Chapter 75: I’m Too Old For This Shit
Chapter 75: I’m Too Old For This Shit
The corridors beneath the arena were a labyrinth of stone and shadow, lit by guttering torches that cast long, wavering shadows against the walls. The air was thick with the smell of sweat and the faint, metallic tang of blood.
The guards carried him with hurried efficiency—one under each arm, his feet dragging, his head lolling forward, his white hair matted with sweat.
The roar of the crowd was still echoing through the stone, a distant thunder that seemed to come from another world. Somewhere above, a hundred thousand voices were chanting his name, but down here, in the cold and the dark, the only sounds were the scuff of sandals on stone and the ragged, wet rasp of Alex’s breathing.
"Albius!"
The shout came from behind them.
Oseka.
His voice was raw, desperate, cracking with the weight of everything he’d just watched. He had seen Alex fall. He had seen the guards catch him. He had pushed through the crowds and the guards and the officials who tried to stop him, because his brother was hurt and nothing else in the world mattered.
"Albius! Let me through! That’s my brother!"
Two guards intercepted him before he could reach the group. Their hands closed around his arms, dragging him back. Oseka fought them. He thrashed and pulled and screamed Alex’s name again, his voice echoing off the stone walls. But the guards held firm. They were bigger than him, stronger than him, and they had their orders. No one was allowed near the champion until the medicus had examined him.
"Let me go! Albius! ALBIUS!"
Alex didn’t hear him. He was too far gone, too deep in the fog of poison and exhaustion and the slow, relentless work of the vitality points that were still pinging in the corner of his vision.
But somewhere in the back of his mind, buried beneath the pain and the blood and the cold acceptance of death, he heard Oseka’s voice. And he wanted to answer. He wanted to tell his brother that he was alive, that he was still fighting, that the Ghost wasn’t done yet.
But the words wouldn’t come. The darkness was closing in. And the guards carried him onward, away from the shouting, away from the light, deeper into the bowels of the arena.
---
The infirmary was a small, dim chamber carved into the stone, its walls lined with shelves of clay pots and bundles of dried herbs.
The air smelled of vinegar and wine and the particular bitterness of medicinal plants that had been crushed, boiled and reduced to their most potent essence.
A single oil lamp burned on a wooden table in the center of the room, its flame guttering in the faint draft that crept through the cracks in the walls.
The guards laid Alex on a low cot near the back of the room. His body was a ruin—torn tunic, blood-soaked skin, the thin slash across his forearm still weeping, the deeper wounds from the fight still oozing through the makeshift bandages the guards had pressed against them.
His face was pale beneath the grime, his breathing shallow and uneven, his eyes closed. The vitality points were still pinging, still fighting, but the poison was relentless.
The medicus in charge was a thin, nervous man with grey-streaked hair and hands that trembled too much for the work he did.
He had been assigned to the arena infirmary three years ago, after the previous medicus had died of a fever that had swept through the lower tiers. He was competent enough for scrapes and sprains and the occasional broken bone. He had never treated a champion before. He had certainly never treated a man who had survived the Pool of Death twice.
He stood over Alex’s cot, his lips pressed into a thin line, his eyes darting over the wounds. "Cut the tunic off," he ordered, gesturing to the guards. "I need to see the full extent of—"
"Don’t touch him."
The voice came from the doorway. Quiet, vold and absolute.
Gaius stepped into the infirmary like a shadow detaching itself from the darkness.
His bag was slung over his shoulder. His face was haggard, his eyes rimmed with exhaustion, but there was a hard edge to his expression that made the guards step back.
The medicus turned, his face flushing with indignation. "Who are you? This is my infirmary, and I will—"
"Gaius." Ignatius appeared in the doorway behind the old medic, his dark tunic still immaculate despite the chaos of the day. His voice was calm, but there was steel underneath it. "He is the medicus of Ludus Ignatius. He has treated this champion since the day he arrived. You will step aside."
The medicus sputtered. "But the rules—"
"The rules," Ignatius said, stepping into the room, "are whatever I say they are. This is my champion, Gaius is his physician and you will leave. Now."
The medicus looked from Ignatius to Gaius to the guards, his face a storm of wounded pride and barely-contained fury. For a long, tense moment, it seemed like he might argue. Then he turned on his heel and stormed out, muttering under his breath about arrogant lanistae and meddling old men who didn’t know their place.
The guards followed him, their expressions carefully blank. The door closed behind them with a soft click.
Gaius turned to Ignatius. He didn’t speak. He just looked at the Lanista with an expression that needed no words.
Ignatius held his gaze for a moment. Then he nodded once and walked out, closing the door behind him.
Gaius was alone with Alex.
The old medic set his bag on the table and opened it. His hands moved with the practiced efficiency of decades, pulling out bandages, a small clay pot of ointment, a bronze knife for cutting away ruined fabric.
The lamp flickered, casting shifting shadows across his face. He didn’t look at Alex, yet.
He was gathering himself.
Then he turned to the cot and began to work.
He cut away the tunic with careful, deliberate strokes, peeling the blood-soaked fabric from Alex’s skin. The wounds were bad—a deep gash across the ribs, a puncture in the shoulder, the thin slash on the forearm that still wept a pale, sickly fluid.
The poison had spread through the bloodstream, coursing through every vein and artery, but the vitality points were fighting it back slowly, relentlessly.
The wounds were already beginning to close at the edges, the skin knitting together in a way that no mortal body should be able to manage.
Gaius worked in silence. He cleaned the wounds with vinegar and wine, his hands steady despite the exhaustion that hung on his shoulders like a shroud. He applied the ointment, a thick paste of crushed rue and garlic and theriac—the universal antidote, the last resort of physicians who had nothing else to offer.
The smell was sharp and bitter, filling the small room with the scent of medicine and desperation.
When he was finished, he sat back on his stool and looked at Alex’s face. The boy was still unconscious, still pale, still breathing in short, ragged gasps.
But he was alive. The vitality points were still pinging. The healing was still happening.
Gaius reached out and pressed two fingers to Alex’s wrist, feeling the pulse. It was weak and thready. But it was there. A heartbeat... a stubborn, insistent heartbeat that refused to stop.
The old medic let out a long, slow breath. His hands, which had been so steady during the treatment, were trembling now. Just slightly. Just enough to show that he was human, that he was tired, that he had been carrying too much for too long.
"I hope you pull through this one, kid," he whispered.
The words hung in the air, soft as a prayer. Outside, the crowd was still chanting.
He looked at Alex one more time. The boy’s chest rose and fell with each slow, ragged breath. The wounds were closing. The poison was fading. The Ghost was going to survive.
Gaius packed up his bag and stood. He cast one last glance at the figure on the cot, then turned and walked to the door. His hand was on the handle when he stopped.
"Don’t get me this worked up again," he said quietly, not turning around. "I’m too old for this shit."
Then he opened the door and stepped out into the corridor, leaving Alex alone in the dim light of the infirmary, the vitality points still pinging, the healing still working, the crowd still chanting his name.
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