by Ruth Downie
She did not release her grip until she had led them past the wooden ramparts of the fort, taken another turn down a side street and reached the grand doors of a gleaming white bathhouse. She waved an arm toward a snack bar opposite with an awning sagging over a couple of outside tables. “A week’s rent in advance,” she said, “and the back of the loft is yours.”
“I have no money,” whispered Lydia.
“Don’t worry,” Tilla assured her. “I know who has.”
13
RUSO RETURNED FROM delivering his weasel-worded report to headquarters to find the infirmary office crowded with men and smelling of beer and stale sweat. He gave them a cursory glance and went across the corridor to visit the amputee.
The man was horribly pale. Ruso checked his pulse, which was as fast and faint as he expected. The man’s hands and remaining foot were cold. Ruso renewed the compresses on the rib cage and sat watching the labored breathing for a few minutes. “There isn’t much more we can do at the moment,” he said to the bandager. “Get the cook to feed you. I’ve got to go to a funeral this evening, but I’ll take over after that. Fetch me right away if there’s any change.”
After a swift visit to the bedridden patients in the four scruffy wards (four! Seventeen beds should present no challenge to a man who was used to supervising dozens . . . ), Ruso went to inspect the state of the treatment room.
As he stepped into the room he realized he was not alone. A large man crawled out from under the heavy operating table, scrambled to his feet and performed a salute that would have looked more impressive had he remembered to let go of the brush first.
“Stand easy,” said Ruso, recognizing the big Batavian who had helped with the carpenter that afternoon: a man who seemed to be perpetually stooping to duck under a lintel that wasn’t there.
The man’s arm returned to his side and the brush clattered onto the floorboards.
“Remind me of your name.”
“Ingenuus, sir.”
Ruso nodded. “Do the bandagers usually sweep the floors here, Ingenuus?”
The man looked flustered. “Sorry, sir. Only I thought in case the room was needed—”
“And nobody else here is getting on with it?”
Ingenuus glanced toward the door and muttered, “Well, somebody’s got to do it, sir.”
The table had been scrubbed, the instruments and bowls washed and dried, the shelves restacked with linen bandages and dressings, the restraints neatly coiled and put to one side.
“Very good,” said Ruso. “You can leave it there. Are you on duty this evening?”
“No, sir.”
“If you weren’t here, what would you be doing?”
Ingenuus thought about that for a moment. “We’re getting ready for the governor’s visit, sir. So I’d be doing a little polishing.”
“Right. Come down to the office for a moment, then you can go and polish.”
Ruso shouldered his way into the office past a couple of men who were lolling against the doorposts. “Gentlemen,” he announced, glancing around to make sure all the members of staff slumped against the furniture were gathering themselves into upright positions. Several cups were quietly put down or concealed behind backs, but the smell of beer lingered in the air. “Thank you for your help this afternoon.”
The murmurs of appreciation were decidedly wary. Ingenuus, unable to get his bulk past the men in the doorway, was listening in the corridor.
“I think we did as well as could be expected,” continued Ruso, aware that he was supposed to be making a motivating speech and that he had no idea how to make one. “The patient’s made a good start. Now, as you all know, Doctor Thessalus is out sick. In the meantime the prefect has asked me to take over temporary responsibility for the medical service.” He let that sink in for a moment before adding, “I’m looking forward to working with you.” He suspected this sounded like the lie it was, and certainly it did not seem to inspire his audience. There were more murmurs of something that might or might not have been assent. It occurred to him that some of these men were the ones he had seen gambling in the ward that afternoon.
Finally Gambax made a show of clearing his throat and said, “You don’t have to worry, sir. You just leave everything to us.”
The murmurs were much more enthusiastic this time.
“Thank you, Gambax. Although if I were to leave everything to you, it wouldn’t be worth me being here, would it?”
Silence.
“So, can we establish who’s on duty at the moment?”
Three hands rose.
“Right,” said Ruso. “And which of you are patients?”
One hand rose. Realizing too late that he was alone, its owner cast around for support. Finally four hands were in the air.
“You can go back to your room. The rest of you are dismissed. Thanks again for your help this afternoon and I’ll see you when you’re next on the roster.”
When Ingenuus and the hangers-about had shuffled away, he was left with Gambax, one orderly, and a bandager. He delegated the bandager to apply fresh dressings, the orderly to finish sweeping the treatment room and begin tidying the wards, and Gambax to remain to talk about “how we’re going to get ready for the governor’s visit.”
Gambax did not look thrilled.
“Over a beer,” suggested Ruso.
Gambax looked marginally less disgruntled. He retrieved his cup from its hiding place behind a box of medical records.
“And I’d like one too,” Ruso pointed out.
His new deputy produced a flagon and another cup from behind the box. “There you are, sir,” he said, pouring the beer himself and handing it over. “You know, for a minute there I thought we weren’t going to get along.”
The beer, although possibly safer to drink than the local water, was as awful as Ruso had feared. The conversation was not much better. It seemed Gambax was loyal to Doctor Thessalus, whose regime seemed to have consisted of letting the men do whatever they wanted, and he resented having a legionary doctor imposed upon him. He had more sense than to try the “leave it all to us” line again, but instead managed to give all the appearance of cooperation while finding Ruso’s questions strangely difficult to answer. When Ruso had heard, “I wouldn’t know, sir. Doctor Thessalus deals with all that,” for the fifth time, he gave up and asked about Doctor Thessalus instead. It seemed that the doctor had been looking tired lately and had just taken some leave, but it hadn’t seemed to help.
Ruso said, “What’s the matter with him?”
“Hard to say, sir.”
“Try.”
“I think he’s just out of balance from overworking, sir.”
This was not a problem that was likely to trouble Gambax. “Any idea what treatment he was trying?”
Gambax shook his head. “Sorry, sir. There aren’t any records.”
Ruso, who usually dealt with his own minor ailments and never quite got around to writing up his own records either, was in no position to criticize. “Did you know he went to see the prefect today?”
Gambax looked blank.
“When did you last see him?”
“A couple of hours ago, sir. I took him some lunch. I thought he’d like to see a familiar face.”
“And how was he?”
“About the same, sir.”
Ruso gritted his teeth.
“But you go and see him if you want,” said Gambax, in a tone that suggested it would be a waste of time.
“I’ll take him something to cheer him up. What does he like?”
Gambax scratched his chin. “He’s quite fond of music, sir. Can you sing?”
“Not in a way that would make anyone feel better.” Nor did he have the time to round up anyone who could, although it might be a useful therapeutic approach later. Music was supposed to soothe sufferings of the mind, and it certainly sounded as though Thessalus was suffering. “Anything else? Favorite food? Wine?”
Gambax looked vacant.
> “Never mind,” muttered Ruso. “I’ll work it out for myself.”
“Right-oh, sir. Anything else I can help you with? More beer?”
“No thanks,” he said, glancing into his cup. “One’s enough.”
“Very wise, sir,” agreed Gambax, standing to collect the cup and feigning surprise at the amount that remained inside. “Sorry, sir. Take your time. I don’t suppose you gentlemen in the legions get much practice at drinking beer, do you?”
“It’s not our first priority,” said Ruso, suspecting from the look in the assistant’s eye that this was some sort of challenge. Legionaries versus Batavians. As he tipped back his head to drain the cup he was vaguely aware of a knock and a door opening. When the room was the right way up again, he found his clerk gazing at him with barely concealed disapproval.
“Albanus.”
“Reporting for duty, sir.” Albanus cast a professional glance around the room and was clearly unimpressed.
Ruso turned to Gambax. “This is my clerk. He’s very good. Albanus, you’ll be able to give Gambax here a hand with the records.”
The two men eyed each other. Gambax looked as though he did not want any help and Albanus looked as though he had no intention of offering it.
“Perhaps,” said Ruso, breaking the silence, “You and I might have a word outside, Albanus?”
When they were standing outside by the twin—or possibly rival— gods, the clerk said, “Sorry, sir. But are you absolutely sure he wants me to help out?”
“Of course not,” said Ruso, “But I do. And there isn’t going to be much else here to keep you busy.”
Albanus glanced around him. Ruso followed his gaze. The ramparts at the end of the street were stout enough but somehow the unevenness of the limewashed daub that filled the wooden frames of the fort buildings, and the fact that the infirmary building was not the only one still topped with lumpy thatch instead of tiles, gave the fort an air of quaintness and vulnerability. As if the place had been put up by enthusiastic amateurs.
“Tell me, Albanus. Where exactly is Batavia?”
“It’s in the north of Gaul, sir.”
“These people are Gauls?” Ruso, who had spoken enough Gaulish to communicate with the farm servants at home only last summer, found that hard to believe.
“Not really, sir. They migrated to Gaul from Germania.”
That explained the accent.
“They’re supposed to be very tough men, sir. Used for the emperor’s bodyguards and good on difficult terrain—swimming across rivers fully armed and so on. I think it might have been Batavians who led the final assault when our people finished off the Druids.”
“Hm,” said Ruso, imagining Audax plunging into a river in pursuit of raving Druids and wondering whether Gambax would have been off sick that day.
“It’s rather remote up here, isn’t it, sir?” observed Albanus.
“I did warn you.”
“Never mind, sir. I’ve brought some good long books to read.”
“You’ve been lugging books around as well as all your kit?”
“Just a couple, sir.”
Ruso shook his head. The last thing the average legionary would do was think of concealing lengthy and expensive scrolls among the already considerable weight of equipment he was required to carry. No wonder Albanus had been looking weary.
“Don’t read when you’re on duty,” he warned. “Or somebody will find you something else to do. You don’t want to be scraping bandages and emptying bedpans.”
Albanus looked alarmed.
“Now tell me what’s happened to Tilla.”
Unfortunately all Albanus knew was that Centurion Postumus had interviewed Tilla earlier that afternoon about something he seemed to think was serious, but Albanus did not know what it was. No, she was not under arrest and no, Albanus did not know where she had gone. As if in an attempt to redeem himself, the clerk added, “But I’ve located all your luggage, sir. They’ll be bringing it along any moment.”
At last: a cheering thought. The fort might be small, the natives vicious, the infirmary badly run, and the restoration of his new colleague’s mind unlikely, but a lone legionary officer here at the request of the prefect would be assigned decent quarters. While Tilla was practicing her unconventional approach to cookery, that officer would be able to retreat to his room, relax in his favorite chair, and think deep thoughts with no danger of Valens wandering in and distracting him with wine and gossip.
“They might as well take it straight to my quarters,” said Ruso. “You don’t happen to know where they are, do you?”
“There was a letter waiting for you, as well, sir,” continued Albanus, a little too brightly. “Here.”
Whoever it was had gone to the trouble of writing out several sheets that were now tied and sealed together in an offering of ominous width. Ruso took it and tucked it into his belt. “Albanus, what are you trying not to tell me?”
Albanus looked apologetic. “I asked about the medic’s quarters, sir, but some other doctor’s in them and they said you wouldn’t want to share.”
“He’s ill.”
“You’ll be very close to your work, sir.”
“Everywhere here is close to my work. Everywhere’s close to everything. What’s the problem?”
Albanus cleared his throat. “They said you’ll have to bed down in the infirmary, sir.”
“What?”
“Sorry, sir.”
“But there aren’t any empty rooms! I’m not sharing with the patients. And I’m not bloody sleeping in the treatment room. I’d rather camp outside in a tent.”
“They said one of the storerooms could be cleared out, sir.”
“Has anybody from headquarters actually been into the infirmary recently?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
Ruso shook his head. “No, of course you don’t. Rhetorical question. Well. The infirmary it is, then.”
When Ruso returned to the office, Gambax had lit a fire in the hearth and was standing by the pharmacy table weighing out a pile of torn leaves.
“Tell me,” said Ruso, “when Felix’s body was brought in, who was on duty?”
“Me, sir.”
“So you and the other staff helped to lay it out?”
“Audax did it, sir, all by himself,” said Gambax, confirming what the centurion had said. “Wouldn’t even let us in there to pay our respects. We offered to help, but he thinks medics are a waste of time. If you’re not happy, you need to talk to him.”
“I will,” said Ruso. Fortuitously, it seemed the infirmary staff had thought they were being kept away from the body because of Audax’s prejudices rather than any more sinister reason. “Tonight I want you to organize a roster.”
Gambax’s eyes registered alarm.
“By the time the lamps are lit tomorrow, I want every patient to have had a wash. All over. I want the wards properly aired, every floor and wall scrubbed, every mattress replaced with one that’s got a clean cover and fresh straw, and clean bedding on every bed.”
Gambax’s jaw dropped even farther than normal.
“You don’t have to do it all yourself,” explained Ruso. “Just organize the staff. And if those four malingerers are still here in the morning, they can clean out the latrine.”
“Me and the staff will see what we can do, sir.”
“Good,” said Ruso. “If anybody needs me, I’m going across to visit Doctor Thessalus, then I’m heading for a quick cleanup at the baths. Then I’ll come back here to see my amputee before I go to Felix’s funeral.”
“Right you are, sir,” agreed Gambax. “You take your time. Don’t worry about us. We’ll keep an eye on everything while you’re gone. I’ll see if I can find a pen in a minute and make a start on that roster you want.”
“If there’s any change with the amputee, call me right away. And did you know about the billeting arrangement?”
The deputy poured a measure of cold water on top of the leaves. “
Billeting arrangement, sir?”
“I’ll be sleeping here. So while I’m out, you’ll need to get the smaller storeroom cleared out and a clean bed put in there too.”
Gambax reached down to balance the pot on the iron grid by the hearth. “I’ll get a room ready for you, sir.”
“The smaller one,” insisted Ruso. “And leave the barrel where it is.”
Gambax’s “Yes, sir,” was not heartfelt, and Ruso knew why. The smaller storeroom was the one housing the infirmary’s beer supply.
14
GOOD AFTERNOON!” THE young man’s cheerful smile belied both the gravity of his situation and the pallor of his thin face. Ruso guessed that the smell filling the gloomy little entrance room was rising from the hair oil glistening on his dark curls.
“Very good of you to call,” the man continued. “I’m Thessalus. I expect you know that. The guard tells me you’re called Ruso. Odd sort of name. Did you bring the fish?”
“I’m a doctor,” explained Ruso, who had been mistaken for many things before but never a cook. “Gambax will be bringing your dinner later.”
“Yes, I know. So did you bring the fish?”
Ruso glanced at the guard, hoping for some guidance, but the man did not seem to feel his duties extended beyond announcing the visitor and standing at attention by the door. “I didn’t know I had to bring a fish,” said Ruso, wondering why Gambax had failed to warn him. “Was it any particular sort of fish?”
“Well, of course it was a particular sort of fish!” exclaimed Thessalus, ushering him through a doorway to where the very little light edging around a cloth nailed over the window revealed the domestic confusion of a single man not expecting visitors. “You can’t get much use out of a salmon, can you? Or a trout? They would just lie there and flop about a bit.”