Ruth Downie - Semper Fidelis

“Not on fire?”

“No.”

The man laid his hands flat on the table. “Then it is very hard to say.”

She was glad she had not told her husband where she was going.

She could see now that the meaning was obvious. It did not matter that she had risen from slave to housekeeper, from housekeeper to wife. It did not matter how many babies she helped other women to bring into the world. Marcia’s letter had been a sharp reminder that her days were destined to be spent moving between empty rooms, with no family of her own to fill them.

She closed her eyes, listening to the voice of her mother.

It’s no good moping, girl. There’s work to be done.

But, Mam, the slaves do all the work in a mansio, and I cannot make women have babies to deliver. Besides, do you not see how it breaks my heart to hold them when I have none of my own?

Have you forgotten? Nobody likes a person who feels sorry for herself.

I try not to, Mam. And when we get back to Deva, I shall have plenty to do.

Lighting fires and fetching water? Cooking?

Not every day. Some days we rent next door’s kitchen girl.

What other wife of a Roman officer ever does those things? You shame us by marrying him and then you shame him by acting like a slave!

He is not ashamed of me!

No? What do his friends think? Why were you not invited to dinner with the tribune?

Nobody’s wife was invited, Mam. And I had a patient to see.

You spent the evening with a silly girl who said you were no help, and reading about dead sparrows. I don’t know what to make of you. One minute you are cleaning his armor like a slave, the next you are trying to read as if you were some rich foreigner.

You were the one who told me to get on and do things and stop moping, Mam! Now I am doing things and still you are not satisfied!

She could hear again the sniff of disdain that meant her mother might be losing the argument, but she was still right. You are trying to be many people at once, daughter. But you know from the dream that you are not going to be a mother, and you are a terrible cook. Why do you not ask your husband to buy some help?

We cannot agree on what sort of slave to buy.

Nonsense. That is an excuse.

Mam, I am not going to be one of those wives who hang around the bathhouse all morning eating cakes and complaining about everything.

Then find yourself something better to do!

Tilla, who in low moments long ago had considered trying to join her lost family in the next world, decided she was glad she had stayed in this one.

The blackbird was still singing outside. Over in the fort, the sacrifice to Jupiter would be complete. It was a good morning to make a new start. Then perhaps the dream would go away.

Ruso yawned and made his way across to the hospital to shed his gear and see what fate had decreed for Austalis, owner of the wounded arm. As he approached, the acrid smell of burning filled his nostrils. A couple of bonfires were alight in the middle of one of the unused streets. The Twentieth were clearing out their rubbish and preparing to leave.

The room opposite the office had a different and worrying stink, and Ruso was annoyed to see that nobody had opened the shutters. He was not fooled by We didn’t want to wake him, sir . When had hospital staff ever shied away from waking their patients?

The light revealed a figure whose sunken eyes were too bright. Sweat-darkened hair lay flat against his scalp, and the sheets were damp with perspiration. When Ruso spoke, he tried to reply but seemed unable to form the sounds into words. His pulse was still fast and faint. Ruso turned to the man who was hovering at the door.

“I left orders for someone to call me if there was any change.”

The only response was a meaningless “Yes, sir!”

As Ruso suspected, nobody had checked the catheter. Another food bowl, this time of thin gruel, had gone almost cold beside the bed. Apparently Austalis had been fed a couple of spoonfuls earlier and had vomited. So much for not wanting to wake him.

Ruso gave a few terse orders and the dressings tray finally appeared in the hands of the chalk-faced youth, who seemed to be the one given the jobs nobody else wanted and now looked as though he might faint at any moment. He was followed by a porter, who delivered a jug of clean water and a smaller jug of vinegar inside an empty bucket and then hurried out as if he was afraid he might be asked to assist. Ruso called him back and ordered him to summon all the staff to the office at the start of the next watch.

The chalk-faced youth seemed to have some idea of what to do, but Ruso was forced to stamp on his toe as the bandages were unwrapped. It was not until the wound had been cleaned out and redressed with a poultice of ground pine needles and they were splashing water over their hands down in the latrines that he could explain.

“Looking at a wound and saying “Ugh” is hardly going to boost the patient’s confidence, is it?”

“Sorry, sir,” said the youth. “I didn’t think he could hear me.”

“That belief has been the downfall of many great men.”

“Yes, sir.”

Ruso found the driest corner of a towel that someone should have changed this morning. “Apart from that, you did well.”

“Thank you, sir.” A little color appeared in the youth’s cheeks as he ventured, “I haven’t done anything like that before, sir.”

“You’ll get used to it,” Ruso promised him, wondering if that sounded more like a threat.

“He will be all right, won’t he, sir?”

Ruso handed the towel over. “If we keep on with the treatment, there’s a slim chance he might get better by himself and still have two arms.”

“What if he doesn’t, sir?”

“Taking the arm off might save the rest of him. But the longer we wait and the weaker he gets, the worse his chances are.”

The color in the cheeks drained away again. “I can’t believe any man would do that to himself, sir.”

Ruso said, “I doubt he intended it to end up this bad. Any idea what drove him to it?”

The youth looked around him, but the wooden rows of latrine seats provided no inspiration. He said, “You could try asking Centurion Geminus, sir.”

Geminus, the man who seemed to know the answer to every question. The man with two shadows.

By the time the trumpet sounded the next watch, Ruso had been relieved to find that Austalis was the only neglected patient. He had discharged a couple of men who looked sorry to be leaving; admitted another who arrived doubled over with stomach cramps; and been almost certain that the recruit who claimed to have walked into a door was the man who had been marched away by Geminus’s shadows. He checked on the wrist and the injured foot from yesterday, and looked in on Austalis again. When all the staff on duty had crowded into the office, he chose the most sensible-looking orderly to be responsible for Austalis. “I want him kept clean and comfortable, and I want to be told straightaway if anything changes. And I want it made known that he’s allowed a visitor. Just one friend, and very briefly. I don’t want him worn out.”

The orderly raised a hand. “Sir, he’s supposed to be in isolation.”

“I take it his centurion wants to put the others off trying the same trick?”

If any men in the room had dared to guess at the centurion’s intentions, they were not fool enough to admit it.

“I’ll square it with Geminus,” he assured them. “And given the condition of the patient, I think we can count on his visitor to spread the word about the stupidity of self-inflicted injuries.”