The form moved and the hand knocked again.
Tilla slid the key into the lock, positioned one foot an inch away to hold the door while she assured herself it was only the girl, and then let her in.
'Daphne,' she said, locking the door again. 'Thank you.'
The girl put the tray down on the bench.
'Did you sleep well?'
Daphne shrugged, and indicated her belly in a way that suggested her expectations of sleep were limited.
'When is your baby due?'
A second shrug indicated that this was not a subject of great interest.
'My master has given me the key,' explained Tilla, 'so I can decide who comes in. I do not want those men in here. If you come alone, knock like this.' She demonstrated three short taps on the windowsill.
'Understand?'
Daphne reached out a hand and gave three short taps on the door.
'Only if you are alone, yes?'
Daphne nodded and pointed to herself. For a moment Tilla thought she was about to smile, but a yell of, 'Daphne!' from downstairs reminded her of her duties. Tilla let her out, locked the door, and retreated to see what they had given her for breakfast.
24
The outside door to the hospital kitchen was propped open to let out the heat as usual. Ruso nodded a greeting to the cooks as he passed, pausing long enough to light a taper on the grilling coals but not long enough to answer any questions, either about why he was limping horribly or about why he didn't use the front door like everyone else.
He waited until the corridor was empty before making his way down to the courtyard door. Clutching his case in one hand and the taper in the other, he managed to hobble across the courtyard garden and enter by the consulting rooms without being accosted by either patients or staff.
Ruso leaned back on the closed door of the consulting room and contemplated his toe. Such a small part of the body. Such disproportionate agony.
He lit a stub of candle. Then he unlatched his case and retrieved the thinnest of the bronze probes which had, as usual, fallen out of its place.
He propped the thicker end of the probe on the top of an inkwell and moved the candle so the tip of the probe was being lapped by the flame.
While he waited for the instrument to heat, he unlaced his sandal, glanced around the room, and then moved a chair away from the wall under the window. This was a quick and straightforward procedure.
There was no need for painkillers or restraints. There was also no need for furniture for him to fall off if things didn't turn out to be quite as straightforward and quick as when he did this to other people.
Shielding his fingers from the heat with a cloth, Ruso picked up the cooler end of the probe. He sat himself on the floor below the window and braced his back against the wall. He took a deep breath. Then he placed the tip of the probe against his toenail.
The door burst open. His hand jolted. The probe slipped out of his grasp and rolled across the floor.
'Ruso!' exclaimed Valens. 'They told me you were in here. What are you doing down there?'
He explained.
Valens examined the toe. His face brightened in a manner that Ruso found faintly unsettling. 'Shall I do it?'
'No thank you.'
'Well, can I bring a couple of chaps in to watch?'
It was an unwelcome, but not an unreasonable, request. 'If you must,' said Ruso. He got to his feet with some difficulty and repositioned the probe over the flame.
Moments later Valens returned with the couple of chaps. Either he had lost the ability to count, or each of the chaps had invited a couple more chaps of his own.
'See how the blood's built up under the nail,' explained Valens as his audience shuffled about to get a better view of Ruso's blackened toenail. 'How does it feel?'
'Painful,' grunted Ruso. He could feel himself starting to sweat.
'It's the pressure that's causing the pain,' explained Valens. 'You, pass that probe over, will you?'
There was movement in the corner. A voice said, 'Shall I put the candle out, sir?'
'Not yet,' ordered Valens cheerfully. 'He might want to have several stabs at it.'
Ruso, who hoped fervently that he would not need more than one stab at it, told himself that this was only a very small amount of additional pain. It would, as he assured his patients, bring instant relief. Suddenly, however, this logic did not seem to offer a great deal of comfort. But he could not change his mind now. Nor could he postpone the moment any longer. The probe was being held out for him to take between forefinger and thumb.
He adjusted his grip, positioned the tip of the probe over the dark blister that had formed under his toenail during the night, and pressed.
He gasped as an excruciating wave of pain shot up his foot. Sweating, he forced himself to hold the probe steady and keep pressing as he smelled the nail burning. He closed his eyes, clenched his teeth, and pushed harder.
Suddenly the resistance to the probe gave way. He withdrew it and gave an involuntary sigh of relief as the blood welled out of the burned hole and the pain began to subside.
He looked up, surveyed the silent faces, and grinned. 'Thank you, gentlemen. Any questions?'
After the students had been shooed out, Valens said, 'Before you distracted me, I came to tell you I've been invited out to dinner tonight.'
'Really?' Ruso wiped his toe with a damp cloth and wondered if dinner invitations were so rare in Britannia that guests felt the need to boast about them.
'And,' Valens continued, 'it's a pity you've already performed your party trick, because so have you.'
25
A small informal dinner, as arranged by the wife of Centurion Rutilius, was one where Ruso was required to make conversation with seven people he didn't know plus one he'd seen too much of, while eating a selection of elaborate dishes that bore little or no resemblance to their stated ingredients.
He had been introduced to his fellow guests and promptly forgotten most of their names. This was a situation he was hoping to salvage by not speaking unless spoken to. He would ask Valens afterward. Valens would know what everyone was called, particularly the two daughters of their host. Obviously they were both Rutilia something, but Ruso was damned if he could remember what. The younger one wasn't supposed to be there anyway: She had been summoned at the last minute when the second spear, who turned out to be her uncle, arrived alone. Apparently his daughter had a bad head cold and wouldn't be coming after all.
Valens, who might conceivably have been disappointed at this news, seemed to accept it stoically enough when etiquette now demanded a rearrangement of the seating plan and he found himself lounging between the plump and giggly wife of another centurion and the elder Rutilia, who must have been of marriageable age.
Ruso took another spoonful of something soft and eggy and wondered how long it would be before Valens offered the second spear's daughter a house call. Around him, his fellow diners were finding ways of informing one another that they thought Hadrian would make a fine emperor, largely because nobody was yet drunk enough to dare say anything else. It was an example of the meaningless conversation that, as Ruso had once tried to explain
