Ruso and the Root of All Evils

by Ruso

  His hand tightened on her arm and she noticed for the first time how badly he was limping. ‘You should not be walking around on that foot.’

  ‘You shouldn’t be chasing a man like Stilo on your own.’

  She said, ‘Back in that …’ She had no name for it. ‘Back down there. Did something hit Stilo?’

  He said, ‘Damn. I forgot to pick it up.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘My lunch,’ he said. ‘The Army teaches you to throw stones, but I reckoned that at that distance an apple in the eye would stop him just as well.’

  77

  ‘Ferox!’ gasped the man, struggling to rise while Ruso’s blood-splattered assistants tried to hold him down on the table. ‘Where’s Ferox?’

  Ruso, who dared not remove the wadding over the wound until his patient was still, said, ‘He’ll be in later. We need to deal with you first.’

  ‘No, he’s worse! Where’s Ferox? What have they done with him? Let me go!’

  A fist escaped and narrowly missed Ruso’s jaw.

  ‘Somebody else is dealing with your friend,’ said Ruso, seizing the flailing arm and glancing across at Gnostus, who looked up from washing the sand out of a nasty head wound and drew one finger across his throat.

  Ruso turned back to the patient. ‘Lie still and let’s have a look at what’s going on here, shall we?’

  The man continued to thrash about. ‘Let me go! I’ll find him. I’ll bring him in. He’s down. He needs help.’

  ‘Somebody else will see to him.’

  ‘You’re lying! You’re all lying to me!’

  Ruso eyed the dirt-streaked face. At least the man’s lungs were in good order. ‘You’re right,’ he said, too tired to lie any more. ‘Ferox is dead. Fate chose to take him and not you. Lie still and let me look or you’ll be joining him.’

  ‘You bastard, you filthy lying dog! He’s not dead!’

  Ruso had already given the man as much mandrake as he dared, but it seemed to be having little effect.

  ‘Ferox is with the gods,’ a female voice assured him. A hand, smaller and cleaner than those that were trying to force him down, reached out to rest on his forehead. ‘I will pray for his soul,’ promised Tilla, who until now had been standing in the shadows.

  When she began to pray over the patient in British, Ruso was relieved. As long as nobody understood, she could – and no doubt would – rain down any number of curses on the politician who had paid for thousands of people to watch death as entertainment, and possibly on himself as well for joining in.

  As the babble of British rose over the operating table, the man’s arching chest sank back down. His grimace relaxed. ‘Ferox!’ he whispered to the stone vaulting above their heads. ‘There you are. I didn’t mean it, mate. I didn’t mean it.’ His voice was growing sleepy. ‘You were supposed to go left. Up, down, left. Both left. I told you, mate, you got to … you got to pay … pay attention.’

  Ruso lifted the wadding from the side of the chest and began to explore the injury.

  He had patched up the wound and was giving orders for the patient to be kept poulticed and under observation when another fresh and whimpering load was manoeuvred in from the corridor. The bearers rolled the occupant of the stretcher on to the table, announced, ‘Hamstrung, can’t stop it bleeding,’ and retreated to their station.

  Tilla cried, ‘That is him!’ at the same moment as Ruso recognized the filthy and blood-streaked figure curled up in front of him.

  ‘Tertius? How did this happen?’

  Tertius groped a hand towards his own. ‘Is that you, sir?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Ruso, lifting the dressing to peer at a gaping wound behind the lad’s left knee. He said, ‘Who did this?’

  Tertius’ weak response was something between a laugh and a sob. ‘Sorry, sir. I wasted your money.’

  ‘He came back,’ said a voice from Gnostus’ side of the room. ‘Silly bugger came back to make up the numbers so his mate didn’t have to take on two men.’

  Ruso shook his head in disbelief.

  ‘How bad is it?’ The voice was barely recognizable as the confident youth from earlier this afternoon.

  ‘Nothing to worry about,’ Ruso lied, directing the assistants to get him into a better position while he hunted for the main source of the bleeding. Tilla fetched a lamp from one of the brackets and held it close. He was finishing the first cautery when there was a commotion out in the corridor, and a voice that should have been inaudible down here shrieked, ‘How dare you? He’s my fiancé! Let me in!’

  Ruso winced as the door crashed open. ‘It’s me!’ cried Marcia, rushing across to the table. ‘Tertius, don’t die! Get out of the way, Gaius!’

  Instead of getting out of the way Ruso placed another sponge in the wound and ordered one of the assistants to hold it there. Then he gripped his sister’s shoulders with bloodstained hands and said firmly in her ear, ‘If you want to help, shut up and wait outside. You’re embarrassing me and you aren’t helping him.’

  ‘But he’s hurt! Oh, what did you sign up for, you stupid, stupid boy? What am I going to – ugh! Gaius, your hands are horrible, get them off!’

  ‘Wait outside,’ Ruso repeated, nodding to the other assistant, who propelled her towards the door.

  ‘You can’t throw me out, I – what’s she doing here? You said she ran away! Get off me! Gaius, tell him to let me go!’

  ‘And while you’re out there,’ Ruso called over his shoulder, ‘think about growing up. There’s a brave man lying here and he deserves better than this.’

  78

  The games were over. The rows of seats were practically deserted apart from the slaves gathering up litter and lost children. Already three had been corralled near the east exit, where a plump and jolly woman was consoling them for their lack of parents by feeding them sausage fritters. Outside there were still plenty of people milling about, buying food and haggling over the price of souvenirs. Ruso made the mistake of catching the eye of a vendor. The little terracotta shapes rattled in the tray as the vendor scuttled forward to block their path and suggested that the young lady might like a little memento of her trip to the city.

  ‘I am trying to forget,’ said Tilla.

  No, they did not want a bronze model of a gladiator waving a sword. Nor did they want any of the terracotta portrayals of execution victims being done away with in various gruesome fashions, even if they were an absolute bargain, and the man’s master would be furious when he found out he’d practically been giving the stock away.

  ‘I’ve got my own reminder, thanks,’ said Ruso, holding up his hands. He had pulled on a clean tunic to walk back to the gladiators’ barracks, but he had not had time for a thorough scrub. The vendor retreated with a look that mingled respect with alarm.

  Tilla said, ‘I think I will see this place in bad dreams.’

  Ruso put one arm around her shoulders. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

  ‘We should have caught that Stilo man.’

  ‘Somebody will. Tell me what happened in Arelate.’

  After a moment she slid a hand around his waist. It was not the sort of thing one would normally be able do in public.

  ‘At least this wretched foot is a good excuse for something,’ he observed, leaning on her to limp forward.

  By the time they reached the gladiators’ barracks the usual crowd had dwindled to a few subdued young women, two of them clutching babies. To Ruso’s surprise, both gates swung open as they approached. The women rushed forward, pleading for information, only to be beaten off by the gatekeeper, who shouted, ‘No news! Clear the way there!’ The opening of the gates was explained as the closed wagon in which Gnostus had travelled back with the wounded gladiators emerged. Ruso guessed it was returning to the amphitheatre to collect their dead comrades.

  ‘She’s with me,’ he informed the gatekeeper, leading Tilla inside before the man had time to object, then ordering her to wait by the gate. She had seen enough: she did not deserve to be
put through whatever might be waiting in Gnostus’ medical room.

  To his surprise, all was quiet. Gnostus was busy unloading the wooden boxes of medical supplies that had been piled on the back of the wagon.

  ‘Eight dead, seven badly wounded, five with minor injuries,’ observed Gnostus, slapping down the lid on an empty box and kicking it out of sight under a bench. ‘What a way to earn a living.’

  ‘Us, or them?’ said Ruso, glancing across the exercise yard to where one of the assistants was helping a wounded fighter wash himself over the water-trough. A slave emerged from the men’s quarters, carrying a chamberpot.

  ‘Both,’ said Gnostus. He indicated the drugged figure of Tertius, lying with his leg heavily bandaged on a bed in the side room. ‘Boss wants him out tonight.’

  ‘After what he did?’ Ruso was incredulous. The boy had run back to don his kit after hearing the announcement that, since one of the fighters had been unexpectedly withdrawn, the winner of the latest contest would stay in the arena to face the next opponent. No doubt that decision had been made by Fuscus. Ruso wondered how many people had noticed that a common gladiator had more moral sense than a magistrate.

  Gnostus shrugged. ‘He’s a free man. He chose to fight. As far as the boss is concerned, the school doesn’t have to pay for his treatment. That’s up to the woman who bought him out.’

  ‘What woman?’

  ‘Just turned up, offered the boss a cash deal too good to refuse and disappeared.’

  ‘Yes, but who was she?’

  ‘Dunno. Never seen her before. She didn’t look the type who’d need to pay for it. Not like some of the dogs we get making offers for the men.’

  Ruso was relieved. After Marcia’s performance this afternoon there was no doubt that Gnostus would have recognized her. It had never occurred to him that she might have a rival. He suspected it had never occurred to Marcia, either. ‘So where’s this woman now?’

  ‘Who knows? She probably won’t want him now he’s damaged.’

  ‘I’ll take him home if she doesn’t turn up,’ said Ruso. ‘But he shouldn’t travel tonight.’

  Gnostus glanced across to where Ruso was leaning against the wall with his aching foot resting on his sound one. ‘You’re not looking too good yourself. Want to bunk down here for the night?’

  Ruso explained that he had to take somebody home. ‘Just give me something to help get me there, will you?’

  By the time the gatekeeper let Ruso and Tilla out of the gladiators’ barracks, the supporters had dispersed. Two small boys armed with wooden swords were chasing each other in and out of the shadowed doorways while their parents strolled down the street behind them.

  ‘Do be careful, boys!’ called the mother.

  ‘If you two don’t stop fighting,’ put in the father, ‘I’ll take those swords away.’

  Ruso waited for the family to pass, then planted the heels of the borrowed crutches on the worn stone surface and swung forward. The pain was still there, but somehow duller around the edges. Or perhaps it was his mind that was duller. Either way, Gnostus’ secret painkilling potion was doing its job.

  79

  Hiring transport to get home was not easy on the day of the games, and by the time Tilla helped the Medicus clamber up into the only carriage that was prepared to leave town at this hour, the sun had gone, and the colour was draining away from the day. The driver, who had insisted on payment in advance, whipped the reluctant horses into a trot. Tilla was not sorry to speed past the long rows of tombstones leading away from the Augustus gate. The area looked distinctly unwelcoming, and there was an autumnal chill in the air.

  The Medicus seemed surprisingly happy now the medicine had taken effect. He was lying across the seat with his feet halfway up the wall of the carriage and his head resting on her lap. It was not a dignified position for either of them, and Tilla was glad there were few people about to see it.

  She ran a thumb along his unshaven jaw. She wished she could tell the driver to carry on into the night: to take them both away to somewhere private, far from his family and their parched land with its hideous love of cruelty. She wished they had never left Britannia. Even if he wanted her here, how could she bear to stay?

  The Medicus stirred in her lap, gave a murmur of contentment and said something that sounded like, ‘All home now.’

  She laid a hand across his forehead. ‘Sleep,’ she murmured as the carriage jolted them on down the road towards the farm.

  Suddenly his eyes opened. ‘Why did they come here?’ he asked, looking up at her as if they had been carrying on a conversation. Perhaps he had been dreaming.

  She said, ‘Who?’

  ‘Calvus and Stilo.’

  ‘To visit their friend Severus to plan more stealing, I suppose,’ she said. ‘Or perhaps they met him on the road to your house and poisoned him. Go back to sleep.’

  The eyes drifted shut. The carriage jolted on. Tilla closed her own eyes and felt her head beginning to nod.

  ‘But after he was dead, why did they stay?’

  Tilla, whose mind had wandered back to other journeys in Britannia, had to remind herself who the Medicus was talking about. ‘To find out who killed him?’ she suggested. ‘What did they say to that fat man on the balcony?’

  The Medicus explained that a woman looking like Claudia had bought poisoned honey. ‘Ennia must have overheard us talking and told Calvus and Stilo, or whatever their names were.’

  ‘You see? I told you it was the old wife who did it.’

  ‘She says it wasn’t, and I think I believe her.’

  She sighed. Even now, he could not face the truth.

  ‘Why did they care?’ he asked.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Why did Calvus and Stilo care who killed Severus?’

  ‘Perhaps they liked him and they wanted to avenge him,’ she suggested. ‘Perhaps they wanted to make some money from finding the poisoner. Why are you lying down if your mind is working and you are not asleep?’

  He snuggled against her. ‘I can think better down here. Listen. Even if they did like him, it isn’t their duty to avenge him, it’s his family’s. And why would they risk hanging around, knowing that somebody might work out who they were at any moment? It makes no sense. Who’s to say the Gabinii would have paid them for helping anyway? Besides, they’d already got the money Severus had helped them swindle out of Probus for the ship.’

  She shrugged. ‘Who cares? They are just bad men.’

  He wriggled, pulled himself up to sit properly and peered out of the side of the carriage. ‘Where are we?’

  ‘On the way back to your home.’

  He was upright now, leaning forward, calling, ‘Stop!’ to the driver.

  She grabbed the neck of his tunic and pulled him back. ‘What are you doing? This is the middle of the road!’

  ‘Stop!’ he yelled louder, grabbing one of the borrowed crutches and banging on the floor. The driver allowed the horses to slow and called, ‘Something the matter, boss?’

  The Medicus was peering out into the dusk. ‘Turn round. Take the turn a hundred paces back, uphill between the vineyards.’

  ‘The Senator’s place? You sure about that?’

  ‘No!’ called Tilla. ‘He is ill. I am taking him home.’

  ‘I want to go to the Senator’s estate,’ insisted Ruso.

  ‘Make your minds up!’ came the voice from in front. ‘I’m not driving around all night in the dark. One or the other. Quick, or you get out and walk.’

  ‘The estate.’

  With some grumbling, the driver manoeuvred the vehicle around in a tight semi-circle and set off back the way they had come.

  Tilla said, ‘You are going to see the old wife.’

  ‘I need to make sure she’s safe.’

  Tilla sighed and leaned against the back of the carriage. ‘Still, you think you are the only one who can save her. She is making a fool of you.’

  ‘Possibly,’ he said. ‘But I don’t think
Calvus and Stilo ever came here for a social visit. I think they came here to find something, and they’ve been looking for it ever since. And if I’m right, they won’t want to leave without it.’

  80

  The carriage was already disappearing into the dusk when the Medicus rapped on the gates of the big estate for a second time.

  After a moment Tilla pointed out, ‘Nothing is happening.’

  He said, ‘There should at least be a dog.’

  ‘Why would this Calvus and Stilo come here when everyone knows they are liars and there will be men looking for them?’

  The Medicus seemed to be wondering that himself. Perhaps his mind was still lost inside the pain-fighting medicine. Perhaps this really had just been an excuse to come and visit the old wife. She wished she had insisted on overruling him about the carriage. Still, if he really thought they could catch the men who had murdered Cass’s brother … ‘Bang on the gate.’

  ‘No,’ he said, fiddling with the latch and pushing at the studded wood with one shoulder. ‘I don’t want the whole household to hear.’

  She could not resist a sigh of exasperation. ‘Very good. The driver has gone back to town. Everyone here has locked the doors and gone to bed early, and you do not want to wake them up. So now we have a long walk home.’

  ‘Not yet,’ he said, pushing harder at the gate. It gave way slowly, as if there were something heavy behind it. He bent to examine what he had just pushed out of the way.

  ‘It’s the gatekeeper.’ He was feeling for a pulse when she tapped him on the shoulder and pointed. The dog lay motionless, surrounded by a dark stain. No wonder it had failed to bark.

  While the Medicus tended the injured man, she unsheathed her knife and crept out of the far end of the gatehouse.

  She stopped dead.

  The place was full of tall people.

  She ducked back under the gatehouse. Her heart continued to thud furiously even as her brain registered her mistake. The people were not tall. They were on plinths. They were statues. She was entering a grand garden.