Medicus

by Ruth Downie

  Back in the isolation room, Ruso gathered up the girl from where he had dumped her on the end of the bed. The old centurion had woken up. His eyes were wide and his chest was heaving with the effort of drawing breath to speak.

  "Wrong room," said Ruso swiftly, "Sorry."

  The man's mouth opened.

  "Don't try to talk." Ruso gestured toward the bedside. "Do you need me to ring the bell?"

  The man shook his head.

  "I'll be in later." The old boy had deteriorated since earlier this morning. Ruso left the door ajar so the staff would hear the bell and, as he left, heard a wheezy voice suggest, "You can—leave her behind—if you like."

  Priscus had turned right. As soon as the corridor was empty Ruso turned left and hurried back past the girl's former room, narrowly missing a big basket of dirty linen that someone had abandoned just around the corner and promising a voice which called, "Doctor!" that he would be back later.

  The girl seemed to have drifted off to sleep as he strode down the corridors. He took a shortcut across the garden. A man who was standing in a lavender bed and scrubbing the wall beneath what had been the girl's window glanced up but said nothing. Finally he reached the hospital kitchens. Ignoring the stares of the staff, he marched through the steamy atmosphere, wrenched open the back door, and stepped out into the street.

  Valens had gone out but fortunately forgotten to lock the house door.

  Welcomed by enthusiastic puppies, Ruso carried the girl over the threshold—a feat that required much less effort than it had with Claudia in his arms—and dumped her on his bed. The house smelled abominably of dogs and mold. He forced open his ill-fitting bedroom shutters and wondered how he could have failed to notice how bad it was before.

  In the kitchen he poured a cup of water and hacked a lump of cheese from the end without small teethmarks.

  He left the food with the girl and added a scrawled note on the slate which was supposed to be the house message system: SLAVE IN MY ROOM TEMPORARY ARRANGEMENT.

  He sprinted most of the way back to the hospital, entered through the front door, nodded to Aesculapius, and made a determined effort to silence his breathing as he strolled across the admissions hall toward his surgery where his students were waiting. Pausing by the door, he turned and saw two benches full of men, all watching him.

  "Right!" he said. "Who's next?"

  16

  THE WOLF WAS very large and very dead. Its skin was splayed against the white wall. Its fangs were bared in a snarl and the lively glint in its glass eyes suggested that it was about to leap up and attack the damp patch on the hospital administrator's ceiling. Priscus, presumably used to the sight, snapped open a folding chair for Ruso. He slid himself into position behind his desk as neatly as if he had been one of his own files on the shelves.

  "Ah," he said, smiling in a manner that made Ruso glance back at the wolf for comparison. "I see you've noticed my little trophy, Doctor."

  "Is it local?"

  "Oh yes. I ran into it a couple of years ago on my way to Eboracum. Quite a fine specimen, don't you think?"

  "Very impressive," agreed Ruso, noting that the administrator had a better office than any of the medical staff.

  "You'll find there is excellent hunting in Britannia," said Priscus, running a hand lightly over the top of his head, as if to check that the hair was still there. "Although personally I find it rather difficult to set aside the time."

  "I imagine you find plenty to do here," suggested Ruso, not adding especially if you don't give anyone else the keys.

  Priscus smiled again. "Organization," he said, indicating a large board nailed up above the shelves. Each notice on it was spaced an exact inch from its neighbor. "Organization and teamwork," he continued. "The key to a pleasant and successful hospital. Don't you agree, Ruso?"

  "I find a steady hand with a scalpel quite useful, myself."

  "Precisely!" Priscus spread his fingers to grasp an invisible quantity of precision that he seemed to think was hovering just above his desk. "Efficiency stems from a clear understanding of our various roles and responsibilities. So perhaps you will allow me to give a brief outline of the administrative arrangements."

  The administrative arrangements were impressive in their complexity: so impressive that once Ruso had spotted the underlying theme—that every decision was referred back to the hospital administrator—he stopped listening. He was wondering whether Priscus knew who was responsible for breaking into the linen closet when something caught his attention.

  "I'm sorry, what did you just say?"

  "As I was saying, a scribe could be extraordinarily useful. I think we can find a suitable man."

  Ruso frowned. "A scribe?"

  "My men aren't used to African writing, I'm afraid."

  The man had only been back for a day, and already he had found time to scrutinize the patient records. "It's the same as any other writing," said Ruso. "The dispensary's never complained."

  Priscus's head inclined in agreement. "No, they are very professional. But I took the liberty of discussing the matter with them just now and they agree that a scribe would be the best way forward. And of course, so much more convenient for you. Many of the medical staff with whom I have had the honor of serving have found it very useful. No need to keep stopping to take notes. Nothing to carry Both hands free."

  Ruso scratched his ear. "I suppose I could give it a try."

  "That's the spirit, Doctor." As Priscus moved to indicate a stack of writing tablets on one side of his desk, a reflection of his hand glided across the polished surface. "I'm sure it won't take long to copy these."

  "You're intending to rewrite all my notes?"

  "It will give your man a chance to learn what's required. He won't bother you unless there's something he can't make out."

  "Is this really necessary?"

  "It would be extremely useful for the hospital. There must be a great deal of valuable information in there."

  "I suppose so," said Ruso, realizing how neatly he had been outmaneuvered.

  "Excellent! Now . . ." Priscus leaned across the desk and lowered his voice. "Let me tell you, in confidence of course, something I heard in Viroconium. I was told on good authority that not only do the procurator's office have orders from Rome to prepare for a major audit, but it is quite possible that our new emperor may inspect the province in person."

  Ruso said, "I see," since the man was clearly waiting for him to express amazement before carrying on.

  "In the meantime," continued Priscus, "every unit is to be scrutinized. Any waste and inefficiency is to be rooted out."

  This was hardly a surprise. Hadrian was reputed to be the sort of officer much approved by poets and taxpayers: a man who marched bareheaded with his troops, wearing the same clothes and eating the same food, perpetually inspecting and commenting and suggesting improvements. The sort of leader who was either an inspiration or a pain in the backside, depending upon your point of view.

  "So naturally, Doctor," the administrator concluded, "we will need to reconcile any irregularities in the hospital books before they are opened for scrutiny."

  "Naturally," Ruso agreed. As he was wondering if Priscus really expected the emperor to read his medical records, the administrator reached down beside his desk and brought up a file. Ruso recognized the admissions log from the porter's desk.

  "On the subject of efficiency, Doctor, perhaps you could help me with this? We seem to have a duplicate entry. Back on . . ."

  Ruso gazed at the top of the administrator's head as his finger traced down the columns. As if he could read Ruso's thoughts, Priscus lifted his hand from the records and ran it lightly over his hair again as he said, "Five days before the Ides of September . . . " He glanced up.

  Ruso tried to pretend he hadn't been staring. Priscus returned his attention to the admissions log.

  "This entry says quite clearly, Female, 18-23 years. Then a word that perhaps you could help me with, then farther d
own the list on the same day, Female, 18-23 years again—and this time the entry states, to set broken arm."

  He's painted his head. That's it. It's not only the hair that's dyed, it's . . .

  "Shall I delete the first as a clerical error?"

  "No," said Ruso, "there were two of them."

  The eyebrows rose toward the hair. "I see."

  Ruso reached for the log. "Dead," he read. "The first one was dead when we got her."

  "I see." Priscus sat back in his chair. "I shall have a word. Someone should have explained that we never accept civilian patients here unless we have a reasonable prospect of treating them."

  "I've been through this with the second spear. We didn't know who it was. By the time we got her she'd obviously been in the river for some time. Plus, she was stark naked and practically bald."

  Priscus glanced up sharply. "I beg your pardon?"

  "Bald. No hair." Ruso paused to savor his own tactlessness before adding, "She'd had it all cut off."

  The administrator's hand stopped halfway to his head and returned to rest on the desk. He stared at it for a moment, then said, "I shall have to look into this. We can't have unidentified—"

  "We know who she was. She turned out to be one of the local barmaids. Somebody had murdered her."

  Priscus's hand rose to smooth his hair. "I see. How very, uh . . ." He seemed to be searching for a word. Finally he settled on, "Unpleasant."

  "Yes."

  "I should have been made aware of any inquiry."

  Ruso shook his head. "It's over. The second spear dealt with it. Apparently the girl was a runaway and the owner wasn't in the mood to make a fuss, so since they aren't blaming the army, that's probably the end of it."

  Priscus's gaze met his own. "You sound a little dissatisfied, Doctor."

  "It's none of my business."

  "But are you suggesting the officer in charge could have done more?"

  Ruso was not going to be led into criticizing the second spear. "He couldn't find any witnesses," he said. "What more could he do?"

  "What indeed?" Priscus made a note. "So, the name will appear in the mortuary list instead of the discharge log."

  "Exactly," said Ruso, with more confidence than he felt.

  "Excellent. So there only remains the female with the broken arm. I am sorry to trouble you with all this, Doctor, but the discharge log has no record of her either, and without the proper records for civilians we are unable to bill the correct fees."

  "Are you?" Ruso scratched his ear and wondered whether that should be, aren't you?

  He looked the man in the eye. "All this will be very much easier when I have a scribe who knows how the system works, Priscus."

  The smile reappeared. "I'm sure it will, Doctor. I'm sure it will."

  On his way back to the surgery Ruso walked past the entrance to the linen closet. A carpenter was sweeping up wood shavings. The door had been mended.

  17

  THE LAMPLIGHT PIC K E D out the white sling resting on top of the gray army blanket. Beneath it, the girl lay asleep on Ruso's borrowed bed. He watched the sling lift softly with each breath. Four days ago, this sight had been cause for celebration. Now it was cause for concern. By now she should either have died or perked up. Instead, apart from the brief revival sparked by his attempt to chop her hair off and the smile wheedled out of her by Valens's bedside charm, the girl had shown little interest in anything. Not even her own recovery.

  He had not been entirely sorry to see Valens proved wrong about the comb ("Ruso, all women are interested in their hair!"), but his own tactics had been no more successful. His inquiries about native cuisine had reassured him that she would be no stranger to gruel. Yet despite his carefully prescribed convalescent diet—following which his notes recorded disappointingly scant use of the bedside bucket—the girl was recovering neither strength nor spirit. Nor was she putting on weight. Ruso frowned. Tomorrow, he would repeat the worm treatment. Tonight, he had other things to think about.

  He leaned back, relishing the familiar creak of his favorite chair as the front two legs lifted off the ground. He banished a fleeting regret. Claudia would never find out that he had now been sitting on this chair exactly how he liked for the past two years, and he still hadn't broken it.

  He stared at the box he had just collected from the porter's desk at the hospital, trying to guess what might be inside. Figs? Olives? Not peaches. Peaches would still be in season, but they wouldn't travel. If he'd had any money, he would have paid well for the simple pleasure of a tray of peaches. To feel the flesh pop between his teeth . . . the rich flavor flood onto his tongue . . . the sticky juice run down his chin . . .

  He cleared his throat and reminded himself that if he had been born this far north he would never have tasted a peach. A peach was one of those things he didn't need.

  What else would he find? A letter. There would definitely be a letter. And some gloves. His sister-in-law had promised gloves for the British winter, and his nieces a picture for him to hang on his wall. Since his nieces were only four and five, that should be interesting.

  He expected nothing from his stepmother, a woman whose interests were restricted to personal grooming and home improvements, about which she knew everything except how they were paid for. Publius dealt with all that, dear. Nor was he expecting a greeting from either of his half sisters, since he was not in a position to buy them anything they were likely to want.

  Ruso had already missed his father's funeral when the news of the death came. The sea passage from Africa was a tricky one and it had taken him almost a month by ship via Athens, Syracuse, Ostia . . . Under different circumstances, it would have been an interesting sight-seeing cruise. As it was, by the time he reached Gaul, Lucius had started to unravel their father's affairs—or, more accurately, their father's affairs had begun to unravel around him.

  According to their stepmother, Publius had "investments." The family had always assumed these investments were funding the very grand—and currently half-built—shrine to Diana the Huntress, which Publius had commissioned for the center of the town. "Investments," however, turned out to mean "loans." Examining the documents stored in the trunk to which he had kept the only key, Publius Petreius's sons soon discovered that everything their father did had been done on an elaborate system of credit.

  Initially the brothers tried to keep their dreadful discovery secret while they quietly shored up the loans. But they found themselves in the position of the children Ruso had seen playing on a British beach on the day he arrived, building dams against the incoming tide: Every time they secured one area, chaos broke out in another.

  Valens's letter telling him about the vacancy with the Twentieth at Deva had come as a gift from the gods. It was all arranged by post with surprising speed. Using the excuse of the move, Ruso sent instructions to have all his surplus belongings sold. A suitable buyer was found for both his housekeeper and his valet. When the deals were complete Ruso withdrew as much money from his account as the army would allow (they insisted on keeping enough to bury him, just in case) and used it to pay off one of the few creditors who genuinely needed the money.

  While he was making these arrangements Lucius paid all the small-but-irritating debts. Then the brothers visited each of the large creditors individually, pointing out that slow payment was better than no payment, that the farm would produce a steady income, and that Ruso was earning a good salary. If they wanted their money back they must keep quiet, keep faith and keep funding the building of the shrine to Diana, which the brothers were obliged to finish as it was their father's dying wish.

  This last was a lie. The truth was that six different lenders thought they were funding the building of a shrine, when in fact most of them had been funding personal grooming and home improvements. No wonder Publius Petreius's heart had given out under the strain. Within days of his return home, Ruso was glad he had missed the funeral. His grief was frozen beneath a hard layer of anger.


  He clunked the chair back onto all four legs, cracked the seal on the box, and prized it open with his knife.

  Over on the bed, the girl stirred, sighed, and settled back into sleep.

  Ruso groped in the rustling straw. His fingers closed over a jar. He drew it out. OUR OLIVES was chalked on the side in Lucius's hand.

  The next find was a rolled piece of white fabric showing a smeared charcoal sketch. It was a wobbly oval topped with a pile of sticks—or perhaps a range of mountains, or a storm at sea. The center of the oval contained an arrangement of blobs and in one corner of the fabric were two outlines of small hands. Ruso turned the picture to several different angles and could make no sense of any of them.

  Next out: a pair of thick brown lambskin gloves. He brushed the straw off them and slid his right hand into the soft embrace of the fleece. Cassia had measured well.

  Finally, the expected letter. Despite being sealed into the box, the writing tablet had also been closed and sealed individually.

  "Greetings, brother," announced black letters so closely crammed onto the thin wood that Ruso had to lean toward the lamp to make them out. "I hope this finds you well. Cassia and the children send their good wishes and our stepmother . . . " Ruso ran his forefinger hastily along the formalities and slowed down for, "On the subject which concerns us all, you will be pleased to hear that there are no further adverse developments." So, no more debts had come crawling out from dark corners. "The girls have drawn a picture of you, which I trust you will enjoy." That was him? Heavens. He must get his hair cut. "The harvest has been as good as we hoped," continued the letter, "and you will be as delighted as I am to know that Cassia is expecting another child in the spring."

  As delighted as I am, indeed. A neatly ambiguous statement from the man who had earnestly requested the latest advice on contraception after the birth of the last baby.

  "I pray that you remain in good health despite the climate in Britannia," continued Lucius, "and hope you will write soon, brother!" The final sentiments, having reached the bottom right-hand corner too early, performed a sharp turn and twisted up a narrow column of space between the ends of the previous lines and the edge of the letter. "Do not forget our arrangement," Ruso deciphered, turning the page sideways. The way the pen had skidded and fallen off the cut edge of the wood while forming the tails of the longer letters somehow added to the urgency of, "We all depend upon you. Farewell."