He shuddered as he thought of stomach wounds he had seen in the past. When he was little more than a boy, he had killed a rabbit and slit its guts as he tried to remove the skin. Stinking black and green curds had stained his hands, tainting the good meat. He had been forced to throw the whole rabbit away and he could still remember the stench. Pompey had seen simple spear punctures bruise with filth once the stomach was open to the air. Death always followed.

“As you wish, General,” the man replied, offended. “I have more of the bark in my own tent. I’ll have it sent to you.”

Pompey only glared until he left.

When he was alone, Pompey levered himself to his feet. The legions would be ready to march, he knew. The light was already brightening at the flap of the command tent and they would be in ranks, waiting for his appearance. Still, he could not summon his dress slaves until he had bound his stomach. Only the healer had seen the expanse of angry flesh he hid with strips of clean linen, and even he knew nothing of the blood Pompey spat during the night. When he was in public, he swallowed the gummy mass back each time it rose into his throat, but it grew more difficult each day.

As he stood, a wave of dizziness struck him and he swore softly to himself, waiting for it to pass. More itching sweat dripped down his face and he found his hair was wet with it.

“Give me just a few more days,” he whispered and did not know if it was a prayer to the gods or to the sick growth that consumed him.

He reached for the sweat-stained strips he had placed over the end of his pallet and began to wind them around his torso, constraining the swelling with savage jerks that left him trembling. His fingers were clumsy on the knots, but at last he was able to stand straight and took a series of deep breaths. He crossed to a water bucket and splashed it on himself before tugging a tunic over his head.

He was panting by the time he called for his slaves. They entered with downcast gazes and began to fit his armor to him. Pompey wondered if they guessed at the reason for the delay and decided he did not care. The gods would give him the time he needed to humble his last enemy. When Julius was dead, he would let them cut him, but until then he would get through each day, each hour, until it was over.