[Hispania Ulterior, near Corduba, 15th of November 64 BCE]
"Hey, you're bleeding. Come to the medicus tent, and I'll take a look."
The voice cut through the din of the yard. A young man, perhaps in his twenties, stood a few paces away, his sharp eyes fixed on Valerian's hand. His short dark hair was tied back with a leather cord, his sleeves rolled to the elbows. The faint smell of herbs clung to him, sharper even than the sweat of the training field.
"Who are you?" Valerian asked, raising a brow.
"My name is Bernardus Virgilianus," the man replied evenly. "I'm a medicus, the camp physician. Come with me." He turned toward the row of tents near the inner wall, the faint scent of vinegar and crushed thyme hanging in the air.
"I'm Valerian Valerius, and this is my friend Atticus Aulus," Valerian said, inclining his head slightly. "
Atticus asked as they followed. "So what are you, then? A soldier or a healer?"
Bernardus glanced over his shoulder with a faint smile. "Both. Every medicus is still a legionary; we fight if needed. But as a low-ranking medicus ordinarius, I earn better pay and am spared the worst of the manual labor. A fair trade, if you ask me."
He led Valerian and Atticus through a narrow path between the tents. The smells of herbs, vinegar, and burning charcoal grew stronger with each step. Small jars of dried leaves and bundles of crushed roots lined the edges of the tent, and the low hum of murmured instructions from assistant medici filled the air.
Inside, a wooden table covered with clean linen stood in the center, surrounded by shelves of clay pots and glass bottles. Bernardus gestured toward a low stool. "Sit. Let me see the damage."
Valerian extended his palm, keeping his fingers stiff. A thin line of blood had begun to trickle between them. Bernardus examined it carefully.
"Nothing too deep, but still, left untreated, even a small wound can fester," he said. He dipped a strip of linen into a shallow bowl of vinegar, then pressed it gently against Valerian's hand. The sting made Valerian flinch, though he forced himself silent.
Next, Bernardus reached for a small wooden mortar. He crushed plantain leaves and yarrow flowers into a coarse paste, then mixed in a touch of mallow to soothe the pain. With practiced precision, he spread the herbal poultice over the cut.
"Herbs stop bleeding, prevent infection, and calm the tissue," he explained as he worked. Finally, he covered it with a clean strip of linen, tying it securely. A drop of honey glinted on the bandage, added to aid healing.
"There. You'll live," Bernardus said, nodding. "Keep it clean. Don't let it catch on anything. Change the dressing daily, and it will heal faster."
Valerian flexed his fingers slowly, testing the bandage. "Thank you, Bernardus."
Bernardus nodded, his sharp eyes softening just slightly. "You took care of yourself well enough, boy. Not all recruits know when to seek help."
Valerian smiled, a little sheepishly. "I owe you more than just gratitude. Atticus and I were just about to have lunch; come join us, you must."
The medicus shook his head, a faint, rueful smile tugging at his lips. "I appreciate the offer, truly, but I cannot. I left my gladius back at the drill racks. I must go retrieve it."
Atticus frowned, glancing between them. "It'll be safe, won't it?"
Bernardus gave a curt shrug. "I'd rather not risk it. Discipline in this camp is stricter than the sun at high noon. If my sword is gone when the centurion checks, I'll answer for it, not you."
Valerian inclined his head. "Of course. Take care, Bernardus. We'll see you later."
Bernardus nodded once, then turned and strode from the tent, his steps measured and purposeful.
Atticus exhaled, shaking his head. "He seems… competent."
Seems so. We'll see him again soon enough. Let's go eat; I'm starved."
The sun dipped lower, painting the fort in warm golds and long shadows, until the last glow faded behind the hills and silvered moonlight bathed the tents, carrying a cool evening breeze.
The horns had barely faded when murmurs rippled through the camp. Messengers darted between tents, shouting names and orders, shaking awake anyone still half-asleep.
Within minutes, nearly every decanus and half the legionaries were marching toward the centurion's tent. Dust swirled in the air like a thin veil, stirred by boots and tension alike. The smell of sweat, oil, and old leather clung to everything.
By the time Valerian and Atticus arrived, the heart of the camp was already boiling. Men pressed shoulder to shoulder near the centurion's tent, craning to see over helmets, voices low and tense. The air seemed to thrum with anticipation.
Before the flap, a lone legionary knelt, bareheaded, tunic stripped to the waist, hands bound behind his back.
Then the tent flap snapped open.
Every voice died.
"The centurion stepped out first, vine staff in hand, his face unreadable in the silvered moonlight. Behind him came the optio, carrying the hastile, and last, the tesserarius, baton in hand, eyes fixed on the condemned man."
The optio raised his staff; the murmurs ceased instantly. The centurion stepped forward.
"Bernardus Virgilianus," he said, voice cold and steady. "For the crime of losing your gladius, you are hereby sentenced to be beaten with the vitis, the rod carried by every centurion to enforce discipline." He paused, letting the words sink. "To misplace a sword is to misplace your honor. To admit weakness… and weakness has no place in this legion."
"I—I didn't lose it! I swear! I placed it on the rack before drills; it was stolen! Stolen, I tell you!" Bernardus begged, voice shaking.
"That may be," the centurion said, voice like iron, "but it does not change the fact: you lost your gladius."
"Ohhh… it's about that. Sorry, Bernardus. I'll make it up to you… your suffering is my suffering too," Valerian thought, silently apologizing in his heart.