Ruth Downie: Caveat emptor

Firmus put down the stylus and got to his feet. “Wait here,” he ordered. “I’ll be back in a-” He stopped, because the woman was no longer paying him any attention. Instead, she had pressed both hands into the small of her back and was staring at the floor with an air of intense concentration.

As he watched, her mouth formed a soft Oh. She stepped to one side and slid a hand down to lift her skirt. He followed her gaze, peering around the desk in an attempt to make out what she was looking at.

Pyramus was at his side, whispering, “There is liquid trickling down the inside of her leg onto the floor, master.”

For a moment Firmus had no idea what his slave was talking about. Then he said, “You can’t start that in here, madam! This is an Imperial Office!”

Gaius Petreius Ruso stepped over a coil of rope, leaned on the starboard rail of the ship, and wondered, not for the first time, if he was making a very big mistake.

Britannia would only ever be a province. Careers were made by men who visited these damp green islands at the edge of the world and then went back to somewhere more civilized, telling tales of survival. Ruso, on the other hand, was returning without any intention of going home again. In fact he had no plans at all, beyond a keen desire to arrive safely and practice his profession in a place where his wife was not considered a dangerous barbarian.

He moved farther along the rail, keeping out of the way as orders were shouted and the crew scurried about, preparing to bring the ship into port.

Over on the bank the scatter of dumpy thatched round houses began to give way to the red roofs of modern buildings squared up along the street grid of Londinium. He felt his usual sense of detachment when he arrived somewhere by river: gliding into town like a ghost, able to see and hear what was going on but not able to participate.

The breeze carried the tang of stale beer across the water. He could even make out the dingy waterfront bar it was coming from, and catch the strains of native music. It was one of those long, swirly tunes he had first overheard a slender blond woman singing up in Deva, in the days when he had thought that no sensible man would choose to live here.

His doubts were interrupted by the woman’s arrival. She placed a hand over his own and took up the tune in a husky voice. At what seemed to be the end of a section she paused and said with obvious delight,

“They sing this at home in the North!”

“I remember.”

Very softly, she began to sing again.

Tilla had plans, of course. Women always did. It seemed almost every conversation on the journey had begun with, “When we are home…” He had stifled the desire to point out that it might be her home, but it was not his.

He only hoped Valens had remembered the promise to find him a job, because he suspected that now they were here, “When we are home,” would turn into “When we have somewhere to live,” and then they would be back to, “When we have children,” and there was only so much planning a man could stand.

He blamed the crockery. Despite Tilla’s unfortunate origins, there was a clear expectation from the female side of the Petreius family that any man who had been presented with a matching set of tableware as a wedding present would hurry to provide a table to put it on, and somewhere to put the table, and a brood of little Petreii to eat at it.

Evidently Tilla’s thoughts were not far from his own. As the sailors positioned themselves to throw the mooring ropes, she said, “I want to watch them unload. I am not bringing all those cups and bowls this far to have them dropped on the dockside.”

“Good idea,” he agreed. “I’ll go and tell Valens we’ve arrived.”

The side of the ship bumped gently against the massive planking of the wharf. Ruso felt a surge of energy at the thought of getting back to work. He would have something useful to do at last.

The trouble with you, Ruso,” said Valens, glancing to check that the door was closed before propping his feet on one of the polished tables in his remarkably ornate dining room, “is that you’re never satisfied. Look at me. Here am I, burdened with a massive rent to pay, two children and a dissatisfied wife to support, an endless round of demanding patients, two of the dimmest apprentices in Londinium-and do you hear me complaining?”

“What you promised to do,” said Ruso, guessing that Valens’s patients must be not only demanding but also wealthy, “was to keep an eye open for a surgical job.”

“Exactly!” exclaimed Valens. “Throw me one of those cushions, will you, old chap? You wouldn’t believe what she paid for this couch and it’s the most uncomfortable-Thanks. You’re much better off on the chair, believe me.”

Ruso tossed over one of his cushions, removed the pull-along wooden horse that explained the lumpiness of the other, and placed it on the floor.

“Sometimes I think she chose it to keep me awake while I listen to her. Anyway, where was I? Oh, yes. Knowing how desperate you always are for cash, I assumed the operative word in your letter was job. ” The handsome grin that had once charmed his dissatisfied wife reappeared. “And on the very morning you turn up, I’ve found you a job. Not only for you, but one for your lovely wife as well. You didn’t warn me you were going to be picky.”

“I’m not being picky,” pointed out Ruso. “I’m being realistic. I don’t know the first thing about finding missing-” He stopped as a cry of pain echoed down the stairs. “Should one of us go up and have a look at her?”

Valens shook his head. “I saw her just before you got here. The apprentices will call me if anything happens, but she’ll probably be hours yet. It’s a first baby. What was it you were saying?”

“I said, I don’t know anything about finding missing tax collectors.”

“Don’t worry. You’ll get the details this afternoon.”

“I haven’t said I’ll do it.”

The brown eyes widened. “You aren’t going to let me down, are you? That would be horribly embarrassing. I’ve just been telling the procurator’s assistant what a marvelous chap you are.”

“Why would he employ a medic to conduct a manhunt?”

“Well, you wouldn’t be anyone’s first choice, obviously.” Valens glanced at the slave in the corner and nodded toward his cup. The boy stepped forward and poured more wine. “But I said you helped me work out who murdered that soldier up on the border, and-”

“ I helped you?”

Valens shook his head. “There you go again, being picky. And I told him you’d had a good go at finding out what happened to those bar girls in Deva-”

“I did find out.”

Valens paused. “Really? I don’t remember. Anyway, I managed to convince him that you’re just what he’s looking for.”

“A surgeon.”

“If it would have helped to tell him you were a surgeon, I would have. But he wanted an investigator. And you can’t resist poking your nose into things, so you are a sort of investigator, aren’t you? Admit it, Ruso. Find something that intrigues you and you’re like a dog with a bone.”

There was another wail from upstairs. Valens frowned. “Shouldn’t the lovely Tilla be here by now? I promised the woman a midwife would be here any moment.”

Ruso had barely finished saying, “They must be taking a long time to unload,” when there was a commotion out in the hall and the door crashed open. Valens removed his feet from the table and swung around to see a figure stagger into the room carrying a jumble of bags and bundles.

“Tilla!” Valens sprang up from the couch. Tilla, evidently not wanting to drop the luggage, was unable to move until he released his embrace. “Dear girl, you shouldn’t be carrying all that. Didn’t he get you some help?”