by Ruth Downie
The rest of the facilities consisted of a steamy kitchen containing a ruddy-faced cook with a limp and two fingers missing, a couple of untidy storerooms, the smaller of which contained a vast barrel, and a latrine with the usual stench defying the usual effort to mask it. The mortuary was behind the centurion, and thus inaccessible. These were the facilities to service four smelly and stuffy wards containing seventeen beds and fifteen patients, four of whom were sitting around a table with a jug of beer. Judging by the speed at which they concealed the evidence of gambling when Ruso appeared, the four were not terribly sick.
One of the patients in the next room looked up from a board game with his neighbor and offered Ruso an unexpectedly warm welcome. “A doctor! Good to see you, sir! How’s Doctor Thessalus?”
“About the same,” put in Gambax from the doorway.
“What’s the matter with him, sir?”
“He’s ill,” said Gambax.
“Doctor Thessalus saw to both of us, sir,” said the man, indicating his comrade, whose shoulder was heavily bandaged. “But we haven’t seen anybody since.” He leaned forward and flung back the blankets to reveal a splinted leg. “Would you like to start with me, sir?”
“Not just now,” said Ruso, not wanting to trespass uninvited on a colleague’s territory. “I’ve got a casualty arriving in a moment.”
“Ah!” said the man, nodding, as if that explained the state of Ruso’s attire. He lowered his voice. “Wasn’t that Stag Man again, was it, sir?”
“Traffic accident,” said Ruso, then, realizing there was no hope of swearing 170 legionaries to silence, added, “There was a rider who’d put some sort of animal thing on his head. But he was nowhere near the accident.”
The man and his friend exchanged glances. “You want to be careful around here, sir,” he said. “He’s just left one of our lads dead in a back alley.”
“He’s got powers,” put in the man with the shoulder injury. “The locals are saying the gods have sent him from the Other World.”
Ruso said, “Well, when I saw him, he was very firmly in this one.”
Back in the office, the Batavians’ deputy medic was still keeping company with his beer. “Have you called the staff in, Gambax?”
Gambax looked at him over the rim of the cup. “Don’t you worry, sir. Your lads aren’t over the bridge yet.”
“I need men here now. I need a room scrubbed out and aired and a fresh mattress brought in.”
“What—right now, sir?”
“Right now. And while they’re doing it maybe you could find me some calamine, or alum in honey?”
There was a slight twitch at one side of Gambax’s mouth as he said, “You didn’t happen to stay at the Golden Fleece last night, sir?”
“Never again.”
“Yes,” said Gambax. “That’s what they all say.”
9
AS SOON AS the cart rumbled in beneath the wooden towers of Coria’s west gatehouse, the slave who had been driving the runaway cart was marched to the fort lockup and the groaning carpenter carried into the infirmary. His breathing was definitely worse, although nothing seemed to have penetrated the lungs.
Ruso did what he could to ease the breathing, cleaned up the minor cuts and scrapes, and supervised the dressing of the amputation site. He had just finished settling his patient into a hastily cleaned room under the care of the bandager from the Twentieth when he received a summons to report immediately to the prefect of the Tenth Batavians.
The yelling and clatter of weapons practice and the arrhythmic clang of the forge barely seemed to disturb the peace of the prefect’s courtyard. Ruso waited in a space between two tall amphorae that the household staff had reused as plant pots, and wished he had taken the time to borrow some clean clothes. In front of him, marooned on a stone plinth in a rectangular pond, stood a two-foot-high statue of a nymph whose skimpy attire was no more appropriately designed for life in the north than the house surrounding her. Ruso wondered what it must be like for the prefect and his family—assuming he had one—to have to scuttle from room to room via an open walkway in the depths of a British winter. He was eyeing the nymph with some sympathy when one of the doors under the walkway opened and he was summoned to enter the prefect’s office.
Prefect Decianus turned out to have all the finest qualities of Roman manhood except that he wasn’t—by blood—a Roman. His jaw was square, his shoulders were broad, and he had the air of solid dependability more reliably found in centurions than in the aristocratic holders of high office. When he said, “Doctor. You’re traveling with the vexillation from the Twentieth Legion?” his Latin had only the faintest of Batavian accents. Evidently he was one of those provincial leaders who were permitted to command their own troops overseas in the service of Rome.
“I was sorry to hear about the accident,” the prefect continued. “I’m told the men from the Twentieth will camp here tonight, then move up the road to Ulucium in the morning. Will your casualty be fit to travel by then?”
“No, sir.”
“What do you think about trusting him to our medical service?”
“I hear your regular medic is ill, sir,” said Ruso, hoping not to have to venture an opinion on the patchy regime at the infirmary and wondering if the silent man sitting at Decianus’s elbow was something to do with it.
“And you don’t want to leave your man in the care of our deputy,” observed Decianus.
Ruso looked him in the eye. “I think the patient needs experienced supervision, sir.”
“Good.” The prefect settled back in his chair and folded his arms. “Our own medic is due to move on in a few days,” he said. “His replacement is traveling up here with the governor. I’m told he’s keen to see military experience. I suppose that means he wants to explore the insides of my men. In the meantime we have nobody to fill the gap. I’m putting in a request to keep you until then.”
So unless Postumus objected—which was unlikely—it seemed Ruso would be here for at least the next four days. He would be able to look after the carpenter. That was good. He would have to work with Gambax. That wasn’t. He said, “Thank you, sir.”
“Don’t thank me. I want you to do a job of work. Our man Thessalus has not been . . .” the prefect paused, searching for a word. “He has not been on top of things for some time. One of our escorts was attacked by bandits the other day and it took three hours to organize a team to operate on the wounded. My men deserve better than that. You’re with the Legion, so you must be reasonably competent. While we have you, I want you to sort out the shambles that calls itself a medical service.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Ruso, less sincerely than before and realizing that the room was beginning to smell as though he had brought his horse in with him.
“Are you a hunting man, Ruso?”
Perhaps the prefect had noticed it too. “Not really, sir.”
“A pity. Never mind. The other thing I want you to do is connected with the body now under guard in the mortuary. I expect you’ve been told that one of our trumpeters was found murdered this morning.”
Ruso, who had often felt the urge to murder an enthusiastic trumpeter first thing in the morning, reminded himself that this was a serious matter. “I’ll have the postmortem report ready by the end of the day, sir,” he promised.
“What? We don’t need you to go near the body.”
“No?” What did they want him for, then?
“Sorry to disappoint. I know how much you medics enjoy the chance for a dig about, but any fool can see how he died and we already know who did it.”
Afterward, Ruso blamed the bedbugs. He would normally have kept his mouth shut. But today he had woken up tired, he had witnessed a shocking accident, performed harrowing surgery, seen a strange creature he did not believe in, and worst of all, despite Gambax’s ointment— alum boiled in cabbage juice, apparently—he was still itchy. He was used to his profession being insulted, but today he was not in the mood to put up with i
t.
“I don’t enjoy it, sir,” he insisted. “I’ve got better things to do. I was only offering because a close inspection of the body might offer you some more evidence for the murder case.”
The prefect’s eyebrows rose. “Evidence?”
“What sort of weapon was used,” said Ruso, improvizing wildly. “Whether the victim put up a fight and might have injured the attacker. Whether he was killed where he was found, or whether he was moved afterward. That sort of thing.”
“I see.”
A soft voice pointed out, “We already know what the weapon was, sir.”
The prefect glanced at the man beside him. “But the rest might be useful, don’t you think, Metellus?” He returned his attention to Ruso. “You can do all that?”
“Sometimes, sir,” said Ruso, realizing he had now advanced too far to retreat. “It depends on the circumstances.”
The man leaned across and whispered something in the prefect’s ear. Moments later Ruso found himself admiring the nymph from the shelter of the covered walkway while the prefect and the other man were arguing on the other side of the office door. He hoped the prefect would lose. He didn’t want to meet a dead trumpeter. He wanted to go and check on the amputee and then track down a good masseur followed by a hot meal. Preferably washed down with a glass of decent wine.
When he was summoned to return the prefect said, “You can examine the body and report your findings back to Metellus.”
“Yes, sir.”
“The circumstances are unusual,” said the prefect.
As Ruso wondered what the usual circumstances of murdered trumpeters might be, Decianus confirmed most of the gossip he had already picked up at the infirmary: that the body of a Batavian soldier had been found this morning about a hundred paces outside the fort, in an alleyway between a butcher’s shop and a general store. “At the moment,” continued Decianus, “relations with the natives are tense, and a rumor has gone around that this death was something to do with the rebel horseman I’m told you saw this afternoon. Metellus has investigated, and it turns out to be a simple brawl outside a bar. The culprit is a native who will be arrested very soon and tried by the governor when he arrives in four days’ time. In the meantime I don’t want my men unsettled. Any suggestions that the murder is something to do with the local gods are to be firmly denied.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Despite anything you may think you find during your examination.”
“Yes, sir.”
“So just to avoid any confusion, Metellus will help you with your report. Now, what I really wanted you for in connection with the murder is something else. Tell me what you know about treating madness.”
Ruso realized, too late, that he was scratching the back of his ear instead of replying. At length he said, “Not a great deal, sir. I’ve met some cases in the past. I can offer comfort, but I can’t promise a cure. Frankly, I think anyone who tells you they can is lying.”
“Hm.” Evidently this was not what the man was hoping to hear. “Your predecessor, Thessalus, is locked in his rooms convinced he’s the one who did the murder. Which he isn’t, but he does seem to know more than he should about the details. The natives are a bit overexcited at the moment with this Stag Man business, and if they find out we’re charging one of their people with murder when one of our officers has confessed, it won’t go down well. Metellus has questioned him but can’t get any sense out of him. So, we need to get him to withdraw his confession before anyone hears about it, and find out who told him how the victim was killed. See if you can settle him down, will you?”
“I’ll do my best, sir,” said Ruso, hoping his voice did not betray his lack of enthusiasm. He had arrived here with one patient and a few questions about visions of the gods. Now he had a sloppy health service to shape up, a politically sensitive postmortem to carry out, and a deranged colleague. The holiday was definitely over.
10
ICARRY OUT special duties for the prefect,” explained Metellus as Decianus’s guards stepped smartly aside to let them out of the official residence.
“Special duties?” inquired Ruso.
“Whatever he wants done.”
“I see,” said Ruso, admiring this splendidly evasive reply and failing to trace Metellus’s origins from his neutral accent, or to detect any sign of character or background in an even-featured, unmemorable appearance that was only marred by a few flakes of dandruff on the shoulders of an ordinary blue tunic.
Metellus led him away from the headquarters building. As they were passing a line of men waiting for rations outside the granaries he said, “Haven’t I heard of you somewhere, Ruso?”
“I doubt it.”
“Really? I’m sure the name . . .” the man shrugged. “No matter. Where are you from?”
“Gallia Narbonensis. You?”
“Rome,” said Metellus, with the casual air of a man who has no need to prove his superiority. “Appointed by the governor.”
“The new one?”
“No, Bradua. I’ve been here for four years now.”
Ruso wondered what the Batavians made of having a governor’s man foisted upon them. And how secure Metellus’s position now was, since the man who had appointed him was no longer in charge. No doubt he would be anxious to make the right impression when the new governor came to visit.
“Four years is a long time to spend this far from Rome,” observed Ruso.
“It’s not as remote as you think,” said Metellus. “Londinium keeps a close eye on what happens up here. And Hadrian’s known for taking an interest in the provinces. If a man does well here, it’s noticed.”
Presumably if he didn’t, that would be noticed too.
Just inside the west gate they turned and crunched along the gravel of the perimeter road, passing the din of a metal workshop and a yard where men were stripping down a heavy mechanical bolt launcher for repair. Behind it, a line of wooden spear shafts were propped against the wall, ready to have their iron heads attached.
They clattered up the steps to the top of the ramparts and Metellus said, “Take a good look.”
A faint waft of boiled cabbage drifted past as Ruso rested his elbows on the rough wood. Twenty feet below him, a couple of tethered horses were grazing pale spheres in the grass of the security zone. A line of carts was waiting to be allowed entry through the gates. Beyond them lay a jumble of civilian buildings leading down to the bridge. On the far side of the river, three vehicles were crawling along the thin streak of road that led along a valley dotted with grazing animals and the odd cone of native thatch.
It struck Ruso that the whole of Coria could have been picked up and set down within the stout walls of Deva’s legionary fortress and there would still be room to spare.
“This place is sometimes described as a brown oasis in a desert of green,” said Metellus. “A lot of the men from the forts up in the hills come down to enjoy their leave here. Coria is where the north and the east–west roads meet.”
Ruso wondered what sort of posting would lead a man to think of a road junction as an exciting holiday destination, and scanned the bridge for any sign of the Twentieth’s arrival. “So where’s the border?” he asked.
“Just turn a little to your right.”
Ruso frowned. All he could see was another road, with a dispatch rider just out of the west gates urging his horse into a canter.
“That’s more or less it,” said Metellus.
Looking from one side of the road to the other, Ruso failed to discern any difference. He felt a faint slump of disappointment. Was this what he had traveled all those miles to see? “Where are the barbarian hordes?”
“The tribes just across the border are officially friendly,” explained Metellus. “And just to make sure, we offer the usual incentives.”
“Which are?”
“We’re giving some of their sons a free education down in Londinium, and we send advisers to their meetings.”
“I see,”
said Ruso, assuming that the sons were effectively hostages and “advisers” meant “spies.”
“In exchange, we ignore the odd cattle raid and their head men get invited to dinner when the governor comes to visit.”
“It’s not quite how I’d imagined it.”
“Oh, the hordes are out there, believe me,” said Metellus. “On both sides of the border. Sulking and skulking, most of them looking like perfectly innocent hill farmers. According to my informers, this Stag Man business has them all very excited. That’s why this murder has come at the worst possible time, and why the prefect’s being scrupulous about investigating it. We have to make it clear that the culprit’s getting a fair trial. We don’t want to give them an excuse to dig out the weapons they aren’t supposed to have and march on the nearest fort demanding justice for Our Poor Innocent Boy chained up by the Evil Romans.”
“I’m beginning to wish I hadn’t gotten involved in this.”
“Frankly, my view is that the fewer people involved the better,” agreed Metellus. “But a report from a medical officer won’t do any harm. We can be seen to be taking the inquiry seriously.”
Ruso watched the dispatch rider growing smaller in the distance. A road patrol was approaching in the opposite direction. As they passed, he saw arms raised in greeting. He wondered how many soldiers were holding the string of isolated forts and watchtowers that must lie out along that border road, compared to the number of sulkers and skulkers lurking in the surrounding hills—although why anyone should bother to fight over land that seemed to contain nothing but a few peasants and sheep was a mystery.
“I had imagined the border would be more . . .” he paused, searching for a word. “Watertight.”
“We don’t want it watertight,” said Metellus. “We want it porous. We want long strings of well-laden merchants traveling in and out of the province paying border taxes. We station men here to run the customs posts, the men spend their wages, and that gives the locals a chance to turn a profit. It all works very nicely as long as everybody behaves themselves.”