Dioscorides, qualified Greek surgeon, serving with the Roman Army and only allowed to operate on humans, when I stilled my tongue. The young man was stricken; despairing. This dog was significant to him. So I could at least have a look. Anatomy is anatomy.
‘What’s his name?’ I asked. ‘Boar hunt, was it?’
`I am Essa, he is Fierce,’ he replied in halting camp Latin. ‘The boar’s gone to your house,’ said my tribesman. ‘Heal him?’
‘Not I but Apollo,’ I said ritually. ‘Put him down on my table. Essa, you sit here, in case he is frightened by a stranger. Now, my good Fierce, what’s come to you?’
Fierce responded to Essa’s handling and rolled over. The boar’s tusk had caught him in the haunch, ripping up, aiming for the tendons. Which had been spared, but it was an ugly wound. If mortification set in, poor Fierce would die and there was little I could do to prevent it. However, there were things I could try. Essa was watching my face. He drew his knife. Tears ran freely down his face, into his golden beard.
‘I must kill him, then, if he will be crippled,’ he said in the most desolate voice I had ever heard.
‘No, no,’ I put a hand on his wrist, ‘Have you no faith in your physician? I am Dioscorides from Cos, and I have seen wounds like this before. You will need to hold onto him,’ I warned. ‘I need to wash this wound with salt water, then with vinegar, then I will stitch it. So first I need to shave some of his fur away. Don’t worry, it will grow again.’
I used my own razor to shave the curly coat. Then Essa held the dog as I washed and tended the wound. When it was all over and Fierce was lapping cool water from my bucket, Essa was pale and sweating. I examined and treated his wound in the same way, and like the dog, he made no outcry, only bit into his lip. Those Brigantes were a brave people. They could teach the Stoics philosophy.
When all was over I washed my hands and cleaned my table and looked outside. No more patients. I drew a couple of cups of wine and offered one to Essa. We sat down together under my vine. Fierce gave a great sigh and flopped down on Essa’s foot.
‘Thank you,’ said the Brigante. He was very good looking now that he was not in pain. ‘And thank you from Fierce as well. You are Greek?’
‘I am, from the island of Cos, where I learned to be a physician at the temple of Apollo. And you? Where are you from?’
He waved a graceful hand. ‘Out there,’ he told me. I understood. The Brigantes did not tell strangers their place names, or even their clan names, unless they were close friends. And there was no reason for them to be friends with any Romans, who had conquered their province. They had also conquered Greece, of course, but I no longer held it against them, since we had conquered them in turn. Every young Roman learned Greek. Greek clothes, Greek philosophies, Greek theatre, and of course, Greek physicians were very fashionable. There are conquests, and there are victories.
We drank the wine in peaceful silence. Most people talk too much. Essa was decorative, a sunrise man like his own Lugh of the Shining Spear. It was very pleasant just to sit with him. He finished his wine and put down his cup. Essa arose and Fierce woke up.
‘Bring him back every day, if you can,’ I said, suddenly not wanting to let this Adonis out of my sight. ‘He’ll limp for now, not forever. Just as you do,’ I smiled at him.
He darted forward and kissed me. I suspect he had seen Romans kiss in greeting or parting. This was sweet, sweeter than any kiss I had ever had before. And Fierce licked me on the knee. And they went out.
I closed my door and went back to the Commander’s house, where I lived. I would be required to clean, skin, gut and joint that boar, so that it could be marinated in sour wine, capers and salt, to remove the rank taste. Every bit of it would be used. Including the intestines, which made sausage skins. As camp surgeon, I was also principal carver to the commandant’s household. I supposed they assumed that a man who could repair the tendons in a ruptured knee ought to be able to find his way around any animal.
The hardest were quail. That is not so much carving as dissecting. And if they want thrushes and sparrows carved, then they can do it themselves.
I didn’t mind the commander’s household. His wife was a pompous woman who missed a Rome she had never been near. I know because she talked about the great houses on the Via Appia. There are no houses on the Via Appia, just tombs, upon which the whores piss when exasperated with the respectable. I didn’t say a word. The commander Marcus Flavius Cornelius was the usual tired, overstressed official, with too many duties and not enough time for his family. I found myself telling his children stories. I had avoided seduction by the Domina of the household, as my tastes did not extend to women. I explained this and she was quite put out.
I found that Essa and Fierce had killed a huge boar. I swear, it was almost as hefty as a Brigante pony. They were a formidable pair. I spent a messy hour completing the butchery. The cook, a Thracian as black as night, grinned as he distributed the joints amongst his brine tubs, and the dogs ate the scraps. And I washed in hot water from the kitchen then took myself to the baths to clear myself of the stench of blood.
I returned and took some wine, apples, bread and cheese to my room. Essa was the first tribesman who had ever come to my surgery, even though the commander had told them I was there to treat them. I prayed to Asclepius that he would be healed, because if he died, then we might easily have a war, and the commander was tired enough as it was.
I prayed and poured him a proper oblation, then slept as though I had worked very hard all day.
The morrow brought Essa and Fierce, and each day thereafter. He would always arrive after the last patient. Quite a lot of tribesmen were attending these days; mostly with wounds. I was getting very skilled at treating wounds. When Essa and Fierce came I would inspect, wash and re-bandage both wounds, and then Essa would share a quiet cup with me, kiss me sweetly, then take his hound and fade back into the background, a thing which the Brigante are spectacularly good at. I suspect their mothers weave spells of invisibility into the plaid.
The day came when the scar on Essa’s admirable thigh and the gash on Fierce’s haunch had all healed, and the fur had grown again on the one who had fur. Fierce did not halt at all, and Essa strode like a deer. And I would have to formally say goodbye to them.
‘You are healed,’ I pronounced ritually, one hand on Fierce’s head and the other on Essa’s shoulder. ‘May no hurt or ailment seize on you again!’
‘Are you sending us away?’ asked Essa. He held onto my arm with one large, strong hand. His blue eyes showed hurt.
‘No, of course not,’ I pulled him into an embrace. ‘I am declaring you healed. You are no longer my patient. I would not lose your friendship, my Essa.’
‘And you shall not,’ he told me. ‘You have begun to learn my language and I yours. I would not be a faithless teacher. Therefore I will come back every second day to speak with you again.’
‘Oh, my dear,’ I said, and he kissed me not once but a hundred times. We lay down on the surgery floor, his plaid under me, and made love with such kindness, such sweetness, that I felt my eyes swim. He kissed away my tears. Fierce lay with his head on his paws, ignoring us. Occasionally he would snort and make us laugh. I hadn’t had a lover since I left Greece, and here I was with a lawless barbarian, with a mouth as red as pomegranate, and a taste of honey.
‘You have wanted me all this time?’ wondered my Essa, his head on my chest.
‘I
