“Shut up while I look at your head.” He tried to nod, and grimaced in pain. “And don’t move, damn you!”
Coir ran up with the bag. “Did you bandage Bilicho?”
She nodded. “Brutius and Venutius argued with me.”
“You did a good job. But I need to cut this off, and it’s going to start bleeding again. Go out to the shed with Brutius-Brutius, take out the animals-and bring me some of those fat oak leaves-you know the kind, the ones the beetles lay eggs in.”
By now Venutius had arrived with a large pot of water. “Take that back to the kitchen and pour some of the water into a shallow dish, Venutius, something like a kylix. I can’t use a cauldron’s worth.”
I leaned over Bilicho and studied his eyes.
“You’ve got a concussion. A bad one. I don’t know whether your head is split open or not.”
“It’s not. I felt it.”
“I told you not to talk, Bilicho.” I opened the bag and removed one of my small knives and started cutting through the cloth wound inexpertly around his head. It was one of Draco’s old cloaks.
Coir and Brutius came in, looking only faintly damp. The rain must’ve stopped. Typical. She was holding the oak leaves.
“Get me a mortar and pestle from the examination room.”
Brutius looked at me eagerly. I told him to go help Draco change his clothes.
Bilicho grunted. “A lot of fuss.”
“Shut up.”
The makeshift bandage was now off, and I took a closer look at his head. His hair was still damp, with rain and clotted blood. A blow from behind, but not with something sharp-a large, tender bump, and purpled, puckered skin, but no cut. I felt around the area of the blow. Bilicho stayed still, but I knew he would, no matter how much it hurt.
“No fracture so far. But I’ve got to see what’s making you bleed.” Coir came back with the mortar at the same time that Venutius arrived with an old black kylix full of hot water. After setting both on the low table closest to Bilicho, they stood off to the side, anxiously looking on. Brutius and Draco, freshly dressed but still wet, joined them.
“Coir, get me some flax. This will hurt, Bilicho.”
The blood was thick and clotted on his left side, right above his temple. That was good, since a blow to the temple itself sometimes meant unconsciousness and death, unless it was opened up, which was tricky business. I took out a thin pair of forceps and a short probe, and carefully, tediously, tugged at the bandage where it was glued with Bilicho’s blood.
Coir appeared at my side, and handed me some squares of flax. I dunked one in the hot water, and, showing it to Bilicho so he could prepare himself, laid it on the cut. He made no sound, but his body stiffened all over.
I straightened up. My sodden toga was in the way. “Help me out of this.”
Brutius and Coir lifted and heaved, and between all three of us, we got it off. My undertunic was wet, but not so bulky. The hot cloth on Bilicho’s head had drawn some fresh blood. I took up the forceps again.
“I’m taking off the bandage now.” I tugged a little harder from first one corner, then another. With one quick, decisive pull, I removed it completely. He shuddered.
“Heat up some wine, Venutius. Coir, I should have a little willow bark left in the drying shed. Give a handful to Venutius to add to the wine. And bring a needle and thread from my bag.”
The wound was visible, now that the blood was flowing again. The lips were jagged, and heavily swollen, and a large bump-the equal of the one on the back of his head-rose underneath it. With the forceps, I delicately pried it open. I didn’t see any brain or other tissue, but I had to make sure.
“Hold on to something, Bilicho.”
His hand crept out of the coverlet Coir or one of the others had thrown over him, and gripped the edge of the couch. I inserted the probe into the wound, and felt the bump with my fingertips. Bilicho was trying not to bite his tongue too hard. The probe was coming up against skull. He needed stitches, but at least his head wasn’t fractured. I took another flax bandage, dipped it in the hot water, and reapplied it.
“I have to stop the bleeding, clean it out, and sew you up. You don’t have a fracture.”
Bilicho’s pupils were dilated and far away, but he still grinned.
I turned toward the oak leaves. Bruising them drew out a squirt or two of a thin, blackish liquid. I picked up the flax bandage I’d first placed on Bilicho’s head and cleaned my hands with it. Then I bruised the leaves some more, until I had a thick black and green paste. I took another piece of flax and soaked it, and gently pressed down on the cloth on Bilicho’s head before taking it off. Thanks to the rain, there wasn’t much to clean.
Venutius came in on tiptoe with a warm cup of wine and willow. The flax was soaked through. I scooped up the rest of the paste with it and tamped it around the wound, before covering everything with my last piece of dry cloth. I turned to Coir, who was standing beside me.
“Leave the needle and thread here. I’ll stitch it later. Venutius, Bilicho will need some broth-chicken, goose, whatever’s on hand. Put some cabbage in it.”
I stood up and stretched, and saw the worry still lining their faces.
I said: “He’ll be fine.”
Brutius smiled, and stepped outside to bring in a log for the fire. Coir hesitantly approached me with a dry tunic. I let the soaking one I was in fall to the ground, and gave the grinning patient a severe look. “Don’t even think about talking.”
When I was done, I looked around. The living room was how I’d pictured it from the outside, when I stood in the rain, dripping and drowning.
* * * * *
I let Bilicho talk a few hours later, after I’d stitched him up and he’d had enough wine. Draco was standing guard by the door. Finding it open had bothered him, and finding Bilicho hurt had bothered him even more. Venutius tied his seasoning hand behind his back when he made the broth. And the patient was trying to pretend that nothing had happened.
“Why can’t I eat real food?”
“You know why. There’s a risk of fever-a big risk.”
He grunted. “I’ll be fine in the morning.”
“You will not be fine in the morning. You’re staying in bed for at least two days.”
He glared at me.
I grinned. “The evil eye won’t do you a damn bit of good. Now tell me what happened-and make it quick.”
He adjusted his position on the couch. “I was knocked on the head.”
I made a face at him.
“All right, all right.”
He settled in again, until he was as comfortable as he could be. Then he took a minute to get it in order. “I was at the marketplace, asking questions about Rhodri. Remember him? Well, I found out a few things. He’s the subject of gossip, these days, and you know Londinium-tongues wag faster than a two sestertii whore’s. Luckily.” He winced. “Or maybe not so luckily.”
“Anyway, he owns a cattle farm near Camulodunum-your home town-and comes into the city to buy and sell, stir up trouble against the Romans, and take a poke at Gwyna. Not that he’s ever succeeded in that,” he added hastily. “But everyone knows he’s been lusting after her like a dog in heat.”
“Go on.”
“So cattle is where and how he gets his money. While he’s in Londinium, he stays in a small house on the outskirts, across the river near the bridge. Naturally, after learning all this, I felt compelled to find it, and hopefully Rhodri, too.”
“So you went across the bridge? That’s a rough area.”
“Yeah. In more ways than one. I found his district, all right, thanks to a honey merchant. You might want to try his honey for the wound dressings-it tasted good, anyway.”
“What happened then?”
“I made it across, but only because I took off my freedman’s ring. The whole place is very unhappy with us. You should see some of the graffiti.”
I frowned. “I’ve never had a patient from there-they wouldn’t trust a Roman, even if he’s half native. But it’s a poor neighborhood, and their numbers keep shrinking.”