Ruth Downie: Medicus

The youth did not reply. He was staring at the operating table.

"Tell him I'll be down later," said Ruso.

The youth swallowed again. "He said to tell you the extra is the tax and the cost of drawing up the documents, sir."

Ruso nodded toward the mangled mass of the girl's arm. "If you don't get out right away, I shall do this to you too."

The youth fled.

Ruso aimed the tweezers at the wastebasket, missed, and said, "I think that's clean."

Valens laid a hand on the girl's forehead. "We like this arm so much, young woman, we're going to put it back together for you."

The orderly leaned down until his face was almost touching the girl's.

"Breathe deeply now," he ordered. "Ready? In, out-In, out…"

Ruso had rehearsed his speech all the way down to the gatehouse, but when he got there he found his time had been wasted. Instead of the wool trader, the guards presented him with an elderly slave with no teeth who made it clear that if he failed to return to his master with the right money, his life would not be worth living. Ruso, who had neither the time nor the inclination to get in line at the tax office, paid up. He also sent a message to say that if Claudius Innocens ever showed his face in Deva again he would be instantly arrested, but he doubted the slave would have the courage to deliver it.

The clerk of the Aesculapian Thanksgiving Fund gave him a receipt for the two and a half denarii that Valens had borrowed from someone who had borrowed them from someone else who had very possibly borrowed them from the Aesculapian Thanksgiving Fund in the first place.

Ruso went to thank the god personally. Standing in front of the statue, he fingered the two receipts tucked into his belt. One said that in gratitude and fulfillment of a vow, Gaius Petreius Ruso had paid the Aesculapian Thanksgiving Fund two and a half denarii. The other confirmed Gaius Petreius Ruso as the new owner of an injured and sickly girl with indescribable eyes and a name that seemed to be a series of spelling mistakes.

Ruso gazed up at the statue of the god who had answered his prayer. For the first time he noticed that the painter had not just performed the usual touch-up over the rough spots. The god had been completely repainted. Ruso stood to take a closer look, and as he gazed into the brown eyes of Aesculapius he had the distinct impression that the god of healing was looking back at him, and laughing.

Ruso lay on the borrowed bed and stared into the gloom that hid the cracks in the ceiling plaster, reflecting that Socrates was a wise man. Surveying the goods on a market stall, the great one was said to have remarked, "What a lot of things a man doesn't need!"

What a lot of things a man doesn't need. That thought had comforted Ruso over the last few months. The more you own, he had told himself, the more you have to worry about. Possessions are a burden.

The kind of possessions which needed to be regularly fed were a double burden. They were only worth having if they earned their keep by doing the laundry, or barking at burglars, or catching mice, or carrying you somewhere, or chirping in a way that your ex-wife used to find entertaining. It was a pity Socrates hadn't thought to add, Which is why I never shop after drinking on an empty stomach.

"As far as I'm concerned," Valens had said, carefully lowering the lid back onto the beer barrel so as not to tip the stack of dirty dishes that had been there when Ruso moved in, "If there's no one waiting for the room and you're not using much staff time to nurse her, you can leave her there."

Ruso took the dripping cup of beer and wondered whether to clear up the dishes, or whether to wait and see how long it would be before Valens did. "She'll need proper nursing for a few days."

"Fair enough. But the other one's got to be out of the mortuary tomorrow, claimed or not." Valens tossed a broken fishing rod into the corner to clear himself space on the couch. As he sat down, three puppies scuttled out from underneath. The puppies were a legacy from the previous occupant, whose lone and portly terrier bitch Valens had agreed to look after while the man was temporarily assigned elsewhere. "Gods, I'll be glad when Marius gets back to pick this stuff up. It's not all my mess in here, you know."

Ruso, who had shared quarters with Valens before, made no comment. The offer of free accommodation had been too good to turn down, but he had known there would be a price to pay.

"To tell you the truth," said Valens, "I thought you'd be bringing a servant or two. You used to have lots."

"Claudia had lots."

"Ah." Valens squinted into his own beer, rescued something with a forefinger, and flicked it over his shoulder. A rush of inquisitive puppies followed its course.

"How long have you been a beer drinker?"

"I'm not. Some native gave it to me as a thank-you for treating one of his children."

Ruso frowned into his drink. "Are you sure he was grateful?"

"Smells like goat's piss, I know. But you'll get used to it."

Ruso tried another mouthful and wondered how long getting used to it would take. He said, "Can't the legion give us somebody to help keep the place straight?"

Valens winced. "If you want some squinty-eyed misery who makes a ridiculous fuss about a little bit of a mess."

Ruso deduced that this had already been tried. "What about a private arrangement? It wouldn't cost much between us."

"The servants here aren't much better than the beer, I'm afraid. The first one we tried had a bad back. The next one kept sitting on the floor and crying and we didn't have the heart to beat her, so we sold her. At a loss, of course. Then we tried hiring a local girl, but Marius saw her kick the dog, so she had to go." Valens leaned back and indicated the size of the room with a sweep of his arm. The motion sent beer slopping over the side of his cup. "This isn't a big house, is it?" He transferred the beer to the other hand and wiped his wet fingers on the couch. "It can't be much work. I mean, we don't even use that end room." The beer slopped again, indicating the direction of the corner room, which had been abandoned as impossibly damp and was now growing several fine blooms of strange-smelling mold. "There's only the two of us to cook for," he continued, "and half the time we eat at the hospital. Can your girl cook?"

"At the moment she can't even stand up."

"No matter. We don't want one in a splint anyway. We want some nice healthy lass who's handy with dogs and cleaning."

"And wants a challenge," observed Ruso, glancing through the open door into the earthquake zone that was Valens's bedroom. "Where would we put this healthy lass?"

"In the kitchen, I suppose. When your furniture turns up, she could have the mattress off that bed you're using.

"Ruso did not reply.

"We could always get rid of her later if your girl shows promise," Valens added.

"I won't be keeping her. I'll start looking for a buyer as soon as she can be moved."

"You'll just have to hope Priscus doesn't come back in the meantime."

Ruso frowned. "Doesn't anybody know when he's coming?"

"Doubt it. He likes to take people by surprise. He thinks it keeps them on their toes. He's not keen on private patients unless they pay well. By the way, that other dog isn't yours too, is it?"

Ruso said, "What other dog?"

"I didn't think it was. I'll tell them to get rid of it."

Other dog?

Ruso yawned. The girl in the mortuary was not his problem, but if he didn't get the live one out of the hospital soon, not only would he get off on the wrong foot with Chief Administrative Officer Priscus, but he would be saddled with every other passing stray for whom no one else wanted to take responsibility.

Somewhere beyond the ill-fitting shutters of his bedroom window, a trumpet sounded the change of watch. He rolled over, wriggled to avoid the lump that always seemed directly under his shoulder no matter how many times he turned the mattress or shook the straw around, and closed his eyes. He was just dropping off to sleep when he heard a knock on his door and Valens asking if he was awake.