Ruso looked down at the body. 'Write, Cause of death.'
The stylus began to scratch again. 'Cause of…'
'We'll start from the head down.'
'We will start
'No, don't write that.'
'Sir?'
'Just write Cause of death. Nothing else yet.'
He frowned at the girl's head. The fishermen who brought the body in had sworn that they had done nothing to it, but Ruso was at a loss to explain the girl's hair. At first he had thought she was simply unfortunate. Now, on closer examination, he realized the patchy baldness was not natural. He ran one finger across the bristly scalp.
'Is this some sort of a punishment, do you think?'
'Perhaps she cut it off to sell it, sir,' suggested the orderly.
'This isn't cut, this is practically shaved.'
'Lice, sir?' suggested the orderly, suddenly sounding hopeful. 'Maybe she went down to the river to wash out the lice and drowned.'
Ruso took a deep breath of fresh air before bending down and holding the lamp closer to the body.
'She didn't drown,' he said, lifting the girl's chin with the tip of one finger. 'Look.'
2
Ruso was still pondering the body in the mortuary as he walked out of the east gate of the fort. He was barely aware of his progress until he was abruptly recalled to his surroundings by a shout of 'Get up!' from farther up the street. A man with a large belly was glaring at a grimy figure lying across the pavement just past the fruit stall. A woman with a shopping basket put down the pear she was examining and turned to see what was going on.
The man repeated the order to 'Get up!' The woman stared down at the figure and began to babble in some British dialect. The only word Ruso could make out was 'water.'
'Burn some feathers under her nose,' suggested the stallholder, bending down to retrieve a couple of apples that had tumbled off the edge of his display.
Ruso veered into the street to avoid the commotion and narrowly missed a pile of animal droppings. He frowned. He must try and concentrate on what he was doing. He had come out for a walk because he was unable to sleep. Now that he was walking, he was having trouble staying awake.
At the open shutters of Merula's he ordered the large cup of good wine he had been promising himself for days. When it came it was nothing like the Falernian it was supposed to resemble. He scowled into its clear depths. At that price and in this place, he supposed it was as good as could be expected. In other words, not very good at all.
The doorman watched as he drained the wine without bothering to add any water, and asked him if he would like to meet a pretty girl.
'Not before I've been to the baths,' Ruso grunted. 'Are you still serving those oysters?'
'Not today, sir.'
'Good.'
'I'm sorry, sir…?'
'So you should be.'
Ruso wondered whether to explain that a dish of Merula's marinated oysters was the indirect cause of his present unkempt state and uncertain temper. He decided not to bother.
Yesterday, strapping a poultice around the foot of a groom trampled by his horse, he had composed an imaginary notice for the hospital entrance.
'To all members of XX Legion Valeria Victrix. While the chief medic is on leave, this hospital has three officers. The administrative officer has gone shopping in Viroconium and taken his keys with him. One doctor has severe food poisoning. The other is doing his best, despite having no idea what's going on because he has no time to attend morning briefings. Until reinforcements arrive, nonurgent cases and injuries resulting from drunkenness, stupidity, or arguments with drill instructors will not be treated.'
Before the sun had fully risen today he had been presented with a seized back, a dislocated elbow, three teeth in the hand of a man who wanted them replaced, and the body. When he pointed out that the body was beyond his help, he was told that they didn't know what else to do with it.
Mercifully Valens-a paler and thinner version of the Valens who had eaten the oysters-had reported for duty this afternoon. Peering at Ruso, he'd announced, 'You look worse than I do. Go and get some rest.' Ruso, who had been desperate to sleep for the past three days, suddenly found himself unable to settle down.
A group of youths with army haircuts was sauntering across the street toward Merula's. As they entered Ruso murmured, 'Don't touch the seafood.' He was gone before they could reply.
Passing the bakery, he realized that he couldn't remember the last time he had eaten. He bought a honey cake and crumbled it against the roof of his mouth as he walked along.
Ahead of him, a chorus of excited voices rose in the street. He recognized the fat man, still shouting orders in a thick Gallic accent. The female who had collapsed had now attracted a sizeable crowd. They seemed to be carrying her to the fountain. Ruso tossed the last fragments of cake to a passing dog and strode on in the direction of the amphitheater. It was nothing to do with him. He was not, at this moment, a doctor. He was a private citizen in need of some bath oil.
He took a deep breath before diving into the perfumed dusk of the oil shop. He had placed his flask on the counter and was naming what he wanted when the shopkeeper's attention was caught by something behind him. The man snatched up a heavy stick and leaped out from behind the counter, yelling, 'Clear off!' The dog that had finished Ruso's cake shot out from behind a stack of jars and scuttled off down the street.
The shopkeeper replaced the stick under the counter. 'Somebody ought to do something about those dogs.'
'Are they dangerous?'
'Only when they bite. Now, what was it you were after?'
Outside, half a dozen pairs of hands were dragging a limp body along the pavement to where the fountain, a large and ugly stone fish, was spewing water into a long rectangular tank.
The shopkeeper glanced up from the jug he was pouring. 'Something's going on over there.'
Ruso heard a splash as he said, 'A woman fainted in the street.'
'Oh.' The man twisted the stopper into the flask and wiped the side with a cloth. Ruso handed over a sestertius. As the man counted out the change, more people began crowding around the fountain. Voices drifted across the street.
'Get up, you lazy whore!'
'Give her another dunk!'
'If you burn some feathers-'
'Stand her up!'
'Lie her down!'
'Lie her down? She does nothing but lie down!'
Ruso dropped the coins into his purse and emerged into the fresh air.
He was not going to offer to help. He had been caught like that before.
Poor people, like stray dogs, bred huge litters they couldn't look after and latched on to you with the slightest sign of encouragement. As soon as the whisper went around that some doctor was treating people for free, every case of rotten teeth and rheumatism within a thousand feet would be rounded up and thrust under his nose for inspection. He would be lucky to get away before nightfall.
A voice whispered in his memory-a voice he hadn't heard for almost two years now-a voice accusing him of being cold-hearted and arrogant. He silenced it, as he usually did, by recalling other voices. The Tribune's praise of his 'commendable single-mindedness' (of course Valens had to ruin it later by explaining, 'He meant you're boring').
