Ruth Downie - Terra Incognita

He was exchanging a hasty salute with the guards on the east gate when he heard a familiar and disrespectful yell of, “Hey, Doc!”

“There you go,” announced Audax, thrusting a full bottle of dark liquid into Ruso’s hand. “Got the last one. Some other bugger had his paws on it. But I told the trader it was for you. Worked like a charm. Must be nice to be in the legions. Straight to the front of the line every time.”

“Really?” said Ruso, who was wondering how easy it would be to commandeer a horse without an official order, especially since they would all be being washed and polished for the governor’s inspection in the morning.

“He says he knows you.”

“Really?” He would need something fast. He needed to catch up with her before she found Rianorix’s house destroyed and was either waylaid by Metellus’s lookout men or wandered off somewhere else.

“He says you did some business at Deva,” said Audax.

“Really?” He would tell the grooms he was on a mission from Metellus. It was almost true.

“Fat belly, Gallic accent, hair combed across the top of his head. Asked to be remembered to you. Name of-”

“I know what his name is,” said Ruso, finally paying attention and recalling a man he had hoped never to have the misfortune to meet again. He knew, now, who was selling Doctor Ruso’s Love Potion.

“He did open his eyes for a moment,” said Valens, leaning back in Ruso’s chair, which he had now moved into the isolation ward, and folding his arms. “Tried to say something, but I couldn’t catch it.”

Ruso slid his fingers under Albanus’s thin wrist and felt for a pulse. “Gambax hasn’t been in here, has he?”

“No, and if he had I’d have shooed him out like the madman you seem to think he is. Audax was in again just now, though. He’s decided we’re all incompetent and we can’t manage without him. He said he was bringing somebody else.”

Albanus’s breathing was shallow and his pulse disconcertingly weak.

“Who?”

“Another doctor, I think.”

“Not Scribonius?”

“He’s dead, Ruso.”

“I know,” said Ruso. “Years ago. But his reputation isn’t.” He held out the bottle of tonic. I had a quick taste. I think it’s just dates in hydromel with garlic.”

Valens pulled out the stopper and sniffed the liquid. “Smells disgusting. Are you thinking of inflicting it on Albanus?”

“Only if we run out of better ideas.”

“Fair enough.” Valens put the bottle on the table by the bed and stood up. “Since you’re back, I’ll nip off and hunt down some lunch.”

Ruso withdrew his hand from the pulse. “You carry on enjoying my chair. I’ll tell the cook to bring you something.”

Valens looked pained. “I’m not a patient, Ruso. I don’t want anything that’s good for me. I want something nice. Washed down with something drinkable.”

Ruso headed for the door. “I promise I’ll bring something back for you.”

“Back from where? You’re not going out again and leaving me here, are you?” Valens frowned. “Holy Hercules, I sound like somebody’s wife.”

“Where else are you going to go, anyway?” demanded Ruso. “Over to hang around at Susanna’s, or back to sit around the bathhouse and chat with Catavignus?”

Valens shuddered. “Not there. It’ll be bad enough at this dreadful dinner tonight. I swear the minute he met me, that man was sizing me up as a suitable prospect for his daughter. I’ve already been offered the taster’s tour of the brewery with the purpose-built malt house and had to listen to his eulogy to the kindness of the army plumbers who popped in his free extension pipe from the bathhouse. They do seem to be awfully fond of their beer around here. All of which makes the brewery a wondrous prospect for a business partnership, apparently.”

“You don’t know anything about business,” said Ruso, recalling that his own approach from Catavignus had included some tale about having invested in the plumbing himself. “And I’ve got to go out. I’ll see you later.”

“I don’t know anything about beer either,” agreed Valens. “But that doesn’t seem to worry him. I seem to be fated to be pursued by fathers.”

“Why don’t you tell him all about the Second Spear?” suggested Ruso. “That should put him off.”

Valens frowned. “I thought I might expect a little sympathy from my closest friend,” he complained. “A little brotherly understanding.

A little-”

“A little piece of advice,” said Ruso. “Stay away from women.” He glanced around the lime-washed walls of the isolation room. “You should be safe in here while I go and track down Tilla.”

Ruso urged the horse on up the road they had taken on the day of the hunt, speeding past a cluster of native houses where a couple of men were stacking piles of wood in preparation for tonight. While he and Valens made polite conversation with Tilla’s family and the guild of caterers, the less civilized locals would be up here celebrating the arrival of summer in their traditional manner: gathering together to burn things.

Apart from the obvious disadvantage of having to mingle in the dark with people who might want to chop his head off, Ruso could not help feeling that if one were compelled to attend a social event, a bonfire- even one with British food and interminable British ancestor tales- would be a lot more fun than being trapped around a dining table with a bunch of foreign cooks and businessmen offering investment plans. One would hardly even need to dress up. The serious business of the native event, as Tilla had explained to him during a particularly boring stage of the journey north, was over very quickly. Something to do with purifying one’s cattle by driving them between two fires. Presumably there must be some arrangement for keeping celebrants and livestock separate. Or some ancient saying promising that He Who Sits in a Cow-pat Is Twice Blessed, or something.

By the time he swung off the main road, the sun was low in the sky. There was still no sign of Tilla. He was beginning to realize that this lone sortie had not been one of his better ideas. He wished he had at least worn his sword, but he had entertained some vague and ridiculous hope of being mistaken for a civilian. He spurred the sweating horse on, overtaking a couple of native families who he trusted would not attack him in front of their small children. He hoped he was not too late to catch up with Tilla, and not for her sake only. He did not want to be riding across these remote hillsides on his own after sunset. The tale that he was conducting a search for a local girl in order to take her to safety was scant protection at best, but at least in daylight he could hope to see any assailants before they struck, and try to dissuade them from murdering him. After dark, he would not see them coming.

It was a surprise to find yet more natives ahead of him, but there was nothing he could do now except hurry past them. To his relief they edged a white-haired grandfather out of the middle of the path when they heard the hoofbeats approaching, and in return he tried not to let the horse splatter them with mud as he cantered past.

The path wound around a wooded bank and opened out above the valley he remembered from the hunt. On his left was the high marshy ground. Ahead were the abandoned foundation trenches and the ramshackle round house, but instead of containing a woman and a dog, the place was crowded with natives. Dozens of them. Many had turned to watch his approach. They were reaching for weapons.

Ruso reined the horse in and glanced around. The families he had passed on the road had been reinforced by men carrying staves and clubs.

Ahead of him, the gate was open. At the top of the yard a barking hound seemed to be trying to strangle itself by leaping forward and being jerked back by the limits of its chain. Beyond its range, natives without weapons were clutching jugs and bowls and armfuls of wood and piles of dried bracken. The smell of roasting meat drifted past the gate.