Cato Decimus was bald, though Thad thought perhaps he just shaved his head. The man had a large mole on his temple that looked like it had been ripped off and regrown over and over. It was puckered and misshapen. He had dark olive skin and thick black eyebrows. He was of average height and fairly slender but not skinny. Cato also had several missing teeth and when he spoke, his voice was deep, as though it belonged to a larger and more robust man.
“Alright you dog’s penises, move along, we’ll let the medicus tend you,” he said and Thad and his friends began to move forward. The chain bit into his ankles and he gritted his teeth. Like the other men, he had to shorten his stride. They walked along the gallery on the first floor. Fluted columns held up the second floor and there were curved archways throughout. It was weird because it all seemed almost new and shiny, unlike the rubble he’d seen this morning. It was also massive. He studied the architecture and remembered that the Colosseum had looked new as well, though he knew it wasn’t. It had stood the test of time and when he was down on the sand, it felt much bigger than it had this morning.
Marco felt eyes on his back and wanted to turn and look but did not. He followed the other men and his eyes shifted from left to right, taking in his surroundings. He noted the many cells, with iron gates in them. Barracks, his mind told him. There were pallets on the floor and it looked to be roughly ten to a room.
Out of the sun now, Marco felt the coolness of the shade under the passageway. His face throbbed with each heartbeat and the cold metal rubbed and cut at his ankles. He had only understood about half of what doctore and the other man said. He was glad they were seeing a doctor, but it frightened him with regard to what that medical treatment would be. Would he get an infection and his face rot off? He’d seen that the doctore and Cato had numerous scars but these men grew up in this time and were used to the germs and such. Would his body heal better or worse than these ancient men?
No one had spoken since they left the arena. What could they say? They were truly fucked and what in the hell could you even say about that? They came to another opening and Cato stopped and opened a door. He stood waiting as Marco and the others went through. It was a large room and it stank of old blood. There were long low tables around the large room with many windows that opened to the outside. The room was bright, but only because the sun was shining in through the open windows.
An old man turned from a work bench that held bowls, numerous pestle and mortars. There were wooden boxes stacked to one side, several tall ewers and squat pitchers and decorative jugs.
“Aulus, we have new men. Doctore wishes them to be attended,” Cato said.
“So, I shall,” the old man said and turned and indicated the low tables. Marco shuffled over and stood by the table, the chains clinking and rubbing. A slave came into the dispensary with an armload of rags and another slave walked over and poured liquid into a bowl. The slave brought the bowl over to what Marco assumed was the physician, Aulus. The old man stepped over to Marco and gently pushed him to sit on the low table. Marco breathed through his mouth, the old man’s breath was rank and he was filled with panic. His eyes went to the old man’s hands and the nails were filthy.
I won’t freaking die from a sword, I’ll die from filth and infection, Marco thought, a panic beginning to build.
“Get my case,” the old man ordered the slave. Marco watched as the slave hurried over to the work table and brought back a case. Then the slave went to the table and brought a shallow bowl over. He caught the scent of vinegar and saw strings floating in the bowl. The doctor opened the box and Marco saw golden needles, some straight, some curved, all sharp. He swallowed and knew that the doctor was going to sew up his face. His eyes found his friends and he saw that the slaves were cleaning their wounds.
He tried not to hyperventilate and he gripped the edge of the table with his hands. The doctor dipped a rag into a bowl of milky solution and began to wipe at Marco’s cheek. Marco let out a long hiss of pain, but otherwise sat still, his hands gripping the edge of the bench. His body was rigid with pain and anticipation. The doctor was surprisingly gentle as he wiped the blood that had begun to crust. He felt one of the slaves wiping at his other wounds.
The doctor said nothing as he did his work and Marco was glad. If the man opened his mouth, he was sure that the horrible breath would reach him and between that and the pain, he was sure he would puke. He watched as the doctor set the rag aside and fished out one of the floating strings from the bowl. The old man then pulled a thin curved needle and threaded it. Marco waited, dreading it but knowing it had to be done. The doctor dabbed at his face again with a cloth and then with his knotted and swollen fingers, pushed the needle through the flesh on Marco’s cheek.
Marco closed his eyes as the hot pain shot
