by Ruth Downie
Ruso, counting three steps to a breath now instead of four, sniffed at the fresh drop of drizzle perching on the end of his nose and glanced at the men slogging forward around him, who had now summoned enough breath to join in the indecent lyrics of marching songs. They would be earning a fraction of his salary, and many of them were supporting families. How did they do it? Were a poor family's needs less than those of the comfortably well off? Were they all closet philosophers, assuring their women that there were lots of things they didn't need? Or was Priscus right, they simply stole whatever they wanted?
Underlying all these was a deeper question: How could one be an educated and intelligent man and not know this sort of thing?
On the first day of Ruso's apprenticeship, his uncle had warned him that a little knowledge would unlock the gates to vast and unsuspected deserts of ignorance. No matter how diligent he was in study, how careful in observation, and how keen to learn from others, the causes of most diseases and the reasons why some patients recovered and some didn't would remain a mystery. The difference between a real doctor and the latest quack who shambled into town offering miracle cures in a bottle was that a real doctor knew his limitations. This speech the fourteen-year-old Ruso had regarded with a level of scorn that he was later glad he had kept to himself.
A true philosopher, he mused now, would be delighted instead of taken aback at every new revelation of his ignorance. A true philosopher would understand that the path to knowledge lay first with the discovery of new questions.
Did continuous rasping of short breaths signify swelling lower down in the throat and was it possible to kill oneself by running until one's airways closed up?
Ridiculous. Of course not. It just felt as though it was.
What caused the head to pound during exercise, and why, despite careful strapping to ward off blisters, did old boots always rub in new places?
You can do this, he told himself. You have done it many times before.
Count. Each step a bonus. Each step an achievement. Set small targets.
One and two and three and four and…
"Out of practice, Doc?" Ruso glanced at the fresh-faced young optio who had fallen in step beside him.
"Good to get-" He tried not to sound out of breath, "-out again. Haven't had much-time lately."
"Busy over at the hospital?"
"Short-staffed." He must get the optio to do the talking. "Been with the-legion long?"
"Ten years this winter. My people are from Baetica, but my father was a centurion in the Twentieth."
"Born in Deva?"
"No, no. My father got married after he retired back home."
"Like it here?"
"You get used to it. Hey, are you the doctor that's investigating the murder?"
"No," said Ruso. He had neither the breath nor the desire to elaborate.
They were passing some native houses now. These were set well back from the road, beyond the wide shoulder where brown sheep lifted their heads as the soldiers approached then bounded away to graze at a safer distance. Smoke curled from thick cones of thatch squatting on round stumpy houses. Several small children of indeterminate sex were fighting over a rope swing dangling from the branch of a tree. Chickens wandered in the mud and a boy was leading a reluctant goat past an untidy stack of hay with a pole sticking out of the top. Ruso saw all this but heard none of it. The sounds of these other lives were muffled beneath singing accompanied by the thump of legionary boots and the jingle of buckles.
Aware that his "no" had sounded abrupt, Ruso said, "What are the locals like?"
"We've got both sorts 'round here," explained the optio. "One or two who know what a bathhouse is for."
"And?"
"And a bunch of thieving sheep-shaggers."
"Ah."
"You'll find some of the girls friendly, but you'll need to watch your step."
"Really?"
"Half of them have a string of brothers who want to knife you to restore the family honor. The other half are sent by those honorable families to latch on to an army salary so they can move out of the mud hut. Not much of a choice, is it?"
Ruso smiled. "I hear the second spear has a daughter."
The optio laughed aloud. "You won't get near that one."
"Not me. A friend."
"Not a chance, Doc. Not a chance."
Ruso glanced across at the native huts just as a shapely girl emerged from a gateway carrying two buckets. Moments later he was aware of confusion ahead of him: the sort of confusion caused by someone tripping and the men behind not being able to stop in time. The singing gave way to shouting and swearing. Later runners saw what was happening and parted to flow around the sprawled bodies. Ruso sidestepped to the left, glancing at the playing children who had stopped to stare. The girl had vanished. The optio stayed behind, yelling abuse at the tangle for watching the bloody natives instead of where they were going.
Minutes later a breathless man caught up with Ruso and conveyed the optio's message that one of the fallen men had a suspected broken ankle. Ruso muttered a silent prayer of respect to whichever fate had cursed the unfortunate legionary and hurried back to help. He no longer had to pretend now. He really was both enthusiastic and committed.
41
"You're doing what?"
Valens's hand, clutching his spare underpants, paused above his kit bag. "Seems they're paying a visit to some hairy mountain chieftain whose resolve needs stiffening."
"And they want you to go along?"
Valens resumed his efforts to stuff underwear into the few remaining crevices in his kit bag. "I can do a quick tour of the outpost units while I'm there. It's time somebody checked them over."
"That's going to leave the hospital a bit short, isn't it?"
"I did think about that," said Valens, ramming the last sock down and hauling on the drawstring to close the bag, "But then I thought it would give you a chance to shine, so you probably wouldn't mind."
Ruso's weary mind groped toward a suitable reply, and failed to find it. In the end he said, "Very decent of you."
"You're welcome!" It was not clear whether Valens was ignoring the sarcasm or had simply failed to notice it. "I know you want the CMO post, so it's only fair to let you have a crack at getting yourself noticed."
Ruso yawned. This afternoon, having rendered first aid and organized a party to carry the injured man, he had rejoined the returning runners of the First, and just about kept pace with them for the four miles back to the barracks. His legs were stiff. His feet were blistered. He could not be bothered to point out that his efforts to sustain three men's work single-handed at the hospital would only be noticed if something went wrong.
"Well," continued Valens, "I can't stay up talking, I've got an early start. They're leaving at sunrise, but I want to get down there early and snag a decent horse.
"Ruso said, "You'll be missing your turn with the training run, then?"
"But I'll be with them," pointed out Valens, as if he were intending to march with the First instead of ride past them on a borrowed horse."Now. Do you want me to wake you when I go or will you be enjoying sleeping in in your lovely new redecorated bedroom?"
42
In the absence of Valens, it was Ruso who hurried across to HQ just after dawn for the morning briefing. He was not overjoyed to find Priscus already standing at the back of the hall. Each acknowledged the other with a curt nod.
Ruso frowned. He was unwilling to leave a man who would not know a plague from a pimple as the official representative of the medical service, but it was ridiculous for the hospital to be left to manage itself while both of them stood around listening to notices. He was about to give Priscus a departing wave-that surely would help to mend relations between them, as well as given him a chance to snatch breakfast-when there was an untidy shuffle of men standing to attention, followed by silence. The camp prefect's voice echoed in the rafters, bidding the assembled officers good morning and announcing that he was i
n charge for four days while the legate was away.
Ruso struggled to concentrate on the notices and ignore the gurgling of his empty stomach and the stifled heavings of a man in front of him who was trying not to cough. Finally the prefect announced his chosen password for the day- tiger stripes — and paused to take questions. Only as the briefing was declared closed did it strike Ruso that he should have raised his hand. It was what Valens would have done. It was the sort of thing Claudia would have encouraged. The camp prefect was directly responsible for the hospital and asking questions was a way of getting yourself noticed. The trouble was, there was nothing he actually wanted to know. No, that was not true. There was something he wanted to know, but he couldn't ask it in public.
He asked it later of Albanus, who looked uncomfortable. "I'm not sure I can tell you, sir."
"Why not?"
Albanus coughed and looked to make sure the surgery door was shut. "Well, they gave us a talk about security the other day. All about not telling anyone anything they don't need to know, and how the officers might test us, and…"
"Do you actually know the answer?"
Albanus looked even more miserable. "Yes, sir."
"Well, if somebody's already blabbed it to you, it can't be that secure, can it?"
The scribe's face brightened. "Is this a test, sir?"
"Yes. Well done, Albanus. You've passed."
"Thank you, sir."
"Now can you tell me whether the legate has gone off on the same tour as Officer Valens?"
"Yes, sir."
"Yes he has, or yes you can tell me?"
"Both, sir."
"Thank you." Ruso paused. "I suppose you'll be wondering why I wanted to know that."
"Oh no, sir."
"No? Good!" Ruso put his hand on the doorknob. "Ready for ward rounds?"
By the end of the morning Ruso realized he was starting to like Albanus. The man made himself genuinely useful during a full ward rounds and busy clinic, taking a pride in the swift production of whatever information was needed and apparently enjoying his chance to boss the other clerks around.
Ruso made a point of thanking him and was amused to see Albanus blush. "Go and get something to eat," he told him. "We'll start again at the seventh hour."
The scribe hesitated. "Will you be here, sir?"
"At the seventh hour."
"But between now and then, sir…"
"I will be somewhere else."
"Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. Only Officer Priscus said I was to know where you were at all times. In case there's an emergency."
"If the bandagers can't deal with it," explained Ruso, "get the watch to sound a call for me. I won't be far away."
Ruso lingered only to leave brief instructions with the guards and then hurried out under the east gatehouse, long strides taking him swiftly down the busy lunchtime street and away from the sound of all but the most energetic of trumpeters.
Moments later he heard a familiar voice calling his name. He kept walking. He had done his very last favor for the civilian liaison people. If they had a problem, he didn't want to know about it. He had enough problems of his own.
"Ruso, wait!"
He turned. "I'm in a hurry."
"Oh, I don't want you to do anything!" said the civilian liaison officer, falling into step with him. "I just want a quick word."
"Very quick, then."
The man broke into a jog to keep up. "I just wanted to say I was sorry to hear about your fire. And to thank you for your help with naming that body the other day."
"Oh," said Ruso, slowing down to negotiate the ladder of an off-duty soldier painting the front of a house. "Right. It was just good luck that I'd spoken to the porter."
"They've finished clearing the site now. There aren't any more bodies."
"Well, I suppose that's good news."
"I went down to the bar to tell them myself," continued the liaison officer, as if this were not his job but someone else's.
"How did they take it?"
"The owner wasn't too happy about paying for another funeral."
"No, so I hear."
"I told her she ought to keep a better eye on her girls."
"Maybe we need to keep a better eye on our men. This is the second runaway who's been found dead."
"We are aware of that, Ruso. We aren't quite asleep over in HQ, you know."
"You might also want to look at a part-time slave trader who supplies girls to bars. He's called Claudius Innocens."
"Really? What do you know about him?"
"Not much," said Ruso. "I just don't like him, that's all."
"I'll mention it," said the officer. "If there's an investigation."
"You mean there isn't?"
"It's not up to me," said the officer. "I just write reports. But thanks for the tip."
As they parted company it struck Ruso that it was no wonder the men of the Twentieth needed to be given talks about security. They had been stationed here far too long. The staff weren't quite asleep in HQ, but there were certainly corners over there where a man with limited ambition could lie down and snooze undisturbed, except when he roused himself to pass on a piece of interesting gossip. He supposed it was the liaison officer who had told Valens that the legate would be leading the First's mission in person. No wonder Valens had wormed his way onto the list. Valens, not Ruso, was seizing the chance to shine. Valens, the army doctor with no combat experience.
Not, by all accounts, that there was much chance of any combat on this trip. If the local chief were to have a change of heart about his loyalty to Rome, he would hardly be likely to have it during a visit from the legate and the First Century Which, of course, was the point of the trip. Anyone who really wanted to see some action, Ruso had been assured, would seek a posting up north to join in the fun the army were having with the Brigantes.
Ruso had long ago lost any illusions about combat being fun, but it occurred to him that it would do no harm to check out the state of the medical service in the north. If he could cook up some excuse for a few days away, he could return Valens's favor by leaving him to manage all the medical work on his own. In the meantime, Ruso was going to take advantage of his housemate's absence to save himself some cash.
43
Tilla was shredding cabbage. She was doing it carefully, slowly, and badly. No matter how hard she tried to hold the knife steady with her left hand, it faltered. Before they toppled onto the scored wood of the kitchen table and broke into untidy shreds, the slices of cabbage were tapered like door-wedges. This mattered to no one else-the cabbage was to be stewed anyway-but Tilla's mind was traveling far ahead of tonight's supper.
She put down the knife, grasped at the air to flex her stiff fingers, and picked it up again. Her work was slow, but it pleased her. She needed to train her left hand into some sort of dexterity if she were to escape and survive. Even if the Roman healer had rebuilt her shattered arm perfectly-which seemed unlikely-her right hand would be feeble after being bandaged for so long. Besides, with every rasp of the knife through the crisp green flesh she could imagine it was not a cabbage she was slicing up, but a man.
To her relief Innocens had gone, leaving the girl Phryne locked in the upstairs room. Phryne, pale but apparently not ill, had been let out to join the other girls on the morning trip to the baths. Tilla had held a brief conversation with her on the way, but Merula had moved close enough to overhear, and they had fallen silent.
Inside the baths, Phryne was the last to take her clothes off. For a moment Tilla wondered if she was going to refuse, but Chloe murmured something in her ear that persuaded her to cooperate. Finally undressed, Phryne sat in the corner of the hot room with her child's body huddled in a towel, watching the other girls as they strolled about in the steam, chatting and laughing, their naked flesh glistening with sweat. Her eyes kept returning to Daphne's blue-veined breasts and enormous rounded belly, taking in the dark line that ran down from the protruding navel and the silver streaks th
at showed where the skin was stretching and splitting. The girl brought one hand to her mouth as Daphne flopped down splay-legged on the bench, poured oil into one palm, rubbed her hands together, and began to massage the surface of the bulge.
Two girls Tilla did not recognize wandered into the hot room. As soon as they saw who was in there, they retreated. A few moments later some older women wrapped in towels paused in the doorway, looked around, glanced at each other, and then ventured in. They clopped past Merula's girls in wooden bath shoes-they had brought their own, Tilla noticed-and seated themselves in the farthest corner, turning very straight backs toward the rest of the room.
Not long ago, Tilla would have shared these women's contempt for Merula and her girls. Yet now that she lived among them, she had begun to realize things were not as simple as she had supposed. The girls were kept to serve the same army that had built this bathhouse, which the respectable women were now enjoying. This morning, when a man in the street had shouted an insult at them, the same Bassus who had grabbed Tilla as if she were an animal went across to him, said something to him, and then with one swift movement smacked the flat of his hand against the man's ear. Several passersby hurried on while Bassus stood over the fallen man with his arms folded, looking around as if he were daring anyone else to insult his girls. When Merula thanked him he shook his head sadly "People 'round here," he said. "They don't know nothing about respect."
The hairdressers were plying their trade at the baths as usual. To Tilla's relief nobody showed much interest in her. Her hair was left in anonymous plaits.
Phryne had to sit on the stool while her flat blond locks were sprung into curls with the hot tongs and pinned behind her head in a complicated knot. She managed something like a smile when she was shown the results in the mirror, pursing her lips quickly to hide her teeth. The effect was soon over because Merula told them to take it all down again. "That's not what we want," she said. "You've made her look older."
