Medicus mi-1

by Ruth Downie

  Ruso wished he had remembered to say that himself.

  They began to soak the rag that had been stuffed into the wound.

  "I met him once," mused Ruso.

  "Hadrian?"

  "Trajan. InAntioch."

  "I suppose he'll be the Divine Trajan soon."

  "No doubt," agreed Ruso. At least, none that he was foolish enough to express in public.

  "May he rest among the gods," added Valens.

  "Among the gods indeed, sir," echoed the orderly.

  Ruso left a brief silence that could have been respect or rebellion, then murmured, "Water."

  The orderly refilled the jug.

  "Think Hadrian'll try and take the North back?" asked Valens.

  "Why not?" Ruso said. "He'll be wanting to make an impression.

  Britannia's big enough to count, but remote enough not to matter."

  "He'll have to send more legions if he's serious about it. We're spread pretty thin here."

  "He might not go for it. He's Trajan's man. He might just carry on the Divine Trajan's policies." Ruso glanced at the orderly. "No doubt the kitchen staff will let us know. Here it comes… " He lifted off the rag and dropped it into the wastebasket.

  Both men leaned forward to peer at the swollen and blood-caked mess that had once been an arm.

  Valens brought one hand down over his own elbow with a chopping motion and raised his eyebrows in question.

  Ruso shook his head. "It looks clean. The wrist's intact."

  Valens strolled around the table, looking at the injury from a different angle. "I wouldn't," he murmured. "You'll only make a worse mess and end up taking it off anyway."

  "It might work. If you broke your arm-"

  "I'd pray I didn't get some would-be hero like you."

  "I think we should try."

  There was a pause.

  "She's my patient," added Ruso.

  Valens shrugged. "Fine. She's your patient. So, do we know how much Hadrian values his loyal troops?"

  "He'll be doubling the usual bonus, apparently."

  "How much is that?"

  "Not a clue."

  As they began to clean the wound, the girl gasped. Her face twisted into a grimace of pain.

  "Try and lie still," said the orderly, tightening his grip and glancing to check that all the straps were fastened.

  "We'll be very quick," promised Ruso, wishing he could make patients believe it the way Valens did.

  "My friend's famous for being quick," added Valens. "Ask all the girls." He glanced at Ruso. "What's she called?"

  "I don't know."

  "Ruso, only you could round up two women and not know the names of either of them."

  "Next time," said Ruso, "I'll tell them my friend would like to be introduced." He picked out a stray thread of rag with the tweezers. The girl gave a low moan.

  "Shush now," said the orderly.

  Ruso hoped she wouldn't be a whimperer. Whimperers were worse than screamers. Screamers made him cross, which made him work faster. The sound of a whimperer trying to be brave was a distraction.

  The girl didn't whimper. She clenched her teeth and didn't make another sound.

  There was a rap at the door.

  "What?" snapped Ruso. A very young soldier appeared, swallowed, and announced, "Urgent message for Gaius Petreius Ruso."

  "That's me."

  "Sir, there's a man at the east gatehouse. He says you promised to pay fifty-four denarii first thing this morning."

  "It was fifty," said Ruso, not looking up. "And I'm busy."

  The youth did not reply. He was staring at the operating table.

  "Tell him I'll be down later," said Ruso.

  The youth swallowed again. "He said to tell you the extra is the tax and the cost of drawing up the documents, sir."

  Ruso nodded toward the mangled mass of the girl's arm. "If you don't get out right away, I shall do this to you too."

  The youth fled.

  Ruso aimed the tweezers at the wastebasket, missed, and said, "I think that's clean."

  Valens laid a hand on the girl's forehead. "We like this arm so much, young woman, we're going to put it back together for you."

  The orderly leaned down until his face was almost touching the girl's.

  "Breathe deeply now," he ordered. "Ready? In, out-In, out…"

  Ruso had rehearsed his speech all the way down to the gatehouse, but when he got there he found his time had been wasted. Instead of the wool trader, the guards presented him with an elderly slave with no teeth who made it clear that if he failed to return to his master with the right money, his life would not be worth living. Ruso, who had neither the time nor the inclination to get in line at the tax office, paid up. He also sent a message to say that if Claudius Innocens ever showed his face in Deva again he would be instantly arrested, but he doubted the slave would have the courage to deliver it.

  The clerk of the Aesculapian Thanksgiving Fund gave him a receipt for the two and a half denarii that Valens had borrowed from someone who had borrowed them from someone else who had very possibly borrowed them from the Aesculapian Thanksgiving Fund in the first place.

  Ruso went to thank the god personally. Standing in front of the statue, he fingered the two receipts tucked into his belt. One said that in gratitude and fulfillment of a vow, Gaius Petreius Ruso had paid the Aesculapian Thanksgiving Fund two and a half denarii. The other confirmed Gaius Petreius Ruso as the new owner of an injured and sickly girl with indescribable eyes and a name that seemed to be a series of spelling mistakes.

  Ruso gazed up at the statue of the god who had answered his prayer. For the first time he noticed that the painter had not just performed the usual touch-up over the rough spots. The god had been completely repainted. Ruso stood to take a closer look, and as he gazed into the brown eyes of Aesculapius he had the distinct impression that the god of healing was looking back at him, and laughing.

  5

  Ruso lay on the borrowed bed and stared into the gloom that hid the cracks in the ceiling plaster, reflecting that Socrates was a wise man. Surveying the goods on a market stall, the great one was said to have remarked, "What a lot of things a man doesn't need!"

  What a lot of things a man doesn't need. That thought had comforted Ruso over the last few months. The more you own, he had told himself, the more you have to worry about. Possessions are a burden.

  The kind of possessions which needed to be regularly fed were a double burden. They were only worth having if they earned their keep by doing the laundry, or barking at burglars, or catching mice, or carrying you somewhere, or chirping in a way that your ex-wife used to find entertaining. It was a pity Socrates hadn't thought to add, Which is why I never shop after drinking on an empty stomach.

  "As far as I'm concerned," Valens had said, carefully lowering the lid back onto the beer barrel so as not to tip the stack of dirty dishes that had been there when Ruso moved in, "If there's no one waiting for the room and you're not using much staff time to nurse her, you can leave her there."

  Ruso took the dripping cup of beer and wondered whether to clear up the dishes, or whether to wait and see how long it would be before Valens did. "She'll need proper nursing for a few days."

  "Fair enough. But the other one's got to be out of the mortuary tomorrow, claimed or not." Valens tossed a broken fishing rod into the corner to clear himself space on the couch. As he sat down, three puppies scuttled out from underneath. The puppies were a legacy from the previous occupant, whose lone and portly terrier bitch Valens had agreed to look after while the man was temporarily assigned elsewhere. "Gods, I'll be glad when Marius gets back to pick this stuff up. It's not all my mess in here, you know."

  Ruso, who had shared quarters with Valens before, made no comment. The offer of free accommodation had been too good to turn down, but he had known there would be a price to pay.

  "To tell you the truth," said Valens, "I thought you'd be bringing a servant or two. You used to have lots
."

  "Claudia had lots."

  "Ah." Valens squinted into his own beer, rescued something with a forefinger, and flicked it over his shoulder. A rush of inquisitive puppies followed its course.

  "How long have you been a beer drinker?"

  "I'm not. Some native gave it to me as a thank-you for treating one of his children."

  Ruso frowned into his drink. "Are you sure he was grateful?"

  "Smells like goat's piss, I know. But you'll get used to it."

  Ruso tried another mouthful and wondered how long getting used to it would take. He said, "Can't the legion give us somebody to help keep the place straight?"

  Valens winced. "If you want some squinty-eyed misery who makes a ridiculous fuss about a little bit of a mess."

  Ruso deduced that this had already been tried. "What about a private arrangement? It wouldn't cost much between us."

  "The servants here aren't much better than the beer, I'm afraid. The first one we tried had a bad back. The next one kept sitting on the floor and crying and we didn't have the heart to beat her, so we sold her. At a loss, of course. Then we tried hiring a local girl, but Marius saw her kick the dog, so she had to go." Valens leaned back and indicated the size of the room with a sweep of his arm. The motion sent beer slopping over the side of his cup. "This isn't a big house, is it?" He transferred the beer to the other hand and wiped his wet fingers on the couch. "It can't be much work. I mean, we don't even use that end room." The beer slopped again, indicating the direction of the corner room, which had been abandoned as impossibly damp and was now growing several fine blooms of strange-smelling mold. "There's only the two of us to cook for," he continued, "and half the time we eat at the hospital. Can your girl cook?"

  "At the moment she can't even stand up."

  "No matter. We don't want one in a splint anyway. We want some nice healthy lass who's handy with dogs and cleaning."

  "And wants a challenge," observed Ruso, glancing through the open door into the earthquake zone that was Valens's bedroom. "Where would we put this healthy lass?"

  "In the kitchen, I suppose. When your furniture turns up, she could have the mattress off that bed you're using.

  "Ruso did not reply.

  "We could always get rid of her later if your girl shows promise," Valens added.

  "I won't be keeping her. I'll start looking for a buyer as soon as she can be moved."

  "You'll just have to hope Priscus doesn't come back in the meantime."

  Ruso frowned. "Doesn't anybody know when he's coming?"

  "Doubt it. He likes to take people by surprise. He thinks it keeps them on their toes. He's not keen on private patients unless they pay well. By the way, that other dog isn't yours too, is it?"

  Ruso said, "What other dog?"

  "I didn't think it was. I'll tell them to get rid of it."

  Other dog?

  Ruso yawned. The girl in the mortuary was not his problem, but if he didn't get the live one out of the hospital soon, not only would he get off on the wrong foot with Chief Administrative Officer Priscus, but he would be saddled with every other passing stray for whom no one else wanted to take responsibility.

  Somewhere beyond the ill-fitting shutters of his bedroom window, a trumpet sounded the change of watch. He rolled over, wriggled to avoid the lump that always seemed directly under his shoulder no matter how many times he turned the mattress or shook the straw around, and closed his eyes. He was just dropping off to sleep when he heard a knock on his door and Valens asking if he was awake.

  "No."

  "Are you busy in the morning?"

  "Yes."

  "Too bad. Somebody's going to have to go down to Merula's."

  "Uh. Send an orderly."

  "It ought to be somebody official, and I'm on duty."

  "Can't it wait?"

  "No. One of the men's identified that body."

  6

  The shutters had been pushed back to let in the autumn sunshine. Beyond them, Merula's was almost empty. Benches were upturned on the tables. A boy of eight or nine was shoveling ash out of the grate under the hot drinks counter. A young woman with lank hair tucked behind her ears was sweeping sawdust into a gray pile with limp strokes of a broom. A buxom girl was barefoot on a stool, displaying a dainty silver chain around one ankle as she reached above a lamp bracket to wipe at the smudges on the wall. Ruso looked at the girl with the ankle bracelet. He thought of the discolored figure stretched out on the mortuary table. He w* shed he hadn't.

  A door opened somewhere at the back of the bar and a third girl, this one heavily pregnant, emerged carrying a jar of oil. From somewhere in the shadows a gruff voice said, " 'Morning, Daphne."

  Daphne came to an instant halt on the far side of one of the tables. Ruso had the impression she was holding her breath as the taller of Merula's two doormen stepped up close behind her.

  "Just got out of bed, have we?" inquired the doorman. The pregnant girl flinched as he leaned around to peer into her face.

  From the doorway Ruso noticed the cloth dangling unheeded in the hand of the girl standing on the stool, who had turned to watch the encounter. The lank-haired one shuffled away to sweep under the stairs.

  The doorman was shaking his head despairingly. "Daphne, Daphne, what am I always telling you about conversation? When a gentleman says hello, you say hello back. Good morning, Daphne."

  If Daphne made any reply, it was covered by the screech of the shovel being slid into the fireplace.

  "Very nice. Now come here."

  He seated himself behind her on the table, placed his hands on her shoulders, and pulled her back toward him until she was standing trapped between his knees with the oil jar propped awkwardly against her swollen belly. "You ought to be more careful," he said, his large fingers re tying her loose braid with a surprisingly deft touch. "You could have lost that ribbon. Couldn't you?"

  She did not answer.

  He gave her a rough shove forward. "Run along, then. The mistress don't want to see you standing around chatting."

  As Daphne approached Ruso, her face was expressionless. She stood on tiptoe to fill the lamp on the bracket by the shutters. When she had finished, she wiped first her nose and then the neck of the jar with a cloth, and made her way back to the kitchen with the sway-backed walk of a woman working to counterbalance a heavy weight.

  Ruso stepped forward onto the red tiles, avoiding a pile of sawdust. A broad figure emerged from behind the shutters to block his path. He recognized the fading ginger hair.

  "We're closed," said the man in a tone that suggested he too remembered Ruso's last visit, and not fondly.

  "Is the manageress in?"

  The solid shoulders rose just enough to indicate that the man's job was to know nothing, see nothing, and be as unhelpful as possible, and he was intending to do it to the best of his ability.

  Ruso looked him in the eye. He was saying "Would you like me to repeat the question?" when he heard another voice behind him.

  "Who wants to know?"

  He turned. The doormen had positioned themselves so that he was caught between them. "Gaius Petreius Ruso," he said to the second man, who seemed to be in charge. "Medicus with the Twentieth."

  The man folded his arms. "Whatever it is," he said, "it didn't come from here. All our girls are clean. You ought to check down by the docks."

  The man's bearing would have said ex-legionary even without the telltale scar where the scarf had failed to keep the armor from chafing his neck. Ruso said, "What's your name, soldier?"

  The man assessed him awhile longer, then said, "Bassus. He's Stichus."

  "Bassus. I'm here from the hospital to see your mistress on an official matter. It's confidential and it's urgent. So if you don't know where she is, you'd be wise to find out."

  The crease between the doorman's eyebrows deepened. "Why didn't you say so?" He turned. "Lucco!"

  The boy paused with the shovel in one hand and a brush in the other.

&nbs
p; "Go and tell the mistress there's an officer to see her. Chloe, get the officer a seat."

  Ruso said, "I'll stand," but the girl with the ankle chain had already stepped down from the stool. She heaved a bench off one of the corner tables and swung it over to land on the tiles with a clatter. "Take a seat, sir," she said, gesturing toward it as if he might not know what it was for. "What would you like to drink?"

  Ruso declined. In the circumstances, it hardly seemed appropriate.

  Bassus went back to whatever he was doing behind the counter. Stichus seated himself in a corner with the air of a man who had spent long years honing the skill of waiting for action.

  Ruso's gaze ran along the loops of gold braid that had been painted at waist height along the deep red of the wall beside him. Similar loops ran along the adjacent wall. A large tassel blossomed in the corner, probably inspired by the painter's discovery that the two braids-which must have been started at opposite ends of the walls-weren't quite going to meet up.

  The boy, Lucco, reappeared at the foot of the stairs, and assured him-with more optimism than accuracy, as it turned out-that the mistress would not be long. The girls went back to cleaning.

  Merula evidently took just as long as other women to get ready. Ruso was pondering why, when seated at a bar table, the average soldier felt compelled to carve his initials into it, when a female voice from the top of the stairs snapped, "Chloe!"

  The girl with the ankle chain looked up in alarm.

  "Don't rub so hard, you stupid girl! You'll take all the paint off!"

  The figure sweeping down the stairs was, Ruso assumed, Merula.

  Ruso had no idea what the silky material in her tunic was called, but he knew it was expensive because his wife had needed something like it for a dinner party once and then had managed to lean across a brazier and burn a hole in it. Merula looked like a woman who would be more careful. The fabric was draped to make the most of an elegant figure. Her hair, which could almost have been naturally black, was pinned back, leaving little tendrils of curls framing her face. As she reached the foot of the stairs, Ruso observed that her eyelids were dark, her lips red, and her cheeks subtly pink. It was well done. Only the lines that ran between nose and mouth suggested that Merula would not look quite as good in broad daylight.