Medicus (26 page)

56

A
S 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.

Perhaps he should leave the bedroom door open, just in case there was some very quiet wailing and cursing going on.

Perhaps not.

He had more important things to do than waste his evening wondering what his servant was up to.

The trouble with women was that no matter what you did, they were never satisfied. Instead of being grateful for the efforts made on their behalf—sometimes quite considerable, and at no small inconvenience—they chose to pick on one small matter that had not been attended to, and complain about it.

What else was he supposed to have done about that girl? Stride into the bar and demand that Merula hand her over? What Tilla did not seem to understand was that in the absence of an official complaint by someone willing to take up her case—which Ruso certainly wasn't, since the girl was none of his business—no one was obliged to do anything at all about Phryne. Not tonight, not next week, not ever.

In the meantime, while the medicus to the Twentieth sat in the wavering light, pondering the welfare of local barmaids over a cup of wine and a bellyful of chicken stew, there could be a frightened legionary lying injured out in some dark and distant outpost, unable to summon even a bandager, wishing to the gods that either he or his companions knew something about first aid.

Ruso straightened his chair, cleared his throat, and began to fill the central leaf with writing.

He wrote steadily to the foot of the wax, read it through, and was correcting it when he heard the front door open. He and Valens grunted a mutual good night and moments later he heard the other bedroom door shut. There was no sound from the kitchen.

Ruso flipped the wooden leaf over and began to fill the other side.

He was surprised when a distant trumpet sounded for the next watch, which told him he had been writing for a couple of hours now.

The lamp was starting to sputter as he finished the last sentence. He pushed the wick down to conserve the oil, propped the tablet beside the lamp, and reread his work. It was good. He slapped the tablet shut and put it back on the top of the pile. He would get Albanus to make a clean copy in the morning.

His thoughts returned to Tilla's concern for Phryne. She had a point.

The girl's situation was not a happy one, and it would doubtless be getting worse with every hour she spent in that place. At least, though, she had the protection of being the daughter of a freeman. The law would—eventually—help her in a way that it would never have helped Saufeia, or Asellina, or the unfortunate Daphne. Neither the law nor the army offered any hope to slaves whose owners expected them to work as prostitutes. Their only choices were to cooperate, kill themselves, or run away. And if the escape went disastrously wrong, there seemed to be few who would care. He hoped the business about the hair had whetted the second spear's appetite for investigation. And that Phryne would not take it into her head to run away tonight.

Ruso picked up his cup of wine. He blew out the struggling lamp before the flame scorched the dry wick and headed for the door.

He stood for a moment, breathing in the warm air of the dining room. As his eyes adjusted to the dark he could make out a bundle huddled on the couch, faintly outlined by the dull glow of the dying embers in the fire. He held his breath, but he already knew how quietly she slept. He could hear only a faint crackle of burning and the thud of his own heart. He took a step forward.

There was the rustle of fabric and the bundle moved. "My Lord?"

He groped for a taper and knelt to push the end into the embers. "That business this afternoon, Tilla. The near miss."

"Is not an accident, my Lord."

"Whatever it was, you did well. That's all. Go back to sleep now."

"Good night, my Lord."

The end of the taper caught into a yellow flame. He lifted it out and set it to the candle on the table.

"My Lord?"

"Yes?"

"I know you try to help Phryne."

He paused, candle in hand, by the kitchen door. "I am sorry if you were hoping for more."

"I am not hoping for anything, my Lord."

Ruso poured himself a cup of water in the kitchen. /
am not hoping for anything, my Lord.
Considering the fortunes of the slaves he had come to know since moving to Deva, that was hardly surprising.

He paused by the couch on his way back to the bedroom, setting the candle and the water on the table. "Before you sleep, Tilla," he said, "I have something to ask you. No—" he held out a hand, "don't stand up."

She pulled the blankets around her shoulders, curled her feet in beneath her, and stifled a yawn. The dog must be sleeping on Valens's bed: There was room beside her on the couch. Ruso chose the edge of the table instead. One of his feet brushed against something. He glanced down to see two small boots set in a neat pair. "I have been told more than once," he said, "that Saufeia could read and write."

"Yes, my Lord."

"There is something people are not telling me."

She frowned. "I am telling my Lord everything he asks."

"I want to know why it matters. Does it have something to do with what happened to her?"

From outside the house the sound of boots on gravel rose and rapidly faded as the guard relieved from the last watch took a shortcut on their way back to bed.

"What about the other girl? Do you know anything about that?"