Medicus mi-1

by Ruth Downie

  "I was told you needed a doctor."

  The veteran's one good eye glanced down from Ruso's growing beard to his medical case, then across at the boy who had brought him. He said something to the boy in British. The boy's reply seemed to satisfy him.

  "It's the mother-in-law." The man jerked his head toward the back of the shop. "Needs a tooth pulled. Good luck."

  The boy picked up a broom and began to sweep clumps of hair off the floor. Ruso made his own way past shelves stacked with towels and basins and stoppered jars. He rapped on the door.

  The younger of the two voices in the back room launched into a fierce tirade of British that seemed to be aimed at someone else. The only word he understood was medicus.

  "I'm the doctor," he announced, and pushed open the door in search of his patient.

  The room smelled of smoke and boiled cabbage. It contained a table, two stools, an unmade bed, and an exasperated woman. The woman was standing by another door that led to the back of the house. This door was closed. From behind it came a speech in which he could again make out the word medicus. This time it sounded like an accusation.

  The woman pushed a strand of hair out of her eyes. "Well, Doctor, you've worked a miracle already. My mother is out of bed."

  "I understand she wants a tooth pulled."

  "She doesn't. We do."

  Ruso said, "Ah."

  "All week," announced the woman, still in Latin but slowly, and loud enough to be understood from the other side of the closed door, "All week she has been tormented with worms in her tooth. We have tried everything we can think of. We have bought medicines to drive the worms out. My husband offered to pull it. We have taken her to the healer. She is still in pain. Now my husband has called for a medicus

  …"

  The stream of British from the other side of the door contained the words Roman and medicus in a tone that suggested they were interchangeable with bloodthirsty and maniac.

  "My husband," continued the woman, "whose life was saved by a Roman medicus, has hired a surgeon for my mother at his own expense, and my mother shames us all by refusing to see him."

  "Sit down, Doctor," offered the veteran's voice from behind him. "The wife will pour you a beer."

  "I've told her he's here," explained the woman, unnecessarily. "She still won't open the door."

  "This often happens with toothache," observed Ruso, suspecting he was only a transient player in a long-running dispute. He offered to leave some paste to pack around the tooth. For answer, the woman placed one of the stools in front of him. Then she took down a cup from the shelf and poured beer from the jug on the table.

  "How do you usually get them out?" inquired the veteran.

  "The worms?"

  "The patients."

  Ruso took a sip of the beer and decided it would have been better used on the tooth worms, which, if they existed, must be devious little beasts because neither he nor anyone he knew had ever seen one. "I don't," he said.

  The woman banged a cup down in front of her husband and poured more beer. The husband peered at it with his one eye. "Steady on, woman. You could drown a fly in that."

  The woman shrugged and returned to her station by the door. She seemed to be listening for movement. The veteran helped himself to more drink, evidently not troubled by the mysterious objects floating in it. "Women, eh?"

  Ruso braved another mouthful of the beer. "Tell me something," he said, "you do women's hair as well as men's?"

  The barber shook his head. "Never had much chance to practice in the army. I'll do a quick trim on the locals, but we don't go in for all that fussing with pins and curling tongs."

  "I just wondered if you'd had anyone in asking about selling hair."

  The barber hooked something out of the beer with his little finger and wiped it off on the edge of the table. "I might look at something valuable. Blond, or red. Mouse brown you might as well use for stuffing cushions."

  "Have you had anyone in asking about red?"

  The one eye met his. "Is this about that tart in the river? I heard some doctor was poking around."

  "This isn't official. I was the one who took the body in. I just wondered how far the inquiry had got."

  "Well, nobody's come bothering me."

  "Right." Ruso was beginning to wonder if the second spear was doing anything at all about the dead girls. At this rate Innocens would die of old age before anyone found the time to question him. "Well, if you should happen to hear anything-"

  "If we get anyone around here, I'll tell them what I'm telling you. I don't want nothing to do with it."

  The woman began to pound the door with the heel of her hand.

  The man leaned forward to be heard over the din and said, "From what I heard, those girls were well looked after at Merula's. Compared to some of the places down the Dock road, Merula's bar is a palace. They took it into their heads to run off-" He broke off. "Will you stop that, woman? The old bat might be daft but she's not deaf!" He turned back to Ruso. leaving the wife to deliver another tirade in British. "Don't take a genius to work out what happened to them, does it?"

  "I know what happened to them, and at least one of them didn't die by accident. What nobody seems to be able to find out is who did it."

  "If I was you, Doctor, I'd stay out of it. You start asking too many questions, you upset people. I know who I buy from. I don't buy from murderers."

  "I wasn't suggesting-"

  "'Course you weren't. But you should be careful who you ask. People who go around poking into other people's business can end up in a whole lot of trouble."

  "Why would anybody shelter a murderer?"

  "I'm not saying they would. I'm just saying, watch out. Me, I mind my own affairs and I don't let my woman wander around this place after dark." The man rocked his stool back to lean against the wall and turned to the aforementioned woman. "Did I just hear you tell her I'd take the door down?"

  The woman stabbed a finger toward Ruso. "Our money is sitting there, doing nothing!"

  "Do you know how much it costs to fix a door, woman?"

  Ruso rubbed his chin and decided to ask now before he or the barber drank any more of the beer. He gestured toward the shop, which since it opened westward onto the street would still catch the best of the daylight. "Any chance of a shave while I'm waiting?"

  An hour or so later the patient lay on her bed in a drugged stupor, minus two disgusting black molars that had now vanished into the dusk along with her grandson. Ruso had a smooth chin, short hair, and he hadn't been bitten once.

  As he closed his case he was still weighing whether to knock the cost of the haircut off the fee. Charges tended to fluctuate depending upon the means of the patient, but asking too little was as bad as asking too much. Word got around. Precedents were hard to break.

  "About the fee…"

  The barber frowned. "I know you had a bit of a wait, Doc. But you did have professional services during the waiting time."

  "Exactly."

  "The other officer told the lad it was a flat rate."

  Ruso's face must have betrayed his confusion. "The other officer?"

  "Old what shisname-Priscus. Up at the hospital. Recommended you very highly."

  "I see."

  "He said you'd got an arrangement. We pay him and he passes it on to you."

  "Ah," said Ruso, "that arrangement."

  Ruso strode across the paved area toward the fountain, the fall of each boot on the flagstones coinciding with the rhythm of the speech he was rehearsing for Priscus. "And exactly what right have you…?" He was distracted by a gaggle of children gathered by the steps that ran up the outside of the amphitheater. On the wall behind them he could just make out the white of a chalk scrawl announcing the forthcoming visit of L. CURTIUS SILVANUS, DEALER IN SLAVES: RELIABLE STAFF FOR THE DISCERNING EMPLOYER. Below, half a dozen children were scrabbling to peer into the hand of a boy whom he recognized as the barber's son.

  "Ugh, look, there's roots
!"

  "Look at the blood on them!"

  "Did you see the worms wriggling?"

  He was passing the entrance to the oil merchant's when one of them shouted, "Hey, mister! Got a penny, mister?"

  Ruso ignored him. Others joined in the chorus. He could hear their footsteps running up behind him. "Mister! Mister!"

  Ruso spun on his heel and the gang stopped dead, a small and ragged bunch gathered just out of arm's reach. He pointed to the barber's son. "Does your father know you beg in the street?"

  The boy hesitated, then grinned. "I know something you don't," he said.

  "No doubt."

  "I'll tell you, but you got to pay me first."

  "Why would I do that?"

  The boy glanced at his comrades, then sidled closer to Ruso. "I know something about red hair."

  Ruso stared at him.

  "I heard you ask. You want to know about somebody selling red hair."

  "Somebody sold red hair to your father?"

  The boy held out one hand, and made a show of clamping the other over his mouth.

  Ruso sighed, and filched out the one meager coin inside his purse.

  The boy took it and removed his hand from his mouth to let out the words, "It was a man."

  "Do you know his name?"

  "No."

  "What sort of a man? What did he look like?"

  The boy looked at his friends for support. "I don't know. He was just a man."

  "Old, young, fat, thin? It's no good holding out, I haven't got any more money."

  The boy frowned. "He was old."

  "Was he a soldier?"

  "I don't know," said the boy, backing away.

  "When was this?"

  The boy's friends closed around him. "He was just a man!" he called as they turned and fled.

  A man. Ruso frowned at the backs of the retreating children. With a little effort civilian liaison could have found that out-and probably more-days ago. In the morning H Q would be receiving another report, and might even have to interrupt their hunting trips to go and question the barber. In the meantime, Ruso had told the boy the truth. Despite treating his second private patient in Deva, he had no cash in his purse.

  Another thought struck him. Priscus's lodgings were somewhere on the east side of the town. He might be at home. According to Decimus, who was not as discreet as Albanus, the miserable old weasel had gone home to keep an appointment with his decorator.

  Ruso tightened his grip on the handle of his case. Why wait for morning? He spun around. He was going to straighten out this business of the fees right now.

  "Ow!"

  The girl he collided with stumbled back against the wall. He made a grab to steady her and knocked something from her hand. It clanged as it hit the pavement. "Sorry," he said as the noise reverberated down the narrow street. "I didn't see you."

  The girl shook off his hand and bent to retrieve the item she had dropped. "If this bloody thing's broken again, you'll pay for it. It's only just been-"

  "Chloe?"

  "Oh! Hullo, Doctor." Chloe held a large saucepan up for inspection.

  She wiggled the handle experimentally. "Still attached. No harm done."

  Ruso frowned. "Should you be wandering alone out here? It's getting dark."

  He was conscious of an arm snaking around the back of his neck.

  "Mm," Chloe murmured, "you never know who you might run into."

  Cheap perfume wafted over him as a husky voice whispered in his ear, "Fancy a little stroll?"

  "No," said Ruso's mouth before the rest of him had a chance to argue.

  Chloe detached herself and shrugged. "Oh well, it was worth a try Sweet dreams, Doctor." Swinging the pan by her side, she set off in the direction of Merula's.

  She had not gone ten paces when Ruso caught up with her.

  "Change your mind?"

  "I need to know where the street of the Weavers is."

  "Ask me nicely."

  "Tell me and I'll walk you back. Why didn't they send someone with you?"

  "What for? I'm not going to run away, am I?"

  "That wasn't what I meant," he said, falling into step with her.

  "I'm going straight back." Chloe lifted the saucepan. "And I'm armed."

  "I'm serious."

  "Asellina was unlucky," she said. "Saufeia was clueless."

  "I heard she was quite bright."

  "Not in any ways that were of any use to her."

  "No, I gather she wasn't brought up for, uh… for your kind of life."

  "Not many people are, are they? Some of us just find we have a natural talent."

  Ruso smiled. "Tilla seems to have convinced herself that Saufeia was doomed by the curse of being able to read and write."

  For a moment Chloe did not answer, then she said quietly, "No offense, Doctor, but if you want to do Tilla any favors, you tell her to keep out of what doesn't concern her."

  It was his second warning in one evening. "Chloe," he said, "do you know something about what happened to Saufeia?"

  "Me? I don't know a thing. And if anybody asks, you can tell them I said so."

  They walked on in silence. When they reached the bakery, Chloe paused and turned. The light from the torch outside Merula's was making a halo in her hair. "Thanks for walking me back, Doc. I appreciate it."

  "Be careful," he urged her.

  "Do me one more favor, eh? Don't mention my little offer to the management."

  "I wouldn't dream of it," said Ruso, who had already guessed that Chloe's efforts at private enterprise would be frowned upon by her owners.

  Chloe laughed. "Tilla said you were all right, and you are."

  "So, where do I find the street of the Weavers?"

  She took his arm and pointed down the alleyway that ran alongside the bar. " Just down there."

  "You don't happen to know which house the hospital administrator lives in?"

  "You ask a lot of questions, don't you?"

  "Tall, thin, interesting hair," prompted Ruso. "I won't be mentioning anything to your management, remember?"

  "Bad smell under his nose?"

  "That's the one."

  "Sounds like our new neighbor," said Chloe. "Try the first house you come to on the right."

  54

  Someone was in: There was a yellow streak of light where the door didn't fit the top of the frame. While he was waiting for Priscus to open up Ruso observed that the man had made a smart choice of neighbors. His house backed onto Merula's bar, but the noise which the woman at the bakery found so disturbing would all be out at the front, where the shutters opened onto the road. Priscus's house would back onto the kitchen yard and the private apartments occupied by Merula and her "boys." Beside Priscus's front door were shutters covering the storefront of a basket maker and on the opposite corner a weaver had gone home for the night. Even when the shops were busy, the hospital administrator's peace would hardly be disturbed by the sounds of weaving or fiddling about with willow wands. Ruso pondered, not happily, the irony of Priscus enjoying peaceful and private lodgings while the men who actually dealt with the sick shared a vermin-infested dump awaiting demolition.

  The administrator not only had peaceful and private lodgings, but a slave whose limbs were all in working order. Admittedly, a dumb slave. The man stood silhouetted in the doorway, communicating by the shaking of his head and the raising of one palm that his master was not at home to visitors.

  "I'll wait," said Ruso, putting one boot inside the door and indicating his medical case.

  The slave made an effort to shut the door.

  "It's business," said Ruso, pushing in the opposite direction.

  The slave looked thin and tired, as if the effort of communication was wearing him down. He glanced around, perhaps hoping someone was coming to back him up. Seeing the whitewashed corridor behind him empty, he stood back to let Ruso enter.

  Ruso followed the slave into a spacious reception room that smelled of lavender and lamp oil.
To one side a chest of drawers held a lamp burning in front of the household gods. In the center, two wicker chairs sat at a spindly-legged table bearing a fruit bowl, a jug, and a cup. They were arranged as if someone was about to paint them. Priscus was nowhere to be seen.

  The man motioned Ruso to a chair and indicated the cup. Ruso shook his head. The wicker chair creaked as the weave adjusted to his weight. He looked around him. This was one of the new houses, and far more spacious than the place where the barber's family lived. One door led to the back of the building, another to the side. From behind one of them there was a faint cry: too indistinct to tell whether it was male or female, pleasure, pain, or surprise. The slave glanced at the doorway leading deeper into the house, then at Ruso. He stepped forward and offered the fruit bowl.

  Ruso helped himself to a couple of grapes and wondered how far they had traveled. "Will he be long?"

  The man gave an expansive shrug and retreated to the side room, which Ruso guessed was a kitchen. Ruso had the feeling he had gone to hide from Priscus rather than fetch him.

  Ruso put a grape into his mouth and burst it with his tongue. The juice flooded his mouth with memories. The grapes would be in at home now. Lucius, who wouldn't have received his letter yet, must be wondering whether this was the last batch of their own wine they would ever make.

  He was just enjoying the second grape when there was a shrill and terrible scream from the rear door. A howl of rage cut across it, followed by Priscus yelling, "You filthy little bedbug!"

  Ruso had leaped out of his chair when the door burst open and Priscus emerged.

  The administrator did not look happy. His hair was awry. His face, and most of the rest of him, seemed to have been splattered with something that might once have been edible, and which he was attempting to wipe off with a hospital blanket. He staggered as he trod on the untied thong of one of his own sandals and roared, "Tadius!" at the closed door before turning and clutching the blanket to his chest at the sight of Ruso.