Tomorrow she would find Malcolm. Find him and offer an apology and try to explain .... She had to find him. The prospect of even one night alone was suddenly more daunting than she'd bargained for. She hid her face in the blanket. Then asserting itself through rising panic-a spark of intelligence or maybe just Sven's training told her to take precautions. Under cover of her threadbare woolen blanket, Margo transferred her money to her ATLS pouch and drew her short knife, gripping it tightly under the covers. That done, she felt marginally safer.
Even so, sleep took a long time coming. And when she did finally nod off, violent dreams woke her every hour.
By the time sunlight streamed into the room, Margo was exhausted. But her ATLS bag and knife remained in her possession. Her belly rumbled audibly. Later, she told her stomach. First she had to find Malcolm. Margo set out to locate the Aventinus district and quickly realized she hadn't absorbed nearly enough of Malcolm's lessons on the layout of Rome. She guessed she was somewhere east of Campus Martius, so she began walking west. That took her into a rat's maze of "islands," private houses, and public buildings strewn haphazardly across Rome's hills.
By midday she was light-headed. and still hadn't found the Time Tours inn. The high facade of the Circus, so visible from the Aventinus district, was obscured by clusters of temples and great houses of the rich perched on hilltops. She was so hungry she spent some of her precious money on sausage and wine, then set out again.. Hilaria was still in full swing, reminding her all too vividly of Malcolm. What must he be thinking? He'd be frantic by now. What could she possibly tell him to explain, to make this right?
Margo was lost in the worry of what she would say when someone plowed into her, running full tilt. Margo had only a split second to notice the slave's collar, the chains at his wrists, the ripped clothing and wild eyes ... Then she slammed backwards. Margo felt the back of her head connect sickeningly against stone.
An explosion of darkness wiped out everything after that.
When she woke, Margo had no idea where she was. Her head ached-throbbed-so fiercely she was afraid she might be ill. A weight of blankets covered her. Margo managed to open her eyes and found only darkness. For a moment, panic smote her so hard she struggled against the blankets and the pain. Then a glimmering edge of light revealed the position of a door. She was in someone's bed in someone's house
And somehow, she'd lost several hours.
She hoped it was only hours.
A cautious exploration revealed her own clothing still in place, although the ATLS bag and knife belt were gone. Someone had tied a poultice around her head. That boded well. If they're taking care of me, I'm. probably not in. too much danger. But where was she? And how much time had passed.? Margo didn't feel much like getting up to find her unknown "host" in an attempt to find out.
Eventually the door opened. A young woman carrying an oil lamp peered into the room. Worry creased her brow when Margo met her gaze. She said something that sounded anxious and called to someone beyond Margo's view. Then she set the oil lamp down on a table bent over Margo.
"Owl
The young woman murmured soothingly and readjusted the poultice. A moment later a thin, balding man entered the room. He wore several tunics and a worried expression. Within three sentences, it became apparent to him that Margo didn't have the faintest idea what he was saying.
He halted, looked even more worried, and said slowly,
"Esne Parthus?"
Margo struggled to find her voice. "M-minime non Parthus, uh, sed uh Palmyrenus sum," she quavered, hoping she'd gotten the "I'm Palmyrene, not Parthian" correct in her shaky Latin.
"Ahh ... Paterne tuus Romae es?"
Something about her father and Rome. Margo tried to remember how to shake her head no, decided that would hurt entirely too much, and tried the Latin again.
"Non. Romae est."
He looked disappointed and even more worried.
"Tuique servi?"
Servants? Oh ... Where were her slaves?
To avoid a struggling explanation, Margo touched her head and moaned. Her host's eyes widened in alarm. He spoke sharply to the young woman, who carefully removed the poultice. She applied a new one, then picked up a basin and set Margo's arm in it. Before Margo knew what they were doing, the woman had sliced open Margo's arm. She yelled and tried to jerk away. The Roman and his servant woman held her down, murmuring anxiously, then forcibly held her arm over the basin and let her bleed into it. By the time they were done, Margo felt light-headed and queasy.
If they keep this up, they'll kill me with kindness ....
She was required to drink a noxious potion which she didn't have the strength to refuse. The Roman touched her hand and said something that Margo supposed was meant to comfort; then they left her alone to sleep. She made an effort to sit up. Between the pain in her head, the forcible bleeding, and whatever they'd made her drink, she was too woozy. Margo collapsed again with a faint moan.
Tomorrow, she promised. I'll get the hell out of here tomorrow.
Margo was a virtual prisoner for the next four solid days. Too ill and light-headed to leave the room, she at least convinced Quintus Flammius, her "host," to stop cutting her veins open every few hours. He wasn't happy about it, but her recovery ceded up significantly -particularly when she insist on replacing the wine at her meals with as much water as she could drink. She'd learned in basic first aid that recovering from blood loss required replacement of liquids. And alcohol, while liquid, tended to dehydrate, not rehydrate. So she drank water until she thought she would burst and willed herself to recover.
Her ATLS bag and knife belt proved to be safely stored in a wooden chest. near her bed. Whenever she was alone, Margo updated her log and checked the chronometer to be sure how much time remained before Porta Romae cycled again. According to the log, she had four days remaining in Rome. What Malcolm must think by now ...
But Margo had no way to get a message to him. The only thing she could do was get well and get the hell out of here. By the fifth day, the headaches had disappeared and Margo was able to walk again without dizziness. Her host was evidently a very wealthy man. The villa she discovered beyond the confines of her sick room was breathtaking with frescoes, mosaic floors, and priceless statuary.
Quintus escorted her into a garden courtyard at the center of his house, guiding her to a marble bench, then clapped his hands. A chained figure Margo vaguely recalled was hauled, weeping and ashen, into the courtyard and thrust to his knees at his master's feet.
Margo stared Why, it's just a boy!
Perhaps thirteen or fourteen, he huddled at Quintus Flaminius' feet and waited. Flaminius spoke harshly to him, pointing at Margo for emphasis. The boy kissed Margo's feet, startling her badly, then huddled almost in a fetal ball beside her toes. Flaminius clapped his hands again. Collared slaves carried out a brazier on poles and set it down near Quintus. Heat shimmered in the spring air. A long iron rod had been thrust into glowing coals.
Flaminius snapped out something to his slave. The boy looked up .... A wild cry broke from ashen lips. He started back, trying to scramble to his feet, then flung himself at Flaminius' legs, clinging to his calves and pleading, "Domine, domine..."
Was he acknowledging Flaminius as his master? Or just begging mercy with the only word he had wit to retain?