by Ruth Downie
But the talkative one was clutching his arm, still complaining.
It was whole. She tied the towels in place, tucked Daphne into the blanket, and murmured a prayer of thanks to the goddess, with a final plea that the bleeding would stop soon. Behind her, the men were arguing in the doorway. The one called Priscus was promising the medicus that the man was quite dead and would not be telling any more tales.
An evening of blood.
She stroked Daphne's forehead and tidied a strand of hair that had fallen over her eyes. "The goddess has favored you with courage, sister. You did well. He is a fine healthy baby" It was not the time to be asking if there was a father to be told the news. Instead, she turned to the men in the doorway. "We need help."
The medicus glanced at them. "We need help," she repeated, raising her voice over that of the one with many words. "She needs to be carried to a clean bed."
She stepped aside. The medicus eyed her for a moment as if he were not used to taking orders, then told Phryne to bring the child and said stiffly, "Congratulations, Daphne," before stooping to gather her up in his arms. Tilla let the girls guide the medicus to a clean bed. The one called Priscus scurried after them, talking faster and faster.
Alone, she took a long cool drink of water from the jug. She had not eaten since breakfast. The soldiers had taken her food and eaten it while she walked behind them, tethered like a donkey, all the way back to Deva. She leaned back against the wall and slid down it until she was sitting on the floorboards with her legs stretched out in front of her. The boots were flapped open, thongless, useless for running even if she had the strength. She fingered the filthy bandage the medicus had put on her arm—how many days ago now? So much trouble, and for what? To bring her here to save one unborn child?
She felt her eyes flutter shut, and rubbed them hard. She must not sleep. Her hand moved to the twine fastened around her throat. She must decide tonight. She must ask for a sign from the goddess. She must get up and bar the door. In a moment, she would do all these things. She would just sit here for a while first, surrounded by the mess that comes with the welcoming of a new life, and recover her strength.
76
BASSUS WAS SLUMPED over the counter, his head in a dark pool of red wine mingled with the blood that had welled through the fabric of his tunic. No breath stirred the surface of the pool. Ruso's fingers moved slowly around the warm flesh of the neck, pressing for the throb of a pulse. He shook his head. The doorman was, as Priscus had claimed, quite dead. He lifted the man's shoulders, then lowered him onto the counter again and stepped away. There appeared to be more than one wound, and all were in the back. It did not look like self-defense.
"It could have been Stichus," Priscus was saying. "It all fits, do you see? Stichus wanted to steal the earnings and—"
Ruso turned on his heel and strode out of the bar.
Tilla was asleep. Priscus, who had followed him, was now talking about having the connecting door blocked up and selling the business. "Frankly, it was always something of a disappointment. Terribly difficult to find the right staff. As you know yourself, of course . . ."
Ruso knelt beside Tilla and ran a finger through the brown curls that she must have hoped would disguise her. Her eyelids flickered, then she settled back into sleep. Priscus was saying something about learning from one's mistakes and putting this unfortunate affair behind them.
Ruso stood up and stepped away. He would let her sleep a little longer. He was now so late that a few more minutes would make no difference. "Accessory to kidnap and rape of a native girl, accessory to repeated rape of a citizen of Rome, strangling that citizen, and now stabbing a veteran in the back," he said. "Plus I gather the other mess Bassus had to clear up for you was Asellina."
Priscus scowled. "I really can't be held responsible for having to put an end to that girl. I warned her more than once to pull herself together. She was quite insane."
"Really? I heard she was a cheerful and popular member of the staff."
Priscus tightened his lips. "She was warned! She was ordered to show appropriate respect!"
Ruso glanced at Priscus's hair and tried to imagine the effect it would have on a girl who was prone to giggling. "You mean she wouldn't stop laughing?"
"I told you. She was insane."
Not everyone likes a good laugh, do they, sir? Poor Decimus had been wiser than he realized. "Did you invent the story about her running off with the boyfriend?" Ruso asked. "Or was that someone else?"
"How was I supposed to know the wretched girl had an admirer? When Merula made a fuss I told her to make up some sort of reason why the girl had gone, and I gave her an example. A better manager would have used some initiative. Instead she just repeated what I'd said."
"So when her boyfriend turned up and demanded to know where she was, Merula told him she'd run off with the mysterious sailor."
"That girl was the property of the business. My property."
"And you didn't like your property laughing at you."
Priscus glared at him for a moment, clenching and unclenching his fists as if he was making a conscious effort to rein in his temper. Finally he said, "What does it matter? What happened was a little unfortunate, but as her owner, the only loss was mine."
"This whole business has been more than a little unfortunate, Priscus."
Priscus took a deep breath and appeared to recover his composure. "It has been an extremely difficult episode," he agreed. "But I think we can both feel relieved now." The hand that smoothed his hair was hardly shaking at all now. "We just need to tidy up a little. Then we can put everything behind us and make a fresh start. I'll confirm that you were called to an emergency here so your absence won't damage your promotion prospects."
Tilla stirred and murmured something in her sleep. Ruso stared at Priscus, wondering if the man's calm attempt to reason his way out of terrible crimes was a sign of insanity. Wondering too if he had collected any more weapons on his way back through the kitchen. "You expect me to keep quiet about this?"
"Of course." Priscus's mouth twisted into his wolf smile, and for the first time Ruso felt afraid of him. "What a terrible waste it would be," continued Priscus, "to ruin both of our careers over something like this. Because no matter what price you get for the girl—and, be honest, Ruso, even if you redeem her now, you will have to sell her—it will not make up the deficit in your personal finances, will it?"
"You know nothing about my personal finances."
"Really? Were you hoping no one would find out? Of course you were. Each of your creditors finding out about the others would cause a total collapse. If my informants are correct, you might be forced to sell that rather lovely farm in Gaul, leaving your brother and his expanding family homeless and penniless."
"You wouldn't!"
"Only with the deepest reluctance, I assure you."
One of the candles dimmed and drowned in a pool of wax. Ruso wondered if Valens had gone to bed yet. He took a deep breath. "If I keep quiet now," he said, "I'll be in your hands. I'll never know when you might decide to talk."
"Nor I you," Priscus pointed out.
"Is that any way to live?"
"On the other hand," said Priscus, "as I suggested, we could extend the terms of the loan. I can arrange to mislay the guarantee document.
So you can sell your slave whenever you like."
There was a movement. Before Ruso realized what was happening, Tilla had put one hand to her throat and snapped the twine that held the poison around her neck.
"Stop!" he urged, lunging toward her and freezing a step away as she put the package to her lips once more. "Tilla. Please."
"Daphne is safe," said Tilla, looking first at Ruso and then at Priscus.
"Now one of you will sell me. For greed, or for debt."
He did not dare to move. She could slip the acorn into her mouth and crush it in an instant if he tried to snatch it from her. "Please, Tilla, don't take whatever it is you've got there."
Those eyes were looking into his. The eyes that had first looked at him, unseeing, as she was being dragged down a back street by the greasy Claudius Innocens. "Daphne does not need me," she said. "Why should I not take it?"
And suddenly, clear and so obvious he could not understand how he had overlooked it, he knew why. "Tilla, listen. Do you trust me?"
The poison was held steady. "You take me in. You mend my arm," she said.
"Yes. You see?"
"So you can sell me for money."
"No! I had no idea . . ." He was about to say, "I had no idea you would turn out to be so valuable," but that was more truthful than helpful. He closed his eyes and prayed for the sort of persuasive powers the gods gave to other men. Men like Valens. When he opened them, no inspiration came. In desperation he whispered, "You must trust me." Then he turned back to Priscus. "I won't keep silent," he said. "This has got to stop."
Priscus frowned. "I'm offering you your precious slave back, Ruso. Surely you can't be thinking of sacrificing your family to prove a point about a couple of dead whores? There are hundreds of them! You said it yourself: Anyone can buy a girl in a back street."
"Anyone can," said Ruso, "but once you have, you're responsible for her." Without looking, he stretched one hand back toward Tilla, palm open. "Give me the poison, Tilla."
The hand remained empty in the air.
A muscle began to twitch in Priscus's cheek. "You're not seeing things clearly, Ruso," he said. "Think about it overnight. We'll discuss it in the morning."
"There's nothing to discuss."
"Ruso, I am the hospital administrator. I have served with the legion for fifteen years. You are a visiting medic with a record of damaging hospital property, a reputation for lateness, and a known penchant for hanging around bars with loose women. Which of us will be believed?"
"I don't know," said Ruso. "We'll have to see. Give me the poison, Tilla." A long streak of muscle in his arm was beginning to ache, and still his hand remained empty.
Priscus was watching Tilla. The wolfish smile began to spread across his face again. "Have you ever seen a slave market, Tilla? Rows of bodies chained up to be inspected and auctioned to the highest bidder. Of course he wants you to live. I imagine you will fetch quite a price."
"Don't listen to him, Tilla. Give it to me." Ruso, not daring to turn, tried not to think about what would happen to her, and to Lucius and the rest of the family, if she did not do as she was told. But then, when had Tilla ever done as she was told?
"She's grown fond of you, Ruso," said Priscus. "She doesn't want you to sell her to a stranger. She would rather die. You need to realize that the locals have no fear of death. That's why we have so much trouble with them. They would rather go to the next world than live dishonored in this one."
"I think they may have a point."
"You see, Tilla? Even your medicus thinks it is shameful to live without honor. Just one little bite, and you can be free."
"Tilla, please! Trust me."
"The two of us can come to an understanding, Ruso." The twitch in Priscus's cheek had begun again. "For the sake of the medical service."
Ruso felt something touch the palm of his hand. His fingers closed over three smooth warm shapes.
"It's your duty to support me, Ruso!" cried Priscus. "They were just slaves! They were of no importance!"
Ruso took Tilla by the arm and helped her to her feet. When he turned back, Priscus was clutching a kitchen knife. Ruso backed away, cursing his carelessness and snatching at the empty space where his own weapon should have been. "Stay back, Tilla!"
Instead, Tilla pushed him out of the way and stepped forward, her good arm pointed toward Priscus. In her hand was Ruso's knife, still stained with the blood of the birth.
"Careful, Priscus," Ruso warned, suddenly inspired. "Her tribe train all their left-handed people to be warriors."
"I'll have you arrested and sold!" Priscus shouted at Tilla. He waved the kitchen knife at Ruso. "He signed the documents!"
"You could do that," agreed Ruso, moving toward the foot of the bloodstained bed, "but it wouldn't keep me quiet, would it?"
He opened his hand and placed the poison on the bedcovers. Still defended by Tilla, he made for the door. "Perhaps you're the one who needs to think about it overnight, Priscus," he said. "Shut the door behind us, will you, Tilla?"
77
RUSO, HUNCHED IN his room with his spare cloak around his shoulders and his feet warmed by a sleeping dog, reached for another tablet of the Concise Guide. He flipped it open and squinted at the lettering in the lamplight. Then he breathed on the wax to warm it and ran the flattened end of the stylus across the sheet to wipe away the writing he had spent so many hopeful hours composing.
Stacked at a safe distance from the lamp were the final plans of the Concise Guide and a couple of tablets full of notes. These were the only parts he intended to keep. The rest was being finally and irrevocably scrapped. He was never going to finish it: he realized that now. Even if he had not been as tired as he was—and it had taken a lot of night duty to pacify Valens for being left alone on payday—he knew he was not blessed with the powers of concentration that a real author needed. A real author would not have sat for hours in front of an uncompleted work, pondering the answers to irrelevant questions like what had happened to his former servant and whether she was safe. Wondering if she might think of him occasionally. Wondering whether he would ever find out where she was. Wondering whether, if he had been more insistent, she would have stayed. And if she had stayed, what might have happened.
Ruso picked at the twine tying the two leaves of the next tablet, tugged at the end, and scowled as it tightened into a knot. He had managed without Tilla before she came. He would manage without her now that she was gone. In time—and it was obviously going to take longer than the thirty days he had so far been without her—she would become no more than an interesting memory. In time he would stop feeling a fool for having offered her a choice in the hope that she might want to stay Perhaps in time he would forget the whole business. Perhaps in time he would even be able to walk the streets of Deva without feeling tainted by the human misery that he now knew lay behind the entertainment of the legion he served.
He glanced across at the damp stain that had blossomed beneath his bedroom window. Of course she wouldn't have wanted to stay. Even Valens would have had trouble enticing a woman to stay in this moldering excuse for a home. Ruso, the man who had considered selling Tilla for a profit, had not stood a chance. No wonder the last he had heard of her was a message saying she had gone north and taken Phryne with her.
He sliced the tip of his knife through the knot and breathed warmth onto the next sheet. The stylus scraped across the surface, filling the scratches and catching up the misted droplets where his breath had condensed on the cold wax. His careful thoughts on "where a broken bone is suspected" sank into the past.
He had signed the death warrant of the Concise Guide three weeks ago, when the camp prefect had called him and Valens in separately for "a chat." The chat had not been a cozy experience. Evidently the camp prefect knew more than Ruso would have wished about his performance since joining the Twentieth. There was nothing to be gained by explaining that he was normally very reliable and that the downhill slide was the result of his colleague eating a dish of bad oysters. When the prefect had said, "And if you were in charge of the medical service, what would you change?" he had come up with the brightest idea he could think of at the time, which was that practical first-aid training for every man in the unit would mean faster treatment of injuries, less time off sick, and less pressure on the hospital.
The chief medical officer had been appointed the following day. He was a Greek medic from the Second Augusta, based farther south. He was generally agreed to possess connections, competence, and no charm whatsoever. Unfortunately, though, Ruso's bright idea had not died with his ambitions. The prefect passed it on to the new CMO, who congratulated Ruso on his initiat
ive and gave him the job of organizing the training. Since no legionary would pay for something the army would give him for free, Ruso found himself organizing the destruction of the market for his own work.
Valens's response to being overlooked was to announce that he was glad to be able to carry on practicing real medicine, instead of being mired in administration like the CMO. Apparently the second spear's daughter was very impressed with his devotion to his calling. Ruso was impressed too: not with Valens's devotion but with his ability to weave a useful lie in with the truth. The new man had indeed taken over the reins at a difficult time, following the suicide of the hospital administrator.
It was a month since Priscus's manservant had gone to wake him and found him dead in his bed. A doctor was called. According to Valens, the sight of the administrator's ghastly grimace of pain beneath his beautifully combed hair was the stuff of nightmares. The note on the bedside table had given typically detailed instructions for his funeral—Priscus was an administrator to the last—but no reason for the taking of his own life. The second spear, charged with investigating both this death and a murder on the same night in the adjoining bar, dismissed Ruso's suggestion that the two were connected with, "You again! I suppose you're going to tell me you saw him do it?"
"No, sir."
"Then don't come bothering me with any more of this rubbish. The pen-pusher from the hospital killed himself for reasons I know but you needn't, and from what I hear, the doorman was a nasty piece of work who could cheerfully have been knifed by a couple dozen suspects. And since the woman who owns the place has run off, it's pretty bloody obvious which one of them did it."
"Sir, with respect—"
But the look on the face of the second spear told Ruso that respect was not required. What was required was to shut up, go away, and stop being a nuisance.
It occurred to Ruso that only he, Tilla, and possibly Merula would ever know the real story behind Priscus's suicide. Ruso had been ignored, Tilla had gone away, and Merula, wherever she was, was certainly not going to say anything that would reveal her own failure to protect the Roman citizen whom they had all known as Saufeia. As for Asellina, the slave put to death by her owner for having a fit of the giggles—Ruso tried to find something comforting to say to Decimus, and failed.
