Ruth Downie - Semper Fidelis

Tilla, seated on the bed and halfheartedly scanning the poetry scroll in the poor light, reflected that any decent owner would buy a boy who could learn from the older slave and take over the heavy work. But while the old man had worked in the mansio gardens for as long as he could remember, managers came and went. And new men liked to make sweeping changes.

She glanced up and saw that her husband was scratching one ear in the way he did when he was thinking. The treatment she had seen him recommend for this sort of thing would be of no use to a slave who was more likely to sleep in a damp bed than be able to lie in a hot bath. And if he managed to scrape together regular warm fomentations of bark and barley meal, where would he find the privacy to apply them?

Finally she heard “Tilla, can you get me the bottle of mandrake in wine, and a spoon?” and, to the patient, “Do you grow dill? And rue?”

“Dill, yes. Rue smells. I could find a patch outside.”

While Tilla rummaged inside the case, her husband explained how to boil the herbs together to make a medicine that was good for easing joint pain.

When she handed the bottle across, he checked the thin wooden label tied around the neck as usual and frowned. “Mandrake,” he repeated, handing it back.

She took it, glanced at the two bubbles near the base of the thick green glass, and offered it back to him. “Mandrake,” she confirmed.

Silently he pointed to the label.

“Mandrake,” she insisted.

He gave her a look of mild alarm that said, You don’t read the labels? and reached for the case himself, picking out one of the three remaining bottles he usually carried with him.

“That is iris, for purging!” she whispered, placing her hand over his. The patient, who was sitting on the end of the bed nearest the window, was beginning to look worried.

She placed both bottles on the table, pulled out a stopper, and sniffed before passing the bottle to him. He lifted it to his nose, paused, and turned to the patient. “Sorry about that. Have you finished work for the night?”

The man nodded.

“One and a half spoons in a cup, please, Tilla.” To the patient he said, “I don’t recommend you take a lot of this, but for once it should give you a decent night’s sleep.”

Tilla handed over the cup with a warm smile that defied any questions about whether this traveling medicus and his woman really knew what they were doing.

After the slave had drunk the medicine and gone, Tilla watched her husband line up all four bottles on the table and scowl at them. “You must be more careful, Tilla.”

“Me? I am the one who got it right!”

“Just as well.” Leaving the bottles on the table, he snapped the case shut and tightened the strap so that the buckle slid into the groove it had made in the leather.

The stew bowl was barely warm, although he had not had time to find that out when there was yet another rap at the door.

Tilla called, “The Medicus is eating! Come back tomorrow!”

“The tribune wants him.”

Tilla would have told the tribune to wait, but her husband was already on his feet. That was the sort of thing they were trained to do in the army: obey without question or delay. When they were ordered to swim across a swollen river, they did it. Or died trying.

“Can you sort those bottles out while I’m gone?”

“I did not tie the wrong labels on.”

“But it’s obvious you don’t read them.” He scooped a last mouthful of stew.

“Why bother when it is quicker not to?” She reached for the bottle of purgative and examined the knot in the twine. “This is someone else’s work, husband. I always leave a loop and an end so it undoes easily.”

He was not listening. “If there’s a message about Austalis, tell them where I am and tell them they absolutely must interrupt.”

And then he was gone.

Accius had disrupted the end of Ruso’s meal, but he was not allowing anything to distract him from his own. While the tribune picked at a bowl of olives and perused a scroll on the table in front of him, Ruso stood as silent and unnoticed as the slave in the corner, and wondered why Tilla was always determined to argue instead of apologizing. He had enough troubles without standing here feeling annoyed with her. He was probably about to be reprimanded for his public quarrel with Geminus.

Had he been too harsh on Geminus? The man was undoubtedly a bully who frightened his men into taking dangerous, sometimes fatal risks. On the other hand, he had dived into the river to save Sulio and then later climbed onto a roof to try to talk him out of suicide. He was a centurion with years of experience. He had been specifically chosen for the job of instilling into raw recruits the discipline that would send them out to fight.

What did Ruso know about training recruits?

Nothing. He could not even persuade one to sacrifice an arm to save his own life.

Accius was still eating. Ruso shifted his weight onto the other foot. Beside him, the slave watched for a signal from his master with the air of a man used to making himself invisible.

Whatever had happened to Tadius-and Ruso was convinced that he still wasn’t being told the whole story-he had to admit that it was up to Geminus to deal with it. Looking at the situation from the other side, he could see how annoying it must be to have an unknown doctor arrive and start interfering. Almost as annoying, in fact, as it was for that doctor to have a centurion dictate what should happen to his patients.

On the other hand (did that make three hands? He had lost count), if the man had nothing to hide, why start making threats about reporting Tilla’s past to the tribune?

Accius spat out the last olive stone, looked up, and said, “Ah, there you are!” as if his visitor had just walked in through the wall.

“Sir.”

“How are your medics doing?” Before Ruso could answer he said, “I went to the hospital but you weren’t there.”

“They’ve mostly done a good job in difficult circumstances, sir.”

“Good. Are all your patients fit to move?”

“One’s doubtful, sir.”

“Then we may have to leave him with the Sixth and have him sent back later.”

When Ruso looked blank, Accius said, “That’s what I called you over to tell you. Apparently the Sixth are only a couple of days’ march away.”

“I see, sir.” Ruso felt the muscles in his shoulders relax. He was not here to be reprimanded. Nobody had reported his disagreement with Geminus. Why would they? He was getting as nervous as the recruits.

Accius was talking about the arrangements for the takeover. “So our recruits will have their final trials the day after tomorrow, and then we’ll be ready to march them to Deva as soon as the Sixth take over.”

“I’ll tell my men, sir.”

“Good.” Accius paused. “How did you think the ceremony went this morning?”

Ruso said, “Very well sir.”

“Yes.” Accius appeared pleased, as if some other answer had been possible. “I thought so too. I think we’ve cleaned off the slate so we can start again.”

Ruso took a deep breath. “Sir, there’s something I need to mention to you.” He glanced at the slave. “It’s confidential.”

“Is this really necessary?”

“Yes, sir. I think it is.”

Accius glanced at the slave. “More wine, and then clear out till I call you.”

“It’s something I should have mentioned before, sir,” Ruso confessed. When the slave had refilled the wine-with none offered to the visitor- and cleared away the olive stones, Ruso began to attempt a version of events that laid out the facts while skirting round the truth in the middle of them. “It’s all been dealt with, sir, but I think you ought to know that some time ago my wife received some coins that turned out to be from a stolen pay wagon.”