by Ruth Downie
"Mm," Chloe murmured, "you never know who you might run into."
Cheap perfume wafted over him as a husky voice whispered in his ear, "Fancy a little stroll?"
"No," said Ruso's mouth before the rest of him had a chance to argue.
Chloe detached herself and shrugged. "Oh well, it was worth a try Sweet dreams, Doctor." Swinging the pan by her side, she set off in the direction of Merula's.
She had not gone ten paces when Ruso caught up with her.
"Change your mind?"
"I need to know where the street of the Weavers is."
"Ask me nicely."
"Tell me and I'll walk you back. Why didn't they send someone with you?"
"What for? I'm not going to run away, am I?"
"That wasn't what I meant," he said, falling into step with her.
"I'm going straight back." Chloe lifted the saucepan. "And I'm armed."
"I'm serious."
"Asellina was unlucky," she said. "Saufeia was clueless."
"I heard she was quite bright."
"Not in any ways that were of any use to her."
"No, I gather she wasn't brought up for, uh . . . for your kind of life."
"Not many people are, are they? Some of us just find we have a natural talent."
Ruso smiled. "Tilla seems to have convinced herself that Saufeia was doomed by the curse of being able to read and write."
For a moment Chloe did not answer, then she said quietly, "No offense, Doctor, but if you want to do Tilla any favors, you tell her to keep out of what doesn't concern her."
It was his second warning in one evening. "Chloe," he said, "do you know something about what happened to Saufeia?"
"Me? I don't know a thing. And if anybody asks, you can tell them I said so."
They walked on in silence. When they reached the bakery, Chloe paused and turned. The light from the torch outside Merula's was making a halo in her hair. "Thanks for walking me back, Doc. I appreciate it."
"Be careful," he urged her.
"Do me one more favor, eh? Don't mention my little offer to the management."
"I wouldn't dream of it," said Ruso, who had already guessed that Chloe's efforts at private enterprise would be frowned upon by her owners.
Chloe laughed. "Tilla said you were all right, and you are."
"So, where do I find the street of the Weavers?"
She took his arm and pointed down the alleyway that ran alongside the bar. " Just down there."
"You don't happen to know which house the hospital administrator lives in?"
"You ask a lot of questions, don't you?"
"Tall, thin, interesting hair," prompted Ruso. "I won't be mentioning anything to your management, remember?"
"Bad smell under his nose?"
"That's the one."
"Sounds like our new neighbor," said Chloe. "Try the first house you come to on the right."
54
SOMEONE WAS IN: There was a yellow streak of light where the door didn't fit the top of the frame. While he was waiting for Priscus to open up Ruso observed that the man had made a smart choice of neighbors. His house backed onto Merula's bar, but the noise which the woman at the bakery found so disturbing would all be out at the front, where the shutters opened onto the road. Priscus's house would back onto the kitchen yard and the private apartments occupied by Merula and her "boys." Beside Priscus's front door were shutters covering the storefront of a basket maker and on the opposite corner a weaver had gone home for the night. Even when the shops were busy, the hospital administrator's peace would hardly be disturbed by the sounds of weaving or fiddling about with willow wands. Ruso pondered, not happily, the irony of Priscus enjoying peaceful and private lodgings while the men who actually dealt with the sick shared a vermin-infested dump awaiting demolition.
The administrator not only had peaceful and private lodgings, but a slave whose limbs were all in working order. Admittedly, a dumb slave. The man stood silhouetted in the doorway, communicating by the shaking of his head and the raising of one palm that his master was not at home to visitors.
"I'll wait," said Ruso, putting one boot inside the door and indicating his medical case.
The slave made an effort to shut the door.
"It's business," said Ruso, pushing in the opposite direction.
The slave looked thin and tired, as if the effort of communication was wearing him down. He glanced around, perhaps hoping someone was coming to back him up. Seeing the whitewashed corridor behind him empty, he stood back to let Ruso enter.
Ruso followed the slave into a spacious reception room that smelled of lavender and lamp oil. To one side a chest of drawers held a lamp burning in front of the household gods. In the center, two wicker chairs sat at a spindly-legged table bearing a fruit bowl, a jug, and a cup. They were arranged as if someone was about to paint them. Priscus was nowhere to be seen.
The man motioned Ruso to a chair and indicated the cup. Ruso shook his head. The wicker chair creaked as the weave adjusted to his weight. He looked around him. This was one of the new houses, and far more spacious than the place where the barber's family lived. One door led to the back of the building, another to the side. From behind one of them there was a faint cry: too indistinct to tell whether it was male or female, pleasure, pain, or surprise. The slave glanced at the doorway leading deeper into the house, then at Ruso. He stepped forward and offered the fruit bowl.
Ruso helped himself to a couple of grapes and wondered how far they had traveled. "Will he be long?"
The man gave an expansive shrug and retreated to the side room, which Ruso guessed was a kitchen. Ruso had the feeling he had gone to hide from Priscus rather than fetch him.
Ruso put a grape into his mouth and burst it with his tongue. The juice flooded his mouth with memories. The grapes would be in at home now. Lucius, who wouldn't have received his letter yet, must be wondering whether this was the last batch of their own wine they would ever make.
He was just enjoying the second grape when there was a shrill and terrible scream from the rear door. A howl of rage cut across it, followed by Priscus yelling, "You filthy little bedbug!"
Ruso had leaped out of his chair when the door burst open and Priscus emerged.
The administrator did not look happy. His hair was awry. His face, and most of the rest of him, seemed to have been splattered with something that might once have been edible, and which he was attempting to wipe off with a hospital blanket. He staggered as he trod on the untied thong of one of his own sandals and roared, "Tadius!" at the closed door before turning and clutching the blanket to his chest at the sight of Ruso.
"What are you doing here?"
The slave emerged from the other room.
"Get a cloth and a bucket of water!" ordered Priscus, "and find me a clean tunic."
The slave hurried away. Priscus bent over, trying to wipe his face on a corner of blanket and adjust his hair at the same time. The smell of fish sauce was almost, but not quite, overpowering his bath oil.
"I seem to have called at a bad time," remarked Ruso, noting that Priscus's attempts to rearrange his hair had succeeded in leaving it resting in a clump above one ear. "Have you had an accident?"
"It's nothing," snapped Priscus, following Ruso's eyes to where a shadow was moving in the doorway behind him. He turned and slammed the door shut. The slave, who had been hurrying toward it clutching a bucket and cloth, retreated in confusion.
"Seems we've both had a busy evening," said Ruso. "You've been seeing your decorator and I've been pulling teeth."
Priscus scowled. "This is really not a convenient time—"
"I can see that. I just dropped by to collect my fee."
"Your—?"
"Professional fee. Apparently we have an arrangement."
The slave reappeared holding a folded tunic. Priscus turned to Ruso.
"We'll discuss this in the morning."
"We'll discuss it when you've got clean clothes on."
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Priscus glanced at the slave as if he was wondering whether to ask him to throw his unwanted visitor out, then thought better of it and shuffled across to the kitchen in his unfastened sandals, beckoning the man to follow him.
Ruso helped himself to a couple more grapes and seated himself in the creaky chair. From behind the kitchen door came the sound of Priscus complaining and the sharp crack of a slap as Tadius evidently failed to please. From behind the other door, Ruso thought he could make out the sound of someone moving about. Whoever it was did not emerge.
"Disgraceful," Priscus was saying as he emerged clean from the kitchen wearing a neatly pressed tunic and a realigned hairstyle. "Utterly disgraceful. If the owner doesn't come up with some very acceptable compensation I shall cancel my order and have my meals delivered from somewhere else. Tadius? Make sure you give the floor a good scrub, put on a clean bolster cover and have the other one laundered first thing in the morning." He closed the kitchen door and turned back to Ruso. "Now, what was it you wanted?"
"My fee," said Ruso. getting to his feet. For the tooth extraction."
"Ah. The tooth extraction. Yes." Visibly making an effort to take control of himself once more, Priscus indicated the table. "Would you like a drink?"
"No, I would like my fee."
Priscus sighed. "We seem to have got off on the wrong foot, Ruso. Do sit down."
Reluctantly, Ruso resumed his seat.
Priscus, who seemed to have made an impressively swift recovery of his composure, adjusted the position of the other chair and lowered himself into it. "You are obviously most unhappy."
"I was told by my patient that you and I have an arrangement. Apparently I go out on house calls and you pocket the fee."
"Oh, dear, no. I can see we've had a little misunderstanding." Priscus smoothed the top of his hair with his hand and explained that it was hospital practice to make deductions at source for loan repayments. "I would have spoken to you about it, but the boy said it was an emergency. I don't have the documents at hand, of course, but I can show you the account in the morning."
"This was a private patient!"
"Ah, but the boy came to the hospital to ask for a doctor."
"A couple of denarii is hardly going to make much of a dent in the loan, is it? Or are you expecting me to work it off?"
"No, no, of course not. But when it was sanctioned I was not aware that the camp prefect would be ordering an inspection of the hospital accounts prior to the arrival of the auditors."
"We've been through this. I've already signed over a guarantee."
"The loan is perfectly in order. But I do need to be able to show some repayments on the account and this seemed the simplest way. Of course I would have asked for your approval, but the boy said it was an emergency and you were not available for discussion."
Ruso sighed. He couldn't imagine the camp prefect having the slightest interest in a reduction of two denarii from the loan account of the Aesculapian Thanksgiving Fund, especially since he had already signed over his slave in the event of default. He could well believe, however, that Priscus was taking revenge for Ruso's persistent attempts to avoid him.
"All right," Ruso conceded. "We'll leave things as they are. But in future I'll negotiate and collect my own fees."
"Of course." Priscus paused. "And perhaps we could agree to conduct hospital business within the confines of the hospital? This really was a most unfortunate time to call."
55
RUSO HAD INTENDED to dictate a note about the Brigantian girl, but the business of the red hair complicated matters. In the end he decided to request an appointment with the second spear to explain things in person. Granted a brief audience, he passed on his information about the barber—although not its source—and was acknowledged with a grunt that might have been encouragement but did not sound like it. He then went on to explain that a stolen girl, knowingly supplied by one Claudius Innocens, was in imminent danger. To his relief, this aroused a better response. The second spear could not be expected to have much interest in the welfare of Brigantian carpenters' daughters, but he was shrewd enough to agree that action needed to be taken before some scruffy native with a grudge spotted the girl and used her as an excuse to stir up trouble. "We've had enough problems with that bar," he growled. "We'd shut it down, but the others are worse. Just do me a favor and don't find any more bodies."
The sun came out as Ruso strode back to the hospital. He found himself feeling surprisingly cheerful, and murmured a prayer of thanks for all that had happened to him in Britannia. There were only four more days until payday, and despite some worrying moments, he was going to reach it with his credit intact. He had been given the chance to run the hospital single-handed on two occasions, he was more or less in favor with civilian liaison, and if there were any justice in the army (which was doubtful), he would be well in line for the CMO post. He had rescued one girl and saved her arm, and now he had taken steps to retrieve another and put a stop to a filthy trade in stolen human flesh. This evening he would have the satisfaction of pointing out to Tilla that there was no need for all that cursing and howling and mumbo-jumbo over the cooking pot. He would not go into the details of why the army was going to investigate Phryne's case even though they had not received an official complaint. He would simply explain that . . .In fact, he wouldn't have to wait until this evening, because she was walking toward him.
"Tilla!" He was glad to see she had chosen this route. It was wide, it was busy, and the progress of any passing female would be closely supervised by numerous builders clambering about on the scaffolding of the bathhouse.
"Tilla, good news!" He waited until she joined him before beginning his explanation of how, in a civilized society, criminals were dealt with by the law.
He was halfway through his first sentence when she flung herself at him. Off balance and bewildered, he staggered backward and was thrust flat against the wall as something spattered the gravel just inches from his feet.
"Sorry!" shouted a voice from the scaffolding.
Ruso found himself gazing at a shuddering trowel, its point embedded deep in the road where he had just been walking. Moments later he realized that he was still clutching Tilla against his chest, almost as if he had saved her instead of the other way around. In fact, anyone walking around the corner now would get quite the wrong impression of what was going on. Unable to back away, he placed his hands on her shoulders and moved her to a more acceptable distance. "Are you—" He glanced across at the trowel, paused to clear his throat, and began again. "Are you all right?"
"I am, my Lord."
He let go. "Thank you."
They stepped away from each other, both turning aside to brush down the creases in their clothing as footsteps clattered on the planking above them. Tilla glared at the builder who was making his way down the ladder. "You are very careless!"
The builder glanced from one to the other of them, said, "Sorry, sir," then added, "Miss."
"You could kill my Master!" continued Tilla. "Why do you throw this—this thing?" She flapped a hand at the trowel, evidently frustrated at not knowing enough Latin to give him a fluent scolding.
"I didn't throw it," said the man, stepping across to retrieve it. "It was an accident." He wiped the gravel-spattered remnants of mortar off the trowel onto a leg of the scaffold, and turned to Ruso. "Sorry about that, sir. Slipped out of my hand. Lucky you got her out of the way."
"I didn't," said Ruso, squinting up at the high walls of the refurbished bathhouse. "What's your name, soldier?"
"Secundus, sir. From the century of Gallus."
"Well, Secundus. You need to be more careful."
"Yes, sir."
"When's this work going to be finished?"
Ignoring Tilla's scowl, the man pointed out that it was only a month over schedule, as if this were something to be proud of. This week they had been held up because a batch of tiles had arrived in the wrong size. Once the roof was done, the plumbers and pla
sterers and painters would be finished in about ten days. They were working right up to dark to get finished.
"Good. Then perhaps somebody will fix our hospital roof."
"You're next on the list, sir," promised Secundus with an ease that suggested he had said it many times to many people.
After he had gone Tilla said, "That man is a liar."
"I know," agreed Ruso. "But there's no point in arguing with them or they'll take even longer."
Tilla frowned. "I am not talking about the roof," she said.
56
AS TlLLA LEFT the room carrying the cleared dishes, Valens pushed the nearest light away with his toe, put his feet up on the table, and went back to his favorite topic of the evening. "Are you sure there was somebody there?"
"Positive," said Ruso. "He was shouting at them."
Valens chuckled. "I don't know which is more amazing. Priscus and a secret assignation, or Priscus stealing the hospital bedclothes. Dear me. What a shame you couldn't see who it was. Male or female, do you think?"
"I couldn't tell. All I had was a glimpse of a shadow in the doorway."
There was a crash from the kitchen. Ruso winced. Valens said, "Don't be too hard on her, old man. It must be tricky washing up with one hand."
"She's got some use in the right hand now," pointed out Ruso.
"Which you very kindly saved for her," acknowledged Valens. "And I suppose she has got all evening to do the pots." He leaned back on the couch, yawned, and stretched his arms above his head as the dog scrambled out from behind him. "Do you realize," he observed to the ceiling, "this is the first time we've both had dinner at home? You are a remarkable chap under that dour exterior, Gaius Petreius."
Ruso poured himself more wine and maintained the silence of his dour exterior.
"First you wander down a back alley and find us a housekeeper, then you pay a visit to the hospital administrator and—gods, I wish I'd seen the expression on his face. Silly old fart!" Valens, who was on call this evening, bent forward and poured a generous amount of water into his own wine before raising it to his lips. "So, he tried to pretend he was just having his dinner delivered?"
