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 Mediolanum 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?”