by Ruth Downie
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.
"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.
The lines deepened around something approaching a smile when she greeted him.
"Gaius Petreius Ruso," he announced, standing. "Medicus with the Twentieth."
"Gaius Petreius. Ah yes, the new doctor. Did my girls offer you a drink?"
He nodded. "Is there somewhere we could talk in private?"
Merula clapped her hands and called, "Out!"
Instantly the girls stopped what they were doing. Chloe threw the cloth down and beckoned Lucco to follow her into the kitchen.
Merula said, "Thank you, boys."
Bassus and Stichus glanced at each other, then retreated to stand guard outside.
"Now, Doctor." Merula seated herself opposite him. "What can I do for you?"
Ruso scratched his ear. There were good reasons why he was now facing the task of breaking bad news to this woman. Principal among them was that Valens was busy with morning clinic and the duty civilian liaison officer, whose job this surely was, was already late for a meeting. "You know the sort of thing," the man had explained from the back of his horse, swinging one leg forward so the groom could tighten the girth. "Just show them we take it very seriously, but whatever you do, don't promise we'll do anything about it."
Ruso cleared his throat again, reminded himself that the woman wasn't a relative, and began. "I'm afraid I have bad news."
Merula stared at him for a moment, then lowered her head and shaded her eyes with one manicured hand.
"It's about—"
She said, "Saufeia."
"Yes."
"I was afraid of this." The woman sighed.
"No matter how many times you try to tell these girls, some of them just don't listen." She looked up. "What happened to her?"
"Her body was found in the river the day before yesterday and brought into the hospital. She was identified late last night."
"She had only been with us for ten days," said Merula, inadvertently explaining why none of the hospital staff, many of whom would be in' timately acquainted with the local tavern girls, had recognized her.
"Did she drown?"
"There were, uh . . ." Ruso hesitated. "There was some bruising around the throat," he said, "and her neck was broken."
"I see." Merula paused, then shook her head. "Poor, silly Saufeia."
Poor silly Saufeia, who had ended up naked and muddy and practically bald, unmourned until a gawker who shouldn't have been in the mortuary at all recognized the birthmark on her thigh.
"Was there any family?"
Merula shook her head.
"I don't suppose you have any idea who might have—?"
"Who might have taken advantage of a girl looking for business with no protection? Outside an army base?"
There was no need to answer.
Merula glanced through the open shutters to where one of the doormen was leaning against the wall of the bakery opposite, eating. "The boys will blame themselves, but they can't watch them day and night." A bitter smile twisted the red lips. "After we realized she'd gone, the girls were hoping she'd run off with a customer. It does happen."
"You didn't report her as a runaway?"
"We were busy. I suppose we might have passed her name on to a slave hunter sooner or later, but to be honest, I doubt she would have been worth the recovery fee. She wasn't really suitable for this kind of work."
"When did you last see her?"
"Five days ago. Early in the evening. She must have sneaked out when nobody was looking."
Ruso said, "She appears to have died quite soon after that."
Merula understood. "I will make the funeral arrangements as quickly as possible."
Relieved, Ruso got to his feet. He acknowledged the woman's thanks with a nod. Her composure had made a difficult task much easier than it might have been.
The girls emerged from the kitchen with a promptness that could only mean they had been listening behind the door. Ruso was passing Stichus in the doorway when a voice called, "Sir?"
He turned. Chloe, with the lank-haired girl hovering behind her, said, "You don't know who did it, do you, sir?"
Ruso shook his head. "I don't," he said. "But if you remember anything suspicious, you should go to the fort right away and ask for the duty civilian liaison officer."
7
SHE RAN FOR the door. The fat one got there first. She dodged behind a stack of barrels. He came after her. She tried to scramble out. The barrels were crashing down and rolling across the floor. She tried to leap free but her feet slipped in something wet. The smell of beer mingled with the stink of the fat one's breath as he loomed above her, raising the crowbar, his mouth twisted with the shouting. She tried to shield herself. The crowbar swung down. She heard the crack. Felt herself jolt with the blow.
She was in the white room again. The familiar pain was pulsing through her arm, but instead of her own bones looking back at her, the arm was hidden inside a thick bandage and strapped across her chest.
So. She was still in this world.
The door was opening. She closed her eyes. A hand was laid on her forehead. In the ugly sounds of Latin the man announced that it was not a fever.
"She's having bad dreams," he said, apparently talking to someone else. She pretended to be asleep, trying not to flinch as the bandages were tweaked and tidied while two men talked about postoperative fevers and swelling and things she did not understand.
Bad dreams.
She must have called out. She hoped she had not spoken in Latin. She tried to remember, but her mind had been traveling to strange places, fleeing from the pain and the bitter medicine the man kept making her drink. He had told her she was safe from the fat one, but what did he know? When the medicine gave her sleep, the fat one returned.
There were other dreams too. A man dressed in green who held her down and whispered in her ear while wolves tore at her arm. Voices echoing behind closed doors. Birds singing. The sun with four corners—
No. She must try to think clearly. The sun has no corners. The white room has a square window in the outside wall. I am in a white bed. A tall thin table stands beside the bed. A black cup and a jug are on the table. Behind the door is a stool. The man who brought the medicine had pulled a stool beside the bed and had sat down to ask, "Quid nomen tibi est?" as if he were talking to a small child.
When she had failed to answer, he repeated the question. She had continued to stare at his dark eyes, at his unshaven chin, as if she could not understand what he was saying. His Greek was easier to ignore because she genuinely did not understand it. She did not recognize his third attempt at all until, reciting it in her mind after he had given up and left, she began to suspect that it could be a mangled version of her own tongue, impossible to grasp unless you had first heard him ask in Latin: What is your name?
She had not heard her real name spoken since she had been captured. For two winters she had been "girl" at best, the Northerners at first deliberately refusing to honor her with the use of her name and later, she supposed, forgetting what it was. When the other slaves had asked what to call her, she had invented something. She had spoken to them—to everyone—as little as possible. But Romans were full of questions.
How old are you? Where do you come from? Do you understand what I'm saying? Does it hurt when I do that? Do you need to pass water? Did you really fall down the stairs? Do you know a girl with red hair? They seemed to have lost interest in the girl with red hair now. But they persisted with the other questions. Quid nomen tibi est?
She was not about to offer her name up to a stranger. It was almost the only thing she possessed that nobody had stolen.
A voice was asking, "How much poppy are you giving her?"
The left side of the bed heaved as the blanket was tucked in. "No more until nightfall." She felt herself being rolled the other way as he tucked in the opposite side. "I want her awake enough to eat."
8
RUSO WAS CONSIDERING trying a different poultice on an infected thumb that he didn't much like the look of when Valens knocked on the door to announce that the Sirius was coming in to dock on the midday tide.
The Siriusl After three months, Ruso and his possessions were about to be reunited. The last time he had seen them was when he had left Africa, fully expecting to return to his comfortable rooms after his leave. Instead, he was sharing condemned lodgings at the opposite end of the empire with the untidiest medic in the army
He said, "I'll get down to the docks when I've finished ward rounds."
"I'll go down now," Valens offered. "To make sure they don't drop anything."
Several patients later, Ruso finally escaped from the hospital. As he nodded to Aesculapius on the way out, he thought he heard the patter of claws on floorboards. He turned to see something brown and hairy and just above knee height vanishing around the corner of the front entrance. When he got outside, there was no sign of it.
There was no time to investigate. He hurried along the Via Praetoria to the cashier's office, where the chief clerk beckoned him past the line and into the office to tell him that the donation to the Aesculapian Fund was very generous.
"Donation?" Ruso frowned, wondering if the man was being sarcastic about his two and half denarii.
"From the owner of Merula's bar, sir. In gratitude for the hospital's services to the deceased."
Ruso remembered. The grim-faced Bassus had arrived early this morning with a cart to carry away the body of poor silly Saufeia. Afterward he had mentioned making some sort of contribution to the hospital fund and Ruso had told him to go to the cashier's office. "Do you know where that is?"
&nbs
p; "Know it?" Bassus had snorted. "I built it."
Ruso, encouraged by the size of the gift Bassus had delivered and the clerks' apparent belief that he was the cause of it, increased the size of the loan he had come to request. No doubt the clerks would talk, but with luck the rumors of his cash problems would not travel too far before they were brought to a halt by Hadrian's promised double bonus. As the trumpet was blaring the change of watch, he emerged from the west gate of the fort with an advance in his purse that was enough to redeem his possessions many times over.
On the way to the docks he passed a couple of bars that made Merula's look like a high-class establishment for country gentlemen. Glancing at a rusty cage hung outside a door, he saw a bird with scraggly feathers and a vicious-looking beak. He thought of Claudia's singing bird: the pampered pet released by a hired slave girl in a misguided fit of kindness. The next morning a noisy bunch of squabbling sparrows had been shooed away to reveal the little songster bedraggled and lifeless on the pavement. Claudia's fury had been vented on Ruso, since he had sent the slave back to her owner with a demand for compensation before Claudia had a chance to punish her.
Saufeia, it seemed, had understood no more about the dangers of freedom than the hapless songbird. She must have been very naive indeed to abandon the protection of Merula's graceless but efficient "boys" to take her chances on the narrow streets of a military port like Deva. It struck him that whoever was charged with tracking down the culprit was going to have a difficult job. She would have been a target not only for vicious customers, but for the owners of businesses who did not want the competition.
Between the baths and the riverside warehouses, one of those businesses was displaying its merchandise. White shoulders and big earrings and fat ankles gleamed in the late September sunshine. Other establishments relied upon lurid paintings beside an open street door, but perhaps the owner of the fat-ankled and big-earringed couldn't afford a painter. Either that, or he believed the valiantly grinning females sprawled across the bench outside his crumbling walls were genuinely tempting. Ruso wondered how long a man would have to be at sea before he would agree.