Aramis had his second filling and a third cup of wine when Porthos entered the mess. Seeing Aramis huddled next to the fireplace he walked over. "You're late," the big man said, slumping down on the chair next to Aramis.
"Shut up," Aramis replied, the words immediately followed by coughing. "Next time, you can have the mission to deliver something to that arrogant brat."
Porthos barked a laugh and patted Aramis' shoulder. "Don't fret, I had to endure a Dutch delegation at the palace, and Louis' ranting after they had left. It wasn't a pleasure, either." Porthos turned his head to let his gaze roam over the tables. "And you better keep away from Athos," he advised. "Tréville ordered him to settle an issue with Serge, some row the pup has caused. I've already seen some of our comrades hiding from Athos' thunderous stare and grumpy mood. I'm not sure if he's found d'Artagnan yet, so you better lay low for a while."
No sooner had the words left Porthos' mouth than the door opened and a grim-faced Athos appeared in the doorway. He quickly scanned the room, then strode over to where Aramis and Porthos were sitting. Dragging a chair from the nearest table he seated himself opposite Aramis. He grabbed Aramis' cup and emptied its content in one gulp. "Congratulations," he muttered, glowering at Aramis.
Aramis looked at Athos in surprise. "What for?"
"You're no longer the number one pain in my backside. Someone else has just inherited that job."
"That bad?" Aramis asked. A smirked formed around the corners of his mouth, quickly turning into a full smile, then it was interrupted by another fit of coughing, harder this time than before.
"You've no idea," Athos muttered. "I blame you two for his presence here, and I'm not going to let this slip." He lent weight to his words by pointing his index finger at both men's faces. "You'll at least carry your share of the work."
Porthos grabbed Athos' shoulder. "Don't worry, we'll not leave you in the lurch. Don't be so hard on him, he's really willing. He's just a little too eager and rash."
"He's a farmboy. Have patience," Aramis added.
The look Athos darted at them spoke for itself. Patience with d'Artagnan was something the former comte explicitly had not.
"What's he done to annoy you? Balzac said something about Serge having complained to Tréville? What in the Lord's name caused that?" Porthos asked. Serge was one of the most lenient soldiers he knew and he couldn't remember having ever heard of anybody who had incurred the cook's wrath. At least not if you didn't complain about the food.
"Don't. Ask."
Another coughing fit shook Aramis, accompanied by a slight tremor running through his body. "Messieurs, I'll retire. I fear I've not only caught a cold but pneumonia. I hope I still have some of my mother's herbal concoction." Aramis rose.
Both his friends squinted at him, obviously taking a closer look. Aramis was sure the sheen of sweat on his skin didn't escape their attention. He no longer felt only exhausted from a tough mission but really ill.
"Get well, my friend." Porthos, too, rose, grabbing the chance to escape Athos. "I'm off. I need to help Hubert in the armoury. Tréville's order."
Both men departed, leaving a brooding Athos behind in the mess
x-x-x-x-x-x-x
When Aramis failed to take up his usual place at Porthos' right side during morning muster, Porthos repeatedly shot questioning looks towards Athos.
The latter countered each glance with a slight shrug or a rolling of his eyes. He had spent the time between waking up and reporting for morning muster avoiding the Gascon. Out of the corner of his eyes he could see the young man lingering at the far back of the courtyard, but he choose to ignore him for the time being. It was definitely better for Athos' current frame of mind if d'Artagnan didn't cross his path.
"Dismissed!" Tréville barked, finished with assigning tasks and passing on Richelieu's usual complaints about the regiment.
"Where's Aramis?" Porthos asked as soon as Tréville had turned his back on the Musketeers.
"I haven't seen him, but given how he looked yesterday, I bet he's still in bed." Athos could see d'Artagnan still loitering under the archway. Tréville hadn't mentioned the Gascon when he had announced the duty roster, nor had he tasked the boy with anything, and with a deep, internal sigh Athos realised that Tréville expected him to keep the boy busy with something. Maybe he could fob d'Artagnan off on Porthos. However, his hopes were soon crushed.
"Porthos!" Tréville's voice easily carried over the buzzing courtyard from his place on the balcony. "My office."
Porthos sighed. "See you later," he said to a disenchanted Athos, turning to the stairways to make his way to the captain's office.
Athos took a deep breath and turned to face what was lurking in the shadow. If d'Artagnan, who was, technically speaking, not yet a Musketeer or even an apprentice or recruit, had chosen the spot in the archway's shadow deliberately in the hope of escaping Athos' glowering ire for a while, then he would very soon see this hope crushed. Athos knew of quite a number of Musketeers who had advised the boy in hushed whispers to stay away from him if d'Artagnan was fond of his life. In Athos' eyes a fruitless advice. He had promised Serge d'Artagnan would get his just punishment after the boy had apologized lengthily to the cook. He would start with sword-fighting training until the boy didn't know what had hit him and afterwards he would assign him to help Jacques in the stables. A farmboy from Gascony certainly knew a lot about mucking out stables. Maybe Athos would even allow Jacques a half day off. A smirk spread on Athos' face while walking to an expectant yet slightly frightened looking d'Artagnan.
x-x-x-x-x-x-x
"I haven't seen Aramis during muster. I hope I won't have to drag him from one of his many mistresses' beds?" Tréville looked up from his place behind the desk. "And specifically I'm speaking of the Cardinal's mistress." He glowered at Porthos.
"I don't know where he is, sir. So far as I know he didn't return to his private lodgings yesterday. When we parted he was on his way to the staff quarters, he said he feared he'd caught pneumonia and wanted to go to bed and take some of his mother's herbs." Porthos shifted nervously from one foot to the other. He was determined to get Aramis off the hook as good as was within his power. Of late, Aramis' amorous adventures had aroused Tréville's anger, especially since the captain had heard rumours that Aramis was bedding Richelieu's favourite mistress.
"Go and check if he's here. If so, I want to see him dressed and ready in this office within the next two minutes. If he's not here, report back immediately." Tréville dismissed Porthos by wagging his hand as if chasing away an annoying fly, his attention already back on his paperwork.
Porthos left and made his way to the soldiers' quarters. Some distance away from Aramis' allocated room he could already hear hard coughing. Relieved that Aramis was really within the garrison and not basking in a woman's bed somewhere, Porthos covered the remaining distance and opened the door without waiting for an answer to his quick knock. "Aramis?" he called into the twilit room. "Are you awake?" Porthos waited until his eyes had adjusted to the dim light and approached the bed.
Aramis lay under a heap of blankets, only his dark hair visible. The coughing continued as Porthos pulled back the blankets to get a better look at his friend. The marksman was bathed in sweat, his white shirt clinging damply to skin that looked feverish and pale, dotted with redness. What horrified Porthos most, however, were the spots of blood that stained the linen.
"Aramis, can you hear me?" Porthos tried again, lightly touching his friend's shoulder. "It's me, Porthos."
Slowly, Aramis opened his eyes, trying to focus on the person standing beside his bed. "Porthos?" Groaning, he unfurled and shifted his position so that he was able to face Porthos. "I'm sick."
"Yeah, I can see that. Are you coughing blood? That looks pretty serious to me."
Aramis looked surprised. "Blood?" He looked around, taking in the blood stains in his bed. His eyes returned to Porthos, confusion and fear visible in the dark eyes. "I've never coughed blood before." His words were interrupted by another heavy fit of coughing.
Porthos grabbed the towel from the water bowl beside the bed, handing it to Aramis. Soon, the first specks of blood appeared on it. "I'll be back in a moment," Porthos said when the coughing wouldn't stop, and left the room.
Two minutes later he returned with Tréville in tow.
Aramis had stopped coughing but had now broken into shivers, looking apologetically towards the entering men. "Captain," he greeted his commanding officer, though he had problems getting the word out between his clattering teeth. "I f- f- fear I m- must report sick."
Tréville almost rolled his eyes. "Yes, that I can see, Aramis. You're seriously ill." Wordlessly, he regarded Aramis for a while.
Aramis' shivering continued, even though he tried to suppress it under his captain's scrutiny. Another coughing fit left him almost without breath and for a tiny moment he feared he would choke. When the fit was over, he sucked in air like a drowning man.
"Porthos," Tréville said in a low voice. "Send Hubert to the palace to fetch Dr Lemay. Tell him to hurry."
Porthos glanced sideways at the captain. "Dr Lemay? Shouldn't we call Dr Nougaret?" He had seen Monsiuer Nougaret only yesterday when the doctor had looked after an infected cut the stable boy had sustained a few days ago. He couldn't see a reason why the old doctor shouldn't be available at the moment. And he had never heard of a Dr Lemay.
"Do as I say. Dr Lemay was appointed as one of the King's new personal physicians a few days ago. He's just returned from the Université de Genève. If anyone can help, it's him," he muttered.
Porthos stared at Tréville bluntly. "What? What do you mean by that?"
Tréville took a deep breath and finally looked away from Aramis, turning his gaze on Porthos. "I'm no expert, but this is not a normal inflammation of the lungs. I hope I'm wrong, but to me it looks like splenic fever. Go now."
After a shocked moment, Porthos turned on his heels and left the room.
Tréville's gaze returned to Aramis who had heard the words and stared at his captain with wide, feverish eyes. He hoped he was wrong, but if Dr Lemay confirmed his suspicion and Aramis really had splenic fever, it was highly contagious and always fatal. He needed to take precautions to protect the garrison from the disease.
Tréville, deep in thoughts, was still standing on the same spot when Porthos returned a few minutes later with Athos behind him.
"Aramis," Athos said, stepping up to the bed. The single word held question and reproach and empathy, all at the same time. "What are you doing?"
"I'm sure it's just pneumonia," Aramis rasped, looking pleadingly at Athos. Whenever he had been in trouble in recent years, not matter what it was, he had always been able to rely on their undisputed leader to get him out of the mess. It was obvious that Aramis was certain Athos would do so now, too.
Athos turned to Tréville. "What makes you think he has splenic fever? He's been with Porthos and d'Artagnan for the last few days, apart from his mission to Blois, and neither Porthos nor the Gascon show signs of sickness. He was drenched when he returned yesterday, it's just a severe flu with incipient pneumonia."
"I didn't say it was splenic fever, I'm no doctor, that's why I sent for Dr Lemay. But this doesn't look like a normal bad attack of pneumonia, either. His condition has deteriorated too quickly for an inflammation of the lungs. And I've seen people sick with pulmonary splenic fever before." Tréville paused. "There was an outbreak in Gascony twenty years ago. It was horrible."
Porthos had grabbed a spare towel from the hook beside the door and handed it to Aramis, his left hand already reaching for the bloodstained towel Aramis held clenched in his hands.
"Porthos, no!" Tréville shouted.
Porthos jerked, his hands frozen in mid-air. "What?" he stuttered.
"Aramis may be highly contagious, don't touch any of the phlegm or blood-smeared cloths. It would be best if you refrained from touching him at all. At least until we know more."
Porthos glowered at his captain.
Before the big man could bark a snide remark, Aramis spoke, or at least he tried. "He's right, stay away from me," he croaked. "I don't want to infect any of you. Please," he added, when he saw the thunderous look on his friends' face.
Porthos shook his head grimly, but he obeyed and left the dirty cloth in Aramis' hands. "This is ridiculous," he said to the room at large, then walked past Athos to the door, grumbling something inaudible.
Athos and Tréville shared a long look, and the silent exchange tugged at Athos' heartstrings. He had to avert his gaze and walked to the table to fill a glass of water for Aramis.
x-x-x-x-x-x-x
Fifteen minutes later, Dr Lemay arrived. He was accompanied by Hubert who retreated after Tréville dismissed him with a nod.
"Monsieur Tréville, how can I be of service? I presume this is the patient?" He glanced at Aramis.
"Thank you for coming so quickly, doctor. This Musketeer arrived back from a short mission yesterday, his condition deteriorated badly overnight. Aramis thinks it's just pneumonia but I would like to hear your opinion. I'd like to be sure that we can exclude splenic fever."
Lemay, who had let his eyes roam over the patient, sharply looked at Tréville. "What makes you think it's splenic fever, sir?"
Tréville looked at Aramis. "I'm not sure, but I've seen this kind of condition before. He wouldn't be coughing blood already if it was a simple lung inflammation. Not after he hardly coughed yesterday when he came back from the mission. He has, by the look of it, ague and high fever, breathing problems and wet, haemorrhagic coughing. All showing up within less than twelve hours." He looked up and turned his eyes to Dr Lemay. "But I'm no doctor, that's why I want to hear your diagnosis."
"I see. Very well, I would ask you to please wait outside until I've finished examining the patient." Dr Lemay made a vague gesture that could be read as request to follow his plea. When no man made a move to oblige, he looked at Tréville.
Tréville harrumphed. "Out everyone," he said, and waited until Athos and Porthos had left the room. With a last glance towards Ararmis, he closed the door behind him. "Fetch me the moment Dr Lemay opens this door," he ordered and returned to his office.
Athos, who had replied to his captain's order with a simple nod, watched him go.
Porthos started pacing the floor in front of Aramis' quarters. "How long do you think it takes this Doctor Lemay to examine Aramis? Do you think Tréville is right? Where would Aramis have caught this fever anyway? He was in the saddle from morning till dawn and I'm sure this Gaston bastard is too posh to allow a disease such as splenic fever to come anywhere near him or his properties. Aramis would-"
"Porthos," Athos interrupted the stream of words in a low voice. "Just wait to hear what the doctor has to say. I'm sure it won't take long until he has finished his examination." Contrary to what he had just said, he hoped it would take a very long time until Dr Lemay opened the door again. He had only once before seen a man infected with splenic fever, but he tended to share their captain's opinion. Nevertheless, he hoped they were wrong. He couldn't get the sight of Aramis looking at him out of his mind. Below in the courtyard Athos could see d'Artagnan wielding his sword, fighting an imaginary opponent. He had abandoned the young man when Porthos had urged Athos to follow him and hadn't spared a thought for the Gascon until now. Athos leaned over the wooden railing. "D'Artagnan, go and help Jacques in the stables. I'll let you know when I've another task for you."
The young man stopped in his tracks the moment Athos started shouting and looked up. "All right," he replied eagerly, but there was a hint of hurt in his bright eyes. He sheathed his sword and trotted towards the stable.
Athos sighed and turned to face Porthos. "With his sword and main gauche, he's better than I thought, but he's too eager to fight. Rash and impatient. And a little boastful. He needs to be put in his place."
"Don't be so hard on him, he's a good boy," Porthos answered absent-mindedly, his eyes staring into the distance. His mind was occupied elsewhere.
x-x-x-x-x-x-x
Lemay opened the door, ready to speak, but closed his mouth again when he found only Athos and Porthos in front of the door. "Where's Captain Tréville?" the doctor asked.
"I'll fetch him," Athos said and made his way to the captain's office.
Porthos slipped by Lemay and entered the room. "How are you?" he asked his friend who lay on the bed, white as a sheet.
Instead of answering, Aramis closed his eyes. Porthos didn't know whether Aramis hadn't heard him or choose not to answer, but it was a bad sign nonetheless. Fear gripped the big man's heart. He turned to Dr Lemay who stepped into the room again, drying his hands with a towel.
"What's wrong with him?"
Dr Lemay avoided the big man's gaze and busied himself with the few instruments and phials he had spread on the small table. He started packing them away again. "I think we should wait until Captain Tréville is here before I give my report."
"Aramis?" Porthos tried again to get a reaction from his friend.
"He's probably not hearing you. I dosed him with a cough suppressant and something to get the fever down. As a side effect, it tends to make the patient sleepy."
There was movement outside Aramis' room and a moment later Tréville and Athos entered.
"Doctor?" the captain asked, looking back and forth between Aramis and Lemay.
"I fear you are right in your assessment. From the symptoms he shows and what you said about the rapid deterioration of his health I think he's infected with pulmonary splenic fever. He fulfils every indication for this disease, and the way he presents is in its entirety typical for it. The one point we would still have to check is how he could get infected with it. If his horse shows no sign of the disease, he must have been in contact with contaminated livestock somewhere within the last days. If the infection started to show yesterday evening, he must have had contact with affected animals a few days ago. It is believed that pulmonary splenic fever has an incubation time of one to six days. Sometimes even less if the concentration was very high, but that's not likely with his current temperature. He told me he had felt a little unwell since the day before yesterday, which means that tonight he has already passed into the acute phase." Lemay stopped speaking and started fiddling with the few phials he had left on the table, avoiding Tréville's gaze.
When it was obvious that the doctor wouldn't continue, Tréville asked, "And what are you going to do now? How will you treat him?"
Aramis, who had lain on his bed, apparently asleep, groaned and started coughing.
Porthos, who still stood beside the bed, bent down to aide his friend.
"Don't touch the phlegm, it's supposed to be highly contagious!" Dr Lemay ordered. "There's still no consensus about how pulmonary splenic fever is passed on. Some believe it's not only passed on by inhalation of the spores but also by contact with the sputum. You should in any case be extremely cautions and never touch whatever he's coughing up. Burn the affected cloths and linens, everything that gets in contact with it."
Porthos had helped Aramis to turn sideways and supported his body until the coughing fit was over. He made sure to avoid contact with the cloth in Aramis' hands.
Aramis opened his eyes and glanced at Porthos beside him. "Thanks," he rasped. "Can you get me a cup of water?"
Porthos grabbed the cup he had put down on the nightstand earlier and handed it to Aramis.
"You haven't answered my question, Lemay. How are you going to treat him? And how can we avoid the disease spreading in the garrison?"
Lemay, who had watched Aramis sip a mouthful of water, turned and looked at Tréville. "I will give him a mild opiate against the pain and he can take a cough suppressant every couple of hours to ease the coughing. Once the fever rises I will increase the dose of opiate and cold compresses might bring some relief."
"Will the opiate bring the fever down?" Athos asked, though he was sure he knew enough of opiates to already know the answer.
"No. It will just make it easier for him until... errm. Well, there's nothing else I can do."
Porthos looked up sharply. "What's that supposed to mean? Nothing else to do? Will you just leave him in this state until the fever has burned itself out? He's coughing blood, do you not intent to do anything against that?"
Lemay stared at Porthos, apparently struggling for words. He wrung his hands and everyone could see how uncomfortable the doctor felt.
"I think what Dr Lemay is trying to tell us is that there's nothing he can do," Tréville said softly. "Isn't that right?"
Glad, someone else had pointed out the inevitable, Lemay nodded. "Yes. I'm really sorry. There's no cure for this disease. If it's any comfort to you, it will be over quickly. Usually, once the acute phase of the illness has set in, the patient will succumb to it within two or three days. Sometimes less."
"But there must be something you can do! You are a doctor!" Porthos rose from the bed, taking a step towards the medical man.
"I understand you just returned from the medical school in Geneva. From what I've heard it's famous for its progressive method of teaching. Surely you learned something about the treatment of splenic fever there?" Tréville added.
"Gentlemen," Lemay said, but was interrupted.
Another coughing fit shook Aramis and Porthos returned to help his friend. When the coughing had stopped, Porthos shook up the pillow and stuffed Aramis' cloak which had lain beside the bed, under the pillow, too. That way Aramis' head and upper body were settled a little higher and breathing would be easier for him.
Lemay had started to add drops of a clear liquid from a small phial to a lager phial which he now handed Porthos. "Add a spoonful of this to a cup of water or wine and let him drink a few sips every half hour. It will ease the coughing."
Porthos nodded, pouring some of the medicine into a cup. Then he handed it to Aramis to let him drink.
"If you have no knowledge of how to heal this disease, then give us a name we can turn to for help. I'm sure there'll be doctors who are more versed in this kind of healing." Athos, shocked from what Lemay had told them, had finally been aroused from his stupor. His words were meant to hurt.
"I'll fetch Doctor Nougaret. He's been treating all the injuries and maladies this garrison has ever seen for years. He'll know what to do."
Tréville looked sceptical but didn't stop Porthos. Maybe the old doctor really would know a cure for pulmonary splenic fever, though Tréville was sure Lemay would know if there was one. He himself had seen a few outbreaks, among livestock as well as people. While there had been effective treatment if just the skin had been affected, infection of the lungs had always been fatal.
"I didn't say I didn't know of a treatment for this kind of splenic fever, I just said that I have no other way to treat him than to ease the symptoms," Lemay said, either in response to Porthos' statement or Athos' reproachful words, or both.
Porthos stopped in the doorway, turning around. "What?" His face looked like a thundercloud.
"Why can't you treat him," Tréville replied sharply. "What hinders you?"
"Apart from the fact that I've never done the treatment myself, but only heard of it, I have not got the necessary medicine. You'll not find what you need for it in France."
The doctor's statement hung in the air, weighting heavily on the men in the room.
"I don't believe this. You can get anything in France, you just need the right contacts and the right amount of gold coins," Athos said.
"What is this treatment and what do you need?" Tréville demanded. "I'll ask the King to open his private apothecary for you." Tréville had never asked for a private privilege his position would allow him, had never made use of the trust the king met him with, but if it saved the life of one of his Musketeers, he was willing even to grovel and beg.
"There's a treatment Spanish doctors reported of, they apply this remedy with great success, the mortality rate for infestations of the lungs with Bacillus anthracis has drastically dropped. Seven out of ten patients survive if they are treated with the remedy as soon as the first signs of infection shows. I've also heard of Italian doctors using the treatment with similar success. The problem is that the concoction is made of Peruvian bark and propolis. Peruvian bark is not available in France."
"Why not?" Tréville wanted to know.
"It comes from the Spanish Colonies. Spanish missionaries brought it back from the Viceroyalty of New Castilles, they learned of the healing effect of the bark from the native people. It's also called Jesuit's bark, because Jesuits found out that it's not only a remedy for malaria, which is the main use of it in New Spain, but, in combination with propolis and argentum colloidale, it can cure splenic fever and the white plague, if it's administered within the first couple of days."
"And none of these ingredients are available in France?" Tréville asked.
"Not at all. I have plenty of argentum colloidale, and there's a peasant outside of Paris I can purchase bee glue from, though he may be a bit short of it at this time of the year. That's not the problem. But I've never heard of Peruvian bark being put up for sale in France."
"But you have contact to other doctors, Spanish, Swiss. Is there not the chance to acquire some of it from one of them?"
"Well," Lemay pondered, swaying his head from side to side. "It would be an option, though the bark is very expensive, even a small piece of it would cost a fortune. I have a Spanish colleague I constantly correspond with, he's in the service of His Most Catholic Majesty in Madrid, he might be able to send me some." Lemay stopped.
The men looked at each other and comprehension dawned on the Musketeers' faces. "It would take too long even for a courier to get to Madrid and back in time," Porthos stated the obvious.
"Yes," the doctor replied plainly.
"Captain," said Aramis, who had listened with closed eyes to the conversation. "You must make sure that this doesn't spread further. Best you segregate my mare from the rest to see if she shows any signs of illness." The medicine Lemay had given him seemed to help, he could speak without being interrupted by coughing, but his voice was rasping and he was short of breath after a few words. "I think I know where I might have caught it. I left through the porte Sainte-Geneviève and not far from it on the road to the convent Sainte-Geneviève I came across a peasant whose cart had stuck on the road, a wheel broken. The cart was loaded with slaughtered cattle, or at least that's what I thought. If the beasts had been infected, it's most likely I caught it there, I was in close contact with them. I helped the man to get the cart off the road so it wouldn't block it until he had managed to have the wheel repaired." Aramis paused to take a couple of shallow breaths. "In hindsight, the cattle didn't look healthy, the fact aside that they were already dead, naturally."
"I'll send someone to check it. If there had been an outbreak, people will know. Let's hope it hasn't spread by now. At least the peasant would show symptoms as well, if that incident was the cause. I'll also send someone to Gaston's residence, you said you spent a day and night there."
"No one showed signs of sickness there, but to be on the safe side, you might check it as well. Though my bet is on the cart with the cattle." Aramis replied. "I think it would be a good idea nevertheless to send a courier to Madrid and ask if Dr Lemay can purchase some of this Jesuit's bark. If there'll be an outbreak, it would be good to have this magic cure at disposal. I'm even sure Louis will pay for it if Dr Lemay acquires it for the royal apothecary and tells him that His Most Catholic Majesty is bragging over the possession of it."
"I think you're right, it would be worth a try," Dr Lemay answered, obviously slightly embarrassed about the way the Musketeer spoke about his sovereign.
"But it won't help you," Porthos pointed out unnecessarily.
Aramis regarded Porthos with an unreadable look. He knew what the diagnosis Dr Lemay had disclosed meant for him, and he had accepted it. No escape from death. On his way back from Blois he had already felt that there was something wrong with the cold he had thought he'd caught. He only wished, for the sake of Porthos, the doctor could find some words of hope. "You underestimate my stubbornness, mon ami."
Porthos rolled his eyes and turned to Tréville. Maybe the captain would see reason and not accept Aramis' fate so easily.
The midday bell from Saint-Germain-l'Auxerrois heralded the hour of the day, and Tréville rubbed a hand over his face. "I need to start taking precautions. Athos, Porthos, follow me to my office. Dr Lemay," he said, turning to the doctor, "I need to talk with you, too. Can you spare a few minutes before you go back to the Louvre?"
"Yes, of course. I'll just need a moment to pack my things and instruct the patient...," regarding Aramis, Lemay broke off and turned to Porthos. "Or maybe I can tell you what you need to observe and how to dose the medicine."
Porthos nodded grim-faced and stepped to Lemay.
"Come when you're ready," Tréville said and left the room with Athos in tow.
x-x-x-x-x-x-x
Tréville slumped down on his chair behind the desk, gesturing to Athos to do the same and seat himself somewhere. "I'd always thought that the divine grace shone a little brighter on Aramis than on the rest of us. I think somehow I presumed God would hold His protecting hand over Aramis in aeternum." He sighed. "God knows how often he's escaped death like a cat with nine lives. To think of that he should now die in bed, defeated by such a cursed disease when he has sustained so many wounds on the battlefields of France."
"It is what it is," Athos answered tonelessly. "You know my mind in this matter. God is a ludicrous fiction dreamt up by powerful people who abnegate all responsibility, instrumental only to oppress ordinary people."
"Careful. That's heresy."
Athos glanced at his captain with an expression stating that he couldn't care less about it. "However," Athos drawled, "I have to admit that living in Aramis' orbit tends to dilute this ideology. One is not immune to it, not even I," he muttered.
Tréville nodded.
"I would go to mass on Sunday and spend an hour on my knees praying if you could promise me here and now that my prayers would help him," Athos said quietly, looking up at the captain. "But you and I know it won't, so much for that."
Tréville sighed. "I want you to ride to the porte Sainte-Geneviève. Try to locate this peasant and find out if he has or had infected cattle. Look for any signs of the disease in the hamlets there. Do also check the convent, as far as I know they have farmland and livestock."
Athos nodded and rose.
"Take d'Artagnan with you."
Athos, who had been in the process of putting on his hat, let the hand holding the headgear sink again. "What?"
"You heard me. Take d'Artagnan with you. That's an order. Dismissed."
"Maybe there is a God after all. One who's punishing me for every sin I ever did," Athos muttered and left the room.
x-x-x-x-x-x-x
Before Dr Lemay could make his way to the captain's office, a Musketeer on duty at the palace arrived and ordered the doctor back to the Louvre. Louis felt unwell and demanded the attendance of his royal physician immediately. Lemay hurried to oblige. He told Porthos he would be back in the afternoon to speak with the captain.
Porthos reported to Tréville about the instructions Lemay had left and requested his commanding officer to be dispensed from duty for the day so he could look after Aramis. The doctor had explicitly warned to restrict contact with the patient.
Tréville agreed. "Stay with him for the day, but be careful. Heed Lemay's advice. I'll send Bastien to fetch Dr. Nougaret. Even though I completely trust Dr Lemay's diagnosis, maybe the old doctor has a trick up his sleeve. I'm inclined to leave no remedy untried."
x-x-x-x-x-x-x
As chance would have it, the men all gathered in Aramis room again in the afternoon.
Tréville came to see how Aramis was doing and had to realise that the marksman's condition had worsened further. There was no doubt any more what it was Aramis was suffering from.
Porthos kept a fire going in the small room. For one thing to keep the room warm and as comfortably as possible for Aramis, for another thing to burn the cloths Aramis used when one coughing fit after the other shook him. Porthos had just given Aramis one of Lemay's concoctions when Tréville had entered and Aramis lay in his bed now, weakened from the fever and the continued coughing, a sheen of sweat covering his skin. Nevertheless, he had still the energy to greet his captain with a weak smile.
"Dr. Nouraget is out of town, the landlady didn't know when he'll be back," Tréville said, keeping any emotion from his voice. Before he could continue, there was a knock on the door.
Athos entered with d'Artagnan in tow. "Ah, there you are. When I didn't find you at the office, I thought you might be here," he said to Tréville.
D'Artagnan squeezed by the older man and approached the fire to warm his frozen hands. Water started dripping from his hair when the snowflakes that had gathered there began to melt. He darted a few, pitiful glances in Aramis' direction. All in all, he created the impression of trying to melt with the shadows and maintain a low profile.
"Aramis was right. We found the peasant with the broken cart wheel. He admitted that an ox, two cows and a calf had died from a disease the other day. He had been afraid of infecting the few remaining livestock and decided to burn them far away from the hamlet. Naturally, he has not informed any authorities out of fear they would command the slaughter of the remaining animals. We've spoken with almost every peasant in the hamlet and the farmland surrounding the convent. So far, no other livestock seems to be affected, but I'm no expert. I was also under the impression that two of his six children looked ill, but this could be due to different circumstances just as easily. The man himself didn't show any of the symptoms Aramis has. In any case, you should report this and have the livestock and the people there checked if you want to avoid more illness."
Tréville nodded and sighed. "I'll see to it immediately. I hope both of you have avoided any contact with beasts and people there."
Athos darted his captain a reproachful stare and refrained from answering.
Another knock at the door attracted every men's attention.
Dr Lemay entered. "Captain,messieurs," he greeted. "I was on my way to your office but wanted to check on the patient again. I need to be back at the palace without delay, so I don't have much time. You wanted to speak to me?"
"Yes, I wanted to know about precautionary measures, but now it seems I'll have to go to the Louvre myself. We have to keep the disease at bay before it can spread. Maybe we can discuss things on the way there, I'll accompany you once you're finished here."
"Very well. I won't be long," Lemay answered and tried to reach the bed without stepping on one of the many Musketeers' boots standing in the way. The room was more than crowded with all the people. "Oh," Lemay said suddenly, just as Tréville made to leave the room, "there was something else I wanted to tell you. I didn't think of it this morning and it only occurred to me on my way back. There might be a chance to get hold of Peruvian bark in France, though I don't know for sure. And it would certainly cost a fortune, if you could find someone who'd be willing to sell it."
A deafening quiet settled in the room, disturbed only by the crackling fire.
It took a second before Lemay realised that all eyes were glued on him. Even Aramis had his eyes open, staring at the doctor.
"What's that?" Porthos asked.
Lemay started fumbling with his shirt collar. "Erm, it's just an idea and it would probably take too long anyway, especially in this weather and I don't know if it would be crowned with success." The doctor floundered, looking to and fro between the Musketeers. "There are frequently Spanish ships calling in at ports in France, right? English ships, too. Some of them may have Peruvian bark on board, if they are on their way back from the New Colonies. I don't know if any of them would be willing or allowed to sell it in France, it's just an idea. I know of a merchant in the rue Tournelles who purchases sugar cane from Spanish ships in Brest, which is not allowed to be offered in French harbours from Spanish ships. It's-"
"I'll go," Porthos interrupted the doctor. "I'll leave instantly. Do we know if there are any Spanish ships in French harbours at the moment?" He looked at Tréville expectantly.
The captain exhaled slowly, not the least bit convinced this undertaking would work in time and yet well aware that Porthos would not deviate from what his mind was set on. Before he could answer, someone else spoke.
"There are Spanish ships docked in Marseille, Honfleur and Brest at the moment. Furthermore, one ship is due tomorrow in Le Havre, and another one the day after tomorrow, both straight from the Viceroyalty of Castille, if the information the harbour master has is right. As far as I know, the ship that's currently docked in Honfleur is due to leave for England today," d'Artagnan said. "Or tomorrow," he added uncertainly, when no man made a move to reply something.
Bluntly, the Musketeers stared at their youngest, momentarily astonished about the information the Gascon could deliver.
Lemay, unaware of the men's background and relation to each other and therefore not suspicious of d'Artagnan delivering such information, said, "Ah, well, that's answered then."
"Where did you get this information from?" Athos rasped. He had spent more or less the whole day with the boy and wondered if d'Artagnan just made up this information to impress or if he was some kind of Gascon clairvoyant, and they just hadn't realised it yet. There was no chance d'Artagnan could have acquired such information when he was on the road with Athos.
"I accompanied Madame Bonacieux to the harbour master's office yesterday. Her husband is desperately waiting for a delivery he ordered on behalf of the duc de Chevreuse with fine English wool, and Madame Boncacieux had to make inquiries on his behalf about the whereabouts of the ship. Const- erm, Madame Bonacieux noted the arrival and departure of every ship in French harbours this week in case Monsieur Bonacieux was also waiting for another cargo and needed to know the presumed arrival date." D'Artagnan had to suppress a grin, for it had been his idea to get all the dates and thereby put one over on Monsieur Bonacieux. The way Constance's husband treated her like a maid rather than his wedded wife was d'Artagnan's bête noire.
Porthos nodded grimly. "Le Havre then. If I leave now, I can be there tomorrow for when the ship arrives."
"There's no way you can cover the distance from Paris to Le Havre in one day, not in this weather. Even not under better weather conditions," Athos replied. "And you know it."
"Athos is right. You'll need at least two days, likely more," Tréville added. "And then there's still the way back."
"You all heard what Dr Lemay said. If there's Peruvian bark to be sold on this ship, I'll be back with it within two days. Will the King pay for it, captain?"
Tréville sighed. It would probably be a hard fight, trying to wrench money from the royal coffers for this matter, if Louis was willing to listen to him at all. The King had been in a bad mood all week. And it would take time to convince him, time they didn't have, even if he followed Aramis' suggestion of baiting Louis with King Philip. And then the undertaking was still against Spanish law. Maybe he should swallow the bitter pill and ask Richelieu. The cardinal's coffers were full, much fuller than Louis'. Tréville was even willing to owe the cardinal a favour for this.
"There's no need," Athos said, interrupting Tréville's stream of thoughts. "I'll provide you with the money you'll need, which is likely more than Louis would ever be willing to grant the Musketeers. Give me half an hour to be back."
Porthos nodded. "Aye."
After a short glance in Aramis' direction, Athos turned and left the room.
"I guess that's settled then." Tréville squinted at Porthos. "I have to speak with you. I'm in my office." Turning to Lemay, he added, "We need to discuss this before I go to see the King. I'll wait for you in the office." Then he left without further comment.
Porthos raised his chin in a gesture of stubborn determination, looking at d'Artagnan.
"I'll saddle your horse while you see Tréville and grab what you need for the travel," the young man said. To Aramis, who lay in his bed with his eyes closed again and a sheen of sweat covering his skin, seemingly not following the conversation anymore, he said, "I'll be back later." Then he turned and left the room, too.
Porthos looked at Lemay, then he stepped up to the bed and knelt down to come on a level with Aramis. He put his hand on the marksman's damp brow, causing the sick man to open his eyes. "Promise me you'll hold on until I'm back. There's no reason to succumb to this, I'll bring back what Dr Lemay needs to cure this cursed ailment. Just promise me to hang on long enough."
Aramis grinned, which looked odd on the pale, sweat-covered face. "I'm not intending to go anywhere. I'll be right here upon your return, if only to rub your nose in the fact that you needed more than two days for your return." He swallowed. "Notwithstanding that, make haste."
"I will, mon ami." Porthos rose.
"Godspeed, my friend." Aramis grabbed Porthos' hand and squeezed it. "The Lord bless you and keep you, the Lord make his face shine on you and be gracious to you. Safe travel." A coughing fit cut him off.
Porthos regarded his friend for a moment. It had felt like Aramis was saying good-bye, and not for the short journey Porthos was about to start. Deliberately, Porthos choose to ignore that and shook off the bad feeling.
While Dr. Lemay was occupied with Aramis, Porthos slipped silently out of the room and hurried to his own quarters to pack a spare shirt and his weapons.
x-x-x-x-x-x-x
"I don't want to be the bearer of bad news, but you know as well as me that you don't have a chance of being back within two days," said Tréville.
"Are you ordering me to stay?" Porthos growled and added, without hesitation, "If so, I'm resigning my commission here and now." Porthos' left hand reached for the leather straps of his pauldron.
"No. If this is what you want to do you're exempt from duty for the next few days. I just wanted to point out again that this is likely not going to help Aramis." Tréville rounded his desk and came face to face with Porthos. "You must be aware that you may not make this trip in time and that this might be the last time you see Aramis alive. Choose wisely if you don't want to spend his last days at his side rather than going away. I can send someone else to Le Havre."
"I said I'll be back in time and I'm not planning to break that promise. I'll find that damn Peruvian bark and bring it here and Aramis will live."
Tréville sighed. He had tried, but this wasn't his decision. He grabbed a scroll of paper from his desk. Handing it to Porthos, he said, "I hope this will be helpful, I leave it to you how to make use of it. If nothing else, it shall at least provide you with fresh horses."
Porthos took the paper, squinting at it. It bore the royal seal. Surprised, he looked at his captain. "Thank you."
Tréville nodded and gave the big man's shoulder an encouraging pat. "Godspeed." Absent-mindedly, he stared at the door long after Porthos had left the room. Eventually, shaking himself from his stupor, he returned to his desk to wait for Lemay.
x-x-x-x-x-x-x
Porthos set off after Athos had returned with two bulging leather sacks. According to Athos, the bigger one contained enough gold coins to buy a shipload of Jesuit's bark.
"This," Athos said in a low voice, handing Porthos the second, slightly smaller pouch, "is some extra coin. Use it for whatever you deem necessary. Horses, weapons, bribes. Ransom."
Porthos met Athos' gaze, holding it for a moment, and nodded. He understood. He pulled Athos into a hug, not giving a damn about the other's aversion of displaying such brotherly feelings. "Look after him for me," he muttered.
Athos, not the least bit fond of being crushed in a bear hug, or any hug at all, for once hugged back without hesitation. "I will. Just hurry."
D'Artagnan handed Porthos the reins and watched him mount, wishing him luck for his journey.
With a last glance to the two men remaining behind in the courtyard, Porthos spurred his horse and cantered through the archway. The cold winter sun was just setting behind the steeple of Saint-Germain-l'Auxerrois, bathing the garrison in twilight, and the north wind whirled fresh snowflakes through the yard.
D'Artagnan and Athos looked after their comrade with mixed feelings.
A/N
The Musketeers are property of Alexandre Dumas and BBC One. I only borrowed the characters and the concept of the show for this work of fan fiction. No copyright infringement is intended.