Medicus

and two lines of notes before delving into the trunk to look up something that turned out to be in a different scroll from the one he expected and to be less relevant than he had remembered it. The bed was now scattered with unraveled scrolls and note tablets and a few scraps of broken pot on which he had scribbled passing thoughts when nothing else had been handy, and he was still stuck on line three. His mind, apparently unwilling to apply itself to ordering his work, seemed to be seizing every chance to wander off. It was futile and unproductive to wonder why a slave with a 'posh voice' and the ability to read her own name had been working in a bar in the first place. No wonder Merula had said she was not suited to the job. But then why-

A shout of laughter from beyond his bedroom door brought Ruso back to his task. He reread what he had written, picked up the stylus, then paused to glance over his notes again. It didn't help that Valens was on call this evening, unable to leave the house unless summoned by duty. Across in what passed for a dining room (they had not bothered to shut the door, of course), his colleague was discussing horses with a couple of friends who had loud voices and even louder laughs. Valens had invited him to join them, but as soon as he explained that he had work to do they seemed to have forgotten all about him.

At least they didn't keep popping in to ask how it was going. The Concise Guide had been conceived-the only thing that was, thank the gods-during his marriage to Claudia. It had been a welcome retreat. The early work had progressed fluently, but several chapters in, it had occurred to him that he was no longer being 'concise.' Instantly, the flow of words seemed to dry up. While he waited for inspiration to return, he went back to the beginning and edited the first chapters to half their original length. That was when Claudia asked to see how much he had written.

'Is that all?'

'It's supposed to be concise.'

'So is it finished now?'

'No.'

'Well, when will it be?'

'Later.'

'You ought to talk to Publius Mucius if you're stuck. He writes books.'

'I am not stuck!' To prove it, he had begun to devise an Overall Plan. This was what he should have done in the first place. He had entangled himself too early in the detail.

Ruso stared gloomily at the four versions of the Overall Plan, which he had removed from the trunk and stacked on the corner of his writing table. Each version had made good the shortcomings of its predecessor, but some new drawback had soon become apparent. He had kept all the versions in case he wanted to refer to them later-it would be a nuisance to find he'd rubbed something flat only to have to rewrite it-but incredibly, considering the hours he had spent poring over each one, he could not now remember which was which. He did not know whether the tablet claiming to be the LATEST VERSION really was, or whether he should be working from the NEW. And what was AMENDED amending?

Ruso sighed. The truth was, despite all the hours he had spent on it, the Overall Plan had been a waste of time. Maybe the whole project-no, he couldn't abandon the Concise Guide after all this work. Any fool with a stylus and a modicum of education-even Publius Mucius-could write a book, and plenty of them seemed to make money at it. Unlike most of them, he actually knew something worth passing on. He must simply get on with it. He picked up the stylus, frowned at the title 'Treatments for Eye Injuries,' and began to write.

One of the dogs was scratching at his door. Ruso reread what he had just written and realized he had left out a vital word. He upended the stylus and flattened the wax.

There was another shout of laughter from outside. When it died away there was a brief moment of peace, then the scratching started again. Ruso made a conscious decision to ignore the dog, rewrote line three, and mentally arranged the essential points of 'Treatments for Eye Injuries' into the right order.

The scratching stopped. A plaintive whine came from under the door. Ruso wrote 'Next, check for…' With the writing end of the stylus poised above the wax but no patient in front of him as a reminder, he realized he couldn't remember what to check next. He flung the stylus down and made for the door, managing as he went to stub his toe on the corner of a trunk that didn't quite fit under the bed.

When he opened the door the terrier bitch rushed in and then stopped dead, sniffing, while several small shapes bounded past her and disappeared under the bed. Ruso narrowly missed treading on another one in the doorway.

One of Valens's friends, a veterinary surgeon, was waving his arms in the air, demonstrating the height of a jump taken by a filly with the potential to be one of the best horses in the province.

'Ruso!' Valens paused to pick out a date from a bowl propped on the arm of the couch. 'Want to buy a horse?'

'Not today.'

'How's the work going?'

'Well, the dog was eager to read it.'

'Oh, sorry!' Valens gestured toward Ruso's room with the date. 'I meant to tell you… ' Ruso waited while Valens bit one end off the date. 'I think you've got a mouse in there. She was at the door this afternoon. If you leave her, she'll flush it out for you.'

'Right.'

'Something else bothering you?'

Ruso leaned against the doorpost. 'Tell me something,' he said, 'If you were buying a girl to work in a bar, would you choose someone with a respectable accent and some education?'

Valens shrugged. 'Why not? She could help with the books.'

'Add a bit of class,' suggested the owner of the filly

'Might pull in one or two officers, I suppose,' added another voice.

Its owner was prone on the floor next to a jug of wine. Ruso recognized the duty civilian liaison officer who had been too busy to break bad news to Merula. 'Personally, Ruso, I'd think twice. Invest in a bar by all means, but don't get involved in running it. It won't go down too well higher up.'

'I'm not running a bar, I-'

'He's just collecting women,' Valens explained. 'Which reminds me. We need a girl who can cook. Anybody who finds us one gets an invitation to dinner.'

Ruso returned to his room. Hastily whisking a valuable scroll away from the nose of a curious puppy, he tidied up and stored all his work back in the trunks and fastened the lids. He piled everything else that was chewable onto the top of the cupboard. Then, since he had no money and nowhere else to go, he headed for the hospital.

Ruso lit the lamps in the records room, closed the door quietly, and lifted the box labeled CURRENT PATIENTS, ROOMS VI TO X onto the desk. He pulled up a stool, seated himself, leaned on his elbows and stared at CURRENT PATIENTS. A true philosopher would not give way to exasperation at the waste of an evening. A true philosopher, a man determined to apply the power of reason to every circumstance, would welcome this chance to catch up with his records.

There were footsteps outside the window. The low murmur of conversation. As the sounds faded, the smell of fried chicken wafted in through the shutters.

Ruso flipped through the record tablets with his forefinger until he reached Room Nine. He removed and opened the first one. 'Crush injury to left foot.' After consulting his rough notes, he dipped his pen into the ink and scrawled, 'Day 3, still swollen, extensive bruising visible, no mobility in toes, henbane, repeat compress.' Putting it aside to dry, he consulted his notes again and wrote 'Day 4, breathing improved,' on a chest infection.

The smell of chicken was still there. Reminding himself how much money he had saved by dining on hospital stew, Ruso recorded the symptoms of a blacksmith who had been admitted this afternoon with an unfortunately located boil, which he would be lancing in the morning.

Outside, men were strolling about with their comrades, eating fried chicken. Inside, Ruso was spending his free evening writing about other people's boils. A less philosophical man would have been depressed.

The slave girl was sitting up in bed. On the table, the lamplight glinted on the contents of a bowl of broth, which must have sat there untouched for several hours. Ruso's greeting of 'Good evening. How are you feeling?' met with the usual serious stare and silence. The lack of response was beginning to irritate him. She was lucky to be alive. Once her arm had healed and she had been properly cleaned up and fed, she could be worth money. But her value would be limited if she remained silent and uncooperative. So, instead of pointing and saying, 'How is the