The doctor waited for a few minutes, noting the soldier’s gradually slower breathing as the drug took effect.
‘He’s asleep. Let’s move him to the table. You have to keep his arm absolutely as it is now, straight out from his body. We have no idea what the arrowhead might be touching in there…’
She supervised the orderlies as they carried the decurion from his bloodstained bed to the operating table, where so many men had laid in recent months, their wounds open to her gentle, skilful fingers. The table’s surface was criss-crossed with the scars inflicted by her knives and saws, marks left from those occasions when she had decided that the removal of a limb was a safer alternative than risking the onset of gangrene in a shattered arm or leg. The wood’s grain was rubbed smooth by the incessant scrubbing she insisted on to remove each successive man’s blood from the surface before the next soldier was laid out for her attention.
‘Keep his arm steady… that’s it. Now get him on to the table.’
With the unconscious man’s body arranged to her satisfaction, his arm held firmly at right angles from his body by one of the orderlies, she surveyed the wound carefully, noting the blood still leaking from the arrow’s wicked puncture. Stepping away from the table, she studied her instruments for a moment before selecting a pair of polished concave bronze blades, one with a blunt curved end, the other with small hooks at its end. Turning to her helpers, she addressed the man standing ready to help her by the unconscious patient’s head.
‘So, what do we know about arrow wounds, Orderly Julius?’
‘Doctor, the arrow is often barbed and will cause more damage during removal due to further tearing of the flesh inside the wound.’
‘And so the usual method for the removal of such an arrow is…?’
To push the arrow’s head out of the body through a second wound opened for the purpose, when this can be achieved without risk. This allows the arrow to be broken in half and safely removed.’
‘And given this arrow’s location?’
‘It would be impossible to make a second opening. The arrow must be withdrawn through the original wound.’
She smiled encouragement.
‘Good. Have you carried out this procedure before?’
‘No, Doctor, I have not.’
‘Very well, you shall have your first opportunity shortly. From the look of the wound this is a broad-headed arrow, with only two barbs, and not one of ours. We can be thankful for that small mercy, can we not, Julius?’
The orderly responded dutifully.
‘Certainly, Doctor. A flat-bladed arrow opens a pocket-shaped wound, which will close itself well enough as a result of the flesh swelling in response to the arrow’s intrusion. A wound made by the three-bladed arrowheads used by our archers will not close, however, and requires much more attention during recovery.’
‘And…?’
‘And… it has three barbs…?’
‘Rather than two. Exactly. So, back to this particular patient. Our decurion’s arrow’s upper blade and barb may be close to the large blood vessel that runs along the shoulder and down into the arm, and if we snag that vessel with the uppermost barb we will have a dead man on this table inside a minute or so. I’m going to use these…’ She lifted the bronze blades to display them to the two men. ‘… to prevent that from happening. These two items are called a dioclean cyathiscus, because their use was invented by the Greek Diocles.’
She bent over the patient, sliding the first blade into the wound, probing gently for the arrowhead.
‘There it is. Now I’m pushing the blade up and over the barb. It’s smooth and blunt, so there shouldn’t be a risk to the blood vessel. That’s it… now there’s a tiny hole in the top of the blade, which I’m going to engage with the point of the barb… got it. That barb is now harmless to the patient. Now the other blade goes in… see? I engage the tiny hooks over the first blade, like so… and I can now pull the arrow from the wound, with the second blade both providing the traction and keeping the first blade in place over the barb. That’s the worst part over with, and not too much more blood spilt either.’
She looked at Julius.
‘There’s another set of blades over there, go and get them. We’ve managed to protect the blood vessel, so now it’s your turn to make the other barb safe.’
The arrow was out of the wound a minute later, the orderly having made a decent fist of engaging its other barb before ceding control of the extraction to Felicia. She drew the vicious iron blade smoothly and slowly from its incision, looking critically at the missile before putting it to one side.
‘There’s a memento for our cavalryman when he wakes up. Now for this wound.’
She explored the wound carefully with blunt-nosed forceps, pulling out a scrap of cloth from deep inside the decurion’s armpit and holding it up for the orderlies to see.
‘See, a fragment of his tunic, punched into the wound by the force of the arrow’s impact. We must never leave such an object inside a wound, it will cause sepsis, possibly gross infection, and frequently end in the death of our patient. Especially a man as weak as this from loss of blood. So, Orderly Julius, what does Celsus advise us to do now?’
The orderly looked up for a second, remembering his long hours of reading the textbooks that Felicia had lent to him.
‘Doctor, we must pack the wound with lint soaked in vinegar to stop the bleeding, and pure honeycomb to assist the healing.’
‘Correct. And the vinegar will also help to prevent infection of the wound. How long do you think we should wait before sewing up the wound?’
The man’s face reddened.
‘In truth, Doctor, I do not know.’
She smiled.
‘And you will not guess, which does you credit. We’ll make a medic of you yet, Julius. The answer is that we will decrease the size of the wound’s packing with every change, which will be twice a day, until we can see that the flesh inside is healthy in colour and feel, and that the interior of the wound is closing. Only then can we safely close the wound. Well done, colleagues, I do believe that this man will live to fight another day.’
The 8th scouted through the forest without any further result for the next three hours, emerging out of the trees and into the bright daylight at midday, more or less. The soldiers took their meal in the shelter of the forest’s edge and then slung their pack poles over their shoulders, heading for the meeting point that had been agreed at a brisk march. They saw no sign of any enemy during their ten-mile trek across the rolling country north of the wall, and overhauled the legion after an hour’s progress.
The auxiliary cohorts were out front, sweeping forward on a broad front behind a cavalry screen provided by the 6th Legion’s cavalrymen. The legion itself remained in column of march, albeit that their pace was slowed to accommodate the auxiliaries’ cautious progress. The 8th Century marched up the column’s length, steadfastly ignoring the inevitable barrage of insults thrown at their backs by the legionaries, and Marcus snapped off smart salutes to each cohort’s first spear in turn. As they passed the column’s head, past the thicket of standards that led the legion on the march, a single horseman rode out alongside them, his horse trotting easily alongside the running soldiers. Marcus had recognised his former prefect the moment his horse had peeled away from the legion’s officers, and his salute was accompanied by a smile of genuine pleasure. Equitius leaned down from his saddle, throwing him a return salute.
‘Centurion. I saw the colour of your men’s shields and guessed that you might be Tungrians. I’ll assume that you’ve been undertaking some private scouting mission for Prefect Scaurus, to judge from the haste with which you’re tearing off into the distance.’
Marcus stepped closer to the horse, almost rubbing his armoured shoulder against its flank as he lowered his voice to ensure privacy.