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nightdog_barksAnd ... it's Thursday. Showtime. Posting tonight; please throw stones as necessary.
I think all that's changed is a spot where I had two instances of "hints of a smile" much too close together, and I've tried to make it a little clearer how James is able to diagnose asbestosis.
Will add stats later.
ETA: 6:30 p.m. Nerves are starting to jangle. Happens every time.
Almost 8. Dark out. Made gin and tonic. Put on posting music -- Fox Confessor Brings the Flood, Neko Case. Loud, loud. Nerves are really popping. Let's run this baby up the flagpole, see what happens. So desu.
Posted; unlocking all relevant entries.
TITLE: The Annals: Part One of An Irregular Series
AUTHOR:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
nightdog_writes
PAIRING: House/Wilson
RATING: PG-13
WARNINGS: None.
SUMMARY: Just how long have House and Wilson known each other?
DISCLAIMER: Don't own 'em. Never will.
AUTHOR NOTES: This is something radically different from my past stories; not only is this an AU, it's historical Housefic. I know that's not everyone's cup of tea, but I hope readers will give it a chance.
Many thanks to my primary readers, the wonderful folks on my f-list, who encouraged me and tendered valuable advice and suggestions. Special thanks to caerulea_cat for the subtitle and teaching me about reed pens.
And ... yes, I've taken a few historical liberties. Not too many, I hope.
BETA: Silverjackal, who said "I love it!" Thank you, my friend.
lj cut here -- the die is cast
The Annals: Part One of An Irregular Series
Serva Me, Servabo Te
Save Me, And I Will Save You
It was a warm, dry evening and the Roman Army encampment was settling in for the night.
All the usual sounds of soldiers on the move filled the air; the low hum of conversation, cookpots clanking, the soft whir of a spinning grindstone. Horses shuffled, their tack jingling and leather creaking as saddles and bridles were removed. Little clouds of steam rose from their backs; already the nights were growing cooler on the plains of Hispania.
The Army surgeon ignored it all as he stared down at the patient lying on the rough-hewn table, then back up at the young, dark-haired slave who stood quietly between the two soldiers. The bright torchlight cast odd shadows in the large tent and flickered on burnished armor. The patient, a fat man who wore the toga of a Roman citizen, tossed and turned as the physician's drugs took hold. The surgeon watched him, a critical glint in his eye; the sick man's face held a turbulent mix of boundless anger and cruelty. The Roman doctor had seen that look before, but right now there was a deeper mystery afoot. The patient's puzzle was solved; it was the slave who interested him now.
"Your master might've died if you hadn't brought him here. His eagerness for the new forest mushrooms would have been his undoing."
The slave was silent; his steady gaze was fixed on the dirt floor. It was the safest course ... for a slave.
The surgeon took three oddly-gaited steps, bringing him nearer the slave; deliberately leaning in too close, he curled his free hand into a fist. The younger man flinched back, his left shoulder instinctively rising as if to lessen the force of a blow. The Roman's eyes narrowed; it was as he had suspected. He'd seen the signs when the torchlight fell directly on the slave's face -- a nose that had been broken more than once, a ragged scar beneath the right eye; even the smooth trace of a burn on the side of the neck, above the ugly iron collar. Separately, they meant nothing, but taken together, the evidence was indisputable.
"He beats you." It was a statement that didn't require an answer, not that the slave could've given one without a direct order. "He beats you, and burns you, and yet you save him." The surgeon's thoughts quickened; this was a cipher and his mind seized upon the challenge of decoding it.
The Roman's head cocked to one side, and the other man risked a quick glance up.
Eyes bluer than the Adriatic stared into his, and the slave swallowed hard and ducked his head. Celt or Germanic blood, perhaps from Britannia, but a Roman nonetheless.
"Why?"
A beating is coming, a whipping ...
The Roman reached out and gripped his chin, tilting his head back up. "Why?" he repeated.
The trapped slave weighed all the possibilities and found no escape.
"I ... was a healer. In my own country. Before." The words came out in a mumble, but the Roman surgeon heard.
"Before?"
The younger man sighed. "Before you Romans came."
The surgeon stood a moment, then smiled. The expression was frightening. He let go of the other man's jaw and dropped his hands to his sides.
"Yes," he admitted. "Many people were ... many things, before us." His eyes were thoughtful. "A slave, yet you remain true to your medical oath, as if it mattered now. If you're truly a healer ..." With a sudden movement, he lifted his robe from his right leg. "What's this, then? Name the parts."
The slave stared, frozen. The thigh wound was at least a year old, but the scar tissue was still dramatically red and angry. For the first time, he saw the dark hardwood staff in the surgeon's hand. He must be in pain, all the time ...
He looked back up at the Roman. The man's gaze was fixed on his.
"The ... quadriceps," the younger man began hesitantly. "The sartorius, the gracilis, the adductor longus ..."
"Name the muscles of the quadriceps."
The slave took a deep breath. Something depends on this. What?
"Vastus lateralis," he said. "Vastus medialis, vastus intermedius, rectus femoris."
The two men stared at each other.
"All torn apart by a Scythian lance," the Roman said at last. His tone was matter-of-fact, as if he'd just announced that birds flew or rain fell down.
Lowering the robe, he turned away. "What's your name?"
The slave stole a glimpse at the fat man, who was rousing and looking around with rising comprehension. He will live, the slave thought, and my life will go on as before. A long-dormant anger, silent for so long, stirred, and he fiercely thrust it away.
"Hyacinthus, my lord."
The tall Roman's head snapped around, and he raked a calculating stare over the younger man's body. The slave was almost as tall as himself, slender and dark-haired with clear, hawk-brown eyes. Those eyes that now met his, guarded and cautious.
Slave, the Roman thought, but the spark not yet dead.
"Hyacinthus," he repeated. "That's not even close to being true."
The slave blinked. "It is the name my master gave me," he said.
The surgeon sighed. "Fine. We'll do it your way." He looked again at the patient, who stared back, confused. "He'll live," he said to the two attendants. "Get him out of my tent." The man's mouth dropped open as the surgeon's aides grasped the stretcher handles at each end, preparing to lift. A fat carp, landed and gasping for air, the surgeon thought. "My slave ..." the patient spluttered.
"Stays here," the Roman surgeon replied. "You will receive the requisite papers shortly."
"But ..."
"Citizen." The surgeon's voice was flat and without emotion, yet the temperature in the medical tent seemed to have dropped twenty degrees. "Will you deny Rome?" The question hung in the air.
"No," the patient said at last. "My compensation ..."
"Will be commensurate," the surgeon answered, and gestured for the man to be taken away. For a few minutes, the only sound in the tent was that of the torches, spitting and crackling with flame.
"Well?"
"Uh ..." The slave's mind was still on the previous conversation. What just happened? What compensation?
"Name!" the Roman barked. "What was your name ... before?"
"James." The voice was quiet, resigned. "I was James."
A look of surprise crossed the surgeon's face. "A Greek name. I was told you were Judean."
"My parents were Greek, my lord. I was born in Judea."
The Roman nodded. "You are a Jew," he said decisively.
The faintest hint of a smile twitched at the younger man's mouth. The surgeon saw it and raised a curious eyebrow. "Speak," he commanded. "Are you not a Jew?"
"Some of my co-religionists would say not, my lord." The slave was discomfited, and looked at the ground again.
"Yes, well, that's for your squabbling tribes to decide."
The surgeon lifted a dismissive hand, and the slave allowed himself to relax just a bit. Done here, he thought, back to the master's quarters and sleep.
"Gaius!"
Another man stepped forward; a scribe. He handed paper and a reed pen to the surgeon.
The Roman wrote something quickly and pointed outside, and the scribe bowed and left the tent. The surgeon turned next to the soldiers behind James and waved them away.
The two men were alone in the tent.
James watched the Roman warily, every nerve ending awake and on edge. The surgeon was tall and lean, those piercing blue eyes set above cheeks rough with a two-day growth of scruffy beard. His weight was distributed unevenly, and the slave carefully allowed his gaze to drift down. The man leaned hard on his staff, its strength bearing him up. An eagle with a broken wing, he thought suddenly, but still he aches to fly ... The Roman stretched and rubbed his eyes, then fixed his gaze on the slave.
"James," he said, rolling the name on his tongue in the Latin fashion. "I am Gregorius."
The younger man stared.
"You're a healer, and I'm in need of an assistant. The last one seems to have ... run away." The surgeon stabbed at the ground with his staff, the dark wood gleaming in the torchlight. "You've been requisitioned, for the good of Rome. Your former owner will be fairly compensated, as if you would have any reason to care." The Roman's unblinking eyes held him locked in place. "I'm your new master."
It was quickly clear that the Roman surgeon had his own ideas of the propriety of the master-slave relationship. Dinner was served to the two men in the tent, apart from the others.
The goat stew was good, thick with broth and wild onions, washed down with a sour local wine. It was the most substantial food James had had in too long a time, and he barely managed not to stuff the whole small loaf of country bread into his mouth at once. Still, he couldn't stop himself from gulping down the meat and gravy like a wolf as he ate in the corner, balancing the wooden bowl on his crossed knees. The carved wooden spoon was soon discarded in favor of the bread as a sop and scoop, and the stew was quickly gone. He felt the Roman's eyes on him throughout the meal, and somehow it came as no surprise afterwards that he saw his own rough bed was inside the tent, a few feet away from the surgeon's own cot.
The Roman gestured vaguely at the blankets on the floor. "Sleep," he said. "Or not, as you wish." He shuffled over to the small traveling-desk at the foot of his cot, and sat down heavily, using the bed as a chair. Picking up and carefully unrolling one of the many scrolls scattered across the desktop, he glanced over at James.
The slave was standing, a baffled look on his face, unsure what to do. This wasn't normal; he was used to being ordered about, and leaping to obey.
The surgeon sighed. "Come here," he said. James was beside him, instantly, and the Roman turned his attention back to the illustrations on the scroll.
"Look," he murmured, and indicated one of the beautifully-etched anatomical pictures. "A new representation of the human heart ..."
James bent closer to see, and the surgeon suddenly turned to him. Their faces were a fingers-breadth from one another.
"You can read, can't you?"
The flush of anger and shame that flickered across the slave's face lasted only a second, and then the younger man was studying the ground again.
"Yes, my lord. Latin, Greek, and Aramaic."
The Roman snorted. "Not much use for Aramaic here." He watched as the slave eyed the other scrolls haphazardly strewn about. There was a hunger in the younger man's expression, but not for food.
The slave looked back up, shyly.
"Greek. Latin. The languages of the civilized world." His tone was level, answering the unasked question. "Lusitanian, Sanskrit, Gaulish. A little of the Germanic tribes, and I learned Anglish with my mother's milk. A barbarous tongue."
He turned back to the medical illustrations. "You will teach me to speak your Aramaic. Now, look here at this one, how the vena cava is shown ..."
The two men bent low over the scroll, poring over the fine details, heads close together in the lamplight.
It was the unmistakable sounds of pain that awoke him in the night. James squinted against the dark, trying to focus. The sounds came again; the surgeon was obviously attempting to stifle them, but to no avail. The slave threw his blankets aside and stood up.
"Master?"
There was a muffled curse. "Go back to sleep, James." The statement was punctuated by a sharply indrawn breath, and in a few steps James was by the surgeon's side, looking down.
The man had tossed his own coverings to one side and was holding his right thigh with both hands, attempting to rub out a terrible cramp. His eyes were squeezed shut, his face drawn with a desperate agony.
"Master, I ..." James reached out with one hand.
The eyes snapped open, pinning the slave where he stood.
"Do not touch me," the Roman ground out. The two men stared at each other, and James wavered.
To disobey a direct order was death, and yet ... James dropped to his knees beside the cot, head bowed in submission.
"My lord, I know a ... therapy. Of touch. I think ... I believe it would help."
He could feel the surgeon's eyes on him, hear the man's rasping breaths.
"The only thing that has helped in the past is the milk of the poppy," the Roman said at last. "But you may try."
The slave let out the breath he hadn't been aware he was holding, and was on his feet, dipping the fingers of his left hand into the small lamp at the head of the cot. He knelt back down, rubbing the lamp-oil between his hands to warm it, and then carefully touched the surgeon's right knee.
The man flinched, and James began to very gently stroke the muscles above the knee, as if soothing a panicked horse. Gradually he moved his hands higher, kneading the flesh, using the heels of his palms to stretch and calm the knotted thigh muscles. The oil allowed his hands to glide over the ruined area where the Scythian lance had ripped apart muscle and tissue alike. He fell into a slow rhythm, the lessons of his Greek physiotherapy tutors coming back to him.
He could feel the cramp ebbing away beneath his fingers, but he continued to stroke and soothe the long muscles. Quadriceps extensor, adductor brevis, adductor magnus ... The Roman's breathing eased and for a moment James thought the man to be asleep, until the surgeon's right hand suddenly covered his own. The younger man froze.
"Enough," the Roman said softly. "It is better." The ocean-blue eyes held the slave's for a long moment. "Go back to bed."
The next morning, James watched without emotion as the flat iron cuff was fitted to his left wrist; the blacksmith seated the locking pin home with a single tap of the hammer. He already knew what legend it bore; the Roman surgeon had showed it to him before it was put on. His name, his master's name, the single word: SERVUS. Slave. The stamp of the Roman eagle over all.
He stepped back, waiting for the order to go, but to his surprise the surgeon shook his head. Not finished yet.
"Down," the blacksmith said, and James stood, baffled. "Down!" the soot-streaked man repeated, pointing to the anvil. The slave touched the iron collar around his neck and looked at the Roman. The surgeon looked back, and nodded.
As if in a dream, James knelt by the anvil and laid his neck across it. The blacksmith leaned down, positioning the chisel, and suddenly the surgeon was beside him, murmuring something in his ear. The smith frowned. "I know my job, Medicus," he growled, using the excessively formal title. The surgeon grinned.
The hammer went up. James remembered the day the collar had gone on, how he'd fought and kicked as the Roman soldiers held him down. It was a wonder they hadn't just speared him and been done with it, but someone had already identified him as a healer and his life had been spared. The hammer came down, twice, the cold chisel knocking against the blunt metal, and the collar was off.
He lifted his head. The smith picked up the iron band and tossed it onto the scrap metal pile. It would have another life now, as a packet of nails, a bundle of keys, or perhaps even a horseshoe for another working animal.
James stood. His legs were a little shaky, and the surgeon took his elbow to steady him. After a moment they began walking together through the camp, the younger man automatically adjusting his stride to the Roman's canted gait. The surgeon had made it abundantly clear he wanted James at his side earlier that morning, when he'd turned to speak to him and found the slave three steps behind, as a slave should be. The Roman had glared in exasperation, striking the ground with his staff.
"Get up here!" he'd commanded, but James had just stood there, puzzled again by the surgeon's strange behavior.
"But ... I'm your ..."
"Slave," the Roman interrupted. "Yes. I know that. Thank you for stating the obvious. You are also my assistant, and as such I need you next to me, so you can assist." The surgeon's tone had grown biting and sarcastic, and the blue eyes were cold and hard as flint. "Now get up here before I start regretting my impulsive purchase."
James had stuck close to the older man ever since.
Now he touched the back of his neck, feeling the roughened skin where the collar had rubbed. The surgeon glanced at him, raising a quizzical eyebrow in an invitation to speak.
"What did you say to him, my lord?"
"I told him not to hurt you," the Roman replied quietly, and James stopped, shocked to the core. The surgeon stopped also, and looked at him. "My mother wore the collar. The day it came off, the blacksmith's chisel slipped. Her neck was cut; she bears the scar to this day."
He turned away and started walking again, the staff aiding his limping pace. James stared for a moment, then hurried after him. It was apparently all the explanation he would get.
The camp was moving.
Tents were coming down, collapsed into bundles and packed onto mules and wagons. The centurion, a short man named Longinus, was shouting orders; his lieutenants overseeing every detail to get the army group moving. No one seemed very concerned; they had been in this place for a month, now they were going somewhere else. It was the Army way.
James had spent much of that month being tested by the Roman surgeon. He'd pretended not to notice; the surgeon had pretended not to notice his not noticing. It had worked out well for both men. He had fetched and carried, compounded drugs and herbal medicinals, set simple breaks and fractures, and even been allowed to study the newest physicians' texts on his own. It was there he'd found the clue to diagnose one of their own soldier's illnesses, and had coughed and cleared his throat until the Roman had finally told him to speak up or choke to death, whichever came first.
"It's there -- the inhalation of the tiny fibers. The lungs turn to stone, my lord."
The surgeon had looked over James's shoulder, taking another bite out of his culinary creation -- a slab of roasted meat tucked between two slices of bread. The crumbs dropped onto James's tunic and down his back; the younger man rolled his eyes, first making sure the Roman's eyes were on the scroll spread out before them.
After a long silence, the surgeon had nodded. "And the man is Cypriot," he said.
"His family worked in the mines, my lord."
The Roman gave him a measuring glance. "You're right," he said. "Send for the scribe and start the paperwork. Pension him off and send him home to die."
The surgeon took a last bite of his impromptu meal and was gone. The slave shut his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose.
The medical tent was ready to go; only a matted-down, scuffed-dirt square indicated where it had been. James tied the last knot in one of the packs and looked around.
"Ready?" the surgeon asked, and the slave jumped. The Roman had the uncanny ability to constantly surprise him, coming up behind him silently.
"Your mount," the older man said, and pointed with his staff at a roan pony, already saddled and bridled. James stared. It was unheard of for a slave to ride ...
The Roman was paying no attention, limping towards his own horse, and James moved forward to get a closer look.
The surgeons's horse was a chestnut mare, fitted with a modified cavalry saddle. The right front pommel had been sawed off so the man's thigh wouldn't jar against it, and the leather gathered up and sewn smooth. It wasn't that unusual -- what caught his attention was a contrivance hanging down from the left side of the saddle.
It was a short length of tanned leather, with what seemed to be a leather-wrapped metal ring at the end, large enough for a man's foot to fit through.
The Roman saw him looking and smiled, but it was without humor. "A little something of my own devising -- there won't always be a mounting block available," he said, and proceeded to demonstrate the purpose of the strange apparatus.
Using his staff, he pushed the block that was already there away, and turned to face his horse, grasping the left pommel with his left hand and the far right pommel at the back of the saddle with his right. He readied himself, took a deep breath, and quickly fitted his left foot into the leather-wrapped ring. In a single swift move, pushing off strongly with the left leg, he was up and over, easing himself onto the horse's broad back. He looked down at James and smiled again; a genuine grin this time. He slotted his oaken staff into the two loops sewn into the saddleback, and said, "I don't like riding in the wagons. Can't see far enough."
The slave shook his head in reluctant admiration and pulled himself onto his own pony.
It was only when they were finally moving, the long, creaking, jingling line of soldiers, wagons, pack animals, camp followers, and goatherds crossing the Hispanic plain, did James think to ask the obvious question. He looked at the Roman, who nodded permission.
"Where are we going, my lord?"
The Roman surgeon considered the question, then shrugged.
"Don't know," he said. "Wherever it is, it'll be someplace different. New things to see; new things to learn. As long as you keep moving, you're alive." He twisted in his saddle, looking at the younger man. His eyes were bright and intensely curious. "Now, a lesson. Teach me to count to ten ... in Aramaic."
James, startled, was silent for a moment. Then something seemed to loosen in his chest, and he raised one finger.
"Eh'ad," he began.
~ (Not) The End ~
I think all that's changed is a spot where I had two instances of "hints of a smile" much too close together, and I've tried to make it a little clearer how James is able to diagnose asbestosis.
Will add stats later.
ETA: 6:30 p.m. Nerves are starting to jangle. Happens every time.
Almost 8. Dark out. Made gin and tonic. Put on posting music -- Fox Confessor Brings the Flood, Neko Case. Loud, loud. Nerves are really popping. Let's run this baby up the flagpole, see what happens. So desu.
Posted; unlocking all relevant entries.
TITLE: The Annals: Part One of An Irregular Series
AUTHOR:
nightdog_writesPAIRING: House/Wilson
RATING: PG-13
WARNINGS: None.
SUMMARY: Just how long have House and Wilson known each other?
DISCLAIMER: Don't own 'em. Never will.
AUTHOR NOTES: This is something radically different from my past stories; not only is this an AU, it's historical Housefic. I know that's not everyone's cup of tea, but I hope readers will give it a chance.
Many thanks to my primary readers, the wonderful folks on my f-list, who encouraged me and tendered valuable advice and suggestions. Special thanks to caerulea_cat for the subtitle and teaching me about reed pens.
And ... yes, I've taken a few historical liberties. Not too many, I hope.
BETA: Silverjackal, who said "I love it!" Thank you, my friend.
lj cut here -- the die is cast
The Annals: Part One of An Irregular Series
Serva Me, Servabo Te
Save Me, And I Will Save You
It was a warm, dry evening and the Roman Army encampment was settling in for the night.
All the usual sounds of soldiers on the move filled the air; the low hum of conversation, cookpots clanking, the soft whir of a spinning grindstone. Horses shuffled, their tack jingling and leather creaking as saddles and bridles were removed. Little clouds of steam rose from their backs; already the nights were growing cooler on the plains of Hispania.
The Army surgeon ignored it all as he stared down at the patient lying on the rough-hewn table, then back up at the young, dark-haired slave who stood quietly between the two soldiers. The bright torchlight cast odd shadows in the large tent and flickered on burnished armor. The patient, a fat man who wore the toga of a Roman citizen, tossed and turned as the physician's drugs took hold. The surgeon watched him, a critical glint in his eye; the sick man's face held a turbulent mix of boundless anger and cruelty. The Roman doctor had seen that look before, but right now there was a deeper mystery afoot. The patient's puzzle was solved; it was the slave who interested him now.
"Your master might've died if you hadn't brought him here. His eagerness for the new forest mushrooms would have been his undoing."
The slave was silent; his steady gaze was fixed on the dirt floor. It was the safest course ... for a slave.
The surgeon took three oddly-gaited steps, bringing him nearer the slave; deliberately leaning in too close, he curled his free hand into a fist. The younger man flinched back, his left shoulder instinctively rising as if to lessen the force of a blow. The Roman's eyes narrowed; it was as he had suspected. He'd seen the signs when the torchlight fell directly on the slave's face -- a nose that had been broken more than once, a ragged scar beneath the right eye; even the smooth trace of a burn on the side of the neck, above the ugly iron collar. Separately, they meant nothing, but taken together, the evidence was indisputable.
"He beats you." It was a statement that didn't require an answer, not that the slave could've given one without a direct order. "He beats you, and burns you, and yet you save him." The surgeon's thoughts quickened; this was a cipher and his mind seized upon the challenge of decoding it.
The Roman's head cocked to one side, and the other man risked a quick glance up.
Eyes bluer than the Adriatic stared into his, and the slave swallowed hard and ducked his head. Celt or Germanic blood, perhaps from Britannia, but a Roman nonetheless.
"Why?"
A beating is coming, a whipping ...
The Roman reached out and gripped his chin, tilting his head back up. "Why?" he repeated.
The trapped slave weighed all the possibilities and found no escape.
"I ... was a healer. In my own country. Before." The words came out in a mumble, but the Roman surgeon heard.
"Before?"
The younger man sighed. "Before you Romans came."
The surgeon stood a moment, then smiled. The expression was frightening. He let go of the other man's jaw and dropped his hands to his sides.
"Yes," he admitted. "Many people were ... many things, before us." His eyes were thoughtful. "A slave, yet you remain true to your medical oath, as if it mattered now. If you're truly a healer ..." With a sudden movement, he lifted his robe from his right leg. "What's this, then? Name the parts."
The slave stared, frozen. The thigh wound was at least a year old, but the scar tissue was still dramatically red and angry. For the first time, he saw the dark hardwood staff in the surgeon's hand. He must be in pain, all the time ...
He looked back up at the Roman. The man's gaze was fixed on his.
"The ... quadriceps," the younger man began hesitantly. "The sartorius, the gracilis, the adductor longus ..."
"Name the muscles of the quadriceps."
The slave took a deep breath. Something depends on this. What?
"Vastus lateralis," he said. "Vastus medialis, vastus intermedius, rectus femoris."
The two men stared at each other.
"All torn apart by a Scythian lance," the Roman said at last. His tone was matter-of-fact, as if he'd just announced that birds flew or rain fell down.
Lowering the robe, he turned away. "What's your name?"
The slave stole a glimpse at the fat man, who was rousing and looking around with rising comprehension. He will live, the slave thought, and my life will go on as before. A long-dormant anger, silent for so long, stirred, and he fiercely thrust it away.
"Hyacinthus, my lord."
The tall Roman's head snapped around, and he raked a calculating stare over the younger man's body. The slave was almost as tall as himself, slender and dark-haired with clear, hawk-brown eyes. Those eyes that now met his, guarded and cautious.
Slave, the Roman thought, but the spark not yet dead.
"Hyacinthus," he repeated. "That's not even close to being true."
The slave blinked. "It is the name my master gave me," he said.
The surgeon sighed. "Fine. We'll do it your way." He looked again at the patient, who stared back, confused. "He'll live," he said to the two attendants. "Get him out of my tent." The man's mouth dropped open as the surgeon's aides grasped the stretcher handles at each end, preparing to lift. A fat carp, landed and gasping for air, the surgeon thought. "My slave ..." the patient spluttered.
"Stays here," the Roman surgeon replied. "You will receive the requisite papers shortly."
"But ..."
"Citizen." The surgeon's voice was flat and without emotion, yet the temperature in the medical tent seemed to have dropped twenty degrees. "Will you deny Rome?" The question hung in the air.
"No," the patient said at last. "My compensation ..."
"Will be commensurate," the surgeon answered, and gestured for the man to be taken away. For a few minutes, the only sound in the tent was that of the torches, spitting and crackling with flame.
"Well?"
"Uh ..." The slave's mind was still on the previous conversation. What just happened? What compensation?
"Name!" the Roman barked. "What was your name ... before?"
"James." The voice was quiet, resigned. "I was James."
A look of surprise crossed the surgeon's face. "A Greek name. I was told you were Judean."
"My parents were Greek, my lord. I was born in Judea."
The Roman nodded. "You are a Jew," he said decisively.
The faintest hint of a smile twitched at the younger man's mouth. The surgeon saw it and raised a curious eyebrow. "Speak," he commanded. "Are you not a Jew?"
"Some of my co-religionists would say not, my lord." The slave was discomfited, and looked at the ground again.
"Yes, well, that's for your squabbling tribes to decide."
The surgeon lifted a dismissive hand, and the slave allowed himself to relax just a bit. Done here, he thought, back to the master's quarters and sleep.
"Gaius!"
Another man stepped forward; a scribe. He handed paper and a reed pen to the surgeon.
The Roman wrote something quickly and pointed outside, and the scribe bowed and left the tent. The surgeon turned next to the soldiers behind James and waved them away.
The two men were alone in the tent.
James watched the Roman warily, every nerve ending awake and on edge. The surgeon was tall and lean, those piercing blue eyes set above cheeks rough with a two-day growth of scruffy beard. His weight was distributed unevenly, and the slave carefully allowed his gaze to drift down. The man leaned hard on his staff, its strength bearing him up. An eagle with a broken wing, he thought suddenly, but still he aches to fly ... The Roman stretched and rubbed his eyes, then fixed his gaze on the slave.
"James," he said, rolling the name on his tongue in the Latin fashion. "I am Gregorius."
The younger man stared.
"You're a healer, and I'm in need of an assistant. The last one seems to have ... run away." The surgeon stabbed at the ground with his staff, the dark wood gleaming in the torchlight. "You've been requisitioned, for the good of Rome. Your former owner will be fairly compensated, as if you would have any reason to care." The Roman's unblinking eyes held him locked in place. "I'm your new master."
It was quickly clear that the Roman surgeon had his own ideas of the propriety of the master-slave relationship. Dinner was served to the two men in the tent, apart from the others.
The goat stew was good, thick with broth and wild onions, washed down with a sour local wine. It was the most substantial food James had had in too long a time, and he barely managed not to stuff the whole small loaf of country bread into his mouth at once. Still, he couldn't stop himself from gulping down the meat and gravy like a wolf as he ate in the corner, balancing the wooden bowl on his crossed knees. The carved wooden spoon was soon discarded in favor of the bread as a sop and scoop, and the stew was quickly gone. He felt the Roman's eyes on him throughout the meal, and somehow it came as no surprise afterwards that he saw his own rough bed was inside the tent, a few feet away from the surgeon's own cot.
The Roman gestured vaguely at the blankets on the floor. "Sleep," he said. "Or not, as you wish." He shuffled over to the small traveling-desk at the foot of his cot, and sat down heavily, using the bed as a chair. Picking up and carefully unrolling one of the many scrolls scattered across the desktop, he glanced over at James.
The slave was standing, a baffled look on his face, unsure what to do. This wasn't normal; he was used to being ordered about, and leaping to obey.
The surgeon sighed. "Come here," he said. James was beside him, instantly, and the Roman turned his attention back to the illustrations on the scroll.
"Look," he murmured, and indicated one of the beautifully-etched anatomical pictures. "A new representation of the human heart ..."
James bent closer to see, and the surgeon suddenly turned to him. Their faces were a fingers-breadth from one another.
"You can read, can't you?"
The flush of anger and shame that flickered across the slave's face lasted only a second, and then the younger man was studying the ground again.
"Yes, my lord. Latin, Greek, and Aramaic."
The Roman snorted. "Not much use for Aramaic here." He watched as the slave eyed the other scrolls haphazardly strewn about. There was a hunger in the younger man's expression, but not for food.
The slave looked back up, shyly.
"Greek. Latin. The languages of the civilized world." His tone was level, answering the unasked question. "Lusitanian, Sanskrit, Gaulish. A little of the Germanic tribes, and I learned Anglish with my mother's milk. A barbarous tongue."
He turned back to the medical illustrations. "You will teach me to speak your Aramaic. Now, look here at this one, how the vena cava is shown ..."
The two men bent low over the scroll, poring over the fine details, heads close together in the lamplight.
It was the unmistakable sounds of pain that awoke him in the night. James squinted against the dark, trying to focus. The sounds came again; the surgeon was obviously attempting to stifle them, but to no avail. The slave threw his blankets aside and stood up.
"Master?"
There was a muffled curse. "Go back to sleep, James." The statement was punctuated by a sharply indrawn breath, and in a few steps James was by the surgeon's side, looking down.
The man had tossed his own coverings to one side and was holding his right thigh with both hands, attempting to rub out a terrible cramp. His eyes were squeezed shut, his face drawn with a desperate agony.
"Master, I ..." James reached out with one hand.
The eyes snapped open, pinning the slave where he stood.
"Do not touch me," the Roman ground out. The two men stared at each other, and James wavered.
To disobey a direct order was death, and yet ... James dropped to his knees beside the cot, head bowed in submission.
"My lord, I know a ... therapy. Of touch. I think ... I believe it would help."
He could feel the surgeon's eyes on him, hear the man's rasping breaths.
"The only thing that has helped in the past is the milk of the poppy," the Roman said at last. "But you may try."
The slave let out the breath he hadn't been aware he was holding, and was on his feet, dipping the fingers of his left hand into the small lamp at the head of the cot. He knelt back down, rubbing the lamp-oil between his hands to warm it, and then carefully touched the surgeon's right knee.
The man flinched, and James began to very gently stroke the muscles above the knee, as if soothing a panicked horse. Gradually he moved his hands higher, kneading the flesh, using the heels of his palms to stretch and calm the knotted thigh muscles. The oil allowed his hands to glide over the ruined area where the Scythian lance had ripped apart muscle and tissue alike. He fell into a slow rhythm, the lessons of his Greek physiotherapy tutors coming back to him.
He could feel the cramp ebbing away beneath his fingers, but he continued to stroke and soothe the long muscles. Quadriceps extensor, adductor brevis, adductor magnus ... The Roman's breathing eased and for a moment James thought the man to be asleep, until the surgeon's right hand suddenly covered his own. The younger man froze.
"Enough," the Roman said softly. "It is better." The ocean-blue eyes held the slave's for a long moment. "Go back to bed."
The next morning, James watched without emotion as the flat iron cuff was fitted to his left wrist; the blacksmith seated the locking pin home with a single tap of the hammer. He already knew what legend it bore; the Roman surgeon had showed it to him before it was put on. His name, his master's name, the single word: SERVUS. Slave. The stamp of the Roman eagle over all.
He stepped back, waiting for the order to go, but to his surprise the surgeon shook his head. Not finished yet.
"Down," the blacksmith said, and James stood, baffled. "Down!" the soot-streaked man repeated, pointing to the anvil. The slave touched the iron collar around his neck and looked at the Roman. The surgeon looked back, and nodded.
As if in a dream, James knelt by the anvil and laid his neck across it. The blacksmith leaned down, positioning the chisel, and suddenly the surgeon was beside him, murmuring something in his ear. The smith frowned. "I know my job, Medicus," he growled, using the excessively formal title. The surgeon grinned.
The hammer went up. James remembered the day the collar had gone on, how he'd fought and kicked as the Roman soldiers held him down. It was a wonder they hadn't just speared him and been done with it, but someone had already identified him as a healer and his life had been spared. The hammer came down, twice, the cold chisel knocking against the blunt metal, and the collar was off.
He lifted his head. The smith picked up the iron band and tossed it onto the scrap metal pile. It would have another life now, as a packet of nails, a bundle of keys, or perhaps even a horseshoe for another working animal.
James stood. His legs were a little shaky, and the surgeon took his elbow to steady him. After a moment they began walking together through the camp, the younger man automatically adjusting his stride to the Roman's canted gait. The surgeon had made it abundantly clear he wanted James at his side earlier that morning, when he'd turned to speak to him and found the slave three steps behind, as a slave should be. The Roman had glared in exasperation, striking the ground with his staff.
"Get up here!" he'd commanded, but James had just stood there, puzzled again by the surgeon's strange behavior.
"But ... I'm your ..."
"Slave," the Roman interrupted. "Yes. I know that. Thank you for stating the obvious. You are also my assistant, and as such I need you next to me, so you can assist." The surgeon's tone had grown biting and sarcastic, and the blue eyes were cold and hard as flint. "Now get up here before I start regretting my impulsive purchase."
James had stuck close to the older man ever since.
Now he touched the back of his neck, feeling the roughened skin where the collar had rubbed. The surgeon glanced at him, raising a quizzical eyebrow in an invitation to speak.
"What did you say to him, my lord?"
"I told him not to hurt you," the Roman replied quietly, and James stopped, shocked to the core. The surgeon stopped also, and looked at him. "My mother wore the collar. The day it came off, the blacksmith's chisel slipped. Her neck was cut; she bears the scar to this day."
He turned away and started walking again, the staff aiding his limping pace. James stared for a moment, then hurried after him. It was apparently all the explanation he would get.
The camp was moving.
Tents were coming down, collapsed into bundles and packed onto mules and wagons. The centurion, a short man named Longinus, was shouting orders; his lieutenants overseeing every detail to get the army group moving. No one seemed very concerned; they had been in this place for a month, now they were going somewhere else. It was the Army way.
James had spent much of that month being tested by the Roman surgeon. He'd pretended not to notice; the surgeon had pretended not to notice his not noticing. It had worked out well for both men. He had fetched and carried, compounded drugs and herbal medicinals, set simple breaks and fractures, and even been allowed to study the newest physicians' texts on his own. It was there he'd found the clue to diagnose one of their own soldier's illnesses, and had coughed and cleared his throat until the Roman had finally told him to speak up or choke to death, whichever came first.
"It's there -- the inhalation of the tiny fibers. The lungs turn to stone, my lord."
The surgeon had looked over James's shoulder, taking another bite out of his culinary creation -- a slab of roasted meat tucked between two slices of bread. The crumbs dropped onto James's tunic and down his back; the younger man rolled his eyes, first making sure the Roman's eyes were on the scroll spread out before them.
After a long silence, the surgeon had nodded. "And the man is Cypriot," he said.
"His family worked in the mines, my lord."
The Roman gave him a measuring glance. "You're right," he said. "Send for the scribe and start the paperwork. Pension him off and send him home to die."
The surgeon took a last bite of his impromptu meal and was gone. The slave shut his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose.
The medical tent was ready to go; only a matted-down, scuffed-dirt square indicated where it had been. James tied the last knot in one of the packs and looked around.
"Ready?" the surgeon asked, and the slave jumped. The Roman had the uncanny ability to constantly surprise him, coming up behind him silently.
"Your mount," the older man said, and pointed with his staff at a roan pony, already saddled and bridled. James stared. It was unheard of for a slave to ride ...
The Roman was paying no attention, limping towards his own horse, and James moved forward to get a closer look.
The surgeons's horse was a chestnut mare, fitted with a modified cavalry saddle. The right front pommel had been sawed off so the man's thigh wouldn't jar against it, and the leather gathered up and sewn smooth. It wasn't that unusual -- what caught his attention was a contrivance hanging down from the left side of the saddle.
It was a short length of tanned leather, with what seemed to be a leather-wrapped metal ring at the end, large enough for a man's foot to fit through.
The Roman saw him looking and smiled, but it was without humor. "A little something of my own devising -- there won't always be a mounting block available," he said, and proceeded to demonstrate the purpose of the strange apparatus.
Using his staff, he pushed the block that was already there away, and turned to face his horse, grasping the left pommel with his left hand and the far right pommel at the back of the saddle with his right. He readied himself, took a deep breath, and quickly fitted his left foot into the leather-wrapped ring. In a single swift move, pushing off strongly with the left leg, he was up and over, easing himself onto the horse's broad back. He looked down at James and smiled again; a genuine grin this time. He slotted his oaken staff into the two loops sewn into the saddleback, and said, "I don't like riding in the wagons. Can't see far enough."
The slave shook his head in reluctant admiration and pulled himself onto his own pony.
It was only when they were finally moving, the long, creaking, jingling line of soldiers, wagons, pack animals, camp followers, and goatherds crossing the Hispanic plain, did James think to ask the obvious question. He looked at the Roman, who nodded permission.
"Where are we going, my lord?"
The Roman surgeon considered the question, then shrugged.
"Don't know," he said. "Wherever it is, it'll be someplace different. New things to see; new things to learn. As long as you keep moving, you're alive." He twisted in his saddle, looking at the younger man. His eyes were bright and intensely curious. "Now, a lesson. Teach me to count to ten ... in Aramaic."
James, startled, was silent for a moment. Then something seemed to loosen in his chest, and he raised one finger.
"Eh'ad," he began.
~ (Not) The End ~
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no subject
Date: 2006-09-07 05:59 pm (UTC)Do you mean the plains of Hispania? Baetica? (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hispania_Baetica)Tarraconensis? (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tarraconensis) Spain doesn't exist at this point, so naming it is very anachronistic.
it was the slave who interested him now ...
This is technically a misuse of elipsis unless you intend to insert more text here. Otherwise, in correct English, I believe you need a period. Of course I could be wrong, also.
Separately, they meant nothing, but taken together ...
... "they were conclusive."? (Again, using elipsis may not be correct.)
British blood, Angle and Celt,
This is why I thought you were refering to the Angles being British. Perhaps revising the sentence order would fix this? A simple reversal, such as "Celtic or Germanic blood, perpahs from Britannia?
His weight was distributed unevenly, and the slave carefully allowed his gaze to drift down ...
Again you can just use a period instead of the elipses, particularly since you use them again in the following sentence.
This wasn't normal ...
This should also be a period, I think.
There was a hunger in the younger man's expression, but not for food ...
Ibid. There are actually several more places where you could replace the elipses with periods without compromising the effect of pauses in thought or dialogue.
Otherwise, I really like this very much, and I'm avidly looking forward to more.
no subject
Date: 2006-09-07 06:00 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-09-07 06:25 pm (UTC)I just made it "the plains of Hispania." I think readers will recognize place-names like Hispania, Britannia, Gaul, and Hibernia (maybe even Caledonia, although the Romans never really established a foothold that far north), but not the further distinctions.
I've cleaned up the ellipses where I thought fit -- you're right, I did use a lot of this in this story -- more than I realized. Hm.
no subject
Date: 2006-09-07 06:38 pm (UTC)And here's another mention of Spain that I missed earlier. :)
no subject
Date: 2006-09-07 06:42 pm (UTC)Fixed.
no subject
Date: 2006-09-07 06:51 pm (UTC)"Celt or Germanic blood..."
I believe the correct term here would be "Celtic".
Have I harrassed you enough? ;)
no subject
Date: 2006-09-07 06:55 pm (UTC)I'll think about changing it.
Grrrrr.
;-P
no subject
Date: 2006-09-07 06:01 pm (UTC)I hate you. Again.
;-)
no subject
Date: 2006-09-07 10:57 pm (UTC)*small voice* If all use of the word "Spain" is banished, then shouldn't they be drinking a sour local wine instead of a sour Spanish wine? That's the only oops I saw.
no subject
Date: 2006-09-07 11:10 pm (UTC)*has just fallen over, laughing*
Yes. They should. And they will be, very soon.
Thank you.
no subject
Date: 2006-09-07 11:16 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-09-07 11:24 pm (UTC)Heh! You know, you should start serializing Calendar in