Inside, half a dozen men Ruso did not recognize were sparring with wooden practice weapons under the eye of a trainer. The yard smelled of beef stew, grease, and fear.He made his way across to the surgery, where the assistants were ripping up linen rags and rolling them into bandages. Gnostus was perched on the operating table by the window, running one finger along the script of a writing tablet. At the sight of Ruso, he leaped up and thrust the tablet under his nose. “Anything I’ve missed?”Sponges, plenty of ligatures, splints, needles . . . Ruso scanned the list, mentally rearranging it into a more logical order. It would be no good remembering something vital tomorrow.“There could be as many as twenty casualties in here,” pointed out Gnostus. “And we’ll have to patch up the animal hunters too. But of course some will go straight to the undertaker.”Ruso nodded. “Looks fine to me,” he said, handing the list back. “As long as your boys know where to find it all.”Gnostus glanced around to make sure there was nobody but the slaves in earshot, then admitted, “I’ve never done anything as big as this before.
