Balbus’ grin widened.
“What does he do to get this kind of reputation with the medical service?”
Florus gabbled hurriedly “It’s alright though, sir. I’m well trained. I almost certainly can handle it, sir.”
“I’m sure you can.”
Crispus had been sitting frowning as he looked the young soldier up and down. Young? Ha. There was probably only a couple of years between the two of them. With a flash of memory, he suddenly remembered where they’d met. After the battle against Ariovistus last year, when Fronto’d had that bite wound on his heel. He joined Balbus in the smiling.
“I suspect your legate has a broken nose. Apart from that, he should be fine, other than a nasty bump from where the bench hit him in the back of the head…”
Florus wandered over to the cot and knelt to examine his commander. The nose was, indeed, distinctly misaligned.
His tongue poking gently from the corner of his mouth, Florus reached down to his belt and unfastened his small medical pack, which he dropped to the floor beside him. Professionalism taking over, he looked across to the young legate sitting next to him.
“Could I ask that you hold the patient very steady?”
Crispus nodded and reached across, holding Fronto down by the shoulders.
“I think you will find that he’s fairly anaesthetised anyway; in fact, he’s been anaesthetising himself for around five hours now. You could probably amputate his leg without waking him.”
Florus gave a curious little half-smile.
“I’ve been looking forward to this for a long time.”
Crispus glanced sharply at the young man, who smiled widely.
“Sorry, sir. I just mean that the legate’s nose has actually been misaligned for years. A decade or more probably. Must have had a nasty break some time. I’ve been dying for an excuse to straighten it.”
Behind him Balbus gave a deep belly-laugh.
“Most of Fronto’s charm comes from his oddities, doctor.”
“On three?” said Florus. Crispus nodded.
“One.” The young man settled over the legate and reached down to his face.
“Two.” Gritting his teeth, he grasped Fronto’s nose carefully but firmly.
“Three!”
As Crispus held Fronto tightly down and Balbus looked on expectantly, the legate’s nose returned to a perfectly straight position with a crack and a small spatter of blood that caught Crispus across the upper arm. Fronto never even flinched, though the pitch of his snore changed instantly.
“Apologies, sir.”
Crispus laughed.
“I’ve been covered in more than that in my time with the Eleventh. And there’s more coming yet, soldier.”
Florus smile faded slightly.
“Of course, sir.”
As silence fell, Florus carefully wiped up the blood from around the break.
“Is that it?” Crispus asked in surprise.
“That’s it, sir. Set it back and wait.”
“But do you not have to apply splints or pack the nose or anything?”
Florus smiled again.
“It’ll heal on its own sir, in good time. Tomorrow it’ll swell and the bruising will come. I’ll only start to worry about complications if it’s not back to almost normal in a week. It’ll be tender for a while though. And…” He looked up at the two legates in the room. “And it’ll be obvious that he’s got a broken nose, sirs. No one will believe he had an accident.”
He frowned as he looked carefully at Balbus.
“If it’s not an impertinent question, sir…”
Balbus smiled.
“Go on…”
“Is it vaguely possible that during the legate’s… erm… difficulty, he accidentally fell nose-first onto your hand?”
Behind him it was Crispus’ turn to laugh out loud.
Balbus frowned.
“Only,” the capsarius added quickly, “it looks like that was a very heavy blow and if that was the case, I really ought to check your hand over for fractures, sir?”
Balbus sighed.
“I’d rather it didn’t go racing round the camps that one of their commanders had to break the nose of another, Florus, if you get my drift?”
The young man nodded.
“Of course, sir. I am the very soul of discretion.”
Before he let go of Fronto, however, he gently rolled him to one side and examined the back of the legate’s head. There was a bloody patch but, as he gently probed the wound, he found no sign of a break or anything more serious than cuts and bruises.
“Legate Fronto will be fine,” the young man said as he gently lowered his patient back to the bed. “I’ll check on him from time to time, though I suspect he’ll be out for a while yet.”
He walked over to Balbus and gestured to the campaign chair nearby. The older legate sat with a sigh of relief and held his hand out open, palm down. Florus took it gently and started manipulating it, lifting the fingers gently one by one and folding them back toward the palm. As he reached the middle finger, he heard a gasp from his patient and looked up to see Balbus’ eyes watering.
“Sorry sir.”
“Don’t be. I take it that’s broken.”
Florus nodded.
“Not badly, though, sir. I could bind and bandage your fingers or your entire hand, but it would be fairly obvious to everyone how the injuries had occurred.”
As Balbus frowned, Florus smiled.
“Or you could just be very, very careful sir and let it heal as is. Without binding it to another finger, you run certain risks of later troubles or diminished movement.”
Balbus grunted unhappily.
“How long will it take to mend?”
Florus shrugged.
“A week or two and it should be strong enough to use for ordinary everyday purposes. There will be a little bruising, sir, but with it being that finger, it shouldn’t be too bad. The medicus has a paste, sir that seriously decreases bruising and dramatically reduces healing time, but he doesn’t dole it out unless it’s critical. It comes from some kind of tree and gets imported through Arabia or Egypt from past the Parthian Empire, so it’s very hard to get hold of and extremely expensive.”
Balbus’ jaw took on a firm set.
“I think I can persuade him to part with some of it. We may be back in action in a couple of weeks and both Fronto and I need to be at full fighting fitness before then.”
Florus stepped back and stood up.
“I had heard we were marching north, sir. Against someone called the Belgae?”
Balbus nodded.
“I think so. Possibly even all of the Belgae.”
Florus frowned.
“Are they worse than the other Gaulish tribes, sir? People seem to be frightened of them.”
Crispus cleared his throat. In his mind he pictured the map of the tribes.
“Actually, they’re not Gauls at all, Florus. They’re separate, like the Germans. And they’re split into their own tribes like the Gauls and the Germans are. The Geographies I read always refer to the Gauls, the Belgae, the Germans and the Aquitanii as ‘peoples’ and then the subdivisions as ‘tribes’.
He thought for a moment.
“Though I rather fancy that these are names that were given them by our own geographers many years ago and that they use their own names. The Gauls, for instance, call themselves ‘Celts’. It’s all a little complex and jumbled really.”
Florus nodded soberly.
“But they are the worst of all, though, sir?”
“That’s what they say, soldier. Whether they can withstand the advance of Roman iron remains to be seen, I suppose.”
The young capsarius nodded again.
“Then I’d better make sure my kit is well prepared. Is there anything else I can do, sirs?”
Crispus looked up questioningly at Balbus, who shook his head.
“I think that’s all, Florus, thank you. Please inform your medicus that the legates of the Eighth and Eleventh will be dropping by shortly to requisition a little of his expensive oriental paste, if you would?”
Florus nodded with a smile and, bowing, turned and left the building.