Ruth Downie - Terra Incognita

At last: a cheering thought. The fort might be small, the natives vicious, the infirmary badly run, and the restoration of his new colleague’s mind unlikely, but a lone legionary officer here at the request of the prefect would be assigned decent quarters. While Tilla was practicing her unconventional approach to cookery, that officer would be able to retreat to his room, relax in his favorite chair, and think deep thoughts with no danger of Valens wandering in and distracting him with wine and gossip.

“They might as well take it straight to my quarters,” said Ruso. “You don’t happen to know where they are, do you?”

“There was a letter waiting for you, as well, sir,” continued Albanus, a little too brightly. “Here.”

Whoever it was had gone to the trouble of writing out several sheets that were now tied and sealed together in an offering of ominous width. Ruso took it and tucked it into his belt. “Albanus, what are you trying not to tell me?”

Albanus looked apologetic. “I asked about the medic’s quarters, sir, but some other doctor’s in them and they said you wouldn’t want to share.”

“He’s ill.”

“You’ll be very close to your work, sir.”

“Everywhere here is close to my work. Everywhere’s close to everything. What’s the problem?”

Albanus cleared his throat. “They said you’ll have to bed down in the infirmary, sir.”

“What?”

“Sorry, sir.”

“But there aren’t any empty rooms! I’m not sharing with the patients. And I’m not bloody sleeping in the treatment room. I’d rather camp outside in a tent.”

“They said one of the storerooms could be cleared out, sir.”

“Has anybody from headquarters actually been into the infirmary recently?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

Ruso shook his head. “No, of course you don’t. Rhetorical question. Well. The infirmary it is, then.”

When Ruso returned to the office, Gambax had lit a fire in the hearth and was standing by the pharmacy table weighing out a pile of torn leaves.

“Tell me,” said Ruso, “when Felix’s body was brought in, who was on duty?”

“Me, sir.”

“So you and the other staff helped to lay it out?”

“Audax did it, sir, all by himself,” said Gambax, confirming what the centurion had said. “Wouldn’t even let us in there to pay our respects. We offered to help, but he thinks medics are a waste of time. If you’re not happy, you need to talk to him.”

“I will,” said Ruso. Fortuitously, it seemed the infirmary staff had thought they were being kept away from the body because of Audax’s prejudices rather than any more sinister reason. “Tonight I want you to organize a roster.”

Gambax’s eyes registered alarm.

“By the time the lamps are lit tomorrow, I want every patient to have had a wash. All over. I want the wards properly aired, every floor and wall scrubbed, every mattress replaced with one that’s got a clean cover and fresh straw, and clean bedding on every bed.”

Gambax’s jaw dropped even farther than normal.

“You don’t have to do it all yourself,” explained Ruso. “Just organize the staff. And if those four malingerers are still here in the morning, they can clean out the latrine.”

“Me and the staff will see what we can do, sir.”

“Good,” said Ruso. “If anybody needs me, I’m going across to visit Doctor Thessalus, then I’m heading for a quick cleanup at the baths. Then I’ll come back here to see my amputee before I go to Felix’s funeral.”

“Right you are, sir,” agreed Gambax. “You take your time. Don’t worry about us. We’ll keep an eye on everything while you’re gone. I’ll see if I can find a pen in a minute and make a start on that roster you want.”

“If there’s any change with the amputee, call me right away. And did you know about the billeting arrangement?”

The deputy poured a measure of cold water on top of the leaves. “Billeting arrangement, sir?”

“I’ll be sleeping here. So while I’m out, you’ll need to get the smaller storeroom cleared out and a clean bed put in there too.”

Gambax reached down to balance the pot on the iron grid by the hearth. “I’ll get a room ready for you, sir.”

“The smaller one,” insisted Ruso. “And leave the barrel where it is.”

Gambax’s “Yes, sir,” was not heartfelt, and Ruso knew why. The smaller storeroom was the one housing the infirmary’s beer supply.

"Good afternoon! ” the young man’s cheerful smile belied both the gravity of his situation and the pallor of his thin face. Ruso guessed that the smell filling the gloomy little entrance room was rising from the hair oil glistening on his dark curls.

“Very good of you to call,” the man continued. “I’m Thessalus. I expect you know that. The guard tells me you’re called Ruso. Odd sort of name. Did you bring the fish?”

“I’m a doctor,” explained Ruso, who had been mistaken for many things before but never a cook. “Gambax will be bringing your dinner later.”

“Yes, I know. So did you bring the fish?”

Ruso glanced at the guard, hoping for some guidance, but the man did not seem to feel his duties extended beyond announcing the visitor and standing at attention by the door. “I didn’t know I had to bring a fish,” said Ruso, wondering why Gambax had failed to warn him. “Was it any particular sort of fish?”

“Well, of course it was a particular sort of fish!” exclaimed Thessalus, ushering him through a doorway to where the very little light edging around a cloth nailed over the window revealed the domestic confusion of a single man not expecting visitors. “You can’t get much use out of a salmon, can you? Or a trout? They would just lie there and flop about a bit.”

“I’ll see about a fish next time,” Ruso promised, making a mental note to ask Gambax what on earth the man was talking about. “How are you feeling today?”

“In need of a fish. A fish around the head. A fish on a dish around the head until it’s dead.” Thessalus giggled, then clamped a hand over his mouth before indicating a chair and saying with exaggerated politeness, “Do sit down, Doctor.”

Ruso cleared away a scatter of scroll cases, upon some of which he could just make out the names of medical writers. Turning, he found Thessalus perched on the edge of a folding stool.

“Now,” said Thessalus, rocking the stool toward him with his hands clasped together but remaining out of reach. “How are you feeling today? Is it any better?”

Ruso sniffed the air in the untidy room, picking up a waft of wine mingled with the hair oil. It was clear he was not going to get much help-or even sense-from Thessalus. “I am well. Are you feeling ill?”

Thessalus giggled again. “No, I’m lovely. Are you? You look tired. It’s tiring being a medic, isn’t it? All those problems. All that misery. They all want a miracle, don’t they?”

“True.”

“I’ve run out of miracles. I told them. I looked in the miracle jar and, oh dear, someone’s left the stopper off and all the miracles have flown out.”

“I heard you went to see the prefect today.”

“Did I really?” This seemed to be a great surprise. “Is he ill?”

“I heard you went to talk about a man called Felix.”

“Felix? Oh dear, you want to stay away from him. There’s nothing you can do for him now.”

“Where is he?”

Thessalus frowned. “Where’s who?”

“Felix.”

Thessalus looked around the room. “He isn’t here, is he?”

Knowing Metellus had searched the rooms, Ruso could say with confidence that he was not. “I’m told you might know where he is.”

Thessalus shook his head. “Doctors don’t know all the answers, you know. What color is time? Where do the thoughts of the dead go? How is it diseases spread but miracles don’t? Have you ever thought of that?”