At dawn, Pompey rose from his bed and summoned his healer. His stomach was hard and swollen, the skin so tight as to send spasms of pain at the slightest touch. He gritted his teeth as he probed it with stiff fingers, letting anger shield him from the pain until he gasped. Should he allow the physician to cut him? There were nights when it was bad enough for Pompey to take a knife to it himself out of sheer desperation. Each morning, he fantasized about a thin blade to let out all the wind and pus that was making it swell, but then he would force himself to dress, binding the swollen mass himself so that no one else could see.

He rubbed a rough hand across his face, seeing it come away shining with night sweat. His eyes were sticky and sore and he rubbed at them, furious with the body that had let him down.

Pompey sat on the edge of his pallet, doubled over the bulging skin. His physician entered and frowned at his sickly color. In grim silence, the man laid down his bag of materials, crossing to him. A cool palm was pressed against Pompey’s forehead and the healer shook his head.

“You are running a fever, General. Is there blood in your stools?”

“Make your mixtures and get out,” Pompey snapped without opening his eyes.

The healer knew better than to respond. He turned away and laid out his mortar and pestle with a row of stoppered bottles. Pompey cracked open an eye to watch him as he added ingredients and ground them into a white paste. The healer sensed the interest and held up his bowl to show the milky mucus that lined the sides.

“I have hopes for this preparation. It is a bark I found in Dyrrhachium, mixed with olive oil, water, and milk. The man I bought it from swore it would help with any illness of the stomach.”

“It looks like semen,” Pompey said through clenched teeth.

The healer flushed and Pompey gestured irritably, already tired of the man.

“Give it to me,” he said, taking the bowl and using his fingers to scoop the mixture into his mouth. It tasted of nothing, but after a time it did seem to ease him a little.

“Make another batch. I can’t be running to you whenever the pain worsens.”

“It’s working, is it?” the healer said. “If you would only let me release the poisons in you, I could—”

“Just seal another dose of it under wax so I can take it later,” Pompey interrupted. “Two doses, and one more of your usual muck.”