The Last Son of Rome by Bagnall Joe

Author:Bagnall, Joe [Bagnall, Joe ]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Olympia Publishers
Published: 2022-05-09T00:00:00+00:00

XIV

When Celer woke it was morning. Weak winter sunlight kissed his battered face and he could hear the now familiar sounds of the fortress, though they were strangely muted.

Groaning, he tried to raise his head. It felt heavy as lead and swam with dizziness. He retched and only just managed to turn his head so that he didn’t choke on the hot vomit that filled his throat. He spat weakly and wiped his mouth with a bruised hand. His lips felt swollen beneath his shaky touch and the lightest contact made them sting.

One eye was sealed shut but the other opened enough for him to see that he was in the fortress hospital. All around him he could see the prostrate forms of men, the morning quiet punctuated by bouts of vomiting from the casualties of the Cohort’s foray into town.

Feeling ashamed to find himself here amongst the other drunks, he allowed his head to sink back onto the cot. His whole body ached, worse than it had after any day of training. Closing his one good eye, he tried to remember what had happened. Fragmented memories flashed past his mind’s eye. The crouched figure of Horatius silhouetted against the lights of the fortress. Running down the darkened streets, the low buildings of the town whipping past him, the cold night air on his skin. Being hurt, lying on the paved ground, gritty cobbles rough beneath his hands as he tried to rise. Then darkness, feeling blows thump into his body but not being able to see them coming, unable to strike back or protect himself.

He woke with a start. The sunlight no longer lay across his bed and several of the beds nearby were now empty. He felt clammy and cold. The rough blanket felt damp to the touch and he felt a mingling of horror and shame as he thought he had pissed himself. Furious, he forced himself into a sitting position, hands searching to discover the truth. To his immense relief he found no sign of such a shameful accident, though his tunic was wet through with sweat that stank of the tavern’’s sour wine, making his tortured stomach want to retch once more.

Fighting to control his stomach, he quickly inspected himself. His arms and legs were cut and covered with bruises; looking beneath his sodden tunic he could see his torso, too, was a motley of purple and red bruising.

Carefully, Celer probed his head and face with his fingers, trying to ascertain the damage. His chin was almost too painful to touch but he still had all his teeth and, amazingly, none felt loose. His nose, too, was blessedly unbroken but the skin about his eyes was swollen and there was a thick bandage about his head.

He had just completed his inspection when he saw Vegetius striding down the aisle between the beds.

“My dear boy,” the writer’s face contorted at the site of the battered legionary, “you look dreadful!”

His old travel companion’s evident concern felt so

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