by Ruth Downie
Gods above, the man had been planning this ever since his return! Ruso frowned. "I can't have patient records put in the hands of the requisitions clerk."
"Simply the treatments."
"No. You could track them. If you want to know how medicine stocks are going, ask the pharmacy. If you want to know how many pillows are being used, get someone to check your cupboards. That's your job. My job is to get the men here back on their feet as quickly as possible."
Priscus drew a long breath in through his nose and said nothing.
Ruso suppressed a smile. He had never before seen himself as an irresponsible spendthrift. He was quite enjoying the notion.
His enjoyment was short-lived. Priscus reached for another file. Apparently in future the administration would be obliged if he would sign for meals taken when on duty.
"I shouldn't have to pay for them. They deduct enough for food as it is."
"Precisely. Which is why I have seen to it that Albanus has spent the morning going through the rosters to give the pay office separate lists of meals the kitchen has served you when on and off duty. Because payday, as we are all aware, is almost upon us. And otherwise they would have charged you for all of them."
Ruso stared at him for a moment and then said, "Oh," and forced himself to follow it with, "Thank you."
Priscus inclined his head slightly. "A pleasure to be of service," he said.
28
TILLA WAS PONDERING the question of food—how much she could save and hide without arousing anyone's suspicions—when there was a thump low down on the door as if someone had kicked it and a small voice announced in Latin, "It's Lucco, missus. I can't knock, I'll drop your tray."
The ginger-haired kitchen boy had brought a steaming bowl of broth, half a loaf of bread, and a cup of water. He placed the tray on the bench and watched as she tore a chunk of bread away with her teeth. She placed it on the windowsill before breaking it awkwardly into crumbs with one hand and pushing it out between the bars.
Finally he said, "What do you do that for?"
"I have guests."
The boy looked anxious. "Cook didn't say nothing about guests."
"You can wait and see them if you like," she offered, moving the stool to use it as a table and seating herself on the bench. She gestured toward the tray and offered him some bread.
He shook his head. "Mistress says you're too skinny and you got to eat it all."
She tore off another chunk and watched the glistening brown of the broth soak up and darken the bread. By the time she had eaten it, the first sparrow had arrived. Lucco said, "I could get Stichus to find a trap," and at the sound of his voice the sparrow flew away.
Tilla frowned. "I do not trap my guests. Sit still and say nothing."
Moments later several sparrows returned and there was frantic action on the windowsill until a male blackbird brought order by frightening the sparrows away and helping himself to the last remaining crumbs. When he had gone Lucco said, "We could have had sparrow pie."
"Is it good?"
"We'd find out."
Tilla fished out a dripping chunk of bread with her spoon.
"I had dormouse once," Lucco announced. "And swan. Stichus brought me some back from a dinner party."
Romans, Tilla reflected, would eat anything that moved. She could almost believe the rumor that they fattened snails in milk and ate them.
"How long have you worked here, Lucco?"
"I was born here," he told her.
"In this place?"
"In this room."
She glanced around at the bare walls and felt sorry for a child who had been given such a poor welcome into the world. "How old are you?"
"Eight winters."
She dipped the spoon to capture more bread. "You have the same name as one of my uncles, Lucco, you measure your age in winters like me, and yet you speak in the tongue of the army." She switched to her own language. "Who are your people?"
The boy shook his head. "We talk Latin here. We honor the emperor."
"But among ourselves?" she persisted.
Still clinging to the Latin, the boy answered that the mistress did not like them to "talk like natives," adding, "The customers don't like it neither."
Convinced that he understood, she continued, "Where can I find people around here who are not ashamed of their own tongue, Lucco?"
The boy looked at her for a moment, then stepped across to pick up the bucket in the corner. "I forgot," he said, "Mistress says I got to empty you out." Moments later he was gone.
She had not been alone for long when there were three short raps on the door. Instead of Daphne, the ample young woman with the silver ankle chain was lolling against the doorpost. "Tilla," she said. "Is that your real name?"
"Is Chloe yours?"
"Of course not. Let me in."
As soon as she was inside, she closed the door. "I hear you've been asking questions."
"I like to learn." So Lucco had talked. And Daphne had not kept the signal a secret. She would have to be more careful.
Chloe said, "Leave the boy alone. If you must ask questions, ask me. And if you're thinking of running away, my advice is, don't bother."
"I did not say what I was thinking."
"They all think about it. I suppose you've heard the tale about Asellina and her sailor."
"There is a girl who ran away with a sailor?"
Chloe shrugged. "So they say. You did well to get ahold of the key. Nobody's done that before. But if you think it'll be easy . . ." She opened the door a fraction and checked the landing before closing and locking it, "it's time somebody told you what happened to Saufeia."
It seemed that the ill-fated Saufeia had thought she was clever. Clearly she had not realized the dangers that lurked beyond the doors of Merula's.
Tilla said, "Does no one know who killed her?"
Chloe shrugged. "They had an investigation. Lined us all up and asked if anybody saw anything. Of course nobody was stupid enough to say yes. So the soldiers helped themselves to whatever they fancied, pushed off back to the fort, and we've never heard a word."
"Surely it does not end there?"
"Where's it going to go?"
"To find out the truth."
Chloe gave a bitter laugh. "The truth isn't going to bring her back, is it? 'Round here you learn to keep your mouth shut."
Tilla shook her head. "Poor Saufeia, with no one to avenge her."
Chloe looked at her strangely. "They couldn't. They don't know who did it."
"And no family to mourn her passing."
"Look, we did our best. Merula paid for the funeral. Nobody knew what gods she served so we said prayers to all the ones we could think of while Stichus dug the hole, then we threw flowers in and poured a cup of wine over the urn. We even planted violets on top of the grave. Anybody would think we liked her."
29
MOMENTS AFTER RUSO had emerged from Priscus's office, he spotted Albanus at the far end of the corridor. The clerk dodged around the corner as if he was attempting to stay out of sight. Puzzled, Ruso continued down the corridor until he reached the corner, then turned to find the man pressed flat against the wall.
"Albanus, are you avoiding me?"
The clerk swallowed. "You're not supposed to be here yet, sir."
"Perhaps you'd like me to go away again?"
"Oh no, sir! But you told me to stay out of your way."
Ruso sighed. "I didn't mean you have to run off every time you see me."
"No, sir. Sorry, sir. I could fetch my things and start now if you like, sir."
"Please do."
Albanus brightened. "I'll fetch your post as well, sir, shall I?"
"Post?"
Ruso had been known to ignore his pigeonhole for weeks and then find something important and out of date in there. Watching Albanus bustle off in the direction of the records office, it occurred to him that having a personal clerk might even turn out to be useful. Although he hoped he
would not have to admit as much to Priscus. In fact, he was intending to keep well clear of Priscus in future. Merely thinking about the administrator gave him an urge to beat the man over the head with his inkwell. Which, for a professional healer attempting to follow the dictates of reason, logic, and philosophy, was more than a little disappointing.
The first letter was from a seller of medical texts advertising his latest stock, none of which Ruso could afford. The second was from one of his former trainees in Antioch, asking for a letter of recommendation. The third was a fresh and unexpected letter from home.
He settled on a stool in the corner of his surgery and read them all. Then, with a calm he did not feel, he dictated a letter of recommendation. He left Albanus to copy it and to tell anyone who asked that he would be back in time for afternoon clinic.
When he reached the cashier's office, the length of the line suggested to Ruso that he would, after all, have to keep his patients waiting. At the counter, the duty clerk and a dim but determined soldier were locked in an argument about receipts. Ruso leaned against the wall and reread the letter which was the cause of his being here.
"Greetings, brother," he deciphered mostly from memory since as usual Lucius had crammed the lines together to fit everything on the page.
I trust you have sent us the package we are expecting. I thank you and eagerly await its arrival. Unfortunately I am now wondering whether our present course of action remains appropriate. Perhaps the full burden of responsibility for the farm is too much for the pair of us to sustain. As you are our father's heir I am writing to ask your permission to seek a buyer. I will endeavor to find someone who requires a sitting tenant and thus save the family any unnecessary upheaval.
You will be interested to hear that the oldest daughter of Germanicus Fuscus is to be married in the spring. Naturally Fuscus will be providing his daughter with a suitable wedding celebration and will wish to make a generous gift to the happy couple, as will we.
We are all in good health, brother, and hope you are the same. Write soon, I beg you.
Fuscus! Ruso certainly was interested to hear about what Fuscus was planning, although not about the marriage. Not two months ago, he and Lucius had shaken Fuscus's hand over an agreement to extend the terms of the loan. Now the man had changed his mind, and clearly Lucius had failed to persuade him to hold off.
"Sir?"
A second clerk had appeared at the counter and was beckoning him forward. Ruso did not look at the faces of the men he bypassed. One day, when they were officers, they would jump the line too.
"I'd like a word with the cashier," he said. "In private."
Afternoon clinic was busy, evening ward round was even busier, and although Lucius's letter was on his mind, Ruso was unable to find the privacy to reply to it. It was several hours after dark when he finally escaped from the hospital—and from Albanus—and made his way back to the house accompanied only by the smell of someone else's fried bacon.
Still pondering his brother's hint about the generous gift, he reflected that he did not have to stay in this inhospitable corner of the empire. As a surgeon, he was not committed to serve out the twenty-five years of a career soldier. He could try to resign and make the crossing to Gaul before the winter storms set in. There, he could exploit the tax-free status of a civilian doctor, take on his full responsibilities as Pater Familias, and support the family on the ailments of neighbors rich enough to pay him.
The trouble was, would it be enough? What if Fuscus's failure to honor his agreement signified a general loss of faith? If all the debts were called in, there would be no farm to go home to. He would have given up a job he enjoyed, with a regular and very reasonable salary, for nothing. Maybe he should tell Lucius to sell and invite them all to join him in Britannia. It was no worse than his stepmother deserved.
What he needed, of course, was the salary of the chief medical officer. Valens was shamelessly jockeying for the job on the flimsy basis of having been here first, but Ruso's experience was far wider and Claudia had always insisted he could do better for himself if he just made more effort to be polite to people. He had taken little notice of her complaints. A man's work should speak louder than his words. The trouble was, hardly anyone here knew much about his work.
He had been wasting too much time messing about with injured and deceased slave girls. For the sake of his family, he was going to have to find ways to impress the right people. He needed to make useful contacts. Get his face known. Gods above, if he was CMO he could even hunt down a rich widow and persuade her to marry him. He could be the sort of man who gave—the words rang through his head like the blast of a warning trumpet—dinner parties.
In the meantime, Lucius was waiting for an answer.
Safely shut away in his bedroom, Ruso opened one of the blank writing tablets he had persuaded a dubious Albanus to part with (I have to sign for them, sir), and scrawled,
Greetings, brother. Thank you for your suggestion, but I am not prepared to relinquish the burden just yet. Interested to hear about the wedding plans. Are there any more on the horizon? Keep me informed. I am eager to hear all the latest news from home. In the meantime, I am arranging to send three thousand denarii, which I trust will fund a suitably substantial gift.
30
WHEN SOMEONE THUMPED on the door early the next morning, Ruso rolled over in bed, groaned, and pulled the covers over his head. Surely he had made himself quite clear yesterday? His bed was warm, it was almost comfortable, and he was not going to get out of it. Sooner or later, even Albanus would give up. If he tried opening the door, the dogs would frighten him off.
Instead of being frightened off, the man let himself in past the excited dogs and made his way into the kitchen. Moments later he was crashing about with the fire irons. Worse, he was whistling.
Ruso wrenched open the door of his bedroom and roared, "Albanus!"
The whistling stopped. A rotund stranger appeared in the kitchen doorway. " 'Morning, sir. Beautiful morning!"
"Who the hell are you?"
"Justinus, sir. Officer Valens said would I drop by and lend a hand, sir. Get the fire lit, fetch the water, let the dogs out, that sort of thing, sir."
"Did he tell you to make as much noise as possible?"
"Sorry, sir. Didn't know you were in."
Ruso, who felt he had earned the opportunity to sleep in, went back to bed. He had barely drifted back to sleep when he was woken by a knock on his bedroom door. The rotund man handed him a closed writing tablet. "From one of the centurions, sir. Thought it might be urgent."
Ruso undid the tie and squinted at the letters scraped in the wax. "Marvelous," he said. "Thank you."
"You're welcome, sir. Mind if I ask how you're getting on with the inquiries, sir?"
Ruso frowned. "What inquiries?"
"I heard you were looking into the murder of that girl, sir. Or is it supposed to be a secret?"
"No," growled Ruso, "because I'm not. I'm going back to sleep."
The man failed to secure the door properly. Moments later it swung open and a puppy bounded in. It disappeared under the bed and rushed out again with one of Ruso's sandals in its mouth. Ruso leaned over the side of the bed and flung the writing tablet after it. So he did, after all, have a use for the recipe for venison gravy.
31
THE WOMAN AT the bakery handed Ruso his breakfast roll without being asked and remarked that it was a good day for a celebration.
"Is it?" inquired Ruso, still resentful at being woken to see it.
The woman looked surprised. "It's the birthday of the noble emperor Trajan, sir, may he walk with the gods. We're closing early today."
"So it is," said Ruso, who now vaguely recalled some notice to that effect and, feeling some other comment was needed, added, "Very good."
"And the gods have blessed us with good weather."
It struck Ruso that if the gods kept this up, he might not have to buy Tilla any winter clothes. "When do you think it'
ll start getting cold?"
The woman assured him there would be no frost for a couple of months. She then contradicted herself by adding that you could never really tell, could you? And if he didn't mind her saying so, it was nice to hear that somebody was still taking an interest in the business of that girl who was murdered, and had he caught anybody yet?
"No," said Ruso, wondering who had started this rumor and how he could stop it before it reached the ears of the second spear.
"We'd help you if we could, but she was hardly here more than a few days and we don't pay much attention to what goes on over there. It's not very nice sometimes, you know. Especially when it gets late."
"I can imagine."
"Shouting and swearing and banging on the shutters."
"Mm," said Ruso, groping in his purse for his money so he could escape.
"Those doormen do their best to keep order but really, it's terribly noisy. We keep ourselves to ourselves. All we knew about that one was that she had a pretty face and a foul mouth."
Ruso looked up. "Really?"
"Oh, yes!" The woman looked pleased at his interest. "She came across the street one day wanting to say something to us. So the doorman, the ginger-haired one—Stichus, is it?—he called her straight back. Which was quite right. We've told that Merula woman we can't have them hanging around here, you see, it puts the customers off, so he was quite within his rights. And when she didn't take any notice he came over and got her, and to be honest, Doctor, she seemed quite a nicely spoken girl up till then—but you should have heard what she said to him! Well, I expect you hear it every day in the barracks, but we don't expect it in the street. And from a young woman. We were quite shocked."
"And then what happened?"
"What happened?" Evidently the woman had already reached the climax of the story and Ruso was supposed to be impressed. "Well, nothing. He took hold of her and got her in and straight up those stairs and we didn't hear any more about it. The Merula woman did have the decency to come over later to apologize. I will say that for them, they do realize what a lot of trouble they cause for the neighbors."
