by Ruth Downie
"What are you doing here?"
The slave emerged from the other room.
"Get a cloth and a bucket of water!" ordered Priscus, "and find me a clean tunic."
The slave hurried away. Priscus bent over, trying to wipe his face on a corner of blanket and adjust his hair at the same time. The smell of fish sauce was almost, but not quite, overpowering his bath oil.
"I seem to have called at a bad time," remarked Ruso, noting that Priscus's attempts to rearrange his hair had succeeded in leaving it resting in a clump above one ear. "Have you had an accident?"
"It's nothing," snapped Priscus, following Ruso's eyes to where a shadow was moving in the doorway behind him. He turned and slammed the door shut. The slave, who had been hurrying toward it clutching a bucket and cloth, retreated in confusion.
"Seems we've both had a busy evening," said Ruso. "You've been seeing your decorator and I've been pulling teeth."
Priscus scowled. "This is really not a convenient time-"
"I can see that. I just dropped by to collect my fee."
"Your-?"
"Professional fee. Apparently we have an arrangement."
The slave reappeared holding a folded tunic. Priscus turned to Ruso.
"We'll discuss this in the morning."
"We'll discuss it when you've got clean clothes on."
Priscus glanced at the slave as if he was wondering whether to ask him to throw his unwanted visitor out, then thought better of it and shuffled across to the kitchen in his unfastened sandals, beckoning the man to follow him.
Ruso helped himself to a couple more grapes and seated himself in the creaky chair. From behind the kitchen door came the sound of Priscus complaining and the sharp crack of a slap as Tadius evidently failed to please. From behind the other door, Ruso thought he could make out the sound of someone moving about. Whoever it was did not emerge.
"Disgraceful," Priscus was saying as he emerged clean from the kitchen wearing a neatly pressed tunic and a realigned hairstyle. "Utterly disgraceful. If the owner doesn't come up with some very acceptable compensation I shall cancel my order and have my meals delivered from somewhere else. Tadius? Make sure you give the floor a good scrub, put on a clean bolster cover and have the other one laundered first thing in the morning." He closed the kitchen door and turned back to Ruso. "Now, what was it you wanted?"
"My fee," said Ruso. getting to his feet. For the tooth extraction."
"Ah. The tooth extraction. Yes." Visibly making an effort to take control of himself once more, Priscus indicated the table. "Would you like a drink?"
"No, I would like my fee."
Priscus sighed. "We seem to have got off on the wrong foot, Ruso. Do sit down."
Reluctantly, Ruso resumed his seat.
Priscus, who seemed to have made an impressively swift recovery of his composure, adjusted the position of the other chair and lowered himself into it. "You are obviously most unhappy."
"I was told by my patient that you and I have an arrangement. Apparently I go out on house calls and you pocket the fee."
"Oh, dear, no. I can see we've had a little misunderstanding." Priscus smoothed the top of his hair with his hand and explained that it was hospital practice to make deductions at source for loan repayments. "I would have spoken to you about it, but the boy said it was an emergency. I don't have the documents at hand, of course, but I can show you the account in the morning."
"This was a private patient!"
"Ah, but the boy came to the hospital to ask for a doctor."
"A couple of denarii is hardly going to make much of a dent in the loan, is it? Or are you expecting me to work it off?"
"No, no, of course not. But when it was sanctioned I was not aware that the camp prefect would be ordering an inspection of the hospital accounts prior to the arrival of the auditors."
"We've been through this. I've already signed over a guarantee."
"The loan is perfectly in order. But I do need to be able to show some repayments on the account and this seemed the simplest way. Of course I would have asked for your approval, but the boy said it was an emergency and you were not available for discussion."
Ruso sighed. He couldn't imagine the camp prefect having the slightest interest in a reduction of two denarii from the loan account of the Aesculapian Thanksgiving Fund, especially since he had already signed over his slave in the event of default. He could well believe, however, that Priscus was taking revenge for Ruso's persistent attempts to avoid him.
"All right," Ruso conceded. "We'll leave things as they are. But in future I'll negotiate and collect my own fees."
"Of course." Priscus paused. "And perhaps we could agree to conduct hospital business within the confines of the hospital? This really was a most unfortunate time to call."
55
Ruso had intended to dictate a note about the Brigantian girl, but the business of the red hair complicated matters. In the end he decided to request an appointment with the second spear to explain things in person. Granted a brief audience, he passed on his information about the barber-although not its source-and was acknowledged with a grunt that might have been encouragement but did not sound like it. He then went on to explain that a stolen girl, knowingly supplied by one Claudius Innocens, was in imminent danger. To his relief, this aroused a better response. The second spear could not be expected to have much interest in the welfare of Brigantian carpenters' daughters, but he was shrewd enough to agree that action needed to be taken before some scruffy native with a grudge spotted the girl and used her as an excuse to stir up trouble. "We've had enough problems with that bar," he growled. "We'd shut it down, but the others are worse. Just do me a favor and don't find any more bodies."
The sun came out as Ruso strode back to the hospital. He found himself feeling surprisingly cheerful, and murmured a prayer of thanks for all that had happened to him in Britannia. There were only four more days until payday, and despite some worrying moments, he was going to reach it with his credit intact. He had been given the chance to run the hospital single-handed on two occasions, he was more or less in favor with civilian liaison, and if there were any justice in the army (which was doubtful), he would be well in line for the CMO post. He had rescued one girl and saved her arm, and now he had taken steps to retrieve another and put a stop to a filthy trade in stolen human flesh. This evening he would have the satisfaction of pointing out to Tilla that there was no need for all that cursing and howling and mumbo-jumbo over the cooking pot. He would not go into the details of why the army was going to investigate Phryne's case even though they had not received an official complaint. He would simply explain that… In fact, he wouldn't have to wait until this evening, because she was walking toward him.
"Tilla!" He was glad to see she had chosen this route. It was wide, it was busy, and the progress of any passing female would be closely supervised by numerous builders clambering about on the scaffolding of the bathhouse.
"Tilla, good news!" He waited until she joined him before beginning his explanation of how, in a civilized society, criminals were dealt with by the law.
He was halfway through his first sentence when she flung herself at him. Off balance and bewildered, he staggered backward and was thrust flat against the wall as something spattered the gravel just inches from his feet.
"Sorry!" shouted a voice from the scaffolding.
Ruso found himself gazing at a shuddering trowel, its point embedded deep in the road where he had just been walking. Moments later he realized that he was still clutching Tilla against his chest, almost as if he had saved her instead of the other way around. In fact, anyone walking around the corner now would get quite the wrong impression of what was going on. Unable to back away, he placed his hands on her shoulders and moved her to a more acceptable distance. "Are you-" He glanced across at the trowel, paused to clear his throat, and began again. "Are you all right?"
"I am, my Lord."
He let go. "Thank you."
They stepped away from each other, both turning aside to brush down the creases in their clothing as footsteps clattered on the planking above them. Tilla glared at the builder who was making his way down the ladder. "You are very careless!"
The builder glanced from one to the other of them, said, "Sorry, sir," then added, "Miss."
"You could kill my Master!" continued Tilla. "Why do you throw this-this thing?" She flapped a hand at the trowel, evidently frustrated at not knowing enough Latin to give him a fluent scolding.
"I didn't throw it," said the man, stepping across to retrieve it. "It was an accident." He wiped the gravel-spattered remnants of mortar off the trowel onto a leg of the scaffold, and turned to Ruso. "Sorry about that, sir. Slipped out of my hand. Lucky you got her out of the way."
"I didn't," said Ruso, squinting up at the high walls of the refurbished bathhouse. "What's your name, soldier?"
"Secundus, sir. From the century of Gallus."
"Well, Secundus. You need to be more careful."
"Yes, sir."
"When's this work going to be finished?"
Ignoring Tilla's scowl, the man pointed out that it was only a month over schedule, as if this were something to be proud of. This week they had been held up because a batch of tiles had arrived in the wrong size. Once the roof was done, the plumbers and plasterers and painters would be finished in about ten days. They were working right up to dark to get finished.
"Good. Then perhaps somebody will fix our hospital roof."
"You're next on the list, sir," promised Secundus with an ease that suggested he had said it many times to many people.
After he had gone Tilla said, "That man is a liar."
"I know," agreed Ruso. "But there's no point in arguing with them or they'll take even longer."
Tilla frowned. "I am not talking about the roof," she said.
56
As Tllla left the room carrying the cleared dishes, Valens pushed the nearest light away with his toe, put his feet up on the table, and went back to his favorite topic of the evening. "Are you sure there was somebody there?"
"Positive," said Ruso. "He was shouting at them."
Valens chuckled. "I don't know which is more amazing. Priscus and a secret assignation, or Priscus stealing the hospital bedclothes. Dear me. What a shame you couldn't see who it was. Male or female, do you think?"
"I couldn't tell. All I had was a glimpse of a shadow in the doorway."
There was a crash from the kitchen. Ruso winced. Valens said, "Don't be too hard on her, old man. It must be tricky washing up with one hand."
"She's got some use in the right hand now," pointed out Ruso.
"Which you very kindly saved for her," acknowledged Valens. "And I suppose she has got all evening to do the pots." He leaned back on the couch, yawned, and stretched his arms above his head as the dog scrambled out from behind him. "Do you realize," he observed to the ceiling, "this is the first time we've both had dinner at home? You are a remarkable chap under that dour exterior, Gaius Petreius."
Ruso poured himself more wine and maintained the silence of his dour exterior.
"First you wander down a back alley and find us a housekeeper, then you pay a visit to the hospital administrator and-gods, I wish I'd seen the expression on his face. Silly old fart!" Valens, who was on call this evening, bent forward and poured a generous amount of water into his own wine before raising it to his lips. "So, he tried to pretend he was just having his dinner delivered?"
"Well, there was certainly food involved."
"Dear me. He can't have imagined you'd believe him."
Ruso swilled the wine around in his cup. "I don't want to guess what might be in Priscus's imagination," he said. "He's probably crouched in a corner of his web right now, plotting revenge."
"Well. Old Priscus, eh?"
"I'd be grateful if you'd keep your mouth shut for a while. He's got it in for me already."
"Me? Soul of discretion. But I must say, it's all quite wonderful.
Priscus! The last man I would suspect of having a wild private life."
"He does have that wolf on his wall."
"I'd always assumed he bought that from a hunter. Well. Perhaps I'm wrong about that too. Maybe there's more to our diligent pen-pusher than we all thought." Valens took a long drink from his cup.
Ruso said, "Do you know a roofer named Secundus? His centurion's called Gallus."
Valens frowned. "I can't recall him. Why?"
"He dropped a trowel on my head this afternoon. From the top of the scaffolding."
"Why didn't you say so? Want me to take a look?"
"He missed," explained Ruso. "He said it was an accident. But I'm starting to wonder."
"Really? You're usually such a sensible sort of chap."
"After that business with the fire…"
"You've just had a run of bad luck, that's all. Go and offer a pigeon to Fortuna if you're that worried."
"Do you really think that would help?"
Valens grinned. "Of course not. But it might make you feel better.
You're probably a bit out of balance. Have you tried a purge?"
"No."
"Are you watching your diet?"
"No."
"Getting enough sleep?"
"Not really"
"There you are, then. I don't go around thinking somebody was trying to poison me with those oysters. It was just an accident. It doesn't do to brood on things, you know."
There was another crash from the kitchen. This time it sounded as though something had broken.
Ruso shouted, "Be careful in there, Tilla!"
The only reply was the swish and tinkle of a broom chasing broken crockery across the floor.
"Never mind," said Valens, indicating the wine jug. "We've got the important stuff in here. Drink up, you're not on duty"
Ruso rocked the front legs of his favorite chair off the ground-he had moved it in here for dinner-and put his feet up opposite Valens's.
"I must say," observed Valens, "your Tilla may be a bit ham-handed but she's not doing a bad job with the cooking. For someone who hasn't done it before."
"She has done it before," Ruso corrected him. "Just not our sort of food."
"Really?" Valens's brows lowered in puzzlement. "That's funny, because she told me-"
He was interrupted by the sound of someone banging on the front door. "Damn," he muttered, swinging his feet down from the table.
There was a brief and largely inaudible conversation at the door, then it closed and Valens reappeared clutching his cloak. "Got to go," he said, "Tribune with a tummy ache. Tell the lovely Tilla she can warm up my bed if she wants."
"What was it she told you?"
"What? Oh." Valens flung his cloak over his shoulders. "Before her home was raided by some rival tribe or other, her family owned a cook." His voice distorted as he squinted to see where he was pushing the fastening pin. "So, she never bothered to learn. I thought you knew."
After Valens had clattered the door shut, Ruso remained in his chair, gazing at the lamp. "I thought I knew too," he informed it. Well. He hoped the army would investigate Claudius Innocens very thoroughly.
Preferably with a sharp implement. Innocens had promised him that Tilla could cook.
Which reminded him. He needed to talk to her.
He paused in the doorway. Tilla carried on drying a spoon with a cloth and then flung it down with such force that it bounced.
"The chicken stew was very good, Tilla."
"Thank you, my Lord." She snatched up another spoon and gave it a swift wipe.
"I have some news for you."
The second spoon clattered down beside its mate.
Ruso cleared his throat. "Is something the matter?"
She glanced at him. "No, my Lord. I am very lucky."
"Indeed you are."
She tossed the cloth over the hook by the hearth. "I am very lucky not to be Phryne."
"That's what I came
to tell you about," he said. "When I saw you this afternoon I was on the way back from reporting the problem. I've been assured there will be some action very soon."
She turned. "Tonight?"
"Not that soon." It was hardly the sort of emergency that would persuade the second spear to miss his dinner.
"So Phryne is still at Merula's tonight."
Ruso had not expected thanks, but he had expected that his slave would be pleased. "She will be a lot safer there than she would be out on the streets," he said.
"With the men."
"Yes," said Ruso, exasperated. "With the men. Who are unlikely to do her serious harm, because if she's laid up she can't earn any money for Merula. Now stop throwing our things about." As Tilla opened her mouth to speak he said, "And don't start wailing and cursing either, because I have work to do."
He snatched up his wine in one hand and his chair in the other. He was heading toward his room when he heard her say, "I will be silent. I will control my tongue."
"Good!" A leg of the chair banged into the wall and the wine lurched toward the side of the cup. "Get on with your work, and don't break anything else."
"I know what happens to slaves who talk too much!"
"Yes!" he shouted back. "And I'm beginning to understand why!"
Ruso placed a lamp on his desk, kicked the bedroom door shut, and blew the dust off the pile of writing tablets. He flipped open the first one and sat down. "Treatment of Eye Injuries." Gods above, he had been on this section for months. Tonight he was going to finish it.
He moved the lamp to a better angle and began to read through what he had written so far. Halfway down the page he paused to note with satisfaction that Tilla had stopped crashing around in the kitchen. No doubt she was regretting her display of temper. He thought he had handled it rather well. Now he had the rest of the evening for "Treatment of Eye Injuries."
His finger had reached the bottom of the first page before it struck him that he could not remember what he had just read. This was not encouraging. If he found it boring, what about his readers? He picked up his stylus, tweaked the wick of the lamp with the sharp end, and reassured himself that the author of a book whose content was worthwhile need not concern himself with elegant style. People who wanted to know something useful would not want to hunt through pages of authorial showing off to find it. The task of a medical writer-particularly a concise one-was to offer immediate and practical help, not tell jokes. He took another gulp of wine and started to read again in the brighter light.