Worth Read online

  Worth

  Shay Savage

  Copyright © 2014

  Shay Savage

  All Rights Reserved

  Cover design by JA Huss

  Editing : Chaya

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems-except in the case of brief excerpts or quotations embodied in review or critical writings without the expressed permission of the author, Shay Savage.

  The characters and events in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Table of Contents

  I

  II

  III

  IV

  OTHER TITLES BY SHAY SAVAGE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  I

  The cart bounced, and rippling pain traveled swiftly up my side. It radiated from the point where a sword had entered my left side and then up to where my arm met the rest of my body. I felt need to vomit, but swallowed back bile rather than soil the back end of the rickety, horse-drawn cart.

  I tightened my hands into fists and stared up at the wooden roof above me. A young man wearing his battle-scarred armor stepped into view and knelt beside me. His dark hair creased his forehead as he looked down upon me with concern in his eyes.

  “Antonius, where the fuck are we?” I snarled at the young man. I looked down at myself, sans armor, wearing nothing but the tunic normally beneath it and a subligarium wrapped around my lower region. There was a long tear up the side of the tunic, and blood seeped into the woven fabric despite the bandages wrapped around me.

  “Nearly there, Faustus,” Antonius replied.

  “Nearly where, you cocksucker?” I clenched my teeth as the cart hit a rut in the road. Another pain seared through me.

  “Mediolanum,” he replied. He gripped the inside wall of the cart to steady himself. “There is a hospital there with a good medicus named Sergius. He has skills as a surgeon. He can sew your wound.”

  “Fucking Gauls,” I growled under my breath. Flashes of the battle and of the young Gaul who stabbed me took over my thoughts. I tightened my hand around the edge of the bench where I lay and remembered the feeling of my own sword cleaving his body in two—punishment for his grievance against me. “They know they can’t win, but still they fight like dogs for a bitch.”

  “They do at that.” He smiled half a smile and raised an eyebrow at me. “There are far fewer of them fighting today, thanks to you.”

  I huffed a breath out my nose, which caused further pain up my side. I closed my eyes tightly and willed the pain to pass, but it remained. I let my mind return to the battlefield where I commanded a Legion of Rome against the insufferable Gauls who still attempted to defy the emperor’s rule. I lost a few good men on the field today, but the blood of the Gauls was far more prevalent.

  The cart jarred as it hit another deep rut in the road. I gritted my teeth and bit into my tongue to keep the scream from passing my lips.

  “Not much longer,” Antonius assured me. He placed his hand on my forearm, but I shook it away.

  “If the gods let me live so long,” I muttered before the cart again bounced wildly, and a scream passed my lips right before all went dark.

  When I finally managed to open my eyes again, the first thing I saw was her.

  She had flax-colored hair, as brilliant as the sun on a summer morning and eyes of dark blue nearly as dark as midnight with long lashes to frame them. Her skin was creamy, smooth and flawless. As she leaned over my body, the thin folds of her dress billowed to show the curve of her breasts beneath the fabric. The cold bronze collar coiled around her slender neck marked her as a slave.

  It had been long since I had laid eyes upon a woman, slave or otherwise. Though there was a camp near the battlefield tents filled with whores for the taking, I did not deem it necessary to frequent the place. My thoughts were always of blood and battle, not the baser needs I prescribed for my men. I felt myself beyond such things.

  However, the slave woman above me turned my thoughts from both battle and wound.

  Even in my injured state, my first thoughts were of having her on her back in my bed, her thighs spread wide and her knees bent before me. I wanted to feel her skin in my hands, taste her sweat on my tongue, and feel her body give way to my cock. I wanted to hear her screaming underneath me as I plowed into her over and over again. I wanted to feel her insides clench around me as I filled her with my seed.

  “Hold his arms.”

  I blinked slowly and turned my head as much as I could to see a man crouching beside me, bent over my side. He was grey-haired, wrinkled, and ancient-looking. My tunic had been cut up from the side and removed completely. As the old man pushed my arm out and away from my wound, I felt slender fingers wrap around both my wrists as they were brought over my head and held tightly.

  “Can you hear me, Tribunus Faustus?” the old doctor-surgeon asked. I looked to him and tried to focus on his face, which was framed by the dark wooden beams on the ceiling above him.

  I swallowed once, closed my eyes, and nodded.

  “Drink this.” I felt a cup being held to my lips, and I opened my mouth to take in the foul-tasting drink. I could feel it numbing my tongue before I swallowed, and I had to hold my breath to keep it down.

  “You must stay still,” the man said sternly. “The more you move, the more pain there will be. If you are to heal properly, you must do everything I say.”

  My head swam as I nodded again. I had been injured before; I knew what was to come. My best hope was to pass out from the pain, but the gods offered me no such solace.

  With clenched teeth, I strained to keep myself from screaming aloud as the medicus removed the bandages around me, but there was no stopping the sounds from my throat. I could not lie still, and he stood to tighten straps around my shoulders and hips to hold me in place. The slave woman held my hands above my head as best she could and leaned her body over my shoulders to keep me pinned to the bed.

  I felt a sharp sting as a needle pierced my side, and my body reacted against the invasion. I wrenched my wrists from the slave girl’s hands, but to her credit, she pressed her body tighter against my shoulders and kept me in place. I couldn’t move my arms down past her body, and instead, I found them wrapping around her as I entwined my fingers in her hair and held tightly.

  With muscles too tense to do otherwise, I held her head to my shoulder and squeezed my eyes shut. I could feel her head turn toward me, and her warm breath crept over my skin. I held her head against me as she continued to press my shoulders to the cot below.

  To his credit, the surgeon worked quickly to stitch my wound, and the woman did her best to speak in calm tones near my ear while he did so. I didn’t know what she was saying—the pain was too great to make sense of the words. I only knew her voice was reassuring.

  With short, panting breaths and my arms around the slave, I endured.

  “The worst is done,” the surgeon finally stated. From the corner of my vision, I could see him moving to gather something from a table full of bowls and potent smells. “The poultice will sting a bit.”

  Sting it did though I managed to keep my cries to a minimum. Sweat dripped from my brow, and my body began to shake uncontrollably.

  “Hand me the dressings.”

  The slave pulled back and released my shoulders. Reluctantly, I unwrapped my arms from her and allowed her to move again. The slave woman reached to a table behind her and handed strips of cloth to the doctor. My head dropped back against the bed in exhaustion, and I closed my eyes, but still my consciousness remained as the doctor complete
d his task and bound my injury.

  “It’s the best I can do,” he announced. “The rest is up to you and the gods.”

  Forcing my eyes open again, I looked into the soothing face of the young woman above me. She turned her lips into a slight smile as she met my eyes.

  “You did well,” she informed me.

  I realized from her features that she must be from the western lands—perhaps even near the area where I had battled against the Gauls last year—though she had no accent I could detect. I looked into her dark blue eyes. They held intelligence and compassion, which was rare for a slave. The gaze of a slave was more likely not to meet a Roman’s eyes at all, for some would consider the act reprehensible.

  I shuddered with a spasm of pain up my side and gasped for breath. My muscles stiffened as I held in a cry. The slave woman’s voice was smooth and soft, and she ran her fingers over my arm as she spoke words of encouragement.

  As my eyes continued to stare into hers, I knew part of me became lost inside of them. Perhaps it was the pain of the injury I had suffered in war and my gratitude for the young woman who offered me relief, but I didn’t think so. It was the way she moved around me as she handed me a vial or cup full of whatever poultice the doctor deemed necessary to stop the deep cut in my side from becoming further infected. It was her reassuring voice and the curve of her lovely breasts as she leaned over to smooth the bandages.

  She was beautiful.

  “Tribunus,” the doctor addressed me, “are you comfortable?”

  “As comfortable as I can be,” I said without taking my eyes from the woman.

  “The wound is deep,” he said, “but I believe we got to it in time. The gods were with you, and none of your organs have been damaged, but there is still much risk of infection. You must rest now until you are healed.”

  “How long?”

  “Three, perhaps four weeks. If there is infection, much longer.”

  Groaning, I shook my head. I glared at the medicus and hissed a breath between my teeth, but his look was determined and unyielding.

  “It is the only way to heal,” he insisted.

  “I have a war to fight,” I replied. “I cannot abandon my charge for the sake of a minor wound.”

  “Minor?” the medicus scoffed.

  “You said no organs were damaged,” I reminded him.

  “That does not mean you are not seriously hurt, Tribunus.”

  I continued to glare in his direction, but my ire was lessened by the slave’s gentle touch on my arm.

  “For now, you fight your wounds.” The medicus stood and motioned the woman over as he walked to the far side of the torch-lit room. She stood and moved quickly to his side, and the skin of my arm chilled from the lost touch of her hand.

  I tried to take a few deep breaths, but the pain was too great. Shallow panting was all I could manage. It was making my head dizzy, but the woozy feeling in my stomach was worse—nearly enough to take my mind from the pain in my side.

  Nearly.

  “Is that all you need from me, Sergius?” the young slave asked.

  “Do you know who he is?” the doctor snapped at the young slave. His voice was low, as if he was trying to keep me from hearing, but the echoes in the room brought his words to me clearly.

  “No, I have never seen him before.”

  “That is Lucius Aurelius Faustus,” the doctor informed her as he leaned close. “Tribunus to the Emperor’s army in the west. He is a favorite in the Senate and very rich as well.”

  “I have heard of him,” the slave said.

  He glanced in my direction and pointed a finger at her before he continued in a quiet voice.

  “If Tribunus Faustus dies, we will likely pay the price for it. Do not leave him for a second. Do anything he asks of you, provided it will not do him harm, and watch his wound. We cannot risk any infection. Do you understand me, slave?”

  “I will do as you ask,” she replied softly. She dropped her gaze to the ground and nodded her head in deference.

  The old surgeon moved back to my side, checked the dressings once again, and nodded to himself. He withdrew his wrinkled fingers from my side and nodded to me once more.

  “Stay with him,” the doctor commanded the woman again. “Care for him as if he were your own, and retrieve me immediately if his condition worsens.”

  “Of course,” she said quietly with another bow of her head. Her simple dress billowed out around her hips as she slipped quickly to my side. She sat on the small bench next to the bed where I lay and reached over to retrieve a cup of water and bring it to my lips.

  The doctor took his leave, and the woman turned her eyes to mine as I drank. When she took the cup away, I ran my tongue over my lips to catch the last of the moisture. Her cheeks darkened in a blush, and she quickly looked away.

  “Am I so terrible to gaze upon?” I asked with a slight chuckle. Though I was used to attention from women of many stations, I was surely not a pleasant sight at that moment. I immediately regretted the jest, for laughing shook my side and caused me to wince in pain.

  “No, Tribunus,” she said as her blush darkened. “You should stay still, or you may pull out the stitching. Try to sleep.”

  I examined myself as best I could, noting the crusted blood on my chest and arms. I wondered if it was from the Gaul who slashed me or one of his companions. It didn’t matter—they were all dead now.

  “I despise sleeping on my back,” I growled. “It is most uncomfortable on a good day, and today has not been a good day!”

  The slave woman cringed at my outburst. I closed my eyes a moment to center myself before I looked to her again.

  “I will try, but I am in need of distraction.”

  “Distraction?” she asked.

  “Yes,” I said with a nod. “Speak with me.”

  Her chest rose and fell with a deep breath, bringing my attention to the outline of her breasts through her dress. She sat up a little straighter and looked at my face as her lips pressed together in thought. She glanced around the room, which was lit with both candle and torch. There were openings along one side of the room to allow in daylight, but the light from the sun was obscured by thick clouds.

  “How were you injured?” she asked.

  “I was injured when a Gaul shoved his gladius in my side,” I responded dryly. “It was decidedly sharp.”

  She smiled and glanced down to my dressing again. Her eyes remained dull, unaffected by the curve of her lips, my soldier’s humor lost on her.

  “What’s your name?” I asked.

  “Aia,” she replied, confirming her Gaul heritage.

  “And how long have you served the medicus?”

  “Two years,” she said.

  “And before then?”

  “I served in the house of the breadmaker in the market,” Aia said.

  “What were your duties there?”

  “As a child, I watched the bread as it baked and made sure it didn’t burn. Later on, I learned to mix and knead the dough as well.”

  “When did you begin to serve the breadmaker?”

  “When I was a young girl,” she said.

  “And before?”

  “I don’t have many memories from before,” she told me. “My father had many debts, I understand, and had to give me up to pay for them.”

  It was a common enough occurrence but one that infuriated me. How could a parent be so careless as to incur such debt? My only child—a son—had died as an infant soon after his mother contracted a fatal fever. The idea of losing him through my own doing was abhorrent.

  “Do you have siblings?” I inquired.

  “None,” she said.

  “Is the doctor your dominus?”

  “No,” she said. “I belong to Appius Cassianus Germanus. He owns the hospital here and has many dealings in the marketplace.”

  “I have heard the name,” I said with a slight nod. The movement cause
d me to wince, and I squeezed my eyes shut against the pain. Cassianus was a powerful man in Mediolanum and known to be quite wealthy. He had family in the Senate as well.

  “You should rest.”

  “I rested enough on the cart that brought me here,” I scoffed. I tried to wave my hand dismissively, but the ache in my body betrayed me, and my hand shook painfully instead. “I’m tired of resting.”

  I watched her as she brought her hands together in her lap and stared at them a moment. Her fingers twisted around each other, showing her nervousness.

  “Do I cause you distress?” I asked, the answer obvious on her face.

  “No, Tribunus,” she lied.

  I chuckled again and once more winced as the skin of my side pulled against the rough stitching holding me together. Every movement seemed to bring more pain throughout my body though the injury was only in my side.

  “You shouldn’t speak,” Aia said. She placed her hand on my bare chest to still me. “You must save your strength so you can heal and return to battle quickly.”

  This time I restrained my laughter. She was a sly one; I could see that. She knew exactly what words I would want to hear to encourage me to do as she said. I continued to stare at her, and her blush returned.

  “You speak, then,” I said. “Tell me of yourself.”

  “There is little to tell,” she replied with a shrug.

  I narrowed my eyes, reached over, and grabbed her hand in mine.

  “Do you want me to be quiet and still?” I asked harshly.

  “Yes, Tribunus.” Her eyes went wide as she answered me.

  I swallowed once, knowing that anger—like laughter—was likely to cause more pain.

  “Then tell me of yourself,” I commanded. “And since you are staring at me nearly cock-out, you may refer to me as Faustus.”

  I was rewarded with another blush from the beautiful girl. It turned her skin such a lovely color, and with my anger forgotten, I began to consider other ways to bring about the same reaction.

  She started to sit back on the bench, but I kept my grip on her hand so she couldn’t move from my side. When she leaned forward again, I laced my fingers between hers and held her hand to my chest. Her fingers were warm and soft on my flesh.