Ruth Downie - Tabula Rasa

“By natives!” He grabbed her arm again, hauling her toward the road. He was surprisingly strong for a small man who spent most of his life sitting at a desk.

“What natives? Where did they go?”

But instead of answering, Albanus gave a sudden cry and fell, almost pulling her over with him. He seemed to be writhing about on the ground, muttering words that she only heard her husband use when he thought she wasn’t listening.

Tilla grabbed for her knife and crouched to make herself a smaller target, hissing, “What is it?”

“Nothing!” he gasped, not troubling to keep quiet. “It is nothing. Sorry. It will be all right in a-oh, dear!”

He had turned his foot on a stone in the track. She groped inside her bag for cooling medicines and a bandage.

“No need,” he insisted. “I can get up if you give me your arm. Epictetus teaches that pain is-agh!”

Whatever Epictetus said, it was soon clear that Albanus could barely stand, let alone walk. Clinging to her arm, he gasped, “Madam, I am sorry not to be able to protect you, but someone must go and fetch help for the two men.”

“Fetch help to where?” she demanded, appalled at the thought of rousing soldiers to go crashing about the local farms yet again. “Who took them?” She sat Albanus down again inside the smooth dry curve of the shield. “Tell me what you saw.”

Albanus had not seen very much. Following at a suitably ghostly distance, he had heard movement in the woods and hidden himself inside the borrowed cloak. He heard people creeping past him and a soft whisper of British. Too late, he realized he should have shouted a warning to the soldiers. There was a scuffle, muffled cries, and then he thought he saw struggling figures being dragged away into the woods. The next thing he heard was Tilla calling for her escort.

“Are you sure you saw them struggling?”

“We must have the woods searched with torches in case they lie injured.”

“Let me go to Senecio,” said Tilla, trying not to put pressure on the damaged ankle as she unrolled the bandage around it.

“We must raise the alarm!” he insisted. “We-ow!”

“Sorry.”

“We need search parties out here immediately. Before the natives get away.”

“The soldiers will start a riot.” She paused with the roll of bandage under his heel. “There will be fighting in every house they enter.”

“Madam, please! We gain nothing by arguing. Let me finish the dressing. I am sure your husband would want us to fetch help.”

He was right, of course. That was exactly what her husband would want to do, and with good reason. But if her fears were correct, then it would be the end for Senecio and his family, whether or not Branan turned up. “Albanus, if we fetch the soldiers, they will find out that Daminius was helping us, and he will be in terrible trouble even if he is rescued. Is that what you want?”

Albanus gave a shuddering sigh. “If I believed the gods cared, I would believe they are punishing me for taking part in this foolish plan.”

Tilla, suspected he would have liked to add with this foolish woman. “We were trying to give justice for your nephew.”

Albanus groaned. “I should never have-”

“Well, you did.” He gasped as she tightened the knot. “Sorry. Now put your hand in mine and try to stand.”

He managed to stand on one leg but insisted on leaning on the shield. He did not want her to help him walk. He wanted her to hurry away and fetch the legionaries, and when she said she would only do that when she had spoken to Senecio, he gave an “Oh!” of exasperation and took a hop away from her, using the shield in place of a stick.

“Where are you going?”

“You must do what you think is your duty, madam.” There was a grunt of sudden effort, as if he were hauling the shield out of the mud, then a crunch as he placed it back down again. “I shall do mine. I have been part of a-” Here there was a splash and a muttering of “Oh, dear!” before “I have been part of a rash venture that has left two of our men in enemy hands.” Another grunt. Another crunch. Another splash. “No matter that I believe one of them has done something terrible to my nephew.” His voice was fainter as he hobbled away. “I must do my-agh!-my utmost to save them.”

“I am trying to save them too!” she called after him. It was true, but she had an uncomfortable feeling that her husband would say she was putting Roman lives in greater danger just to save a few Britons from their own folly.

“Regardless of the consequences to myself,” Albanus added, as if he were making a speech.

“Then you need to go the other way,” she told him. “Turn around. The fort is north of here.”

The movement stopped. When he asked if she was sure, there was suspicion in his voice.

“I will not come with you,” she told him, “But you are a good friend to my husband and I would not lie to you.” Skirting the barely visible puddle, she put a hand on his skinny shoulder. “May the gods protect you this night, Albanus. I will come and find you as soon as I can.”

“May the gods protect us all, madam.” His shoulder moved under her touch. The shield thumped down into the mud once more, and she felt water splatter over her boots as he hopped back through the puddle.

There was a tiger on his face. It was digging its claws into his forehead, and it had mauled him all over. Everything ached and throbbed, except the parts that stabbed instead. He should do something to make it stop. What did you do against a tiger? Nothing people tried in the arena worked for long.

Jupiter’s holy bollocks, that hurt. Like having liquid fire poured over his forehead.

Play dead. Don’t flinch. Don’t moan. Don’t . . .

Too late.

. . . flap one hand about, vaguely hoping to frighten it off.

A voice said, “He’s reacting to pain, sir.”

An older voice said, “Good.”

Ruso wondered what was good about it. He decided to go back to sleep. Then he decided not to when the tiger gripped both sides of his head and tried to gnaw his eye out. “Get off!” came out slurred.

One eye was blinded, but the other opened to reveal a huge bloodstained shape moving about just above his nose. “No!” He tried to beat away the shape and spring up, but his body refused to listen.

“Speak to him,” the older voice suggested.

“It’s all right,” somebody said, even though it wasn’t. “We’re just cleaning you up and putting a few stitches in.”

A few stitches in what? “Where am I?”

“This is the treatment room,” said his informer unhelpfully.

“Sick bay, Habitancum,” put in the older voice. “Under the excellent care of a trainee medic of the Fourth Gauls.”

Holy gods. They were letting let a trainee loose on him. Perhaps they thought he was beyond saving. “Have I lost the eye?”

To his further alarm, the trainee who had been stabbing a needle through his skin said, “Has he, sir?”

“No.”

Ruso thought it was the best word he had ever heard.

“You were lucky,” continued the senior man. “You’ll find it when the swelling goes down. We’re just putting your eyebrow back together.”

“Just one more,” said the trainee, sounding nervous now that he was treating a patient who talked back. Then he added, as he had no doubt been trained to, “This will sting a bit.”

Ruso chose a cobweb wafting in a draft above him to concentrate on and clenched his teeth. Instantly a bolt of lightning shot through his jaw and into his neck. He did not feel the needle going in.

“Oh, and we think we may need to pull a tooth,” added the trainee.

Ruso was in too much pain to tell him he needn’t sound so cheerful about it.