Ruth Downie - Ruso and the Root of All Evils

‘Gaius is just out of the Army,’ said Arria, as if she had to excuse him. ‘Wounded by those dreadful Britons.’

Diphilus smiled at them both and said he would be honoured to look at the drains of a war hero. Arria looked delighted. Ruso, feeling outnumbered, went across to the stables. He would probably get more sense out of the mule.

Two early shoppers had paused to chat in the shade of the Forum wall. Ruso was relieved to see that the latest exhortation to support Fuscus, partially obscured behind them, was not long enough to begin with ‘G. Petreius Ruso, Veteran of the …’ His relief was short-lived. Glancing back over his shoulder as he rode past, he saw the wall from a different angle.

He had just made out ‘The town poisoner says vote for …’ when the shorter of the two women shouted, ‘Oi! Who d’you think you’re staring at?’

Ruso urged the mule on down the street, pursued by a cry of ‘We’re respectable married women! You keep your eyes to yourself!’

The games were not taking place for another two days, but as he squinted up at the glaring white stone of the amphitheatre he could see small silhouettes moving about on the parapet, slotting in the masts for the sails that would be pulled across to shade the audience from sunstroke. Below them, other shapes appeared and vanished again, hurrying around the stone lattice of arches and corridors that formed the massive and elegant oval in which Fuscus’ entertainment would take place.

A cart piled high with animal cages was being manoeuvred in beneath the carved bulls’ heads that adorned the main entrance. Whatever was in the cages was smelly but silent, and hidden by a sailcloth that had been thrown over the top as a rough shade. Ruso rode on around the outside of the building. As he passed, some sort of animal noise — a roar or a bellow, it was hard to say which — echoed from deep within the arches. The mule pricked up its ears but plodded on past the municipal slaves busy sweeping the flagstones. Presumably whatever had made the sound would have its blood mixed in with the sand of the arena in a couple of days.

Further around, someone was applying fresh paint to the entrance numbers on the sides of the arches. Traders were unloading their vehicles. A sweet stall, a fritter vendor and a souvenir salesman had already claimed the shade under the trees across the street, hoping to attract early trade. All were no doubt grateful to Fuscus for the opportunity to make a little extra money. As, in a roundabout way, was Ruso.

The gladiators’ barracks in the building next door were marked by a gaggle of excited females clustered around the heavy gates, waiting for a glimpse of their heroes. Ruso hoped that Marcia and Flora had never stooped to cupping their hands around their mouths and yelling encouragement through the cracks in the woodwork. Still, these alarmingly forthright young women might be of use to him now. Their devotion would have armed them with the information he needed.

Ruso dismounted and led the mule into the haze of competing perfumes.

‘What’s the name of the doctor in there?’ he asked a couple of pink-cheeked girls whose diaphanous outfits were made even more distracting by the way they stuck to their owners in the heat.

One of them seemed about to reply when a scream from a girl by the gate set off a cacophony of shrieking. Cries of ‘Who can you see?’ merged with a chant of ‘Xantus, Xantus, Xantus!’ and several devotees were leaping to fling scraps of fabric and posies of flowers over the gate. Ruso wondered whether Xantus was embarrassed. A little leather bottle of something (perfume? Love potion? Magic formula for courage?) sailed over into the barracks. He tried his question again, hoping for a name he recognized.

‘Gnostus,’ said one of the girls, not bothering to look round.

This was not encouraging. He had never heard of a doctor called Gnostus. He led the mule forward, clearing a path with the untruthful ‘Watch your backs, he bites!’ until he was standing in front of the gates. Rapping on the wood with his stick, he shouted, ‘Visitor for Gnostus!’

There was a pause. A small slot in the door slid open. A pair of bloodshot eyes appeared and a voice repeated, ‘Gnostus?’ as if wondering whether the visitor had got the name right.

Ruso unfastened his medical case and held up the largest pair of surgical forceps he possessed. Ignoring the mingled gasps of horror and delight from the crowd, he said, ‘I’m the other surgeon.’

‘Wait there,’ said the voice. The slot snapped shut again. As the girls giggled and whispered behind him, he tucked the forceps into his belt and indulged in some unnecessary straightening of the mule’s headband.

His wait was rewarded with the sound of the bar being lifted out of its brackets. Girls began to inch forward as one of the gates moved back. They stopped at the emergence of a leather whip, followed by the doorman who yelled, ‘No admittance to the public!’ and cracked the whip in the air as if he were disciplining animals. From the squealing that followed, it was hard to tell whether the girls were excited or terrified.

As soon as the tail of Ruso’s mount was safely inside, the gate slammed shut behind him, and the bar thudded back into position.

The dust in the centre of the wide courtyard bore witness to the scuffles of a morning’s training, but the battered wooden sparring-posts stood deserted in the midday sun. Abandoned shields and leather jerkins and shin-guards were stacked in one corner. The favours that had been tossed over the gates were nowhere to be seen. A low murmur of conversation and the scrape of spoons on bowls suggested the trainees had retreated into the shade of the low building on the right to eat. Without its occupants the courtyard, with its stink of sweat and embrocation, could almost have been one of the military training-grounds Ruso had left behind in Britannia — except that one of the posts bore a set of manacles dangling from a heavy chain, and the Twentieth had more sense than to arm itself with the impractical nets and tridents he saw piled up beside the gate as he handed the mule’s reins to the doorkeeper.

The doorkeeper’s ‘First on the left, mate,’ was rendered unnecessary by a sudden roar of pain from that direction. Moments later a skinny man of about Ruso’s own age emerged from the door, wiping bloodstained hands on his apron. Ruso was convinced he saw a brief flash of recognition on the face before the man demanded, ‘What other surgeon?’

‘Hello, Euplius!’

Euplius’ face arranged itself into a expression of confusion. ‘Who?’ He retreated back into his room, beckoning Ruso to follow. ‘We haven’t met. I’m Gnostus, all the way from Ephesus. Doctor to the finest gladiator troupe in Gaul. Those are my apprentices. And you are?’

‘Ruso, senior surgeon with the Twentieth Legion,’ said Ruso, glancing at a heavily muscled man who was sitting on a chair between the trainees and clutching a bloodstained rag to his mouth. Surely his memory could not be that bad? It was many years since he and Euplius had met during their own apprenticeships, but could there really be two medics cursed with those ears?

‘As in Gaius Petreius Ruso?’ queried Gnostus, lifting the lid from a jar and pouring liquid into a wooden cup. ‘I’ve heard of you.’ He handed the cup to his patient.

‘Not everything you’ve heard is true,’ Ruso assured him.

‘Keep swilling that around the cavity,’ ordered Gnostus. ‘Slowly.’

The man removed the rag, took a tentative sip and grimaced.

‘It’s good stuff,’ Gnostus promised.

The man did not look convinced.

Gnostus offered the jar to Ruso. ‘Guess.’

Ruso dipped in the tip of a finger and licked it.