Medicus

by Ruth Downie

  Instead of the medicus's footsteps she had heard a faint pattering that she tried to tell herself was the sound of her own fear. As soon as she moved, it stopped. As she was drifting off to sleep, it began again. Then it squeaked. Fear might patter, but it did not squeak. So she had to keep listening, moving at short intervals, rolling over, kicking her legs or sighing, hearing the trumpet blowing the watches just as she had on bad nights in the hospital and trying to reason with herself that all houses had mice. No one died because of mice. She had grown up in a house where mice crept through crevices in the walls and nested in the thatch. At night she had heard them rustling the bracken on the floor, and she had gone to sleep with the blanket over her head, knowing that Bran would protect her. But Bran was dead, and the dog in this house was not as fast. Even the Romans, with all their organization, could not control mice.

  It was past the middle hour of the night when the medicus came home. She watched a bright line appear and fade around the door as he carried the lamp into the kitchen. He did not spend long there. As soon as she heard his bedroom door scrape across the floor, she counted to ten, flapped the blankets to frighten the mice into their holes, and fled on tiptoe to the dining room, where the dog—after some shoving on both sides—had finally assented to sharing the couch. She had lain beside it, pondering the strangeness of Romans.

  When she had first been carried into this house—before he had taken her to Merula's—she had been too weak to observe much beyond that the place smelled bad and looked cluttered. She had assumed that the servant was lazy, or away, or perhaps ill. It had come as a surprise to find that there was no servant except herself. It seemed that despite being surrounded by all this wealth, Roman doctors lived in poverty.

  A healer among her own people would be better treated. Her mother was given gifts. Eggs or a hen. A pot of honey. A shawl. A goat. A mirror and comb set. Beer. Once, when she had safely delivered a son to an elder whose wife had been in labor for three days, a pregnant cow. They had lived well. They had a cook and a herdsman. Even when the harvests had failed, she could count on one hand the number of times the family had gone hungry. Whereas this medicus, with all his skill and authority, lived in a vermin-infested ruin and was reduced to bargaining for an injured slave in a back street. Small wonder that Romans had no respect for different tribes. They still had to learn respect for one another.

  She must have fallen asleep on the couch, because the next thing she could remember was the sound of someone moving around in the kitchen. She rose to find the medicus helping himself to the bread rolls she had bought for breakfast.

  "That soup," he said, without looking up.

  She swallowed. "Is—good?"

  "Is that the sort of thing you eat over here?"

  "Britannia cooking, Master," she ventured.

  "Gods above. With that and the weather, I wonder you people have the will to live." He had given her more coins and said, "I haven't got time to go into it now. Get something from a shop for supper. Not a British shop. Understood?" When he left he was clutching his case in one hand and an apple in the other.

  Now she was back in the bedroom, determined not to pass another night like the last one. She had already used the broom handle to pull out the clothes that had been thrown under the bed. She had found among them a dish with greasy remains bearing small teethmarks and two cups with fluffy green pillows growing inside them. Now, from the safety of the bed, she bent and jabbed the broom at what looked like an old linen saddlecloth stored underneath the cupboard in the corner. Nothing happened. She pushed the broom farther in and began to slide the saddlecloth sideways, out from between the legs of the cupboard. The dog moved forward to sniff at it. A couple of puppies wandered in to see what was happening. The linen, once red and now faded at the folds to orange, was gathering a rising tide of gray fluff and little black mouse droppings around its leading edge as it moved.

  How could anyone live like this? Once she had cleared this last corner, she would give all the floors a good sweep and block all the holes where the boards had warped or knots had fallen out or the mice had gnawed their way in.

  She pulled the broom out from under the cupboard, repositioned it on the folded fabric that had emerged, and began to push sideways again. The fabric strained but did not move. It was snagged on the base of the cupboard. She crawled farther up the bed and poked at it from a better angle, putting more of her weight behind the stick. Soon there would be no hiding places left. Tonight, if she brought the dog in and sealed the gap under the door, she might be able to get a better night's—

  It was so fast she barely saw it. As the dog shot under the bed in pursuit, the broom jerked in her hand and the fabric pulled clear. Tiny gray shapes leaped out of a tangled nest and scattered in all directions. The broom clattered to the floor. Puppies yelped and skidded. Tilla clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle her scream.

  The narrow lane was empty. Tilla twisted the key in the lock and tested the door. Shut. She was safe now. Out of that horrible house. Before long, her heart would stop pounding and her breath would calm down.

  Out here, the sun was shining and a fresh breeze brought the smell of the tide over the wall of the fort. A gull wheeled overhead, screaming. Somewhere in the distance was the clang of a blacksmith at work. She tied the key on to her belt like a proper housekeeper, picked up the empty shopping basket, and hooked it over her injured arm. Then she slid the loop of the dog lead down from where she had secured it in the crook of her elbow. Grasping the lead firmly in her hand, she drew in a deep breath of the clean air and looked around her.

  The house was set on its own at the end of a long open space that separated the hospital and the next barracks block. In the space, nettles had sprouted through what looked like the angular footprints of vanished buildings. The nettles might be useful, although it was late in the season now. Thistles, groundsel, dandelions, and scattered tufts of broad-bladed grass had poked through the black of an old bonfire patch. In the middle of the graveled alley that led past the front door was another scorched area. It seemed an odd place for a bonfire. She supposed it had something to do with the smoke stains and the burned smell in the medicus's house.

  The lead pulled against her hand. The dog strained toward the open area and promptly squatted to add its own contribution to the collection of droppings dotting the ground. Tilla wrinkled her nose and decided not to bother gathering the nettles.

  To her right, at the end of the alleyway, a wide street paved in stone ran parallel to the high outer wall of the fort. A crow, suddenly alarmed, opened its wings and flapped away from the top of the wall. Two sentries appeared, walking along a high path set behind the top rows of stones. They passed without showing any sign of noticing her.

  It struck her that she was the only person in her family who had ever been welcomed behind the walls of a Roman fort. The thought of the gate pass in the leather purse strung on her belt made her feel uneasy. It was not an honorable thing to be trusted by the legions. Throats had been cut for less. And yet, the medicus had made it so easy for her to escape! It must be the work of the goddess, who was more powerful than the gods of the Romans, even though she had hidden her face from her people for such a long time. The goddess was helping her to escape. Chloe had finally told her what little the girls knew about the loss of Saufeia. Tilla had not made the same mistakes. As for what had happened to Asellina: That was a mystery. But the goddess must know. The goddess would protect her.

  Tilla pursed her lips and allowed herself a moment of pity for the medicus, powerless before the will of the one who had chosen to answer her prayers. The medicus had treated her well. She would serve him as best she could in the few days she had left here. She would do what she could to cheer up that dreadful house. In the meantime, she would find out how to cook something.

  47

  THE THIRD MORNING of Valens's absence dawned to the sound of musical weather. Walking through the fort, a listener could enjoy the sound of water drummi
ng on roofs and splashing from the eaves, streams tinkling down gutters, drains gurgling and backing up. Inside the hospital were the complex rhythms of leaks dripping at different speeds punctuated with the occasional ping where the staff had placed metal basins because they had run out of buckets. It had been raining since before dawn, as Ruso well knew since he had been called out while it was still dark. Everywhere with a working brazier now smelled of wet wool hung up to dry. Adding to the cheerless mood of the staff was the knowledge that the planned modernization of the hospital building had receded by another day as the weather held up the work over at the bathhouse. Even Priscus's powers, it seemed, had not extended beyond getting his own office ceiling dried out.

  Ruso was dictating notes to Albanus in a mood of grim determination when the morning porter interrupted to announce a visitor. Ruso's temper did not improve when the visitor turned out to be the civilian liaison officer, come to ask if he could borrow Valens's hunting net.

  "On a day like this?"

  "We're making an early start in the morning. Just me and a few friends. Why don't you join us?"

  "I'm busy," said Ruso. "Valens is away."

  "Oh, sorry. I suppose you are. We're busy too, you know. Not like you, of course. Our work isn't life or death. Well, not usually."

  "No."

  "And frankly, if we do anything too fast, it just encourages them. They're supposed to take responsibility for themselves, you know."

  "Yes."

  "But of course they don't. Sometimes I wonder what they have a town council for. Anything that isn't keeping the drains clean and organizing jolly festivals gets sent to us. Widows who've had their prize goat stolen. Shopkeepers who've been punched on the nose by a soldier they can't quite identify. Natives who—"

  His flow was interrupted by a knock on the door. "What do you want?" he demanded of the orderly whose head appeared around the door.

  The orderly glanced at Ruso and then back at the liaison officer as if not sure which of them he was supposed to be addressing. "Another visitor for the doctor, sir."

  "They all want an immediate investigation, you know," concluded the liaison officer, lifting his wet cloak from his arm and slinging it round his shoulders. "And it's always when I'm on duty. Oh by the way, I put your Claudius Innocens on the second spear's list for a little chat."

  "He'll have to move fast. Innocens travels around."

  "Really? Well, if we don't catch him this time, we'll nab him when he comes back."

  Ruso turned his attention to the orderly. "Who wants me now? I'm trying to get some work done."

  "It seems to be a native girl, sir. We would have sent her away, but she's insisting on seeing you."

  Ruso sighed. "Send her in."

  Tilla appeared, busy rubbing her hair with a towel. Her shawl had done little to prevent the rain soaking into the blue tunic that was now clinging to her with an appealing precision that Ruso did his best to ignore. Her feet were muddy up to the ankles.

  The liaison officer looked her up and down as they passed in the doorway, then paused to address Ruso from the corridor. "I meant to say earlier," he said, "glad to hear you found your cook. Very nice. I'll look forward to an invitation."

  "Do," said Ruso, calling after him, "wait till you try her soup!" He turned his attention to Tilla. "Who gave you a towel?"

  She frowned. "Tall, thin, old. His hair . . ." She paused, then raised her hand in a gesture Ruso recognized.

  "Officer Priscus, sir," put in Albanus.

  "I see," said Ruso, not altogether pleased at the thought of Priscus sniffing round Tilla. "Is there a problem?"

  "I need money, Master."

  He saw that she was trying not to shiver. "I gave you money the other day."

  "Is spent."

  "What—all of it?"

  She nodded, slung the towel over her shoulder, and began to count on her fingers. "Bread, apples, onions, carrots, eggs, milk—"

  "All right," he interrupted. "I haven't got time for a shopping list."

  He loosened the strings of his purse and tipped a quantity of pitifully small coins into his hand. "Take this," he said, adding something he remembered Claudia saying, "I shall expect an account at the end of the week." As she bent to pick the coins out of his palm, he realized that the tails of her plaits were dripping. He could not imagine how long it would take to dry that much hair in a climate like this, and so far she had only walked the short distance from the house.

  Moments later he watched his own cloak walk out of the surgery with Tilla underneath it. At least part of her would stay dry. He hoped she would not catch a serious chill before he could afford to buy her some footwear.

  "Her name is Tilla," he said, turning to his clerk. "If I'm out I may leave the key at the desk for her to collect."

  "Yes, sir."

  "And wipe that silly grin off your face, Albanus. Anybody'd think you'd never seen a housekeeper before."

  48

  BY THE FOURTH morning of her stay with the medicus, Tilla had begun to wonder if he lived this way by choice. She had the floors of the usable rooms clear, the mess stacked up in the driest part of the empty room, and the mice in retreat. She had found the best snack shop in Deva, and slipped into Merula's for a quick lesson with the cook while both doormen were out escorting the girls to the baths. Her repertoire was not extensive, but it was edible. Omelette. Poached salmon. Sausages. Boiled cabbage. Porridge. Stewed pears. Baked apples with honey drizzled into the space where the core had been. Yesterday, after the rain had stopped, she had shoved all the dirty clothes in the house into a bag and lugged them out along the Eboracum road to the laundry. Then, feeling she deserved a rest, she and the dog had finished off the beer stored in the dining room. It had been kept too long anyway—but even this the medicus did not appear to notice. He seemed to have no interest in anything beyond eating, working, and sleeping.

  Asked what the names of the dogs were, he looked as if he had never thought of that before. They had no names, he said. The bitch belonged to the man who had lived in the house before his colleague. She said, "The pups are old enough to leave," but all he said was, "Good," as if he hoped they would go off and find new homes by themselves.

  When he was at home—which was not often—he ate, and then retreated to his room, or sat hunched on the couch scraping rows of figures into a writing tablet, pausing to add the numbers up with a frown that deepened the crease between his eyebrows. Last night he had fallen asleep at the kitchen table. His chin was growing darker each day. It was another thing he did not appear to notice.

  As far as Tilla could tell the medicus did not have a woman, but her fears that she would be expected to fill the space had been unfounded. He had made no approach. Maybe he did not like women. Maybe, like many doctors, he was Greek. Everyone knew about the Greeks. But in the past she had caught him looking at her in a way that was not at all Greek. Perhaps he was just too busy. Whatever the reason, she was glad of it. The goddess was watching over her.

  She finished laying the kindling in the kitchen hearth. She dampened the grubby bandage around her right hand—she had no wish to set herself aflame—unwrapped the fire steel and prayed for success before settling the dry fragments of scorched lint in the middle of the tinder and bringing the steel down onto the flint. For the first time since she had been forced to do this left-handed, one of the sparks caught straight away. Breathing gently on the glowing edges of the lint, she prayed again for what she was about to do.

  She had wondered many times why she had been saved. Visiting Merula's this morning, she had found out. There were now eleven days before her arm would be freed from the splints, so ten days more in the service of the medicus. Ten days in which to perform the new task the goddess had given her.

  Tilla fed the tiny fire with dried grass and watched the smoke curl toward the ceiling.

  49

  JUPITER OPTIMUS MAX IMUS!" muttered Ruso blasphemously, I pausing in the doorway of the house and wondering whethe
r to walk away again. It had been one of those days when Aesculapius had not been on his side. A bad day for the doctor and a worse one for his patients, whose sufferings had included emergency abdominal surgery that was unlikely to succeed, the extraction of a glass splinter from an eye, and the amputation of an infected foot. He was supervising the cautery of the stump by a nervous junior medic when an orderly interrupted to tell him there were five stretchers in the hall, bearing the victims of a loading crane that had broken loose down at the docks. In the midst of this no one thought to mention the retired trumpeter who had come in complaining of chest pains and who was only brought to Ruso's attention after he had dropped dead on the floor of the admissions hall. As soon as the man's distraught wife had stopped shrieking at Ruso and been escorted away in tears, someone tapped him on the shoulder and whispered that the surgical patient had died and Officer Priscus was conducting an urgent review of admissions procedures.

  Ruso spoke to the comrades of the abdomen patient, saw to it that he was properly laid out, and went home for dinner.

  He took a deep breath and entered the house. The sound of a meandering melody came from the kitchen. Exactly what his servant was doing in there—other than singing—was a mystery to Ruso, who flung open the door and demanded, "What on earth is that stink?"

  The singing faltered to a halt. Tilla, flushed from leaning over whatever was boiling in the blackened pan above the coals, observed, "My Lord is home early."

  He said, "Is that my dinner?"

  By way of answer she pointed toward a shelf beyond the reach of the dogs. A coiled string of pink, glistening sausages were an unwelcome reminder of today's abdominal surgery.

  "Dinner," she explained. "Soon." There were damp wisps of hair stuck to her forehead.