Medicus

by Ruth Downie

  "I thought if we could find out who it was," continued the officer,

  "we could ask a couple of its family or friends to come and shift it quietly, and then get the priests to purify the place first thing tomorrow morning so the builders can go back in. We just need to find out who it is without telling anyone it's there."

  "We?"

  "I've made a start. The family who used to rent the place are all alive and well and HQ's got nobody reported missing."

  "I don't see what else you can do."

  "It doesn't narrow it down much, I know. You see my problem."

  "Yes, but I don't see how I can help you with it."

  The liaison officer cleared his throat. "Neither do I," he admitted, "but you're the one who knows about this sort of thing. Even the builders told me to fetch the doctor from the hospital who investigates suspicious deaths."

  "I don't! And I'm supposed to be at the hospital by the seventh hour."

  "Oh come on, Ruso—don't be modest!"

  "Really. I'm not the least bit interested in investigating suspicious deaths."

  "But everyone thinks you are. Come on, man. Don't leave me on my own with this. We've all got to do our best for Trajan's birthday, haven't we?"

  Any faint hopes of being able to identify the body were dispelled as soon as Ruso's boots crunched across the debris-strewn site of the burned building. At first glance it was difficult to distinguish the human form, which was the same color as the blackened timbers in which it lay curled. He glanced back through the gap that had once been a doorway to see the liaison officer standing at a safe distance. "You didn't tell me it died in the fire!"

  The liaison officer winced. "Keep your voice down!"

  "How long ago was that?"

  "Sometime in late spring. The building was already boarded up ready for demolition so they didn't bother trying to save it. Just pulled down the one next door to stop the fire spreading and left it to burn. "

  Ruso glanced around him. The undemolished remains formed a chaotic jumble that reminded him of the collapsed houses of Antioch. This would have been one of the old single-story buildings: mostly wood with rough plaster, probably straw or dried bracken on the floor, and a thatched roof. It would have gone up like a torch. Anyone caught inside would have had to move fast, and whoever this was hadn'tmoved fast enough.

  He picked his way across the wreckage, testing the charred timbers to ensure they would take his weight, and crouched to take a closer look from a different angle. He was not sure what he was supposed to be looking for. Yes, it was a body. Yes, it was dead. No, there was no way even its own mother would recognize it. Ruso murmured a quiet assurance to its spirit that he came as a friend. Just in case.

  The liaison officer had untied his neckerchief to hold over his nose. He was making no effort to approach. Ruso scrutinized him for a moment, thinking. Then he unsheathed his knife and dug away a loose flake of charcoal. The fire had been fiercely destructive of human flesh but surely something must have survived that would give a clue to the identity of the body. A knife, a belt buckle, a cloak pin . . . maybe nails from the boots . . . All of these were things that could have been found by anybody prepared to make the effort. All were things that Ruso should be finding, and wasn't.

  "Any ideas?"

  Ruso shook his head. "I really haven't got much to go on here." He straightened. "And I haven't the faintest idea whether it's suspicious. >You'll have to . . ." His voice trailed into silence. He bent down again and poked at something with the point of his knife, then reached forward and pinched it between his thumb and forefinger. Then he dropped it into his palm, spit on it, and tried to rub away the soot.

  "What have you got?"

  Ruso sheathed his knife and made his way over to the liaison officer. "I can't tell you who it is," he said, glancing around to make sure no one in the street could hear him, "but I think it's a female."

  "Another one? Gods, that's the second one found this month. And you've no idea at all who it is?"

  "I'm a doctor, not a fortune-teller," said Ruso, skirting the question rather than admit a tentative thought that he would be investigating tomorrow. "Whatever they tell you, I don't investigate deaths, suspicious or otherwise. You'll have to start asking around in the morning."

  "Damn. It's going to have to stay here till then, isn't it?"

  "Unless you have a better idea," said Ruso. Unable to resist, he added, "Good luck finding somebody to guard it."

  33

  RUSO NODDED TO Aesculapius and then to Decimus the porter on his way into the hospital. He was going to have to talk to Decimus, but not now.

  Albanus seemed relieved to see him. It was now well past the seventh hour, and the clerk seemed to think the patients lining up along the benches were blaming him for the delay.

  Ruso had strapped a broken finger and dismissed its owner with instructions to send in the next patient when an expensive smell wafted into the surgery. He looked up. "Priscus! Are you ill?"

  "Fortunately, no," was the reply. "But I do need to see you."

  "I'm busy."

  "Of course. Perhaps you would be good enough to drop by my office when it's convenient?"

  "Later," said Ruso, not specifying a time.

  Priscus closed the door. Ruso pictured him gliding away down the corridor, perfuming the rest of the hospital.

  He was occupied with patients for most of the afternoon, but a discreet inquiry as he slipped out of the fort—avoiding Priscus—suggested that the public celebration of Trajan's birthday had been a success. No rumors of ill omens seemed to have reached the men on duty at the east gatehouse. If the liaison officer had bothered to mount a guard, it must have been very discreet.

  Relieved that he would not have to face questions about a cover-up, he hurried down the street toward Merula's. It occurred to him as he strode through the scatter of bruised petals, fallen leaves, and animal droppings, which marked the course of Trajan's birthday parade, that he would not normally visit a broken arm twice in one day. On the other hand, neither would he normally lodge a female convalescent above a disreputable bar guarded by two ex-legionaries intent on a quick profit.

  He was almost there when a female voice shouted, "Doctor!"

  He looked up. A pregnant belly, followed by its owner, also clad in vibrant yellow and blue check, was lurching across the street toward him.

  "Doctor!"

  The woman, who was wearing only one shoe, halted and glanced down at his case again. "Doctor?"

  Ruso closed his eyes briefly and dreamed of a world where women stayed quietly at home and sewed things and understood the value of Modesty and Obedience—not to mention Not Turning Up Dead Under Suspicious Circumstances. When he opened them again, he was still in Britannia. He said, "Do you need help?"

  "Doctor!"

  "Midwife?" he suggested. Perhaps he had an immediate use for Tilla after all.

  A vigorous shake of the head suggested exasperation as well as denial.

  She stabbed a forefinger into his chest, then waved her arm back in the direction he had just come. "Hospital."

  "From the hospital, yes."

  "Hospital!" She turned her head aside and spat in disgust.

  "Ah," said Ruso, feigning understanding and wondering whether her guardians knew she had escaped.

  "Soldier!" The arm waved back toward the fort and then indicated her own large form. "Soldier!" she repeated.

  Ruso shook his head in a manner which he hoped looked suitably regretful, and lied. "I'm afraid I have no idea what you're talking about."

  "Tell her he'll marry her," prompted a voice from across the street. Ruso looked up to see a veteran seated behind a workbench. "She'll only have to wait twenty-five years."

  "Eyes!" declared the woman, ignoring him.

  It was not the word, but the gesture, that sparked Ruso's sudden attention. "Eyes?" he queried, repeating the gesture so that both hands gradually shaded his vision. He wished he could remember the man's nam
e. "The signaler? You're the signaler's girlfriend?"

  She nodded. "Signaler! Hospital! Pah!"

  Another blob of saliva spattered onto the stones. He turned to the man, who he now realized was mending the woman's other shoe. "Can you speak British?"

  "Not me," replied the man, not looking up from his work. "Time they all learned a civilized language. We've been around here since Nero was in nappies."

  Ruso glanced in both directions, but the only people around seemed to be off-duty soldiers and a slave who was discovering that the street was too narrow for the oxcart he was attempting to lead down it.

  "How near are you to finishing that shoe?"

  The man lifted the shoe to his face, bit through a thread, and held it out. "Done."

  Ruso turned to the woman. "Come with me."

  He knew where to find a translator.

  "Tilla!" Ruso called up to the barred window with the little pot of yellow flowers on the sill.

  Stichus, lounging by the entrance with his arms folded, eyed the large form in vivid check before wrinkling his nose and turning to Ruso.

  "Merula won't want that one, Doc. We got one that shape already."

  "I need to see Tilla," said Ruso, just as her face appeared behind the bars. "Tilla? Come down here."

  Moments later she threaded her way between the tables, ignoring the attention of several occupants who seemed keen to engage her in conversation and one who offered to kiss her arm to make it better.

  Not wishing to entertain Stichus any longer, he led both women away from the bar. By the time they reached the fountain, a rapid and energetic exchange in British had made his first question redundant. Stop!" he ordered. "Now that we know you understand each other, I want to know who she is and what she wants."

  "She is woman of the Cornovii," replied Tilla, seating herself on a bench without asking his permission. Ruso placed himself at a suitable distance and the woman settled on the other side of Tilla and peered around at him.

  "A woman of the who?"

  Tilla reached out her good arm and swept it in an arc to indicate their surroundings. "All around here is Cornovii land. Until the army take it away"

  "I take it that's not what she's come to complain about?"

  "Her man is Catuvellauni. They are a tribe who try to take over—"

  "I know who they are," said Ruso, who had ridden through the pleasantly civilized lands of the Catuvellauni tribe on the way north from Londinium, but was no nearer to understanding what this woman wanted.

  "Her man is here in the legion," continued Tilla, in a tone that suggested this was nothing to be proud of, and adding, "He is soldier whose eyes are fading. She says, Are you the doctor who say he can go to have his eyes mended?"

  "I said we could try. It's a risky procedure. He understood that."

  "She wants to know," said Tilla, "why you change your mind."

  "I haven't changed my mind."

  Tilla conveyed this to the woman, who had plenty to say in response. "She says," was the translation, "that her man tells her the new Doctor sends him to Londinium to mend his eyes and he shows her the letter—"

  Ruso had given the signaler a copy of the referral letter, not because he needed one but because it gave Albanus something else to do.

  "And she has packed all the bags and taken her son to her sister's house and borrowed money to go with him and more money for lodgings and today he goes to collect his . . ." Tilla frowned. "Something to say he can go on the road?"

  "Travel warrant."

  "He goes to collect the travel warrant, but the officer will not sign because he is not going. So now he is in trouble with his centurion for not saying his eyes are fading and she has two children and a blind man to care for and everything is worse than—" She broke off, interrupted by the woman. For a moment the two of them were trying to talk over each other. Finally Tilla swiveled around to turn her back on the woman. Her mouth was clamped shut. She folded her good arm over the sling.

  "Perhaps," suggested Ruso, " you would be good enough to translate?"

  "She is a very rude person."

  "That is for me to judge."

  "She says things about you. I say you are a good doctor."

  The signaler's girlfriend splayed her knees to accommodate her belly and leaned farther out from her seat. Ruso found himself being glared at by two women. He got to his feet. "Tell her," he said, "that I am going back to the fort and I will have her man report to me immediately."

  Tilla stood and relayed this message with an impressive air of hauteur, then reported, "She says he did not send her and she wants to know what you will say to him."

  "Tell her," replied Ruso, "that what I say to my patients is confidential. And that insulting a Roman officer is a very serious matter. She should learn to curb her tongue."

  The signaler looked pale when he showed up at the hospital. His tone veered between respectful and aggrieved as he explained the mysterious reversal of fortune that had fallen upon him. His centurion was now issuing a request for a medical discharge, but not before he and the comrades who had covered up for him had completed a month of ditch digging fueled by nothing but barley bread and water as punishment. Possibly in an attempt to avert further disaster, he apologized on behalf of his girl. She might, he said, have been "a bit overexcited" due to the circumstances and her condition.

  It was dusk by the time the signaler had gone. Albanus offered to fetch a light, but Ruso told him not to bother and dismissed him for the day. Gathering up his medical case, he wondered what the signaler's girl had actually said, and whether he should insist on a translation, but then dismissed the thought. He was responsible for a mass of family debt, a sick slave, a list of hopeful patients he often didn't know how to help, and now word had got around that he had insulted the second spear by undermining his investigation into the suspicious death of the barmaid. In a moment he was going to have to sort out this business about the travel warrant, and tomorrow he would have to have a quiet word with Decimus. That was not going to be a pleasure for either of them. He had enough to worry about without wasting time on the opinions of hysterical women.

  34

  CONTRARY TO PRISCUS'S own policy, there was a yellow glow from beneath his office door. Ruso, hoping the man's expensive smell had faded during the afternoon, took a deep breath of fresh air before knocking and entering. "Priscus," he said, relieved that the smell was not as bad as he had feared, "I don't know what you want, but I want to talk about cataract surgery."

  Priscus indicated the folding chairs. "Do please sit down, Doctor. I was wondering at what time I might have the pleasure of your company."

  "I recommended a patient for examination by a specialist," said Ruso, snapping open the taller of the two chairs and ignoring the hint that it was his own fault Priscus was being forced to use artificial lighting. "Now I'm told his travel warrant has been refused. Perhaps you could explain."

  "Ah."

  "That was a medical decision."

  "Indeed."

  "We've had this discussion before."

  "Indeed we have, but—"

  "I believe I made my position quite clear."

  "Perfectly. And I made clear to you that I would appreciate being consulted before costly decisions are made."

  "If you had been here," pointed out Ruso, "I would have mentioned it. As it was, nobody could tell me when you'd be back and the surgeon's heading off to Rome at the end of the month. If the auditors don't like it, you can blame me. Now can we stop playing games and get this travel warrant signed?"

  Priscus leaned his elbows on the desk and placed his fingers together at the tips. "I'm afraid this is a rather delicate matter."

  "We can sort the delicacies out after he's gone."

  Priscus sighed. "I realize that the decision was made in my absence, before we had our little talk. I was only made aware of it yesterday when the man's centurion referred the sick leave request back here to confirm your signature. Evidently he had not
realized we had a new doctor. Under the circumstances, I would not normally have intervened. Especially since you are particularly sensitive about this sort of thing. However, as you may be aware, I have the honor of supervising the Aesculapian Thanksgiving Fund."

  Ruso grunted. This was no surprise. Priscus seemed to have the honor of supervising everything remotely connected with the hospital.

  "The fund," Priscus continued, "is used to pay for items or services of benefit to the patients that it is not possible to cover within the normal hospital budget."

  "Of course. Is this relevant?"

  "I believe loaning out amounts that are currently surplus to the needs of the fund represents good stewardship."

  "So do I. I borrowed some of them."

  "I was delighted to note," continued Priscus as if his speech had been prepared in advance, "that in my absence you took advantage of the very favorable terms we can arrange."

  "Is that some sort of a problem?"

  "No. No, indeed. Although of course we do have to make sure that should the funds be required for an emergency, they can be swiftly replenished."

  Ruso leaned back in the chair. "Are you telling me," he said, "that you've managed to lend out so much money we can't pay for one man to visit an eye surgeon?"

  "No, no! Of course not. Although, if I had not been away on business, I would have made sure the present level of the fund was checked before the loan was granted."

  Ruso shrugged. "If the auditors pick it up, I'll tell them it wasn't you who handed out the cash. And by the time the bill comes in from the surgeon, we'll be past payday and you'll have your money back."

  "Thank you." Priscus reached for a writing tablet. "I'm afraid I must ask you to sign another voucher. Just a formality, of course, but we do have to show that we have some sort of guarantee."

  "What for? The pay clerks can subtract the money from my bonus."

  Priscus's lips twitched. "Of course," he said. His teeth appeared in a smile. "But in view of the second loan you arranged yesterday, based also on the emperor's bonus, I think it would be wise."