by K. Bromberg
“It’s the best I can do,” he announced. “The rest is up to you and the gods.”
Forcing my eyes open again, I looked into the soothing face of the young woman above me. She turned her lips into a slight smile as she met my eyes.
“You did well,” she informed me.
I realized from her features that she must be from the western lands—perhaps even near the area where I had battled against the Gauls last year—though she had no accent I could detect. I looked into her dark blue eyes. They held intelligence and compassion, which was rare for a slave. The gaze of a slave was more likely not to meet a Roman’s eyes at all, for some would consider the act reprehensible.
I shuddered with a spasm of pain up my side and gasped for breath. My muscles stiffened as I held in a cry. The slave woman’s voice was smooth and soft, and she ran her fingers over my arm as she spoke words of encouragement.
As my eyes continued to stare into hers, I knew part of me became lost inside of them. Perhaps it was the pain of the injury I had suffered in war and my gratitude for the young woman who offered me relief, but I didn’t think so. It was the way she moved around me as she handed me a vial or cup full of whatever poultice the doctor deemed necessary to stop the deep cut in my side from becoming further infected. It was her reassuring voice and the curve of her lovely breasts as she leaned over to smooth the bandages.
She was beautiful.
“Tribunus,” the doctor addressed me, “are you comfortable?”
“As comfortable as I can be,” I said without taking my eyes from the woman.
“The wound is deep,” he said, “but I believe we got to it in time. The gods were with you, and none of your organs have been damaged, but there is still much risk of infection. You must rest now until you are healed.”
“How long?”
“Three, perhaps four weeks. If there is infection, much longer.”
Groaning, I shook my head. I glared at the medicus and hissed a breath between my teeth, but his look was determined and unyielding.
“It is the only way to heal,” he insisted.
“I have a war to fight,” I replied. “I cannot abandon my charge for the sake of a minor wound.”
“Minor?” the medicus scoffed.
“You said no organs were damaged,” I reminded him.
“That does not mean you are not seriously hurt, Tribunus.”
I continued to glare in his direction, but my ire was lessened by the slave’s gentle touch on my arm.
“For now, you fight your wounds.” The medicus stood and motioned the woman over as he walked to the far side of the torch-lit room. She stood and moved quickly to his side, and the skin of my arm chilled from the lost touch of her hand.
I tried to take a few deep breaths, but the pain was too great. Shallow panting was all I could manage. It was making my head dizzy, but the woozy feeling in my stomach was worse—nearly enough to take my mind from the pain in my side.
Nearly.
“Is that all you need from me, Sergius?” the young slave asked.
“Do you know who he is?” the doctor snapped at the young slave. His voice was low, as if he was trying to keep me from hearing, but the echoes in the room brought his words to me clearly.
“No, I have never seen him before.”
“That is Lucius Aurelius Faustus,” the doctor informed her as he leaned close. “Tribunus to the Emperor’s army in the west. He is a favorite in the Senate and very rich as well.”
“I have heard of him,” the slave said.
He glanced in my direction and pointed a finger at her before he continued in a quiet voice.
“If Tribunus Faustus dies, we will likely pay the price for it. Do not leave him for a second. Do anything he asks of you, provided it will not do him harm, and watch his wound. We cannot risk any infection. Do you understand me, slave?”
“I will do as you ask,” she replied softly. She dropped her gaze to the ground and nodded her head in deference.
The old surgeon moved back to my side, checked the dressings once again, and nodded to himself. He withdrew his wrinkled fingers from my side and nodded to me once more.
“Stay with him,” the doctor commanded the woman again. “Care for him as if he were your own, and retrieve me immediately if his condition worsens.”
“Of course,” she said quietly with another bow of her head. Her simple dress billowed out around her hips as she slipped quickly to my side. She sat on the small bench next to the bed where I lay and reached over to retrieve a cup of water and bring it to my lips.
The doctor took his leave, and the woman turned her eyes to mine as I drank. When she took the cup away, I ran my tongue over my lips to catch the last of the moisture. Her cheeks darkened in a blush, and she quickly looked away.
“Am I so terrible to gaze upon?” I asked with a slight chuckle. Though I was used to attention from women of many stations, I was surely not a pleasant sight at that moment. I immediately regretted the jest, for laughing shook my side and caused me to wince in pain.
“No, Tribunus,” she said as her blush darkened. “You should stay still, or you may pull out the stitching. Try to sleep.”
I examined myself as best I could, noting the crusted blood on my chest and arms. I wondered if it was from the Gaul who slashed me or one of his companions. It didn’t matter—they were all dead now.
“I despise sleeping on my back,” I growled. “It is most uncomfortable on a good day, and today has not been a good day!”
The slave woman cringed at my outburst. I closed my eyes a moment to center myself before I looked to her again.
“I will try, but I am in need of distraction.”
“Distraction?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said with a nod. “Speak with me.”
Her chest rose and fell with a deep breath, bringing my attention to the outline of her breasts through her dress. She sat up a little straighter and looked at my face as her lips pressed together in thought. She glanced around the room, which was lit with both candle and torch. There were openings along one side of the room to allow in daylight, but the light from the sun was obscured by thick clouds.
“How were you injured?” she asked.
“I was injured when a Gaul shoved his gladius in my side,” I responded dryly. “It was decidedly sharp.”
She smiled and glanced down to my dressing again. Her eyes remained dull, unaffected by the curve of her lips, my soldier’s humor lost on her.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Aia,” she replied, confirming her Gaul heritage.
“And how long have you served the medicus?”
“Two years,” she said.
“And before then?”
“I served in the house of the breadmaker in the market,” Aia said.
“What were your duties there?”
“As a child, I watched the bread as it baked and made sure it didn’t burn. Later on, I learned to mix and knead the dough as well.”
“When did you begin to serve the breadmaker?”
“When I was a young girl,” she said.
“And before?”
“I don’t have many memories from before,” she told me. “My father had many debts, I understand, and had to give me up to pay for them.”
It was a common enough occurrence but one that infuriated me. How could a parent be so careless as to incur such debt? My only child—a son—had died as an infant soon after his mother contracted a fatal fever. The idea of losing him through my own doing was abhorrent.
“Do you have siblings?” I inquired.
“None,” she said.
“Is the doctor your dominus?”
“No,” she said. “I belong to Appius Cassianus Germanus. He owns the hospital here and has many dealings in the marketplace.”
“I have heard the name,” I said with a slight nod. The movement caused me to wince, and I squeezed my eyes shut against the pain. Cassianus was a powerful man in Me
diolanum and known to be quite wealthy. He had family in the Senate as well.
“You should rest.”
“I rested enough on the cart that brought me here,” I scoffed. I tried to wave my hand dismissively, but the ache in my body betrayed me, and my hand shook painfully instead. “I’m tired of resting.”
I watched her as she brought her hands together in her lap and stared at them a moment. Her fingers twisted around each other, showing her nervousness.
“Do I cause you distress?” I asked, the answer obvious on her face.
“No, Tribunus,” she lied.
I chuckled again and once more winced as the skin of my side pulled against the rough stitching holding me together. Every movement seemed to bring more pain throughout my body though the injury was only in my side.
“You shouldn’t speak,” Aia said. She placed her hand on my bare chest to still me. “You must save your strength so you can heal and return to battle quickly.”
This time I restrained my laughter. She was a sly one; I could see that. She knew exactly what words I would want to hear to encourage me to do as she said. I continued to stare at her, and her blush returned.
“You speak, then,” I said. “Tell me of yourself.”
“There is little to tell,” she replied with a shrug.
I narrowed my eyes, reached over, and grabbed her hand in mine.
“Do you want me to be quiet and still?” I asked harshly.
“Yes, Tribunus.” Her eyes went wide as she answered me.
I swallowed once, knowing that anger—like laughter—was likely to cause more pain.
“Then tell me of yourself,” I commanded. “And since you are staring at me nearly cock-out, you may refer to me as Faustus.”
I was rewarded with another blush from the beautiful girl. It turned her skin such a lovely color, and with my anger forgotten, I began to consider other ways to bring about the same reaction.
She started to sit back on the bench, but I kept my grip on her hand so she couldn’t move from my side. When she leaned forward again, I laced my fingers between hers and held her hand to my chest. Her fingers were warm and soft on my flesh.
“I assist Sergius, the doctor, whenever he needs it,” she said in her soft voice. She stared at our hands clasped against my skin.
“So I have gathered.” I looked down to our entwined hands and noticed some of the blood from my skin had transferred to hers.
“I’ve learned much from him.”
“Such as?” I rubbed my thumb along the edge of her hand, wiping away the red streak.
“How to know when a wound is infected,” she said, “and what to put on it to help it heal. He’s shown me which herbs are good for helping with pain and those that are good for keeping a person healthy.”
“Do you treat many Roman soldiers here?”
“Yes,” she said. “I thought you were going to remain quiet, Tribunus.”
“I thought you were going to call me Faustus.”
“Apologies,” she replied. “Faustus.”
I liked the sound of my name on her lips and fought against the desire to have her call me Lucius. It would have been most improper for a slave to address me in such a way, but the desire to hear my first name spoken with her voice remained.
“You talk,” I said. “I will remain quiet.”
Aia nodded and her fingers twitched in my hand.
“I don’t know where else to begin,” she started, “so I will begin with what I first remember. My earliest memories were of a small house near a wheat farm. There was a terrible drought, and though I didn’t know what it meant at the time, the crops were failing, and my father was very worried. By the autumn harvest, there was little to gather in the fields. I remember a young man who served my father being given to an old man, who lived in a villa on top of the hill, in order to help pay for the things my mother and I needed.”
“The next spring, I woke to hear my mother and father arguing. I didn’t understand most of what was said, but I remember my mother crying and holding me tightly. Later that night, the breadmaker from the market came to the house, and I was taken away."
“You were sold to cover your father’s debts?”
“Yes,” she confirmed.
“That defies Roman law,” I growled.
She tilted her head toward the ground and closed her eyes, nodding slightly.
“I know,” she responded quietly, “but still, it happened.”
Inside, I fumed. I fought far from the Senate to ensure others upheld the law, and still it was broken in the very cities of the Empire.
Aia paused for a moment before continuing.
“I believe I was around six years of age at that time,” she said. “The breadmaker was a stern man, and he had me work from morning until dusk, carrying flour from the storehouse to the bakery.”
“Stern?” I commented. My heart beat faster in my chest as I considered the true meaning behind the word she chose. Slaves were most cautious about words chosen to describe their masters, even those who no longer owned them. The wrong word meant death. The one she chose was innocuous enough, but the potential, true meaning of it had the muscles in my arms and shoulders tensing. Anger rose from my stomach at the thought that she may have been mistreated by a fucking baker.
“He wasn’t a violent man at all,” Aia said, staring at me. Her eyes widened slightly as she took her hand from mine, reached out and ran a cool cloth over my arm. My muscles relaxed to the touch as she used the cloth to wipe some of the blood away from my chest. “He was merely demanding. I was never harmed by him.”
I blinked, realizing she had read me with highest accuracy, and looked away with annoyance at appearing so transparent. Water in a nearby bowl sloshed as she deposited the soiled cloth inside. A slight touch from her fingers drew my attention to my hand, which she picked up and held in her lap with both of hers.
“I served the breadmaker for several years,” she continued. “I learned how to mix, knead, and bake the bread. I even learned a little about herbs to bring about more pleasing flavors.”
“I would very much like to taste your bread,” I said with a wide grin. I raised my eyebrows as she looked at me and then quickly away again. Such a lovely gesture of shyness; it made my cock fill with blood as color filled her cheeks.
“Perhaps I will have the opportunity to bake for you,” she responded quietly.
More blood flowed to my cock as my thighs and ass clenched at the thought of sampling her…goods. I tasted my own lips with my tongue as I looked at her through slightly hooded eyes. There was something I needed to know.
“You are still quite young,” I remarked. “Has someone taken your maidenhead?”
Aia’s cheeks turned crimson. She moved her eyes to the floor before answering.
“Yes,” she finally said, much to my dismay. I would have enjoyed plucking such a flower, but it would have been near miracle from the gods for a slave girl to remain untouched for long, and Aia was a beautiful girl.
Even through the pain of the sword’s cut, I longed to show her the worth of my cock between her thighs.
II
“I cannot sleep like this,” I insisted. I fidgeted, trying to find a more comfortable position, but it was impossible. Every time I moved, there was more pain.
“You must relax,” Aia said. Her soft hand touched my forearm as she shook her head at me. “Do not try to move.”
I growled under my breath, shook her touch away, and started pushing myself up with one hand. Pain rippled down my side, and my growl changed to a groan. After three days of lying on my back in the same position, every bit of skin that touched the cot below me was raw and sore, and my muscles ached. Between the pain of the stitched wound and the uncomfortable position, I was beyond tired and irritated.
“Faustus!” Aia exclaimed with hurried voice. “You must stay still!”
“I despise being on my back like a whore!” I snapped.
“You’ll inflame
your wound,” she said. “How can you heal if you don’t lie still?”
“Assist me, then!” I ordered.
I saw her frustrated glance as she moved from the bench to the other side of the bed. I continued to try to move myself to my side, but the pain was too much. A loud grunt escaped me, and Aia reached out to put her hand on my hip to steady me. At the same time, I reached for her, and as soon as I gripped the edge of her dress with my fingers, her feminine scent was all around me.
Without thought, I grabbed her waist and pulled her down to the bed. My other arm went around her shoulders, and I pressed her young body against mine. For a long moment, our eyes remained locked together—hers widened in surprise and mine heavy with sudden desire. A slight movement was enough for the tip of my nose to brush against hers.
“Perhaps the healing I need can be found between your thighs,” I said quietly.
“Tribunus…” Aia’s voice was nothing more than a whisper. I watched her throat bob up and down as she swallowed, and I reached up to brush her neck with my fingers. She dropped her gaze to my chest, and I moved my hand back around to her ass to pull her closer to me. My hardened cock pressed against her, and her mouth opened with a slight gasp.
“So many months on the battlefield without a woman,” I whispered against her cheek. “Your scent is like strong wine, and I want to drink from you. You intoxicate me.”
“Tribunus…” Her voice trailed off again, and she looked away from me.
“Faustus,” I corrected. Again, the errant thought of her uttering my first name lingered in my mind. I took her chin in my fingers and turned her head toward my face.
“Faustus.” She moved her eyes back towards mine. Her desire was unmistakable, but there was hesitation. “Your wound; I fear you would harm yourself. If you lie quietly, I can still give you the release you need.”
“I may be willing to take the chance if it means burying myself inside of you.” I punctuated the words by pulling her stomach against my shaft. Her blush was my reward. Looking for more, I jerked my hips and pressed my cock further into her stomach.