by Celia Lake
She shrugged. “If this does not work, does not seem to help, we have other options to explore. And we can do that.” She considered, then added, “If it does help, then an offering is considered appropriate. You’ve seen the Roman tablets, but these days we prefer some sort of improvement to the temple spaces that will be useful.”
That, at least, was something Roland understood well enough. He nodded. “Do I, do I need to do anything?”
“Fidelius will be along in a minute, he will help you take off your gown. We have a linen robe to get you to the bath. You will soak in the waters, which have been blessed by a priest of Nodens. I will anoint you with a healing oil, pour water over you, and then I will dim the lights and you will soak for a period of time. Fidelius will be observing, through a charmed mirror, nearby. You can call out if you need help, or feel faint, and he’ll see if you need help and can’t ask for it. But mostly you will be alone for a bit.”
“Is that safe?” They fussed so much about the bath, upstairs, though right now it felt that might as well have been a whole different world.
“With the precautions here, yes. In your bathtub in your room, no.”
Roland inhaled, then nodded. “All right.” At that point, there was a knock on the door, a sharp rap. Fidelius turned out to be a man about Roland’s age, with bright ginger hair, who looked far more Irish than anything else, and sounded it too. He was amiable, brisk, and far better at letting Roland do things for himself than Harry usually was. It was a matter of minutes before Roland was guided to the sunken pool, making his way down shallow steps and ending up chest-deep in warm water.
He found himself sitting on a ledge, facing the shrine, which had candles flickering all over the flat surfaces. He couldn’t make out all the objects on the shrine, other than a sizable silver hand, sitting in the middle of the space. Healer Rhoe made sure he was settled, and then murmured. “Thank you, Fidelius. When you’re ready.”
The man bowed, and withdrew. There was a click of the door, then Healer Rhoe began chanting, a prayer that Roland thought was in Greek, rather than Welsh. Though, as he spoke neither, he couldn’t be certain. Then the language shifted, and he was more sure the new one was Welsh, it had a lilt to it a bit like Elen’s voice.
That went on long enough that he had trouble concentrating, the light of the candles seeming to cast an almost fiery glow around the healer’s form. It felt timeless, and as he’d been told, he didn’t fight it, letting his eyes half close, letting the heat of the water relax him.
It felt amazing to be fully immersed, to be able to move and stretch his legs and hands. He was caught for long moments in just feeling the movements in the water, slow and gentle. It felt wonderful to have space to move, not the narrow line of the bathtub. To be able to have his elbows out, bend both knees without slipping under the water. He wondered at the way the resistance let him feel his body properly for the first time in months.
First, it was the pressure of the water on his skin. He’d barely looked at himself in the bright lights of the bath in his room. Here in the warm glow of the candles, it seemed possible. He stretched out his hand, looking at healed scars along his arms, smaller cuts from shrapnel.
There was a larger injury on his thigh, and he ran his fingers along the scar tissue, though it was healed now. Touching felt different, suddenly, like his attention to his body was releasing something that had been chained for months. Sensation flooded through him, the prickling of pins and needles as all his skin woke up.
He realised, suddenly, that the chanting had stopped, and he could see the shadow of Healer Rhoe now bending over him, a small jar of something in her hand. She poured a little over her fingers, then made a symbol on his forehead, saying something in yet another language. Then, she added in English, as if it were important he understood this, “May you be blessed, may you be healed, may you be restored.” Finally, she took a large ladle and poured three scoops of water over his head, angled to drench him, but not make him splutter.
It was becoming harder for him to dismiss what he was feeling. And not just the way his body felt like it was coming back to life. There was something in the room, something gentle. It had a sense of pressure against his face, like the pressure of the water against his body, that was warm and reassuring. He took in a deep breath, then let it out, then another. By the time he opened his eyes again, there was another sound, like a door opening, and then there was the burble of water.
It was flowing down a channel in the rock, from the shrine, into his bathing pool, an arm’s length away from where he sat. He leaned forward, and he could feel that it was colder water, not as warm as his pool, for the moments until it mixed and mingled. He could smell, too, something sharper and herbal, that made him feel refreshed. Not mint, not lavender, not the scents he knew and could name, but something that brought them to mind. Thyme, maybe, or bay leaf, he didn’t know.
He was so distracted by the water that he didn’t notice the Healer leaving until well after she’d gone. It left him alone in the dark with his thoughts and his hopes. Roland leaned back, letting the stone of the bath support him, finding a notch where the back of his skull fit perfectly. He closed his eyes again, letting the sensations wash over him.
It felt safe here. Not only that, it felt safe in a way he hadn’t felt since he was ten or so, before all his formal schooling, before his apprenticeship, certainly before the war. There was nothing he was supposed to be doing differently now, no way in which he was failing to carry on his duties and his obligations, and his familial responsibilities.
The only thing was sitting in the water, in the dark, and letting it restore him, if he was indeed to be blessed.
Chapter 20
Thursday, April 22nd, the injury wards
Elen had emerged from her own time in the baths uncertain. She hadn't known what she'd hoped for, precisely, but whatever she'd gotten wasn't what she'd expected. It wasn't as if she thought Sirona would descend from some high place, lay hands on her head, and take away the migraines. Or the sense of everything being wrong, which was, frankly, worse. The unending sense that she was always wrong-footed, too slow, too clumsy, missing important things. Or the times when she could barely convince herself that anything mattered.
The bath hadn't done any of that, not directly. She knew perfectly well that that wasn't how the gods worked things. Not for most people. Certainly not for someone like her, of little consequence. Miracles were for heroes, kings and queens, people out of legend. She certainly was none of that.
But she felt, in some way, cleaner. Not just physically, though the chance to relax in neck-deep water had worked kinks out of her back and shoulders, easing something she hadn't realised had been so tense. Instead, it was rather like someone cleaning accumulated dust and grime off a window. One could see through it before, but now things were clearer, brighter. Sharper.
She'd arranged to be away from Roland until supper time, just in case. Sister Almeda had been a bit grudging about it, but Elen's healer had been glad to sign off on the time. Frankly, she thought the woman had been glad Elen had an idea, since nothing the healer tried had made nearly as much difference as a quieter place to sleep and fewer blasts of artillery had.
It meant, though, that it was only half-three, and she had a good two hours before Roland was expecting her. She'd thought she might go sit by the shrine in the temple, or perhaps out in the garden, but she felt an undeniable push to go do something. Anything. To move forward.
She turned away from the Temple, walking back across the gardens with her hands folded under her apron, proper and tidy. She could still feel her hair, a little damp at the nape of her neck where it hadn't fully dried. She stood a decent chance of finding Sister Pomona, she thought, if she could figure out which ward to ask at. It was the middle of the afternoon, when nurses were often a little less busy than usual. A little more able to take a few minutes. And it wasn't as if Elen couldn't make herself useful somehow, rolling bandages or folding cloth
s or whatever was needed.
She started with the ward she'd found Sister Pomona in before. There was one junior nurse, in her twenties there, making tea with the nervous expectation of an imminent interruption. "Pardon, Nurse." Elen kept her voice even, polite. "I was hoping to find Sister Pomona. Do you know if she might be free for a word?"
That got a little bob - the nurse was clearly a bit intimidated by Elen, though why anyone would be, Elen had no idea. "She's upstairs in her office, Nurse." The younger woman didn't ask why, but nurses often wouldn't, if they were junior.
"Sorry to disturb you. Blessings." Elen managed a smile, a smile was the right thing here, to reassure, even if she had to deliberately remember to do it. Then she turned and went up the stairs, along to where the nurse's office was. It was the same place as Sister Almeda's was in her ward, looking out over the gardens. The door was ajar, and when Elen knocked, a voice promptly called out, "Come in."
Sister Pomona was seated at a small desk in front of the window. She swiveled her chair, and smiled. "Ah, I wondered if you were looking for me. I saw you, coming across the garden. Come in. Please, sit down, if you'd like." Elen edged into the room, glanced at the chairs along the wall, then back at Sister Pomona. The senior nurse waved a hand. "Sit, sit. I've a nice herbal tea, will that do?"
Sister Pomona then stood, and went over to close the door, then to a side table where a teapot waited in a cheerful red cozy, the colour of her namesake apples. She was a short round woman, not all height and angles like Sister Almeda, but she moved like it was a dance, efficient and effortless, closing the door on the way by.
Elen sat, crossing her ankles and folding her hands in her lap, wanting to do this right, even when she wasn't sure what that involved. Within a minute, she'd been presented with a cup of tea, something with a bit of orange and spices and orchard fruits, and two biscuits, plain shortbread. Sister Pomona sat down in the other chair, and then looked her over. "I do not think you are here simply to lend a hand for an hour or two."
"Um." Elen wasn't sure how to begin to answer that. Not when it was called out that bluntly.
"Let me tell you what I see. Nurse to nurse." Clearly, Sister Pomona was going to, unless Elen fled the room this moment. She wasn't sure she could bear to listen to someone name her flaws, but she wasn't sure how to go, either, not without tremendous insult. So she sat.
"You are in a new place. And you are assigned under Sister Almeda, who is skilled in many aspects of healing, but not, shall we say, necessarily as good with people's hearts as she might be. Excellent at critical care, excellent at running an efficient ward, but not always aware where a bit of kindness would make things so much better."
Elen couldn't argue with this, but agreeing with it seemed rather dangerous. "Sister." She kept her voice neutral, acknowledging it.
"And you, dear one, have been assigned here, following injury. You see a healer, you are getting..." Sister Pomona considered, looking her over. "Adequate care. But no great change."
This was a little easier to answer. "My healer said that if my headaches did not resolve, being here, they might - linger. That it would be a matter of learning what to avoid. What my, what my new capabilities were. That a nurse of my experience, my background, knew how to judge that as well as she could."
Sister Pomona inclined her head, and took a sip from her tea cup. "And yet, as nurses, we so often do not see ourselves as clearly as others can see us. I think you are doing better than you were, when I first saw you. But not yet well."
Elen could not argue with that evaluation. She nodded a little, echoing the last comment. "Not yet well, sister." Then, with some hint of bravery from the bath, she added, "I took the baths, earlier. It helped but it didn't - it didn't fix things."
"Head injuries are often particularly tricky. I know you know this here..." Sister Pomona tapped her forehead. "But not, perhaps, here.” She put her hand over her heart. “And it’s different living it, certainly. That is not all of it, though, is it? You would not have come here just for yourself."
Put that way, Elen could only nod, a tiny movement. Then, gathering together the shattered shards of what bravery she'd once had, she cleared her throat. "You were kind, before. And I wondered if you could tell me about how things ought to be here."
Sister Pomona beamed at her. "That is a fine question, and of course I am delighted to help. Do try the biscuits, they're some of my aunt's shortbread."
Elen managed a weak smile. "I am assigned to a single patient. Major Gospatrick. I have been told I may not see his file. I have not met his senior healer, Healer Cole. The junior healers send me away when they come through on rounds."
She hadn't really thought about how to ask this, so what she ended with, faintly, was simple. "Is that how things are done here now, please?" Her stomach rolled, and she reached for a sip of the tea, and then carefully to nibble on the biscuit, hoping that would help.
Sister Pomona paused, looking at her. It was gentle, somehow, not judging. "It depends on the healer, but that is not the normal way of things, no. Not for most healers. Let me ask a few questions, then."
Elen nodded. The shortbread was delicious, and it had all the proper comforts. Sugar and butter and vanilla, unlike what she got at the boarding house. A treat, not just fuel to keep going for another day.
"Have you asked to speak to Healer Cole?" Elen nodded. "Seen him at all?" She shook her head no. “Had any information about whatever potions or other treatments are applied, other than your own?" A second shake no. "Been given any guidance on how you might best support that?" A third, and then Elen looked down at her hands.
"Well, that's no good then." Sister Pomona sounded peeved. "There's a man not upholding his oaths. Possibly the junior healers as well, but I can't tell. They might simply be deferring. Do you know their names?" Elen didn't, so she shook her head another time.
When Sister Pomona paused, Elen worked up the courage to ask. "His oaths, please?"
"You know, of course, that Healers make oaths, like nurses do. To avoid harm, first and foremost, but also they are to know their limits - not to take on the surgeon’s role, or the nurse’s, to let us do our work as it is needed. And we, here in the Temple, we've always felt that there is the harm of doing the wrong thing, but there is also the harm of not doing the necessary thing."
"Like surgery or debriding a wound. My teachers used those as examples." Elen knew that.
"Exactly." Sister Pomona's voice was warm, full of a praise that Elen wanted to cling to. "And you obviously want to do your best for your patient."
Elen ducked her chin, and blushed. "I do, of course." She drew in a breath. "Do you know more about Healer Cole, please? Or - what it would be like, if he'd broken his oath?" It seemed a ridiculous thing to suggest. Certainly if he had, someone else besides her should have noticed.
Sister Pomona leaned back, considering something for a moment. "Cole came back to the Temple from elsewhere in the Empire, quite recently. We are short of staff, healers are being called up to war service, of course, and those who are skilled at surgery or acute critical care, being sent there."
Elen frowned. "Surely someone who'd served elsewhere, they'd have some skills?"
"I don't know the whole story, but something about why he came back means he does not do surgery. The small things that require dexterity. It might be age, as much as anything else. Our great surgeons have only so many years to be great. It could be a touch of palsy, or some personal excess that's affected him."
Elen supposed age made some sort of sense, though she'd never really thought about it. The nursing magics weren't like that. For some things you needed energy or strength or stamina, but that was different than the delicate movements of a scalpel or finely honed magic. But many of the best nurses were older, people whose knowledge and efficiency of magic more than made up for any lack of strength due to age. "Which would explain why he was assigned to Major Gospatrick's case. His wounds have all healed, I know that."
> "Quite." Sister Pomona was thinking through something. "Your Major Gospatrick, is he of a good family? Well-off?"
Elen nodded. "I gather so. He has silk pyjamas, he's used to having people around, staff, servants. And his voice, his manner." Which were probably the most telling of all.
"There are a few other patients, of similar background, under Healer Cole's care." Sister Pomona spoke more slowly, as if she were thinking through the implications. "And not making much progress, I gather. Not getting worse, but not improving as we would like. And it is unclear why. Is that true for your patient?"
Elen swallowed. "Yes. Getting him outside, walking more, that has been helping. Sister Florinda, in the administration office, arranged for me to reduce the evening potion that seems to be the most significant problem. But it would need Healer Cole to change it, and ... " She shrugged, helplessly.
Sister Pomona paused, and Elen could tell that she was deciding to say something. “The things Cole is doing - those strike me not just as poor care, but as a broken oath, somewhere. Or one that no longer exists. He was still here as a healer when I started my training, and I remember someone saying he was sworn to Apollo Acestor.”
“The arts of healing, but also protection from evil.” Elen knew that as well as any of them.
“Precisely. And what he is doing - whether by design or by neglect - strikes me as a kind of evil. So now I find myself very curious about what I would see or feel or hear if I saw him. About whether he’s ever in the Temple proper. I do not know how one might arrange those things, or find them out. But I am rather curious.”
Elen sucked in a breath. She hadn’t thought about it that clearly, but she supposed a priestess of Apollo Grannus would be inclined to shine light into dark places. Then she nodded. “Yes, Sister. I don’t know how to find out those things either, though.”
“You are doing very well keeping your own oaths, having a care for your patient. And, I hope, continuing care for yourself.” Sister Pomona tapped her fingers. "Let me ask around a bit then, dear. See what the cases have in common in more detail. What else I can learn about Cole. I know who to ask, and more than a few people owe me a favour or two. Have you heard anything else, in passing, that might be a help?"