Ruth Downie: Tabula Rasa

Ruso said, “If he’s up there much longer, he’ll die anyway.”

“We wondered about getting a rope on and pulling him up . . .”

“Not if the leg’s still attached.”

Daminius nodded, as if he had already thought of that. “Besides, the movement could bring the whole lot down on top of him.”

“Can you stabilize the boulder?”

“It’s too high to prop, and too heavy for ropes. And we’re not going to dig underneath to get him out.”

With a feeling that he was not going to like what came next, Ruso prompted, “So?”

The optio looked at him. “Could you cut the leg free, sir?”

Ruso swallowed. “How am I going to get up there?” Let alone, how am I going to perform surgery at that angle and in all that filth? And what about that huge boulder teetering over my head?

Surprisingly white teeth showed as Daminius’s filthy face spread into a grin. “That’s the spirit, sir. We reckoned if we put you on a rope, you could work your way down and across. Then, once you’ve got him freed, my lads will come up and get him.”

Despite the absence of his centurion-or more likely because of it-Daminius was managing the situation with impressive calm. No wonder they said he would not be hacking rocks out of the ground for long.

Just as this thought crossed Ruso’s mind, an imperious voice called, “It’s all right, I’m here!” and the rescue party had to stop to salute Centurion Fabius’s approach along the track beside the stream. Fabius’s horse was being led by his personal slave. His carefully curled hair was in disarray and he was swaying in the saddle. Ruso could smell the drink on his breath as he proceeded to apologize for being delayed, demanded a full update on the situation, and then expressed his shock and dismay. Pertinax, meanwhile, remained trapped.

“We need to make a decision,” put in Ruso, who thanked the gods every morning that he had been excused from sharing quarters with Fabius and wished he had not yielded to this morning’s request for medicinal wine.

“We need to make a decision,” agreed Fabius, lurching to the left and grabbing at the saddle for balance. He frowned at Ruso. “I don’t know what’s in your medicine, Doctor, but it’s making me feel very odd.”

“It’s up to you, sirs,” said Daminius, looking from one officer to the other. “We could do as he asks and give the poor sod a knife.”

The waterskin fell from Pertinax’s hand, bounced down the rubble, and came to rest just out of reach. The no-longer-blond man poked at it with the pole, and the movement set a couple of stones tumbling down the slope. A loose trickle of earth and more stones slithered to fill the gap, then something shifted above them and a miniature landslide skittered downward. Everyone except Fabius stepped hastily back. It was a moment before anybody spoke again.

“Try not to move, sir,” the foreman called, stepping forward to retrieve the empty skin.

There was no reply.

“Sir?” tried Ruso, then, “Pertinax!”

A vague movement of the hand that might have been a wave.

“Oh, dear!” observed Fabius. “He’s not looking very good, is he?”

“Prefect Pertinax!” called Ruso, “Are you sleeping on duty?”

“Cold up here,” came the mumbled reply.

“A brave man,” said Fabius. “Remarkable. Do you think cutting his wrists will work if he’s upside down? Or would he have to stab himself in the heart?”

“Won’t be long now, sir!” called Ruso, kneeling to check the contents of his medical case and trying not think about the loose debris above him. “Keep him talking, Daminius.”

“If anybody goes up there,” observed Fabius, gazing up at the loose slope of debris, “it should be me.” But the only action following this noble thought was a hiccup.

Ruso turned to Daminius. “Have someone send an urgent message to the hospital at Magnis for Doctor Valens. He needs to know his father-in-law’s been seriously injured.”

Ruso felt a hand on his shoulder. Fabius’s watery blue eyes looked deep into his own. “Good luck, Doctor. You’re the only one-the only one who understands.”

“Go back to the fort and lie down,” Ruso told him. “And no more reading. It’s bad for you.”

Fabius nodded gravely, and with, “Carry on, Optio!” he allowed his slave to lead him back toward the very small fort of which he was, to the misfortune of its garrison, commanding officer.

Above them, Pertinax seemed to be groping in vain for a dagger that was not there. Daminius called, “We’ll soon have you down from there, sir!”

After they knotted the loop of rope around Ruso’s chest, Daminius reached toward him and hung something around his neck. “My lucky charm, sir. Never fails. If you’re in trouble, just shout, and the lads’ll pull you out.”

It was kindly meant, although Ruso could not see how he would escape a further landslip unless he suddenly discovered how to fly. Glancing down at Daminius’s charm lying beside his identity tag, he saw that the little bronze phallus did indeed sport a pair of wings. He hoped it was an omen. As he tied a borrowed helmet under his chin he said, “My wife’s lodging over Ria’s snack bar. If I make a hash of this, you’ll have to send somebody up there to tell her.”

Ruso had picked his way crablike across several feet of debris when he put his weight on a stone that slid away under his foot. For a heart-stopping moment there was nothing beneath him; then the rope jerked taut around his chest. Now he was suspended, helpless, one side of his face pressed against cold rock. He forced himself not to claw against the sides and bring down more debris as he heard the stone skitter on down the slope. Praying that the men holding his rope would stand firm, he hung like a creature playing dead, feeling the cut of the rope and the thud of his heart. Somewhere miles away, voices were asking if he was all right.

Was he? He didn’t know. In what way could a man who might be about to bring tons of rock down upon himself-as well as his patient-be said to be all right?

He lifted his head and glanced across to where Pertinax was lying head-down, eyes closed, just out of reach. The face was gray even under the grime.

It was not too late to grant the mercy of an honorable suicide. The man had already enjoyed a long life and reached the pinnacle of his career. Now that he had assessed the situation from close quarters, Ruso could decide that Pertinax could not be saved. With opened wrists, the prefect would have a much quicker and cleaner death than he might have to suffer in the aftermath of dirty wounds. And everyone would say Ruso had done the right thing.

Daminius was calling, “Are you all right, Doctor?”

“Wait a moment!”

If only he had been given time to prepare for this. If only he had not wasted the morning dealing with trivia: trying to find reasons not to eat supper with his wife’s dubious acquaintances; complaining about the odd disappearance of his new hospital clerk; hearing a long trail of petty grievances from men who imagined he could do something about them.

He muttered a prayer to Aesculapius for the surgery and one to Fortuna for a lucky escape, and took another look. The trapped leg was visible just above the ankle. There seemed to be a second boulder beneath it, pinning it in place. The foot was probably crushed beyond repair.

Only a few more inches and Pertinax might have tumbled down the slope to safety. Now if he were to be rescued, Ruso would have to work his way up under the overhang of rock and crouch there, slicing flesh, carefully sealing off delicate blood vessels and wielding a bone saw while he tried not to think about the weight precariously balanced above his head. Even the patient thought it was not worth the risk. As for what Tilla would say . . .