Author's Note: "When you begin to see that your enemy is suffering, that is the beginning of insight." ―Peace Is Every Step: The Path of Mindfulness in Everyday Life, Thích Nhất Hạnh
Disclaimer: A slave owns nothing; I own no more.
The warp threads had been dyed with madder, the weft with woad. Time and many washings had blended the lovely heathering into a muted, muddy kind of purple, but examined closely, as Esca was doing now, the original variegated pattern remained, the bits of red and blue a kind of palimpsest of the weavers art, evidence of its former glory. Memory surged, the loom in his parents' roundhouse, strung with bright colors, a woman's clever fingers working a soft cloud of wool, the fine yarn emerging from her fist to wind itself effortlessly around the spindle. Home. He brushed the soft wool against his cheek, remembering…
The folded tunic had been sitting on the floor next to him when he awoke. Which of the three men had left it for him? He glanced towards the bed. Not Marcus, certainly. Had the young Roman so much as stirred, Esca would have heard. Even now, his savior's breathing, while somewhat labored, was regular with sleep.
Stephanos was the most likely suspect; it was hard to imagine stately old Aquila sneaking in here to lay the gift of a tunic on the floor. A smile ghosted across his narrow face at the thought. It was Aquila who had thought to buy him, after all. Strange household he'd been brought to. Thank you, Goddess.
The Briton's ears perked. Had Marcus' breathing changed? He rose and crossed to the bed. The young Roman still slept, but he'd twisted his leg in the bedcoverings, and his breathing had changed to what sounded like distressed gasps of pain. Esca freed the blanket gently, then drew it up to check the wound.
Bright blood had blossomed in the center of the bandage, newly wet and brilliant crimson, but surrounded by an uneven oblong of blood dried to brown, mottled with blotches of cream colored ooze.
Marcus had refused to allow him to change the dressing the night before, had insisted he was 'fine,' that the wound was 'healing.'
If whatever was under that bandage was healing, then he was Antoninus Pius. He sincerely hoped old Aquila had believed him.
Marcus was no fool. He knew Esca had told and was clearly angry about it, not that he said so. Just pierced his bondsman with a look of betrayal when Uncle Aquila informed him that a surgeon had been sent for.
Esca wondered why he felt so guilty. The wound had to be seen to, whether Marcus willed it or no. He would have gone to pray for the surgeon's success, but Aquila bid him stay during the examination, either out of kindness (since he had shown he was concerned), or for the sake of having someone there to do the medical man's bidding should the need arise, and Esca realized that even had he been allowed to leave, he owned nothing that could serve as a votive offering save the dagger already in pawn to Marcus as the pledge of his service. So all he could do was stand in the doorway, watching and listening, his left hand clasping the god's marks that encircled his upper arm in gesture of empty supplication, and silently beg Llew of the Steady Hand to guide the surgeon in his work. Save him as he saved me.
The surgeon was not encouraging. "Who searched this wound?"
"The surgeon at the fort." Marcus told him.
"Was he drunk? I've never seen such a mess. You must have been in constant pain."
In constant pain, but still able to see and respond to another person's need.
"They sent him two hundred leagues in a mule cart. Nearly killed him." Aquila offered helpfully.
"We're gonna have to reopen it." The surgeon declared. "There's still metal in there."
"Well," old Aquila rose as he said it, "if it's gotta be done, better do it, right?"
Esca moved aside from the doorway to allow the old man passage.
The surgeon rose, too. "It'll be over before you know it," he told his patient. "I have the best knives in the business."
Excellent thought. He could make a blood sacrifice. He'd get a knife from Stephanos and make a cut on his palm—
After the two older men had left, Marcus addressed him: "Some wine," he ordered. Relieved that the man was still speaking to him, Esca obeyed.
The surgeon wanted Marcus moved to the triclinium where the light was better, and for a while they were all kept busy arranging things as the medical man wished. When all was prepared, the surgeon asked, "Ready?"
"Ready," Marcus confirmed.
Esca, who'd once had a wound reopened himself, and had a pretty clear idea of just how much it was going to hurt, was not. He looked to Marcus, lying on the table. His blue eyes met Marcus' green a little wildly. He did not want to see this.
Nor did Marcus want him to see it. "You can go," he said shortly.
Esca started to leave, but the voice of the surgeon arrested him. "No, I'm gonna need the slave to hold you down."
The way he pronounced the word 'slave' made Esca's skin creep. The word 'vivisection' floated through his mind. But he turned back obediently.
"Can't my uncle do it?" Marcus asked. He didn't want Esca there any more than the Briton wanted to remain. Some things are private. Like pain.
"Me?" Uncle Aquila wanted no part of it either. "No. No, I've grown to hate the sight of blood." He almost chuckled his refusal. "Especially the blood of someone I'm quite fond of. Be strong," he said, before leaving.
Marcus laid his head back on the dining table in defeat.
"Quickly, now," the surgeon urged. "Hold him down."
The surgeon had actually tied Marcus' lower body down with straps. Esca placed his hands on the young Roman's shoulders awkwardly, not sure his touch was welcome. It wasn't. Marcus turned his head so he wouldn't have to look at the one who had called this ordeal down on him.
For his part, Marcus dreaded shaming himself before this Briton, who had faced down a gladiator unafraid, who had scorned death itself. He wasn't so brave, he knew. Looking anywhere else was preferable.
The surgeon was disgusted. The slave was smaller and lighter than his master. He'd be thrown off like a terrier tossing a rat. "Put your weight on him, slave! Harder!"
Esca shifted so most of his weight lay across Marcus' upper body, then realizing any movement to rise would have to start with the Roman's head, he pressed his palm down against Marcus' forehead.
It was a more effective position for keeping the Roman still, but it meant the young men could not avoid each other's eyes.
"Take a deep breath," the surgeon instructed.
Esca looked into his master's eyes, and his own breath caught.
"When I say 'now' let it out." A pause. "'Now!'"
The Roman bucked and shuddered under him, straining against the surgeon's knife, against the straps, against Esca's body, arms, and palm, against his own agony, yet for all that, he made little more outcry than he'd made that morning in his sleep. For a timeless moment, the two young men, master and slave, were held together in an intimacy of pain, and the Briton realized that the blood sacrifice required by the gods this day was not his, but Marcus' own.
Worry and guilt are poor companions, but they were all Esca had as he waited for the Marcus to wake. Let him be angry with me if he must, but let him recover.
The Roman stirred at last, and Esca rose to give him a drink of water.
"Did I shame myself?" Marcus asked huskily.
Mutely, the Briton shook his head.
"Thank you," Marcus said. And he didn't mean just for the water.