Medicus mi-1

by Ruth Downie

  "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 over 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.

  He had promised himself he would walk away from trouble, but this was different. Hurrying through the shadowed streets he overtook another family and was surprised to hear, " 'Evening, Doctor! Are you going where we're going?"

  It was a moment before he recognized the barber, who seemed to be out for a stroll with his family.

  "There's a fire," explained Ruso, wondering how they could have failed to notice.

  "Looks good, don't it?" observed the barber. He fell in step with Ruso. "I wouldn't bother meself, but we'll never hear the last of it if we don't take the ma-in-law."

  Ruso winced. For all they knew, people could be injured or dead.

  Clearly the barber had been right to assess his mother-in-law as a mad old bitch. "We'd better hurry," he said.

  "Oh, it'll go on for a bit yet," observed the barber. "Mind your step!"

  He pushed Ruso to one side just in time to stop him from stepping in a pile of animal droppings. "Once that lot get going with the dancing and the stories you can be up till daylight." The man lifted his left hand to reveal the dark shape of a tankard, "Still, there's usually a good drop of beer to be had."

  Ruso's legs carried on in the same direction while his head rearranged his assessment of where he was going. His suspicions were confirmed when the barber said, "One thing you can say for the locals, they know how to do a good bonfire."

  Ruso said, "What are they celebrating?"

  "The new year."

  "But it's only the end of October!"

  "Ah, to you and me and the rest of the empire, Doc, but the wife's family's new year is tomorrow. And tonight for one night only-this is according to the old bag, mind-the doors are open between the living and the dead."

  "I see," said Ruso. They were closer to the fire now. He could hear faint strains of chanting and the wail of pipes, hopefully from the living. He wondered whether, miles away across the damp green hills of Britannia, Tilla was singing one of her interminable ancestor songs beside a bonfire of her own.

  The crowd had gathered on a patch of empty land between the last houses and the cemetery. The size of the crowd surprised him, but the Twentieth had been here for many years now and he supposed most of their women would be local. People had gathered well back from the leaping flames of a colossal bonfire. Those closest to him were silhouettes and around the fire he could make out the pale shapes of faces. The flames lit up the movements of the musicians, who were standing on some sort of platform.

  Around him, knots of people were wandering across the grass to where a couple of lamplit carts were serving food and'-judging by the numbers of men and women clutching cups-beer. He glanced back at the entrance to the lot and saw, as he had expected, a glint of moonlight on polished armor. The legionaries standing guard on each side of the gate would be the visible ones. He supposed others would be stationed farther back, discreetly positioned so as not to provoke trouble but ready to rush forward and quell it if it seemed to be starting without them. The chances of any trouble here, though, were minimal. Most of these people would have connections with the army. This, he thought, surveying the crowds, was just the sort of event Rome would approve. Happy natives enjoying a night out under the watchful eye of their benevolent imperial guardians. He wondered what the imperial guardians would do if the old woman was right, and the dead decided to walk back through the open door and join in.

  The thought reminded him of something. He felt for his purse and fingered the coin inside. Then he strode across to join the line at the drinks stall.

  Ruso disliked talking to people about death. They usually asked questions he didn't know the answers to. Wherever possible, he left that sort of thing to the priests. The priests didn't know the answers either, but they thought they did, which usually seemed to please grieving relatives. When there was no priest available, he would pull out some sort of platitude about the deceased having gone to a better place and being out of pain now. But had they? Were they? How could anyone know?

  He had seen many people die, and he could still make no sense of it.

  One moment the body was a person with a will and a future and a sense of humor and a liking for honeyed dates or goat cheese or other men's wives. Then-and the change could take a second, or hours, or days, but the end was always the same-the body was just a mass of flesh which had to be disposed of before it stank. And whatever anyone said about ghosts
or open doors or crucified Judean carpenters, nobody had ever come back, so how could anyone say with any confidence that there was a better place-or any place at all?

  He knelt, stretched out his hands, and let the cold dry earth run through his fingers. Plants had begun to grow on the grave. He assumed they were weeds, although in the moonlight it was impossible to tell. It had been difficult enough to make out the name burned along the wooden post that was hammered into the top of the grave as a marker, but finally he had picked out all the letters: SAUFEIA. Spelled correctly. One "f."

  He had never met this young woman in life. He had only seen the battered and decaying husk of a body from which the soul was long gone. He owed her no duty beyond that of a doctor to a patient. He had more than fulfilled that duty. Yet still he felt guilty.

  The people who buried Saufeia's ashes had not left a spout to connect the dead to the living, so he lifted the cup of wine he had bought from the stall-how Roman these people had become! — and held it at arm's length above the grave. He listened for a moment to the sounds of celebration drifting over from the bonfire. Then he began to tilt the cup until a thin stream of wine ran from it to soak into the soft earth. As it trickled into the ground he said quietly, "May you rest in peace, sister. May you enjoy a better life in the next world than you suffered in this one. May you forgive us all for not avenging you sooner, and…" He paused to clear his throat, "and may the dead be kind enough to forgive me for not telling the whole truth, because I have a duty to the living."

  "Sometimes," murmured a girl's voice, "is good not to tell too much truth."

  Ruso felt his whole body begin to shake. The night when the doors are open between the living and the dead… And yet it was the wrong voice. He knew that voice. He knew it very well indeed. Slowly, he lowered the cup onto the grave and was relieved to press his hands onto the solid earth. He told himself he was not losing his mind. He was simply confusing his memories: an understandable mistake brought on by the strange surroundings of the moonlit cemetery and too much free wine at the bar.