Page 66 of Firebird
“It’s different, but I believe you’ll manage it well enough.”
“Why do you say that?” I tried to wipe more of the blood, hands trembling because it didn’t seem to be stopping.
“Because the gods wouldn’t have given Julian a weak female.”
My hands paused but then more blood gushed, and I couldn’t think about what Trajan was admitting while Julian was losing so much blood.
“The blood should be clotting but it isn’t.”
I heard Trajan step closer behind. “He’d already lost a lot before I got to him and Salvo.”
Julian rocked his head to the side, his eyes—pure, bright gold—slit open, his brow beading with sweat. He murmured something I couldn’t hear.
“What?” I leaned forward, holding his feverish gaze. “Repeat that, Julian,” I urged him.
“Poison,” he muttered. “On the blade.”
I gasped, glancing up at Trajan, his scowl so deep he looked like the savage beast he was. “Do your healers have something to draw the poison out?”
“I’ll find out.” Trajan stormed through the curtain and out of the tent.
Quickly, I reached for a clean, dry tunic folded on top of the chest in the corner where I’d left it. I pressed the thick fabric to his wound, trying to stop the excessive bleeding.
Rough fingertips caressed my jaw. Startled, I jerked my gaze to his half-lidded one.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
“I don’t know if I can even stop this bleeding,” I admitted, panic gripping me hard. “I believe the poison at the wound is preventing the blood from clotting.”
He shook his head to the side once. “Thank you for being here.”
“I had to be,” I snapped, keeping pressure on the wound. “You dragged me here, remember?”
His mouth quirked on one side, even while sweat rolled down across his forehead and into his hairline.
“Not here. In this tent.” His eyes slipped closed. “For being in this world. In my life.” He chuckled, more blood seeping out of the bottom of the fabric. “The gods love to play their games with me.”
“Stop talking. And by Pluto, stop moving and laughing. You’re only making it worse.”
My hands shook as I noticed the beige tunic was nearly soaked completely dark red.
“Where the devil is Koska?” I muttered.
As if summoned, he rushed into the tent and the sleeping quarters and knelt on the opposite side of Julian’s bed, setting a tray down. A woman followed behind him, older and confident looking as she sat on the bed with a bowl in her hand.
“Remove the cloth,” she commanded.
She didn’t wear a slave collar, but her dress was plain. She was a free Roman, a healer they kept during campaigns.
I did as she ordered, then she began to wipe and press a ground-up, dark green herb onto the wound. Julian hissed but his eyes remained closed.
“Apologies, Legatus,” she whispered, then her gaze snapped to me. “This will draw out the poison. Watch how I do it.”
I did, observing how she packed the entire wound with the earthy, pungent-smelling herb.
“Leave this on till he begins to bleed through. Clean it off, then add a second layer. Do that until the wound stops bleeding. Then clean it thoroughly and stitch the wound, covering it with the balm Koska has there.”
She finished stuffing the wound, then thrust the bowl out to me. I took it.
