Medicus (28 page)

60

B
Y THE TIME Ruso had formed the opinion that all twenty-three recruits were fit enough to be driven to exhaustion, despair, and finally to usefulness, the message he had been expecting had arrived. He was to report to the second spear.

One of the qualities needed for promotion through the centurionate was the ability to single-handedly compel eighty trained killers to do things they didn't much want to do, and to do them instantly. In this respect, as in many others, the second spear was generally reputed to be heading for the very top. As Ruso entered the man's office, he was conscious of adopting the stance of legionaries he had seen being humiliated on the parade ground: shoulders square, head high, eyes straight ahead, focused on nothing.

"Doctor Gaius Petreius Ruso, sir," announced the orderly.

The second spear ordered his man to wait outside. When the door was closed, he got to his feet. "Well, Doctor? What have you got to say for yourself?"

"I'm sorry about what happened, sir. I was misinformed."

"I'm not talking about that farce in the whorehouse, Ruso. All you did there was upset a local trader, waste my time, and make the army look ridiculous. The camp prefect will deal with all that. And if you're expecting me to go running around hunting down slave traders and hair dealers on your say-so, you're a bigger fool than you look."

"Yes, sir," said Ruso, wondering what else the second spear could want to talk about. He was staring at a point just to the right of the man's shoulder and silently bidding farewell to any hopes of the chief medical officer post when he was conscious of a sudden movement. A hand grabbed his throat. He was knocked backward. His head crashed against the wall. The second spear's face filled his vision. The mouth opened. "Give me one reason," it growled, "why you aren't about to have a very nasty accident."

Shocked, winded, struggling for air, Ruso attempted to wheeze, "Don't know what you mean, sir."

"Don't treat me like an idiot, son. You might be able to fool them down at that hospital but you're not fooling me." Each sentence that followed was punctuated by a tightening of the grip around his throat. "Thought you could get away with it, did you? Thought you'd try your luck? Thought she might talk me 'round?"

Realizing too late what this was about and that his rank was not going to protect him, Ruso mouthed, "No."

The second spear relaxed his grasp for a second and Ruso was gulping in air when the grip clamped back around his throat and his bruised skull was slammed back against the wall. Over the ringing in his ears, a voice roared, "Don't lie to me! You were seen!"

61

R
USO STUMBLED TH ROUG H the front door and across the room. He dragged a blanket off the couch and stretched out, laying his throbbing head on a cushion that smelled of dog and stale beer.

"Tilla!" he croaked. "Get me some water."

The sound of his head bouncing off the wall was still echoing in his skull. His throat felt as though the slightest twist would split his windpipe and crack his neck bones apart.

He had almost begged Tilla's goddess for help as the strength drained out of him like desert sand sifting through his fingers. A distant voice was shouting, "Sir! Sir, you'll kill him!" and finally the vice around his throat had loosened and he'd collapsed to the floor.

She had not heard his request for water. He couldn't call any louder.

He rolled onto his side and tried again, the word rasping in his throat and ringing through his aching skull.

"Tilla!"

Still no reply. Too tired to lift himself off the couch, he closed his eyes and waited for her to find him.

Something was jumping on his stomach. An African drummer was practicing on the inside of his skull. Something was bouncing on his chest. A chisel was being scraped up the inside of his throat. A rough tongue was licking his face. He lifted an arm and batted away a small warm body. The licking stopped. The body yelped as it landed.

A voice called, "Off, boys and girls! He doesn't want to play!" The bouncing ceased. The drumming and scraping didn't.

Ruso opened one eye to see Valens scoop up a whining puppy. "You're not hurt," Valens assured the puppy after a perfunctory check. He turned to the couch. "Are you all right there, Ruso?"

The water helped. He was less sure about the liniment. "I got it from one of the vets," explained Valens. "He says it's marvelous stuff. I've been waiting for a chance to try it out."

Ruso grimaced.

"Don't worry about the smell; you won't notice it after a minute or two. So, what happened?"

Ruso pointed to his throat and moved his head carefully from side to side.

"Write it down," suggested Valens. "Hold on, I'll find something . . . if the lovely Tilla hasn't chucked it all. . . Where is she, by the way?"

Ruso lifted both palms in an exaggerated shrug. Valens disappeared into his room and began throwing things about in his hunt for writing materials. Ruso hauled himself to his feet and shuffled across the floor.

The kitchen fire was dead. There was no sign of any attempt to prepare supper. The water jug was almost empty and there was no bread in the bin. The wretched girl must be up to her old tricks with the goddess. She could not possibly have the meal ready on time if the fire wasn't lit by now. He wondered if she knew what had happened at Merula's and was hiding from him.

Ruso wandered into his bedroom. Rubbing the lump on the back of his head, he stood in the doorway and tried to remember whether he had put his best cloak away or whether it was missing from the hook on the wall.

Valens appeared, clutching a slate. "So. Talk to me."

There were many things he wished to say to Valens, but the slate was not big enough. Instead he scrawled, "My throat hurts, my head hurts, I have no money, my servant has disappeared, and I am about to do ward rounds smelling like a sick horse."

"Ah." Valens reached for the slate. He licked his forefinger, rubbed out the word
horse,
and wrote,
donkey.

Carefully, Ruso tipped his head back toward the pharmacy ceiling, gargled the last of the foul mixture, and spat. Watching it slide down the side of the waste bucket, he pondered the efficiency of military communications. It was a mystery why the army bothered with a signal system when its men were so good at gossip. He had left the second spear's house barely an hour ago, and just now the pharmacist, after expressing sympathy for his sudden cold, waited until the last patient had left to murmur between gargles, "Sorry to hear about the second spear's daughter, sir. That was bad luck."

Ruso turned to him and rasped, "What about the second spear's daughter?"

"If it's any consolation, most of us think she wouldn't be your type, sir."

"I'm not bloody interested in the . . ." Ruso paused and lowered his voice. "Any rumors about myself and the second spear's daughter are groundless. I'm sure she's a lovely young lady but I've never actually set eyes on her. So go back to whomever told you this nonsense, and tell them if they spread any more lies I'll deal with them myself."

Halfway through late-ward rounds, he met Valens in a corridor. "How's it going?" demanded Valens.

Ruso paused to insert another throat lozenge before strong-arming him into an empty isolation room and latching the door.

"Jupiter!" Valens wrinkled his nose. "You'd think that salve would have worn off by now, wouldn't you?"

"I've been thinking," said Ruso. "Have you been smarming around the offspring of the second spear?"

"I did have a pleasant chat with her the other day. Nice girl."

"Well, don't. Her father thinks you're me, and he doesn't like it."

"No? Well, I wouldn't either. Look at the state of you. Your eyes are bloodshot, your hair's sticking up, and you smell like something they clean the drains with."

"I know. And it's your fault!"

"She hasn't complained to him, has she?"

"She
hasn't. You were seen."

Valens smiled. "I didn't think she would. I knew she'd be a sensible sort of girl. She's got a sensible sort of nose."

Ruso opened his mouth to argue, then decided it would only make his throat worse.

"I'll tell you all about it later," suggested Valens. "Over tonight's supper served by the lovely Tilla."

"I can't find Tilla."

"Dear me. You are having a bad day."

"I am," growled Ruso. "But it'll improve when I kill you."

62

T
HE HOUSE FELT chilly as he entered. The dog offered him the briefest of greetings and then dodged past his legs and out the door. Ruso sniffed and glanced around at the floor. The puppies must have been locked in for hours.

The kitchen hearth was a blackened void where the fire should have been. Ruso sniffed again and crouched to inspect the floor. Beneath the table was a small brown turd.

Outside, he heard Valens whistle for the dog. Moments later there were footsteps on the gravel. The main door slammed and Valens appeared in the kitchen, surveying the empty shelves and the dead fire.

"Where is she?"

"I don't know. The dogs haven't been let out."

"So where's our dinner?"

Something in Ruso's expression must have told Valens that this was the wrong question.

"She's probably gone shopping," suggested Valens. "Met up with a friend or something. You know how women talk. Perhaps she's dropped around to Merula's."

"I'd be amazed if she'd gone there. Anyway, she'd know to come back by now."

"Well, I can't wait till she turns up. If you get the fire going, I'll go and talk nicely to the kitchen staff. See if they can sneak something past Priscus." Valens paused. "I wouldn't worry, old man. She's bound to show up before long."

"It's getting dark. Something's wrong."

"Then she'll be back any minute, won't she?" Valens grinned. "Cheer up. You'll be able to give her a good spanking."

"Thanks."

"I'll do it if you like."

Ruso scowled. "Just disappear, will you?"

By the time men, dog, and puppies had eaten Valens's gleanings from the hospital kitchen ("This is just like old times, isn't it?"), it was time to light the lamps. Leaving Valens to cover his on-call duties, Ruso put a lead on the dog and went out to look for his servant.

It was not as dark outside as it had seemed in the house. As he waited for the dog to finish sniffing around the shadowy nettle patch, Ruso's eyes adjusted to the gloom. He could pick but the rectangular shape of the next barracks block, the roof of the hospital, and, turning, the outline of the main wall at the end of the street across the perimeter road. As he watched, he heard the tramp of guards. Two shapes moved steadily toward each other along the top of the wall, crossed, and continued in opposite directions.

A breeze plucked at the fabric of his spare cloak and suggested there was rain on the way. "That's enough, dog," urged Ruso, eager to move but not sure of his direction. He did not want to imagine what might have happened to Tilla, but imagination was his only tool in deciding a sensible pattern for the search. If she had run into the wrong man—and the gods knew, he had tried many times to warn her—she could be anywhere. Alive or dead. Inside the fort or out. Inside, he felt, was less likely. The men's lack of privacy and propensity to gossip would serve as some protection.

He stopped at the hospital in case there was a message, but there were no notes at the desk. Decimus's assurance of "I'm sure she'll turn up soon, sir!" was bright rather than confident, and Ruso wondered how many people had said the same thing to him about Asellina.

"Decimus, what do you know about a builder called Secundus—century of Gallus?"

Decimus frowned. "Nothing, sir. Gallus's men haven't been back long."

"Where from?"

"I don't know exactly, sir. Somewhere in the north."

"When did they get back here?"

"Last week sometime, sir. They brought a couple of wounded in for treatment."

"Oh."

"I could find out which day if you like, sir."

"No," said Ruso, "last week is good enough."

In the end he headed toward the east gate. A couple of times along the way he called her name experimentally into the night air, as if he were calling a lost pet. There was no reply.

There was a brief flash of hope at the gate when
one
of the guards said, "Ah, you mean Tilla, sir!" He and his comrade had seen her leave clutching a shopping basket at her usual time in the morning. He sounded as though they looked forward to these morning sightings. Disappointingly, they had been elsewhere since then and had only just come back on duty.

"Have you lost her, sir?"

"No," said Ruso. "She's just very late. If you see her, tell her to report directly to my house."

He passed through the gates and made his way across the open area that separated the fort from the civilian buildings. At this time of night the town was little more than a huddle of angular shapes illuminated by the occasional glimmer of a torch. Somewhere among the buildings, a dog barked. There was the faint sound of a baby crying. He heard the approach of voices and stepped sideways onto the road's shoulder. Three men ambled past, too deep in a disagreement about horse racing to notice him. When they had gone, the street was empty. Ruso stepped back onto the paved surface and tried not to imagine what might be happening to a girl who was wandering the streets at this time of night.

The entrance to Merula's was lit by the usual pair of torches. Someone was playing twittering flute music inside but a quick glance from the safety of the shadows across the street confirmed what Ruso suspected: There were few customers tonight. He wondered whether the security raid had frightened them off, and whether Merula had guessed as much as Bassus had.

Stichus was leaning back against the bar with his arms folded, looking bored. Behind him, Daphne paused from pouring drinks to press her hands into the small of her back and stretch her expansive belly. A girl whom Ruso vaguely knew as Mariamne emerged from the kitchen with a loaded tray She carried it across to the table in the corner where Merula was mercifully busy with a couple of customers whom Ruso recognized from the early-morning officers' briefing. There was no sign of Tilla.

A pair of heavy boots appeared on the stairs. Bassus made his way down to the bar, ordered a drink from Daphne, and emerged to drink it outside under the torch. Ruso crossed the street and stood beside him, out of sight of the bar.

Bassus frowned. "I thought you weren't going to show your face 'round here?"

"I came to ask if you'd seen Tilla."

Bassus slapped at something on his neck. "Bloody gnats. You'd think they'd be gone by September. She's not run out on you, has she?"

"Is she here?"

Bassus took a long pull on his drink. "She
was
here," he said. "Dropped by this morning. Just before our visit from the lads. We had a nice little chat. You know what? I think she fancies me."

"Did she say where she was going?"

"You haven't gone and lost her, have you? What about our agreement?"

"Not lost," promised Ruso. "Just—temporarily mislaid. Did she meet anyone here that she would have gone off with?"

"You told us to keep her away from the customers, remember?"

"Do you have men from the century of Gallus in here?"

"Not at the moment."

"Recently?"

"Had a bunch of them in a few days ago. Just got back from the north. Celebrating."

Ruso scratched his ear. Bassus had confirmed what he already suspected: Secundus could not have been involved with the death of Saufeia. Valens was right: He had been off-balance. The accident with the trowel had been a simple coincidence. As for the fire—he did not have time to worry about the fire now. He said, "Would any of the girls know where she was going?"

"The girls didn't see her. I did. And then she left. And if you don't want to get me into trouble, you'll do the same."

Tilla had still not returned when Valens and he went to bed. Ruso heard the third and fourth watch sounded. Once he got up to investigate a noise that might have been someone knocking, but when he opened the door there was nobody there. He called her name into the darkness. The only reply was a blustery spatter of rain.

He woke with an uneasy feeling that there was something he should remember. When he remembered it, the unease blossomed into an anxiety that lifted him out of bed before dawn to pace about in a house where her absence was almost tangible. He tried to silence his imagination by telling himself she had chosen to leave. Her arm was recovering: She didn't need him anymore.

Instead of being worried, he should be pleased. He owed it to his family to sell her, but he had not been looking forward to it. Now she had solved his dilemma by running away. The tale about Phryne had been a cover for some sort of primitive good-luck potion she was cooking up for herself. Tilla had fled from Deva and was safely on her way to the hilly lands of the Brigantes.

Valens came wandering into the kitchen, rubbing his eyes. "No breakfast, then?"

Ruso shook his head. "Can you manage without me this morning?"

Valens's eyes squeezed shut and his mouth widened in a lopsided and unstifled yawn that displayed a couple of missing teeth and distorted his agreement into something like, "Yuhhhh."

Ruso wished the girls who called him "the good-looking doctor" could see him now.

"Wretched girl might have bothered to send a message," remarked Valens.

"I think she might have run off," confessed Ruso.

"Even so."

Ruso nodded. His relationship with the girl had been awkward, hesitant, and frequently bad tempered, but he thought they had developed some level of mutual respect.

"You did fix her arm for her," Valens continued, voicing Ruso's own thoughts.

"And paid money for the privilege," he grumbled. Damn it, if he hadn't rescued her from Innocens there might well have been a third dead girl found in Deva.

Immediately he wished he had not brought to mind the image of those bodies: the one strangled and bloated and the other barely recognizable as human. Why would Tilla have chosen to leave before her arm was healed? He had no evidence that she was on her way back to the Brig-antes. Her soul could already have begun the journey to a darker place. If that was true, then he wanted to know. He wanted to bury her himself. And then he would not only hunt down whoever had killed her: He would seek out the people who should have investigated the previous deaths, and hadn't. The trouble was, he was one of them.

He turned abruptly. "I'm going out," he announced.

In the gloom of his bedroom, he pulled on his overtunic without thinking once about scorpions. He flung his old cloak around his shoulders and paused to run a finger over the smooth, cold hilt of his knife.