Marcus stood across from me, breathing hard.
Blood clung to his armor. Sweat darkened his hair where it curled against his forehead, and a shallow cut ran along the line of his jaw. For a moment, his shoulders sagged, his lips parting as though he wanted to say something but could not find the words.
Instead, he turned to Livia.
He spoke in rapid Latin, his voice low and composed despite everything that had happened.
The action struck me like a slap.
Livia bowed her head at once. "Yes, dominus."
Then his gaze shifted past me to Quintus.
The centurion straightened instinctively before Marcus issued another string of orders in Latin. Without hesitation, Quintus struck a fist against the front of his armor in acknowledgment and stepped around me to join his commander.
Marcus never looked back at me.
He simply turned away and strode toward the command pavilion, disappearing beneath the flap of one of the larger tents where maps, officers and strategy awaited him. Quintus followed close behind, leaving me standing exactly where I was.
"Domina," Livia called, her hand coming to rest lightly on my elbow, drawing me from my thoughts. "The dominus instructed me to tend to you. Come."
I nodded. "My name is Elena."
Livia's smile softened as she lifted the flap of the tent and ushered me inside.
"You are the Imperator's wife," she replied gently. "And he is my dominus. It is only proper that I address you as domina."
The words settled heavily in my chest.
I wanted to tell her that we were not truly married, that no ceremony had bound us. But I stopped myself.
Whatever Marcus and I called ourselves in the modern world hardly mattered here. A wife carried a place and authority that a lover or betrothed did not, and I knew too little of their customs to challenge the title without creating more questions than answers.
So I let it pass.
Silently, I followed her deeper into the medical tent until she guided me to one of the cots.
The familiar scent of crushed herbs, vinegar and drying linens drifted through the air. And for the first time since entering the encampment, it felt almost like stepping back into a hospital.
Almost.
"Your husband informed me that you were a medica," Livia said, as she laid out her instruments on the table beside the cot.
I nodded. "I was."
"Then perhaps you can assist me," she replied, gently parting my hair to inspect the scar at the back of my head. "There are never enough hands when the wounded return from battle."
"I would be glad to." I felt her fingertips probe the edges of the scar and instinctively tensed. "Though the lands I come from are far from here. I fear your methods may differ from mine."
"They always do."
She leaned closer, studying the stitches with critical eye.
"There were done competently," she murmured. "Not elegantly, but by someone who knew enough to keep you alive."
I couldn't help but smile faintly.
"A man?"
"A brute, I would wager." She reached for a small pot of salve and carefully worked it into my healing wound. "His hands were steady, but he had little concern for comfort."
"You have something against men treating the wounded?"
Livia let out a quiet laugh.
"Against men? No."
She continued applying the salve with surprising gentleness.
"But there are Britons, and some Romans too, who believed speed is the same as skill. They stop the bleeding and call it healing, without much thought for the pain left behind."
The remark lingered with me.
As a nurse, I had always been taught that easing suffering was as important as preserving life. Perhaps, after all these centuries, that was one lesson medicine still struggled to learn, at times.
"Thank you," I said as she finished, her fingers moving deftly through my hair to braid it neatly to one side, concealing the scar beneath my dark strands.
She smiled without looking at me.
"Gratitude," she corrected softly.
I turned to watch as she carried the small pot of salve back to the worktable, arranging it among bundles of dried herbs, bandages and bronze instruments polished by years of use. Only then did she glance over her shoulder.
"That is the Roman way," she said. "Not thanks, but gratitude. One acknowledges a kindness. The other remembers it."
For a moment, I found myself wondering whether there had ever truly been a difference.
The rest of the day unfolded with quiet efficiency.
Not long after Livia declared that my wound was healing well, two young women entered the tent. They wore simply Roman dresses pinned at the shoulders, the fabric light enough to work in, but I wasn't sure if they were warm enough for the spring breeze. Bronze collars resting loosely around their necks to mark their status as household attendants.
Both bowed politely, reminding me of the girl who had watched over my bed when I first woke.
Livia spoke a brief string of instructions in Latin.
Before I could ask what she had said, the women gently took me by the hands and led me toward a smaller tent aside for bathing.
Once inside, they indicated that I should undress.
Even after everything that had happened, instinct made me fold my arms across my body as I glanced nervously toward the entrance, half-expecting someone to walk through the canvas flap at any moment. Sensing my hesitation, one of the women smiled reassuringly and pointed to the leather ties securing ti shut from within.
Only then did I allow myself to relax.
They worked in practiced silence, pouring warm water over my hair before washing away the dust of the journey with scented oils and soap. The scent gradually filled with the gentle fragrance of lavender and rosemary, and for the first time in weeks, I felt the weight of dried blood, sweat and fear began to lift from my skin.
By the time they had finished, I scarcely recognized myself.
They dressed me in a finely woven dress of ivory linen that fell in graceful folds to my ankles, fastening it with delicate brooches at my shoulders. A narrow sash cinched my waist, while my freshly washed hair had been braided and pinned beneath a light veil that draped over my back.
There was nothing extravagant about it, yet every detail spoke of quiet status. One that belonged to the wife of an Imperator.
The realization settled uneasily in my chest as they guided me through the encampment.
Roman soldiers stepped aside without question when we stepped out of the tent, lowering their heads in acknowledgement as we passed. The camp itself had quieter since our arrival, though the occasional clang of a hammer or murmur of distant conversation still drifted through the evening air.
At last, they stopped before the largest tent.
One attendant lifted the flap.
Inside, Marcus stood over a broad wooden table upon which maps had been spread, weighted at the corners with daggers and stones. Around him clustered half a dozen officers, their fingers tracing roads, rivers and hill forts while they debated quietly in Latin.
The moment I entered, the conversation ceased.
Marcus looked up.
His gaze rested on me for only a heartbeat, softening before it became unreadable once more.
He straightened.
"We continue in the morning."
The words were calm, almost detached.
His officers immediately stepped back from the table. No one questioned him. One by one, they saluted, gathered their tables and scrolls and filed from the tent, offering respectful nods as they passed me.
The flap fell closed behind the last of them, silence settling over the tent.
The maps remained scattered across the table between us.
Marcus and I stood on opposite sides of them, neither moving, the distance somehow feeling greater than the miles that had separated us only hours before.
His eyes lingered on me for a long moment before he finally spoke.
"You look beautiful."
There was no triumph in his voice. No teasing smile.
Only quiet wonder.
My throat tightened.
"Marcus," I whispered, his name escaping me like a prayer, carrying every fear, every apology and every ounce of relief I had been holding back since the forest.