Medicus

by Ruth Downie

  She reached for the bowl and balanced it against the bandaged arm.Then she picked up the spoon. The lukewarm soup slipped down her throat, sending the strength of the slaughtered ox into her body She closed her eyes and promised her mother and brothers that she would see them in the next world very soon. In the meantime she would not be shamed in this one. It seemed she was, after all, destined to die in a fight.

  20

  THE KITCHEN BOY took Ruso's message to Merula, who paused with the kitchen door half-open, reached up to a shelf inside, and handed over a heavy iron key.

  Ruso frowned. "My girl is locked in?"

  The painted eyes widened. "You don't want her locked in?"

  "I appreciate your caution," he said, understanding that a business that had lost two girls in a few months would be nervous, "but she's not in a fit state to run away."

  "It's for her own protection," said Merula. "Some of the customers like to go exploring."

  Ruso clattered briskly up the wooden stairs with a lamp in one hand and a medical case in the other, trusting it would be apparent to the idlers lolling at the tables beneath that he was not a customer going exploring, but a doctor come to treat a patient. He strode along the landing, passing two cubicles with their doors closed. From behind one came a male voice and a female giggle that sounded like the girl Chloe.

  He had to probe with the key before it engaged and he could push the bolt out of place, swing the door open, retrieve his case, and enter the room.

  His greeting died as something hard smacked against his head. The case fell from his hand. His foot exploded in pain. He was staggering sideways, trying to keep his grip on the lamp, when something shoved him off balance and he crashed onto the floorboards.

  For a moment he lay stunned, blinking at the wavering flame of the lamp, which had somehow remained upright. Cutting through the reverberations inside his skull was a pulsing agony in his foot. He managed to lift his head. The girl was squatting behind the door, wide-eyed, hands to her mouth.

  He rolled over. The big toe of his right foot, which should surely have been a bloody pulp, looked pale but otherwise surprisingly intact. He rubbed the back of his head. A lump was developing already, and blood was making a sticky mess of his hair. Ruso brought his hand forward and squinted at the damp fingers. The blood seemed an odd color.

  The girl was still in the corner, apparently too frightened to move. Ruso sniffed at the blood, diagnosed soup, rubbed his head again, curled forward, and sat up to clutch his injured foot. His case lay on the floor, undamaged after his toe had broken its fall. Scattered across the floor were the shards of what appeared to be a bowl. It occurred to him that the bowl must have been what she had used to hit him. It also occurred to him to ask himself whether he was seeing double, whether any dancing lights were appearing in front of him, or whether he felt sick. He was disappointed to note that despite deserving all these symptoms, he did not seem to have any of them.

  He heaved himself up on one leg and hopped to the doorway. No one seemed to have noticed that he had been attacked. He closed the door and leaned against it, keeping one eye on the girl as he unlaced his sandal and made a closer assessment of the damage. The toe was turning crimson now. When he put the foot back on the floor it felt as though someone was boring into the toe with a hot fire iron.

  He sensed a movement and glanced across to see the girl crawling toward him. He made a grab for her wrist just as she pulled the medical case out of his reach. The lid fell back. The pain banged at the back of his skull. He watched the girl's hand hovering above the neat rows of sharpened instruments. It occurred to him that perhaps she was mad. The unlovely Claudius Innocens might, after all, have been sorely provoked.

  He was tensed, ready to kick the scalpel out of her hand, when he saw that what she had picked up was a white roll of wadding.

  The girl dipped the wadding into a cup beside the bed. Then she reached up and stroked it across the back of his head, exclaiming as she felt the lump.

  Ruso snatched the wadding from her. "I'll do that."

  The girl retreated to sit on her bed. He pressed the cool damp wadding against the back of his head and rested his head on his knees. There was some water left in the cup. He splashed some of it across his toes. It made cold trails inside his sandal but no difference to the pain.

  He could make no sense of it. He had done everything in his power to help this girl.

  He sat up straight. The girl shrank farther back into the corner, eyes darting between his face and his hands, evidently waiting for the beating to start. He noted for the first time that her hair now hung in two long braids that left wispy curls around her temples.

  "Well?" he demanded.

  "Master?" she whispered, twisting the end of one of the braids around her finger.

  "Are you insane, or do you have a good reason for wanting to murder me?"

  "No, Master." Her Latin, he noted, seemed to have undergone a sudden improvement. He wondered in what other ways she had tried to deceive him.

  "Do you know what happens to slaves who attack their masters, Tilla?"

  The braid twisted tighter. Her lower lip began to tremble. "No, Master."

  He hoped she wasn't about to cry. "Well let me tell you," he growled, his head and his toe throbbing in grim unison. "First every slave in the household is arrested. Then the questioners are sent for. It is the questioners' job to extract the truth, and they will carry on their work for several hours, whether their victim talks or not"—in fact it felt as if they were currently in action in the area of his big toe—"because nobody believes that a slave will tell the truth without torture. And because it is not enough to punish the guilty. A message must be sent to all the other slaves who might be thinking of knocking their masters and mistresses on the head. An example must be set." He glared at her. "Is that what you want? To be an example? Or can you explain yourself?"

  He removed the wadding and cooled it again in the cup. The pain was clanging inside his skull like a clapper in a bell.

  The girl swallowed. "I am going to the next world."

  "If I call the questioners, young woman, you will go very, very slowly. And be hard to recognize by the time you get there."

  She seemed to be giving this careful thought. Finally she said, "I do not think it is you who comes."

  "You thought I was somebody else? I suppose it didn't occur to you to find out first?"

  She lifted her good hand to touch one ear. "Soldier boots," she said, pointing to his feet. "Bad man."

  Ruso stared at the pale figure with sudden comprehension. He said, "You were going to fight off one of Merula's customers with a soup bowl?"

  She nodded.

  He cleared his throat. "You are completely wrong," he informed her, arranging his words carefully because the ringing in his head was growing louder and threatening to jumble them. "You are my patient, under my protection. I apologize if that was not explained to you. Clear up the mess and get back into bed. You will not be punished—this time."

  The girl crawled across the floor, gathering the broken shards of the bowl. Then she eased herself onto the mattress and pulled up the covers. Ruso noted that the bright blankets seemed to be reserved for the public rooms: This one was ordinary sheep-brown.

  "You are here to rest until you get better," he said. "The door is locked to keep you safe."

  The girl glanced at the bars on the window, then closed her eyes, as if she was tired of trying to understand.

  "Is your arm painful?"

  She nodded.

  He crouched beside her and checked the bandages. She was lucky:

  The splint had held. There was no sign of movement. He placed his fingers and thumb around her upper arm. No swelling or heat. He laid her hand between his.

  "Move your fingers." He felt the ends of the fingers twitch between his palms. "Good. Are you eating the food?"

  She nodded again.

  "Light diet, no flesh, no strong drink, no seafood, and you mu
st drink plenty."

  "Beer," she ventured.

  "Beer?" He cleared his throat, aware that a professional should not allow wispy curls and a borrowed tunic slipping down over one shoulder to distract him from his work. He recalled his mind to his duty. "Absolutely no beer, nor anything like it." He gestured toward the lidded bucket in the corner, glad that she had not had the strength to use it as a weapon. "Are you passing water?"

  She nodded.

  "Good."

  He reached into the open case. "I'll give you something for the pain, then you can sleep." He measured a few drops into the empty cup and handed it to her.

  She took a sip and wrinkled her nose.

  "Drink," he ordered, miming the gesture.

  She tipped her head back. He retrieved the cup and measured himself a potent dose of the same painkiller, then stood up and closed the shutters. The room was chilly. She had only one blanket.

  Downstairs, a lyre player was competing with the din of voices, the to-and-fro slap of the kitchen door, and the clatter and scrape of crockery. From the balcony Ruso could see only two serving girls for all the tables. Both looked harassed. There was a shout of laughter from the far side of the room, where Merula was pouring drinks for a group of officers.

  Ruso turned away. The noise was making his head worse. There was still one cubicle with an open door. He limped in and whipped a rich blue blanket off the bed. He picked up a cushion as well. In the doorway he paused and tossed the cushion back onto the bed. There was no point in making her too comfortable.

  When he returned the girl was lying flat on the bed with her eyes closed. He laid the blanket over her and tapped her shoulder. "Before you go to sleep," he said, sliding the key into her hand, "make sure you use this."

  21

  RUSO WAS TRYING to make his way down Merula's stairs without it being obvious that he had acquired a limp during his visit when he recognized Decimus, the hospital porter. The man was slumped over the crowded bar, wiping his eyes with a grimy fist. He also recognized the signals the barmaid was making to the doormen over the man's head. Ruso sighed. His head hurt. His foot hurt. His dignity was injured. He would not normally have interfered with an off-duty soldier's right to make a fool of himself in a public bar. But it was Decimus who had warned him about Priscus's imminent return yesterday morning, and he supposed he owed the man some sort of favor.

  Hoping nobody would tread on his toe, he threaded his way between the tables. Finally close enough not to be overheard, he said, "Time to go, soldier."

  The man looked at him wetly, sniffed, and informed him that he wouldn't understand.

  "You're drunk."

  "You don't know what it's like, sir."

  "Go now, Decimus, before you get into trouble."

  "You never liked him anyway. You always said get rid of him."

  "Ah." Ruso rubbed the back of his head where what remained of the soup was setting his hair into stiff clumps. "The invisible dog."

  "Bastard." The porter twisted on his stool and spat noisily onto the floor.

  "Oy!" A bald man whose toes he had just missed spun around and glared at him.

  "Bastard made us knock him on the head. He was a good dog. He was my best friend. He was faithful, that's what he was." The orderly waved an arm in the air. "He was faithful! None of you lot, you don't know what faithful means!"

  "Get a grip, man!" urged Ruso, feeling pain dance around his skull as he grabbed the man's arm and hauled him toward the door. Unfortunately for them both, Decimus's feet did not follow. Instead, with another shout of "Bastard!" he toppled sideways onto Daphne, who screamed as her tray of drinks slid into the bald man's lap.

  The bald man leaped up and shoved her aside, roaring, "I warned you, sunshine!" at the porter.

  "He was the best dog in the legion!" yelled the porter. "He was—ow!"

  "Out!" ordered the ginger-headed doorman, ramming the porter's arm up behind his back while his colleague clamped a forearm around the bald man's throat and offered him the chance to be next if he wanted.

  The man struggled to turn. "You! Where's Asellina? You let somebody steal my Asellina! You let all the girls run away!"

  "Out, pal," repeated Stichus. "You're banned."

  "All gone. All run away. He was the best girl in the—ugh!"

  The porter, assisted by Stichus, made an impressive exit. As the man floundered and grumbled in the street, Ruso paused in the entrance.

  "We've had trouble with him before," said Stichus, settling back onto his stool. "Me, I wouldn't have let him in."

  "I need to leave a message for your mistress."

  Stichus gave him a look that said he was too busy to run messages. Ruso ignored it. "I've given my patient the key to her room," he said.

  "You what?"

  "So she can choose who to let in."

  Stichus shrugged. "Please yourself. But we can't be watching her day and night. If she's a runner, it's your problem."

  "She's not in a fit state to run anywhere," Ruso insisted, although it had crossed his mind that if the girl managed an escape like Asellina's rather than Saufeia's, it might be better for both of them. "And ask your mistress to keep a note of any refusal to eat and drink."

  "Starving herself, is she? Don't worry, we've seen it all before. Meru-la'll soon sort that out."

  "Good," said Ruso, trusting the landlady's attempts to stimulate the girl's appetite would not stray too far from the diet.

  His business here now at an end, he gathered up his case and limped out into the street. He had barely taken a step when a voice called, "Sir!"

  Ruso watched an unsteady salute being performed from a sitting position against the closed shutters of the bakery.

  "Man in need of assistance, sir!"

  Sir closed his eyes to the sight of the porter. He prayed for patience and for the poppy juice to work quickly.

  Despite Ruso's efforts at guidance, the porter's progress was as much sideways as forward. Not five paces down the street he stopped to deposit much of what he had drunk in the gutter. Ruso sighed, leaned back against the bakery wall with the weight on his good foot, and observed that some wit had added the words SAME OLD POISON to the words NEW COOK! beneath the torch illuminating Merula's doorway.

  Finally they swayed back up the dark street and in through the south gates of the fort. Ruso gave the password for both of them and they were almost through the passageway when the porter seemed to realize where he was. He hauled himself to attention and shouted, "Request to report a murdering bastard, sir!"

  "He's drunk," explained Ruso, as if the grinning guards were not able to see this for themselves.

  "I'm drunk!" agreed the man. "I'm drunk, sir, but at least I'm not a murdering bastard with a painted head and a—"

  "Shut up!" snarled Ruso. "That's an order."

  The man swung around to inspect Ruso's face in the light of the gatehouse torches. After a moment he announced with apparent surprise, "I know who you are! You're the new doctor, Doctor. You bring dogs in, but they aren't as lovely as my Asellina."

  Ruso glanced across at the gate guards. "One of you take his other arm, will you?"

  Between them they dragged the man into the middle of the perimeter road. To Ruso's relief, the painkiller was beginning to take effect. He dismissed the guard, assuring him that he could cope, although the man plainly seemed to doubt him. "I'm perfectly sober," he explained, steadying himself as he shifted to take the weight off his sore foot.

  "I've just had a bit of a bang on the head."

  "Are you sure you don't need some help, sir?"

  "No, I'm fine," Ruso assured him, leaning closer to explain, "I'm the doctor. I've prescribed myself something."

  He was starting to feel far more relaxed now. Confident that his command of the situation was secure, he began to half-drag and half-carry the man along the road, taking the shortest route up by the deserted scaffolding of the baths and around the corner past the streaks of light that marked the shutters of
the senior officers' houses.

  A couple of passersby offered to help, but he dismissed them with a cheery smile and a wave. There was no problem. He was enjoying himself. He really ought to learn to relax more. See the funny side of things.

  When he finally let go the orderly slumped against a post at one end of the dark lane between two barracks blocks.

  "You're a good man, sir."

  "Go and lie down, Decimus," said Ruso.

  "You don't know nothing about dogs, but you're a good man."

  The man staggered away into the gloom, leaning on the uprights of the portico for support. Finally he paused outside a door and fumbled with the latch. "Drink plenty of water before you go to sleep," called Ruso, feeling a rush of kindness toward the whole of humankind, encapsulated in this one drunken hospital porter, but the man was too busy falling through the doorway to hear him.

  Ruso was still smiling when he climbed into his own bed, and so relaxed he decided not to bother taking his boots off.

  22

  RUSO SHAMBLED ALONG to the kitchen wondering which was more painful: his sore head or his sore foot. Wretched woman. He needed a long cool drink of—

  Damn. The jug was empty. Valens had thoughtfully moved it to weigh down the lid of the breadbin against invading mice but hadn't bothered to nip out and fill it first. Inside the bin was a chunk of bread so hard that the mice could have sharpened their teeth on it. There seemed to be nothing else edible in the kitchen. He chose the least dirty of the cups on the shelf and limped to the dining room. Beer would be better than nothing.

  A gang of puppies bounced at his feet as he dipped the cup into the barrel. He was replacing the lid when there was a knock at the door. Still clutching the cup and with puppies licking up the drips in his wake, he went to explain to whoever it was that Valens was out.