unaware that he might have been dead, “as well as applied the juice of certain
plants to deaden your pain. But we must proceed with treatment without delay.”
“Treatment?” the slaver glared, the edge momentarily gone from his temper. “But
you said I wouldn’t be able to use my legs-“
“You speak of your legs,” the healer sighed. “I’m trying to save your life
though I’ve heard there are those who would pay well to see it ended.”
Jubal heard the words and accepted them without the rush of fear other men might
feel. Death was an old acquaintance of all gladiators. “Well, what is this
treatment you speak of?” he asked levelly.
“Fire,” Stulwig stated without hesitation. “We must burn the infection out
before it spreads further.”
“No.”
“But the wounds must be treated!” the healer insisted.
“You call that a treatment?” Jubal challenged. “I’ve seen burned legs before.
The muscle’s replaced by scar tissue; they aren’t legs-they’re things to be
hidden.”
“Your legs are finished,” Stulwig shouted. “Stop speaking of them as if they
were worth something. The only question worth asking is: do you wish to live or
die?”
Jubal let his head sink back until his was staring at the hovel’s ceiling. “Yes,
healer,” he murmured softly, “that is the question. I’ll need time to consider
the answer.”
“But-“
“If I were to answer right now,” the slaver continued harshly, “I’d say I’d
prefer death to the life your treatment condemns me to. But that’s the answer a
healthy Jubal would give-now, when death is real, the true answer requires more