”Esne Parthus?”
Margo struggled to find her voice. “M-minime non Parthus, uh, sed uh Palmyrenus sum,” she quavered, hoping she’d gotten the “I’m Palmyrene, not Parthian” correct in her shaky Latin.
”Ahh … Paterne tuus Romae es?”
Something about her father and Rome. Margo tried to remember how to shake her head no, decided that would hurt entirely too much, and tried the Latin again.
”Non. Romae est.”
He looked disappointed and even more worried.
”Tuique servi?”
Servants? Oh … Where were her slaves?
To avoid a struggling explanation, Margo touched her head and moaned. Her host’s eyes widened in alarm. He spoke sharply to the young woman, who carefully removed the poultice. She applied a new one, then picked up a basin and set Margo’s arm in it. Before Margo knew what they were doing, the woman had sliced open Margo’s arm. She yelled and tried to jerk away. The Roman and his servant woman held her down, murmuring anxiously, then forcibly held her arm over the basin and let her bleed into it. By the time they were done, Margo felt light-headed and queasy.
If they keep this up, they’ll kill me with kindness ….
She was required to drink a noxious potion which she didn’t have the strength to refuse. The Roman touched her hand and said something that Margo supposed was meant to comfort; then they left her alone to sleep. She made an effort to sit up. Between the pain in her head, the forcible bleeding, and whatever they’d made her drink, she was too woozy. Margo collapsed again with a faint moan.