Medicus

by Ruth Downie

  In the absence of fact, speculation was both rife and confident. Even Albanus could not resist hinting to Ruso that irregularities had been found in the hospital accounts and in the Aesculapian Thanksgiving Fund. "And when you hear what's in his will, sir, you'll see what I mean."

  At Priscus's request the funeral had been attended by all the hospital staff. As instructed, a clerk read the will to the assembled company. The wish that his manservant be granted his freedom was of scant interest to the mourners. The desire that all his property be sold for the benefit of the Aesculapian fund, however, caused raised eyebrows and the exchange of more than one knowing glance. Ruso caught Albanus looking at him before both resumed a dutifully funereal expression. The camp prefect, who was turning out to be a more perceptive man than Ruso had imagined, described Priscus in his funeral oration as "an outstanding administrator and a man of many contradictions."

  To Ruso's intense relief, the money loaned to Stichus had been repaid shortly after Stichus and Chloe reappeared from wherever they had been hiding. He had waited in vain, though, for a demand to pay it back to the Aesculapian fund. Finally his conscience sent him to see the unfortunate clerk who had been given the task of wrestling Priscus's outstanding administration into a shape presentable to the imperial auditors.

  The man hunched over onto one elbow while he ran a chewed fingertip down the accounts. Finally the finger paused.

  "You did have a loan," he agreed. "It was paid back on the twelfth before the Kalends of October."

  "No, that's not right."

  "Well, that's what it says."

  "There must be some sort of mix-up."

  The man sighed, swiveled the record around, and slid it across the desk, the finger pointing to an entry in Priscus's precisely-spaced hand.

  "Look."

  Ruso read it twice. The meaning was unmistakable. About the same time as the administrator had persuaded him to sign over Tilla as guarantee, Ruso's loan had been repaid in full. There was no mention of a slave in the fund records. The only explanation Ruso could think of was that Priscus had chosen to take over the debt himself. If Ruso failed to pay up, Priscus would take Tilla for his own purposes—and as he must have guessed, when he tired of her she would still be worth far more than the loan had cost. But if the loan had been paid, Priscus would merely have broken even . . . Ruso paused. He had never been able to settle the business of the fire in his own mind, nor that accident under the bathhouse scaffolding. But now that he thought about it, the fire had happened just after he had signed the loan guarantee. Priscus had been in the hospital that night and could have slipped out to push something burning through the shutters of the bedroom window. He had not been on the building site, but he had been a man of wide influence. Perhaps Ruso would go and have a chat about him with Secundus from the century of Gallus. Because, of course, if Ruso had burned to death or had his skull split by the trowel, he would never have paid and Priscus would have had his signature on the document handing over Tilla . . . A document that he had not bothered to read before signing it. Had he signed Tilla over to the fund itself, or to its administrator?

  "Satisfied?"

  "Mm." Ruso scratched his ear. "I suppose," he said, "as all Priscus's money was bequeathed to the fund, I'm morally obliged to consider paying it myself anyway."

  The man looked horrified. "You can't do that! I've only just got it to balance. You'll mess up the whole system."

  So instead, he had sent the money to another good cause: a family in southern Gaul.

  Ruso wiped out the final line of "in cases of fever" and reflected that truth might be an honorable concept, but very few men actually wanted to hear it. And of those who did, some would regret having asked. He leaned back in his chair and eyed the pile of tablets waiting to be erased. Months of work. Ahead of him, several tedious and penny-pinching hours saving the cost of tablets he would never need again because he was not going to write a book. Ever. He reached forward, scooped them up, pulled his feet from under the dog, and strode into the kitchen.

  The embers in the kitchen hearth were still glowing. The first tablets were beginning to smoke as he threw the last one on. A yellow flame popped up through a gap, wavered, and grew tall.

  The Concise Guide was illuminating the kitchen with a merry blaze when the main door scraped open and Valens called, "Darling! I'm home!" before appearing in the kitchen doorway and giving an exaggerated sniff. "What's that you're burning?"

  "Just some rubbish I didn't need."

  "Well, burn some more and perhaps we'll be rehoused sooner than we thought." Valens, his ambition for the CMO's house thwarted, was now eagerly trying to engage better lodgings. He bent to peer at the contents of the fire. "That reminds me. I was supposed to bring you a letter."

  Ruso reached out his hands to warm them over his disappearing masterpiece. "From?"

  "Londinium. That chap you sent to get his cataracts looked at. Albanus gave it to me and I left it in the surgery. Big handwriting. Did it himself, apparently. They're naming their son after you. The worst eye's been done and it seems to have worked."

  "Good."

  "They'll discharge him anyway, you know. The sight will never be up to much."

  "I know," said Ruso, recalling the battle with Priscus about the cost of the operation. The administrator had been right, but for all the wrong reasons.

  Valens lifted the lid of the bread bin.

  "It's empty," said Ruso, reaching for the poker to prod at the settling flames.

  Valens lowered the lid with a disappointed sigh. "I can't eat out, I'm on call. I'll have to wander back to the kitchen and see what I can scrounge up. We're going to have to do something about another slave, Ruso."

  "Yes," agreed Ruso, not adding that they had agreed this more than once, but neither of them had done anything about it. They needed a slave to go and find them a slave.

  "Oh, and there was another message. Apparently Albanus thinks I've become his assistant. He said to tell you something about a girl being home safe."

  Ruso stopped. "Tilla?"

  Valens looked pained. "I would have remembered if it was the lovely Tilla, Ruso, whom you so rashly allowed to abandon us with an empty bread bin. No. This is another of your many women. Let me think . . . something Greek."

  "Phryne?"

  "That's it. Phryne."

  "Who brought the message?"

  Valens shrugged. "Some urchin brought it to the gate, apparently."

  The poker clattered back on the hearth. Ruso snatched up his cloak from the chair where he had thrown it. "I've got to go out."

  "Do I know this Phryne? Can she cook?"

  Ruso squeezed the shaft of his cloak pin into the catch. "No," he said, answering both questions with one word on his way out of the house.

  78

  STICHUS NODDED A greeting from his old place on the door. From his shadow, a small figure in an identical tunic grinned at Ruso. A quick inquiry confirmed that Lucco had not been the urchin. He had, as he announced with pride, been at work all day. "I've been helping the painter." He pointed at the outside of the wall beside him. "Look." The torch lit up freshly painted lettering. "I can read all the letters," added the boy. "It says: 'Chloe's.' "

  "Very good," observed Ruso, stepping inside. The bar was doing a brisk trade. Ruso nodded to Mariamne, who was serving at the tables. He reached for his purse and waited while a youth tried unsuccessfully to haggle over the price of a beer. After the youth had lost—but still bought the beer—Ruso asked a girl he did not recognize to pour him a large cup of the best wine Chloe's had to offer.

  It was the first drink he had ordered here since the day he bought Tilla, and the first time he had been back to the bar since the dreadful events of payday. He had just enough money for the wine. On the way over he had promised himself he was not going to buy anything or anybody else, and if there was the least hint of trouble anywhere near him, he was going to walk away without a second glance.

  He was handing ove
r the cash when Chloe's voice cut across the hubbub. "Don't let him pay for that!" Moments later she was kissing him on the cheek like a long-lost friend. "Come and see the baby!" she urged. "Where have you been?"

  Steadying his wine as she dragged him by the arm, he followed her toward the kitchen and a fine smell of stewed lamb. "I got your package," he said. "Thank you."

  Chloe laughed. "I bet you were worried when you found out we'd gone."

  "Just a little."

  "I told you he'd pay you back."

  Ruso nodded, wondering who really did own the money he had finally sent to Lucius.

  Daphne was standing at the kitchen table, cracking brown eggs into a bowl two at a time with a swift and economical technique that made him suddenly nostalgic for Tilla's frustrated struggles to manage his kitchen left-handed. Daphne looked up at his approach, smiled, and pointed toward the other end of the table where a drawer rested on the tabletop. Inside, a small fuzz of dark hair was visible under one end of a blanket.

  Ruso said the things people were supposed to say about babies. Indeed, this one was a particular miracle, even though it looked just like all the others and its cloths smelled as though they needed changing.

  He glanced from Chloe to Daphne. "I came to see if you'd heard the news. Phryne is safely home."

  Daphne's thumbs-up sign trailed a long string of egg white.

  "Do you know who brought the message?"

  Chloe shook her head. "Nobody's been here." She took his arm again. "Come and eat," she urged, pausing to exchange a word with the cook and inspect the contents of a couple of steaming pans before leading him back into the bar and beckoning Mariamne over. "Whatever the doctor wants," she said as the girl gathered empty cups onto a tray. "And the Falernian. He's our guest of honor. And tell Flora to smile, will you? People come here to enjoy themselves."

  Ruso glanced at the customers and the girls clustered around the lamp-lit tables and reflected that a couple of months ago, he would have been embarrassed to be made welcome in a place like this. Now he was happy about it. He had nowhere to go this evening and all he had eaten was two sausages scrounged from a patient who wasn't eating his food. He placed his cup on the table and settled into an empty seat as Mariamne placed another cup and a brimming wine jug beside him and went to fetch him a bowl of lamb stew.

  Chloe sat down beside him, helped herself to his wine, and was pouring him a fresh cup from the jug when a large hand landed on the table and a swaying legionary leaned over her. "That bitch over there," he announced, waving at a table across by the bar, "won't go upstairs with me."

  Chloe put the jug down and placed a hand over his. "Marcus, I hope you were a gentleman and offered her something nice in exchange?"

  "You're in charge. Tell her to do her job."

  Chloe shook her head. "All our girls work for themselves, Marcus."

  She leaned closer to him. "And they're specially selected and trained by me. You might find she's asking a little bit more than you'd pay somewhere else, but I promise, you won't be disappointed."

  The legionary stared at her for a moment. "She's asking a bloody fortune! Forget her. What else have you got?" He looked her up and down. "You working tonight?

  Chloe smiled and pointed toward the door, where Stichus was glaring across at them. "I'm a one-man woman these days, my love. Isidora!"

  She beckoned over the girl who had turned at the mention of the name. "Isidora, this is my very good friend Marcus. Marcus, this is the girl for you." She reached for their hands and joined them.

  When they had gone Chloe sank back in her chair with a sigh of exasperation. "Silly bitch, I'll have to talk to her. If it's not one thing here, it's another." She leaned her elbows on the scarred wood and opened her hands to indicate the sweep of the bar. "Well? What do you think?"

  "I take it you're the new Merula?"

  "A girl can't keep working for ever, you know. I always wanted to get out before everything started to sag."

  Ruso, not sure if a compliment was expected at this point, mumbled something, took a long drink of the wine she had poured him, then drew back and asked, "What's this?"

  "Weren't expecting that, were you?" asked Chloe, clearly proud of it.

  "It's Falernian. A present from a client. Don't ask, because I won't tell you. We're very discreet here."

  It wasn't, but he didn't have the heart to tell her. At least it was a better imitation than Merula had sold him. He said, "You seem to be doing well."

  She nodded. "We lost a few girls to start with, people who went back home, but most of us either haven't got homes or wouldn't be welcome if we went there. And there's been no trouble recruiting. Not now that word's got around I'm not running things the way that old cow did. The girls work here for their keep. If they take a customer upstairs, they pay me to use the room and they hold on to the rest themselves."

  "I see."

  "It should all work very nicely, if the girls just use a bit of common sense. They provide a good service, they get the cash. Before, everything got handed over to the management."

  "That's very enterprising."

  Chloe grinned. "And I can tell the tax man we're letting out rooms. So it's all nice and legal."

  Ruso looked at her over the rim of the wine cup. " Really?"

  She leaned across him and adjusted the fold of his cloak over his shoulder. "It is unless somebody tells, Doctor."

  "It's none of my business. But someone's going to figure it out before long."

  "From what I heard," said Chloe, "the bar wasn't mentioned in Priscus's will."

  Ruso nodded. "I imagine he didn't trust his witnesses to keep it quiet. Being involved in running a, um—"

  "Whorehouse," put in Chloe.

  "It wouldn't have done much for his reputation."

  "Exactly," said Chloe. "That's why he always let everybody think the business belonged to Merula. Even a lot of the staff didn't realize. So as far as anybody knows—anybody except you me and Stich, that is—the name's only been changed because murder's bad for trade, and she's left me in charge till she gets back."

  "Is she coming back?"

  "I wouldn't hold your breath. She took all her jewelry with her and she won't want to be tried for what she did to Saufeia."

  Chloe reached out a manicured fingernail, lifted his chin, and pouted a kiss. "Cheer up, Doctor. Lucco's safe, Daphne's got her baby, and everyone's glad those bastards aren't in charge here anymore."

  Ruso took another long drink and swilled the not-quite-precious wine dangerously close to the rim of the cup. "Asellina is dead and her boyfriend doesn't know why. Saufeia's family will never know where she's buried. And I don't know what's happened to Tilla."

  "Asellina died in an accident, Doctor, still wearing the necklace poor old Decimus gave her as part of their tragic love affair. She loved him to the end. That's what I told him, and if you tell him anything else, we'll have him down here every night getting drunk and picking fights."

  "True."

  "Tilla and Phryne were from the same people, weren't they?"

  "The Brigantes."

  "So if one's home safely, then the other must be as well. Look, here comes your supper. Now have a taste of that and tell me if it isn't the best lamb stew in town. And don't think about Saufeia. You can't tell her family anything that'll be of any comfort to them."

  Mariamne placed a steaming bowl on the table. "Compliments of the house, sir."

  "When you've finished," added Chloe, getting to her feet and leaning forward to stroke one fingertip along his cheek, "choose yourself a girl and tell her Chloe sent you for the special."

  79

  RUSO TROD HEAVILY down the moonlit street, his stomach full of stew and his mind full of dark thoughts. He had lingered as long as he could over the meal and consumed the entire jug of Chloe's fake Falernian, but he had not taken up the offer of a girl. Even a desperate man had to have standards.

  A family emerged from a side street and turned on to the road
ahead of him. A child who should have been in bed at this hour was perched on its father's shoulders. The mother had a baby cradled against her hip. They seemed to be hurrying somewhere. Moments later they turned off to the right and disappeared.

  Ruso walked on, in no particular direction. A rat scurried across the street in front of him and vanished into an alley that smelled of sewage. Even the rats had somewhere to go and something to do. Whereas he was facing another evening sitting in a cold house with only the dogs and the ashes of his failed work for company.

  A man needed a family, Ruso decided. Or a religion. Something to cling to. His own family were far away and as for religion—he was not sure that he and Aesculapius were on good terms at the moment. Especially if the god had found out that his fund had been short-changed to help a small farm in Gaul out of debt.

  A man needed a family or a religion. He felt a long way from both. He was thinking about her again. He was thinking that he should have given her instructions about keeping in touch. She was still, technically, his property. But it was obvious that after all that had happened to her in Deva she would not choose to stay here. He had only himself to blame.

  He heard voices behind him and turned to see a group of five or six youths striding purposefully down the street. Their conversation was in British. He stepped aside. They passed him without seeming to notice he was there.

  He supposed he could go to the hospital and do late ward rounds, but he was more than a little drunk and besides, it would only bring out more "Haven't you got a home to go to?" comments. He had discharged the last patient who had asked that, on the premise that anyone able to sit up in bed and make sarcastic remarks was well enough to be sent back to barracks in the morning.

  Glancing up to see where he was—it would not be a good idea to wander down the Dock road at this hour—he was surprised to see the building ahead silhouetted against an orange sky. He drew in a sharp breath and paused to stare. Somewhere toward the distant cemetery, sparks were flying upward, fading to black specks, and floating down through the disturbed air. It was too big for a funeral pyre, and much too late at night. He was too far away to hear the shouting but he could see well enough. Somebody's house was on fire.