“Go help him!” I managed to get out. All of them did except one, a boy named Manius Silvius, son of a family ally. I had slumped over sideways and he gently raised me and leaned me against the trunk of the tree.
“You don’t have much future in Roman politics, Manius,” I managed to grate out, “if you’d rather nursemaid a soon-to-die praetor than chase a murderer, which at least holds an element of fun.”
“You’re not going to die, Praetor,” he stammered with an utter lack of conviction.
“Why not?” I demanded. “Look. I’ve been shot through with an arrow. People die that way.”
“But who could have shot you?” he asked.
“It might have been Cupid, but I doubt it. No women around, for one thing.”
“What?” Sometimes I waste my best wit on such people.
Shortly thereafter, Hermes and the others returned without any trophies. “Let him get away, did you?” I said bitterly. “I’m going to die without the satisfaction of knowing that I’m at least avenged.”
Hermes knelt, took out his knife, and cut my tunic away from the wound. He punched me rudely on the chest.
“Ow! What are you doing, wretch?”
“I’m seeing how bad it is. Asklepiodes taught me this.” He took the arrow by the shaft and wiggled it. The world turned red before my eyes. He punched me lightly in the stomach and I began to vomit.
“No blood in your puke. Good.”
“Good?” I raged in a very weak, strangled voice. “That’s good? I’ll have you crucified, you monster! I knew I never should have given you your freedom.”
“Oh, be quiet. It missed your lung and your heart and your major pipes. We’ll get the arrow out, and if you don’t bleed to death inside and the infection doesn’t kill you, you’ll be fine. Just another scar to impress the voters at election time.”
Somehow, I almost took comfort in this. “You’re going to yank out that arrow, aren’t you?”
“Unless you’d rather keep it,” he said. Snide little bastard.
“Give me a gallon or two of wine and go ahead.” Something occurred to me. “You know what? My hangover is gone.” And that was the last I remembered for a while.
Sometime later I awoke and wished I hadn’t. My chest and shoulders felt like molten lead. It hurt to breathe. I tried turning my head and my neck hurt; so did my head. I had the feeling that someone had just rushed from the room. At least that meant that I was in a room. I was in a bed, for that matter. I tried to look around, moving nothing but my eyes. They hurt, too. I recognized the wall paintings. I was in the villa Hortalus had lent us.
Julia came in. “You see what comes of talking about someone trying to kill you? Now they’ve tried and came within an inch of succeeding.”
“So this is my fault, is it? How long have I been unconscious?”
“Three days. The physician had your wound treated and bandaged and he forced some drugged wine into you. That’s why you’ve slept so long.”
I had a horrible thought. “You didn’t let him run a hot iron through the wound, did you?” I’d seen that done before and it’s far worse than getting skewered in the first place.
“No, this physician doesn’t favor such drastic methods; just drugs and poultices for wounds like yours.”
“Better than some army surgeon, anyway. How is it healing?”
“It wasn’t as red and swollen this morning as when you were brought in. But you won’t be going anywhere for a while. Hermes has canceled all your court appearances and sent word to Rome that you’ve been attacked and wounded. Pompey sent his personal physician, but I wouldn’t let him treat you. He’s one of those who favor hot iron.”
“That was good of Pompey and better of you. I want to sit up.”
“You’d better stay as you are until the wound has healed a bit more.”
“No, I’m not looking forward to it, but I’d better sit up. I’ve seen a lot of wounded men die from lying flat too long. Even if the wounds are healing, they get fluid in their lungs and soon they can’t breathe.”
“Very well, but it’s going to hurt.”
“I hurt anyway.” She left and moments later was back with Hermes, a burly house slave, and one of her slave girls. Hermes and the man took me by the arms and hauled me up while Julia and the girl piled cushions behind my back. A great wave of red washed over me and I clenched my teeth to keep from crying out. I settled back against the cushions and the agony began to fade, but the sweat rolled down my face in torrents. Julia gave me a cup of heavily watered wine with ice in it (the Villa of Hortalus lacked no amenities) and soon I felt able to talk again.