Lucia found her brother sitting at the desk in his study. Marcellus had just returned from the raid and was clearly exhausted. He sat with his head resting against his hand as he rubbed his temple rhythmically with his fingers.
"They told me Tristan was injured," Lucia announced as she entered the room. The sound of her voice startled Marcellus who quickly sat upright in his chair. "Where is he?" Lucia asked, referring to Tristan.
"He will be fine, I'm sure. Sit down, sister," said Marcellus soberly. Lucia sat down across from Marcellus and looked at him expectantly. "I'm beginning to question the Sarmatian's commitment to his duty at this estate," Marcellus confided.
"What do you mean?" Lucia asked.
"His efforts tonight lacked a certain enthusiasm," Marcellus explained.
Lucia laughed, "Marcellus, that man could no sooner demonstrate enthusiasm than you could demonstrate compassion."
Marcellus scowled, "I mean to say that he could present a problem if began to show, shall we say, opposition to the manner in which we run this estate."
"Marcellus," Lucia said reassuringly, "He is only one man. His commander, Arthur, is a Roman and a Christian who surely sees things as we do. Your worrying is pointless. Tristan poses no threat to us."
Marcellus nodded his head, but the concern had still not dissipated from his face. Lucia reached out and took Marcellus's hands in her own. "I'm sure I can find ways of convincing him of the benefits of cooperation," Lucia said with a sly grin.
Marcellus brought Lucia's hands to his lips and kissed them. "You have my trust as always, sister," he said.
Lucia brushed Marcellus's cheek with the back of her hand. "It is the middle of the night," she said soothingly, "Get some sleep, brother." Lucia rose from her chair and headed towards the door.
"You might want to find the Sarmatian a healer," Marcellus called after her. Lucia nodded and exited the room.
The morning sun shined through the window, its rays beaming against Tristan's face. He opened his eyes slowly. He tried to move his body, but a sharp pain shot through him. He felt as though he were being held down by a huge boulder. Every inch of his body was sore and aching. 'Where am I?' he thought. He noted that his shirt had been removed and he was now lying in a bed with bandaging wrapped around his torso. Memories of the raid flooded back to him, and he quickly realized he was back at Marcellus's estate lying in the bed in his quarters.
Tristan managed to roll his head to the side. The presence of a girl sitting beside him startled Tristan. He recognized her immediately. The girl from the attack on the caravan and the raid sat sleeping in the chair beside his bed. Her head rested against the back of the chair, and strands of her long brown hair had fallen forward across her face. She wore a dress of thin fabric that was made too large for her thin frame. A water basin sat in her lap, and her hand still gripped the wet rag immersed in water. Had she been looking after him all night? Her blue tattooed ankles were bound in chains.
Tristan felt another presence in the room and turned to see Lucia standing in the doorway staring at him. Her eyes turned to the girl sitting still asleep beside him. Lucia marched over to the girl and struck her across the face. The girl fell awakened from her chair to the floor. The basin clattered next to her, spilling water everywhere. "Lazy wench!" Lucia growled at her, "He's awake." Tristan half expected the girl to stand up and punch Lucia in the head, but she simply looked over at Tristan with lifeless eyes. Could this really be the same girl he had fought in the forest? She got up, fetched a clean rag, and began mopping up the water that had spilt on the floor. Her movements were slow and impassive. What had happened to her vibrancy?
Lucia turned her attention back to Tristan and sat down beside him on his bed. "You've been asleep for three days now," she said. Had it really been that long? Lucia traced her finger along his bare chest and cooed, "Brave knight." Tristan felt trapped and uncomfortable, and he hated every second of it. He willed his body to move away, but every slight movement caused a surge of pain. "Are you in pain?" Lucia asked, feigning concern. "Yes," Tristan managed to utter in a raspy, forced voice. He glared at Lucia menacingly. She sighed, "I shall return when you are feeling better." She then turned her attention to the woad girl who had finished mopping up the water. "Clean and re-bandage his wounds," Lucia ordered and exited the room.
Tristan watched as the girl refilled the basin with water, wetting the rag and wringing it out. "Over a hundred Roman soldiers stationed here and none know a single thing about healing," she muttered, "They can kill, but they can't heal." She brought the basin over to where Tristan rested and set it on the side table next to the bed. The chains around her ankles clattered against the hard floor as she walked. "Can you sit up?" she asked. He tried to lift himself, but groaned in pain, so she placed her hands firmly on his shoulders and helped to pull him up.
"You're a woad," he said, surprising even himself with his suddenness of words.
"You're Sarmatian," she replied simply.
'Fair enough,' he thought. The girl tugged at the bandage around his torso and began unwrapping it. "I mean that I recognize you," he said. Why was he trying to initiate conversation with her? She was tending to his wounds, he reasoned, the least he could do was be kind to her, or perhaps he was simply unwilling to admit to himself the true reason: she intrigued him.
"Is that so?" she responded indifferently, seeming more interested in the bandaging than the conversation. A moment later she added, "I remember you too."
Tristan wasn't sure what to say next, if anything. Normally the silence would have comforted him, but today it only felt awkward. He blamed his aching, injured state. Perhaps he had been hit over the head as well as stabbed. He searched his mind for something to say to her. "You're a good fighter," he said finally and added, "You just need to be more careful picking your fights." He had not meant it as an insult, but the aggressiveness with which she ripped the last section of blood-dried bandaging from his skin told him that she took it as such.
"I'm a great warrior," she protested, "You're a good warrior, but you'll never be great until you fight a battle of your own choosing."
Her words silenced Tristan, not that silencing him was a great feat in itself, but he allowed her the last word on the subject. The girl was clearly knowledgeable of the Sarmatian knight's obligation to Rome. Tristan watched as she used the wet rag to wash away the dried blood from the wound where the spear had penetrated his side. Tristan flinched at the sudden coldness of the water. "Sorry," she whispered, noticing his recoil.
"It's okay," he responded. Then, hoping to change the conversation to a safer subject, he asked, "Who's the boy?"
The girl set the rag back down in the basin and drew in a deep breath. "He was my brother," she said softly. Was. With that single word, she revealed more to Tristan than she would ever know. Everything made sense to him now; her lifeless eyes, her indifference. She mourned deeply.
"Did he die in the---"
Tristan was about to say "raid," but she interrupted him before he could finish his sentence. "Yes," she said curtly.
"I'm sorry," Tristan replied sincerely.
The girl stood up and took the water basin back over to the table at the other side of the room with her other healing supplies. This was exactly why Tristan had never been much for talking. He had no gift for it. In the short conversation they had, he had managed to both offend her and carelessly remind her of her brother's death.
Tristan looked down at the stitches in his side. "Your work?" he asked.
"Yes," she replied, returning to his side with a blue-gray powdery substance. She dipped her fingers into it and gently patted it onto the wound in his side. "What is it?" he asked, referring to the healing substance.
"It's to fight infection," she answered plainly.
Tristan nodded. "Thank you," he whispered, trying to ignore the sting in his side that the medicine caused.
"For what?" she asked.
"For this," he said, appreciatively. He realized how hard a task it must be for her. She had every reason to hate him, yet she was forced to tend to his injuries. He wanted her to know he was grateful.
After she had finished spreading the substance across his wound, she retrieved fresh bandaging and began wrapping it around his torso. Her hands were competent and steady, and she moved with confidence. Tristan wondered how many other soldiers' wounds she had wrapped. Was she tending to other Roman soldiers at the estate as well?
She tied the bandaging tightly in a knot and motioned for Tristan to lie back and rest, which he did. She watched as he pulled the blankets back over himself to keep warm. "I'll return later to change your bandages," she said, "Get some rest. I expect you to be up and walking tomorrow." He could not tell whether she was being sarcastic or just optimistic. He only knew that his body ached and that he would welcome sleep. He watched as the girl made her way to the door.
"What is your name?" Tristan called after her.
She stopped at the door and turned to look at him. "Jillian," she replied after a moment's pause. Tristan watched as Jillian's figure disappeared through the doorway. He was about to close his eyes when he saw her reappear. "What's yours?" she asked.
"Tristan," he replied. Jillian nodded, giving him a faint half-smile, and disappeared into the hallway.
