Kelli Stanley - Nox Dormienda

Yesterday began like most yesterdays in Londinium in December. Venutius roasted some partridge eggs for breakfast and served the stuffed figs with cheese curds. I was hungry for plain oat porridge. We ate, anyway.

There were people waiting to see me. There were always people waiting to see me, especially in December. Rheumy eyes, runny noses, aches and creaks of all descriptions-the list was long and the day was short. Bilicho made it easier by figuring out who really needed me and who just wanted a peek at the governor’s medicus . I always disappointed people who expected to meet a prodigy.

“Aulus Scaptia.”

“Pipe-Maker. Loss of appetite, losing weight, hair falling out. Looked a little pale. Legitimate.”

“Decimus Clodius Super.”

Bilicho chuckled. I looked up.

“Sorry. Just that he’s more of a Minor. Clerk at Headquarters, keeps the bank records. Wrist hurts, but make it quick. He’ll talk your ear off about how important his time is.”

“Valerius Milo.”

This time a snort escaped from Bilicho. “Hangover. And hanger-on-he’s a friend of a friend of the governor, and in Britannia to see the “Savage North.” Constipation problem, too. Give him some flax-seed oil; that’ll keep him busy.”

“Who else?”

“Sulpicia Lepidina, and her three children, all with coughs. She’s the wife of a helmsman stationed on the coast. Recommended by somebody in Legion XX. Nice woman, on the dim-witted side.”

The morning staggered by, still looking for a party. Saturnalia was officially over two days ago-unofficially, there were still cockfights and dice throws, more wine-soaked quickies and the odor of vomit filling every alleyway. Valerius Milo wasn’t alone. Mint and barley water tonic flowed like last night’s vappa , and I was starting to run low when a couple of knife-wounds walked in. The men left, with no payment and a promise of chickens. I had too many already. Brutius finally shut the door.

I asked Bilicho: “How many?”

“Fourteen. Three emergencies, two political hand-holdings, five digestion problems and four chronic cases. Not bad.”

Another day, another salutatio . Agricola always let me see whomever I liked-as long as I’d see whomever he liked, too. He was the governor, and I was the governor’s doctor. I was about as exclusive a dish as peacock tongue, but I didn’t let it go to my head. Drunks and senators all look the same without a toga. Sometimes the drunks look better.

The partridge eggs made a reappearance at lunch, accompanied by a pheasant. The pheasant looked a little surprised at the pairing. Bilicho and I were discussing just how savage Milo would find Britannia after his laxative took effect, when Brutius ran into the room.

“What is it?”

“A … a woman, sir. At the door.”

He said it as if he expected her to hurl herself over the garden wall. “The salutatio is over. Is she from the palace? Is it an emergency?”

“I don’t think so. She’s a rich lady, very beautiful. She’s not bleeding or anything.”

I grinned. He wouldn’t want to bother me even if the woman had a pilum stuck in her back.

“Well, what does she want?”

Brutius wrestled with the question until it almost had him pinned. I turned to Bilicho. “Send her to Serenus if she wants a prescription. We’re through for the day.”

I drained my cup and Venutius poured more wine. Rich women meant trouble. Some wanted attention, some were bored, but most were just looking for what their husbands were giving the wineboy. I’d been groped, fondled, pinched and grabbed, and treated to the sight of more nude women-unasked-than a towel-holder in a caldarium . It usually started with a funny feeling in the stomach, which inevitably led to a fast stripdown and offers that would embarrass Messalina. Not even Messalina could get to Bilicho.

I nearly choked on the Falernian when he reappeared, his face red. He said: “It’s not a medical visit.”

We looked at each other. Another case. Another sort of case, the kind Dioscorides never told me about. I gulped the wine before Venutius could mix it.

It had been awhile. But we never waited long, and we never looked too far. Mercury brought them to the doorstep like a cat with a rat. It was a present from the Blessed Ones, a big smelly rodent that I usually had a hell of a time burying. Virgil was right: never trust Greeks, gods or cats bearing gifts.

Bilicho looked at me like a dog hoping for a bone to drop. I shook my head. “You’re hopeless. Bring her in.”

Venutius and Brutius left for the kitchen, and I rearranged myself on the couch. I was picking some dried egg off my tunic when I heard footsteps. A woman entered, a pace ahead of Bilicho. She paused in the doorway when she saw the food on the table. I paused when I saw her. Brutius hadn’t exaggerated the beautiful part. Money enhanced the impact. I felt my doctor face slipping.

I grinned at her, and hoped I didn’t look stupid.

I said: “Please-join me.”

She hesitated, and looked back at the door, as if she’d changed her mind. Then her shoulders relaxed, and she nodded. The white fur mantle slipped off. Her body was wrapped in silk. The tunic was aqua, the palla was midnight blue with a light purple border, and I was running out of adjectives. The gasp was out of my mouth before I could swallow.

She sat down on the couch like she was afraid she’d break it. I didn’t care if she did. Bilicho cleared his throat. She looked at me. I nodded and he left, throwing a curious look over his shoulder as if he expected me to catch it. I let it land on the pheasant. He finally crawled his way to the kitchen.

The woman was a native. Her face reminded me of Camulodunum-the good part of the memory. Blonde hair was tied back in an old-fashioned knot at the nape of her neck, and the carnelians on her sleeve glittered red against white skin. I enjoyed watching her reach for an olive.

I wasn’t supposed to ask her name until after she’d eaten; that is if I wanted to be a good host. For some reason, I did. She picked at the food like she couldn’t taste it, and her eyes fell on my mother’s medallion. I’d worn it for a long time-since the day she was killed-and I usually forgot about it. I reached a hand up to feel the healer’s symbols carved in the blue-grey rock.

She’d been crying. The red couldn’t hide a blue deep enough to drown in. She leaned forward, her breath short, quick and ragged. Whatever was coming out was coming out now.

She said: “I’m here to warn the governor.”

I’ve been more shocked, but I couldn’t remember when. I pulled myself upright. My heart was thumping louder than a cymbal player in a three-sister dance act.

I was responsible for the general’s health. His legs, his hands, his mood, his manner, whether he shouted himself hoarse or tried to get his wife pregnant or got off a horse to take a piss. I took a deep breath as far as it would go. She spoke fast.

“A man named Vibius Maecenas arrives from Dubris any day. He’s a freedman of the Emperor, a fat, greedy fool of a Syrian.” She glanced around the room, as if she expected Domitian to pop out of a chair.

Her voice sank to a whisper. “He’s also the Emperor’s spy. And he’s here to harm Agricola.”

I stared at her again. It was a story that deserved some Falernian, and I was glad it was still on the table. I poured myself a drink, but she waved one away, her mouth stretched thin with impatience. I took my time with the wine. I didn’t know what she’d expected, but apparently I wasn’t it.

“You must do something right away. I came to you as soon as I could.”