'That's the spirit, Doctor.' As Priscus moved to indicate a stack of writing tablets on one side of his desk, a reflection of his hand glided across the polished surface. 'I'm sure it won't take long to copy these.'
'You're intending to rewrite all my notes?'
'It will give your man a chance to learn what's required. He won't bother you unless there's something he can't make out.'
'Is this really necessary?'
'It would be extremely useful for the hospital. There must be a great deal of valuable information in there.'
'I suppose so,' said Ruso, realizing how neatly he had been outmaneuvered.
'Excellent! Now…' Priscus leaned across the desk and lowered his voice. 'Let me tell you, in confidence of course, something I heard in Viroconium. I was told on good authority that not only do the procurator's office have orders from Rome to prepare for a major audit, but it is quite possible that our new emperor may inspect the province in person.'
Ruso said, 'I see,' since the man was clearly waiting for him to express amazement before carrying on.
'In the meantime,' continued Priscus, 'every unit is to be scrutinized. Any waste and inefficiency is to be rooted out.'
This was hardly a surprise. Hadrian was reputed to be the sort of officer much approved by poets and taxpayers: a man who marched bareheaded with his troops, wearing the same clothes and eating the same food, perpetually inspecting and commenting and suggesting improvements. The sort of leader who was either an inspiration or a pain in the backside, depending upon your point of view.
'So naturally, Doctor,' the administrator concluded, 'we will need to reconcile any irregularities in the hospital books before they are opened for scrutiny.'
'Naturally,' Ruso agreed. As he was wondering if Priscus really expected the emperor to read his medical records, the administrator reached down beside his desk and brought up a file. Ruso recognized the admissions log from the porter's desk.
'On the subject of efficiency, Doctor, perhaps you could help me with this? We seem to have a duplicate entry. Back on…'
Ruso gazed at the top of the administrator's head as his finger traced down the columns. As if he could read Ruso's thoughts, Priscus lifted his hand from the records and ran it lightly over his hair again as he said, 'Five days before the Ides of September… ' He glanced up.
Ruso tried to pretend he hadn't been staring. Priscus returned his attention to the admissions log.
'This entry says quite clearly, Female, 18–23 years. Then a word that perhaps you could help me with, then farther down the list on the same day, Female, 18–23 years again-and this time the entry states, to set broken arm.'
He's painted his head. That's it. It's not only the hair that's dyed, it's…
'Shall I delete the first as a clerical error?'
'No,' said Ruso, 'there were two of them.'
The eyebrows rose toward the hair. 'I see.'
Ruso reached for the log. 'Dead,' he read. 'The first one was dead when we got her.'
'I see.' Priscus sat back in his chair. 'I shall have a word. Someone should have explained that we never accept civilian patients here unless we have a reasonable prospect of treating them.'
'I've been through this with the second spear. We didn't know who it was. By the time we got her she'd obviously been in the river for some time. Plus, she was stark naked and practically bald.'
Priscus glanced up sharply. 'I beg your pardon?'
'Bald. No hair.' Ruso paused to savor his own tactlessness before adding, 'She'd had it all cut off.'
The administrator's hand stopped halfway to his head and returned to rest on the desk. He stared at it for a moment, then said, 'I shall have to look into this. We can't have unidentified-'
'We know who she was. She turned out to be one of the local barmaids. Somebody had murdered her.'
Priscus's hand rose to smooth his hair. 'I see. How very, uh.. ' He seemed to be searching for a word. Finally he settled on, 'Unpleasant.'
'Yes.'
'I should have been made aware of any inquiry.'
Ruso shook his head. 'It's over. The second spear dealt with it. Apparently the girl was a runaway and the owner wasn't in the mood to make a fuss, so since they aren't blaming the army, that's probably the end of it.'
Priscus's gaze met his own. 'You sound a little dissatisfied, Doctor.'
'It's none of my business.'
'But are you suggesting the officer in charge could have done more?'
Ruso was not going to be led into criticizing the second spear. 'He couldn't find any witnesses,' he said. 'What more could he do?'
'What indeed?' Priscus made a note. 'So, the name will appear in the mortuary list instead of the discharge log.'
'Exactly,' said Ruso, with more confidence than he felt.
'Excellent. So there only remains the female with the broken arm. I am sorry to trouble you with all this, Doctor, but the discharge log has no record of her either, and without the proper records for civilians we are unable to bill the correct fees.'
'Are you?' Ruso scratched his ear and wondered whether that should be, aren't you?
He looked the man in the eye. 'All this will be very much easier when I have a scribe who knows how the system works, Priscus.'
The smile reappeared. 'I'm sure it will, Doctor. I'm sure it will.'
On his way back to the surgery Ruso walked past the entrance to the linen closet. A carpenter was sweeping up wood shavings. The door had been mended.
17
The lamplight picked out the white sling resting on top of the gray army blanket. Beneath it, the girl lay asleep on Ruso's borrowed bed. He watched the sling lift softly with each breath. Four days ago, this sight had been cause for celebration. Now it was cause for concern. By now she should either have died or perked up. Instead, apart from the brief revival sparked by his attempt to chop her hair off and the smile wheedled out of her by Valens's bedside charm, the girl had shown little interest in anything. Not even her own recovery.
He had not been entirely sorry to see Valens proved wrong about the comb ('Ruso, all women are interested in their hair!'), but his own tactics had been no more successful. His inquiries about native cuisine had reassured him that she would be no stranger to gruel. Yet despite his carefully prescribed convalescent diet-following which his notes recorded disappointingly scant use of the bedside bucket-the girl was recovering neither strength nor spirit. Nor was she putting on weight. Ruso frowned. Tomorrow, he would repeat the worm treatment. Tonight, he had other things to think about.
He leaned back, relishing the familiar creak of his favorite chair as the front two legs lifted off the ground. He banished a fleeting regret. Claudia would never find out that he had now been sitting on this chair exactly how he liked for the past two years, and he still hadn't broken it.
He stared at the box he had just collected from the porter's desk at the hospital, trying to guess what might be inside. Figs? Olives? Not peaches. Peaches would still be in season, but they wouldn't travel. If he'd had any money, he would have paid well for the simple pleasure of a tray of peaches. To feel the flesh pop between his teeth
… the rich flavor flood onto his tongue… the sticky juice run down his chin…
He cleared his throat and reminded himself that if he had been born this far north he would never have tasted a peach. A peach was one of those things he didn't need.
What else would he find? A letter. There would definitely be a letter. And some gloves. His sister-in-law had promised gloves for the British winter, and his nieces a picture for him to hang on his wall. Since his nieces were
