by Ruth Downie
Ruso began to lay out the instruments: needle and thread, hooks, scalpel, cautery. . . . Finally alerted to the enormity of what was happening by the appearance of the bone saw, the driver had to have his objections quieted by the promise of more cash and an imminent flogging if he refused to cooperate. The carpenter was in turn quieted with mandrake and held steady by two less-than-confident stretcher bearers as Ruso cleaned up the mess that had been a leg and prepared for the drastic surgery that might save its owner.
Later, as the carriage rumbled up out of the river valley in the direction of Coria, it held four men in addition to the disgruntled driver. Ruso was tending the carpenter, whose truncated thigh was now neatly sewn over with a flap of skin hidden by a temporary dressing. Behind them, a bandager plucked from the ranks of the Twentieth was looking after the unfortunate slave who had been in charge of the wagon when it ran out of control.
“Not long now,” Ruso promised the carpenter as a particularly nasty pothole caused the man to groan. “We’ll have you properly patched up in the hospital.”
The slave’s injuries were less serious. He had leaped clear just as his vehicle tipped over, and escaped with cuts and bruises only to find himself chained and beaten up by the soldiers who found him weeping beside his fallen animals. Postumus had asked Ruso to get him away from the scene before somebody killed him.
The slave had tears welling in his swollen eyes, but to Ruso’s surprise they were neither of pity for himself nor sorrow for the trouble he had caused. “Poor old Speedy and Star,” he was mumbling through broken teeth. “Poor little Holly. Never a bit of trouble. Even old Acorn. Poor old boys. They didn’t deserve to go like that. I wouldn’t have let them go like that, sirs.”
“Wiggle your toes,” grunted the bandager. “Right. Now flex that knee.”
Ruso gave the carpenter another sip of honeyed water. The slave bent his knee as far as his chains would allow, shrinking away from the injured man as if he were afraid he would leap up and attack him. “It weren’t my fault, sirs,” he insisted. “Honest it weren’t. I tried the brake at the top, I swear I did. I always try the brake. I don’t know what went wrong. It was holding all right yesterday and the hills was just as bad.”
“Keep still,” grunted the bandager, splashing more cheap wine onto the bloodstained cloth and wedging the flagon in the corner of the cart behind him. “And shut up. You’re bothering me.”
Ruso glanced down at the carpenter to check that there was no more bleeding, and scratched at his own ribs. The man was very weak. He might survive, and he might not. Nine walking wounded were being patched up by the medical staff back at the flooded fort. The hillside was littered with shattered cargoes, damaged vehicles, and the carcasses of one mule and four oxen. Nobody—for the moment—was going to be very interested in hearing the slave’s excuses.
“It weren’t the animals, sirs,” the man was continuing, glancing from the bandager to Ruso and back. “They’re steady old boys. I trained them myself. I looked after them like—ow!”
“I said, shut up.”
But the slave was clearly desperate to get his point across before someone decided to punish him again. “They’ve never run off like that before, officers. Never!” He reached out and grabbed Ruso’s arm, evidently deciding he was the more sympathetic of the two. “It was the Stag Man, sir! I saw him.”
“Everybody saw him,” pointed out Ruso, pushing aside the memory of Tilla crying out, “Cernunnos!” “He was nowhere near the wagon.”
“Somebody’s put a curse on me. The Stag Man said a spell and made the team bolt and the brake give way.” Tears began to spill down the slave’s cheeks. “Oh, holy Jupiter! My master’s going to kill me!”
Ruso eyed the battered and tearstained face. The slave had chosen to take a vehicle creaking under the weight of lead down a long and difficult hill while the road was still crowded with travelers. He should have known better.
“Sir!”
A horse was following them up the hill at a shambling half trot. The rider was kitted out like an ordinary member of the infantry, and instead of steering he seemed to be using both hands to cling to the horns of the saddle.
“Sir!”
“Albanus? What are you doing on my horse?”
“I’m having a very uncomfortable time, sir!” cried Albanus, bouncing to one side and adding “Whoa!” as the animal showed no signs of slowing down.
“Sit back,” suggested Ruso. “Use your reins.”
“I’ve tried that, sir. It just ignores me.”
The horse finally slowed to a walk, although it was doubtful whether Albanus had influenced its decision. It seemed that, with uncharacteristic deviousness, he had managed to avoid the riding lessons that were supposed to be the lot of every well-trained soldier.
“Sir, I thought I’d better come and tell you Centurion Postumus wants to talk to Tilla.”
Ruso frowned. “To Tilla? What about?”
“I don’t know, sir, but he doesn’t look very happy. That’s why I thought I ought to tell you.”
“I can’t deal with it now,” said Ruso, not bothering to add that Postumus never looked very happy.
“So what shall I say to the centurion, sir?”
“You’ll have to find her,” said Ruso, wondering what Tilla had done that would interest Postumus during the current crisis. “She was helping the civilians the last time I saw her. She might be with a mother and a baby. And when you find her, tell her I said she’s to do exactly what she’s told for once, will you?”
“I’ll tell her that, sir.”
“I’ll keep the horse,” said Ruso. “Hitch her to the carriage and walk back.”
When a relieved Albanus had dismounted awkwardly and headed back toward the scene of the accident, Ruso turned to the miserable slave. “Where was your wagon parked overnight?”
“In the yard at the inn, officer, sir. All secure. I always look after my master’s property, sir.”
Ruso sighed. He didn’t know how Postumus had found out, but he could guess why the grimfaced centurion wanted to talk to Tilla.
7
THE RAIN HAD stopped now, thank the gods, and all around people were busy clearing up the mess made by the accident. Baggage was being reloaded onto righted vehicles. A mule had been fetched from the army post down the hill and was being persuaded into the harness vacated by the one lying at the roadside. A family rounded up from the nearest farm were struggling to shift the carcass of an ox while a couple of legionaries leaned on their shields and watched. Other soldiers were standing guard on the top of the bank and facing outward down the valley, as if they were expecting followers of the mystery rider to burst out of the woods and attack.
The civilian victims of the accident, closer to the wagon’s slow start, had mostly gotten away with bumps and scrapes. Tilla had been trying to clean gravel out of a small girl’s knee when the medicus’s weedy clerk had arrived with the summons from the centurion. She might have ignored it, but the weedy one had also brought very firm instructions from the medicus that she should do as she was told. She could see how much Albanus enjoyed passing that on. So now, again, she was standing in damp clothes at the roadside under the guard of soldiers.
The nose poking out beneath the metal rim of the centurion’s helmet made her want to laugh, but the black stones of his eyes suggested that this conversation was not going to be amusing.
He said, “You were seen at the inn last night. Not the sort of place slaves usually sleep.”
“I fell in some mud, sir. My master takes me to the baths to clean myself.”
“But you didn’t go to the baths, did you?”
How did he know this? More worryingly, why did he care? “The baths are full of men,” she explained. “And not clean. I take water and wash privately.”
Farther down the road, they had managed to move the first animal. There was no sign of the medicus, who had rushed up to her, hugged her, and then looked embarrassed and hurried away t
o deal with the injured. “If you will just tell me what you need to know, sir . . .”
“What were you doing in the yard?”
“I went to look for a friend. But she is not there.”
“And then?”
“Then I went back inside, sir.”
“You’re lying.”
“I am not!”
The stick moved so fast she barely saw it coming. Just felt the blow and the pain flowing into her shoulder as the shock died away. She tried to steady herself. “I pray to the gods of the storm, sir. That is all. Then I go back inside with my master.”
The eyes assessed her while the mind seemed to be thinking over the next question. “How long were you alone out there? I’ll be asking your master as well.”
She was confused. She wished they would let go of her arms so she could rub the pain out of her shoulder. “I was not alone in the yard, sir.”
The eyes betrayed a flicker of interest.
“I think I am alone but then I see . . .” She stopped. How was she going to explain to this foreigner that she had brought the god upon them with her prayers?
“What?”
“A man.”
“If you’re lying, you’ll be sorry.”
“I am not lying, sir. I was praying. He was there. I saw him.”
“Describe him.”
She frowned. “I do not know him.” It was true, she did not know him, but every time she pictured the faintly quizzical dark brows and shadowed eyes, she had the feeling she had seen them somewhere before. She dared not say so. The centurion would only hit her again for failing to remember where. Perhaps it was in a dream. The gods visited people in dreams. Everyone knew it.
“Tall, short, fat, thin, young, old? What were his clothes like?”
She closed her eyes and murmured a prayer to Cernunnos for courage.
“Speak up, girl. What did he look like?”
She opened her eyes. “He is the man-god we saw on the horse, sir. He is the god with the antlers.”
This time she had braced herself for the stick, but the pain of the second blow on top of the first still made her gasp.
“I don’t want to hear that rubbish. Was there a man or wasn’t there?”
“It was the god Cernunnos, sir, I swear. I felt him brush past me.”
“Tell me what he looked like.”
“He had antlers!” What more could anyone need to know?
The centurion gave an exaggerated sigh. “Try telling me what he was doing.”
“He is standing with his hand on the wheel of a wagon. One moment he is there, the next he is vanish in the dark.”
The centurion glanced at his men. “All right. Let her go.”
The grip on her arms was released.
“Stay where I can find you,” he ordered. “I’ll be talking to your master later. And if you’ve lied to me, I’ll have you flogged.”
8
THE HOSPITAL, S IR? ”
Ruso had unfastened his armor, slung his riding breeches over one shoulder, and was clad in a creased and sweaty tunic whose edges were splattered with mud and bloodstains. The Batavian soldier from whom he had just asked directions looked at him with mingled concern and confusion, then glanced up and down the busy street of the fort in the apparent hope that he might spot a building he had failed to notice before. Since the stronghold at Coria had turned out to be extremely small—an energetic sentry atop the timber turret of the east gate could have held a shouted conversation over the clang of the smithy with one on the west—this did not seem likely.
“I think the nearest hospital’s at Vindolanda, sir,” the man suggested. “Shall I go and ask somebody for you?”
“Vindolanda?”
“Out on the west road, sir. You could be there by dinnertime on a fast horse.”
“But you must have a hospital!” insisted Ruso. “The gate guard told me it was next to headquarters. I’ve got an injured man arriving any minute.”
The man frowned. “Not more trouble, sir?”
“Traffic accident,” explained Ruso.
The man pointed to a long low wood-framed building across the road. “They must have meant the infirmary. You won’t find a medic there now, though, sir. Not at this time of day.”
“I am the medic,” explained Ruso. The man did not look entirely convinced.
The closed door of the infirmary had painted carvings of gods nailed up on either side. The uglier of the two must be some sort of protector that the Tenth Batavians had brought with them from wherever Batavia was. The other, with a snake curled around his stick, was Aesculapius, the god of healing. At least the carpenter would find a familiar helper here. The artistic effect was spoiled by an untidy message chalked on the door: “Days to Governor’s Visit” was followed by a cloudy blur slashed over with a white “IV.”
Ruso stepped forward, rapped on the wood, and lifted the latch. The door did not budge. Squinting at the latch to see if it were jammed in some way, he knocked again. Surely the Batavian had not meant that in the absence of the doctor, nobody at all would be running the infirmary?
Somewhere beyond the building the tramp of boots grew louder. An order was bellowed and the tramp changed rhythm. Evidently “Days to Governor’s Visit IV” was inspiring some serious marching practice.
He knocked again.
From inside came a shout of, “We’re closed. Come back in an hour.”
Ruso slammed the flat of his hand three times against the door. From somewhere within came a roar of “Answer the bloody door, Gambax!”
There was the scrape of something being removed from the latch. A slack-jawed creature with lank brown hair appeared and stopped chewing for long enough to say, “What do you want?” in the same fluent but guttural Latin as the other men Ruso had met on the way through the fort.
“Gaius Petreius Ruso, medicus with the Twentieth. There’s an urgent casualty coming in. Didn’t you get the message?”
The soldier pulled open the door and managed something that might have been a salute. “Gambax, sir. Deputy medic. What message?”
Ruso stepped into the dingy corridor. At the far end he could make out a square soldierly shape planted outside one of the doors. The shape showed no interest in him as he followed Gambax into a cramped and ill-lit room that seemed to be both an office and a pharmacy.
“I was just having some lunch,” explained Gambax.
“At this hour?”
“Busy morning, sir.” The man scooped up the remains of a raisin pastry and brushed crumbs off the desk. “We’ve had a murder. The body was brought in this morning.”
“Sorry to hear that,” said Ruso, noting that it did not seem to have affected his appetite. “Where’s the doctor?”
“Gone sick, sir.”
This was not good news. “I’ve done an emergency amputation on the road. Crushed femur, and I think there are broken ribs and bruising to the lungs. He’ll be here any minute. Where is everybody?”
“The lads have gone off to get a bite to eat, sir.”
Ruso took a deep breath and reminded himself that he was not in Deva now. He could not expect a country outpost serving six hundred men to be run in the same way as a legionary hospital serving five thousand.
“Don’t you worry, sir,” Gambax assured him, reaching for a cup and swilling the pastry down with something that smelled very much like beer. “The watch’ll give them a shout when your lads come in over the bridge. How about a drink while you’re waiting?”
“No thanks,” said Ruso. He glanced across at what must be the pharmacy table. Above it, a cobweb billowed gently in the breeze from the open window. Three shelves held a jumble of pots and bottles and bags and boxes. A few had labels indicating their contents, written in a large untidy script. Most did not. The table itself held a weighing scale and an abandoned mortar bowl containing some sort of brown paste. Beneath it were a couple of wine amphorae—medicinal wine, he assumed—and a wastebasket crammed with wilted greenery. The
basket was topped with a selection of broken pots projecting from a pale crusted mass of green slime. Some of the slime had dripped down the side of the basket and hardened into a small semicircular pancake on the floorboards. Ruso said, “Who’s the pharmacist?”
“That would be me, sir.”
Somehow this was not a surprise. “What medicines have you got for pain relief and postoperative treatment?”
“All the basics, sir. And plenty of poppy tears and mandrake.”
Ruso hoped the man knew which containers they were in. He glanced down at the desk. A few stray crumbs remained. Black inkstains had spread themselves along the grain of the wood, running into the circular imprints of cups bearing drinks long ago consumed. A wooden tablet addressed in the same large hand as the medicines lay to one side.
“I keep the records as well, sir.”
“I thought you might.”
“Yes, sir. We’re an auxiliary unit here. We don’t have lots of staff like you’re used to in the legions. Would you like to take a look at the treatment room, sir? Just through that door, next on the left.”
Now that Ruso’s eyes had adjusted to the gloom he could make out that the figure at the end of the corridor was a squat centurion with a savage haircut. The man’s glare suggested that whoever was behind the door he was guarding was not receiving visitors.
Evidently Gambax was not in charge of the treatment room, where two cobweb-free glass windows allowed the surgeon enough light to see what he was doing on the operating table. This was good news, but within seconds the warmth from the brazier in the corner had reawoken the itches on Ruso’s back and ribs along with the smell of horse in his clothing. He placed his medical case on the side table, slid a bronze probe down his spine, and enjoyed a few blessed moments of relief.
His concentration was interrupted by a voice from the doorway.
“Everything to your liking in here, is it, sir?”
“Very good,” said Ruso, hastily removing the probe. “Is there usually a centurion in the corridor?”
“That’s Audax, sir,” said Gambax, adding, “It’s one of his men lying murdered in the mortuary. Would you like to see the rest of the facilities?”
