'And these days the idea that everyone has the authority to order whatever strikes his fancy just won't do. If everyone just' orders in one thing extra, the budgets are out of control. Let me give you an example. Only yesterday I caught one of the orderlies changing pillows between patients.'
'Aren't they supposed to?'
Priscus positively beamed at him. 'The stock of pillows and covers,' he explained, 'is calculated to balance with the timing of the laundry. Unless they are noticeably soiled, pillows are changed on Fridays. Yesterday was Tuesday.'
'I ordered the change.'
Priscus looked surprised. 'Desirable, no doubt, but surely not medically necessary?'
Ruso frowned. It probably hadn't been necessary, but he was not prepared to concede that to Priscus. 'Fresh beds cheer people up. People get better quicker when they aren't miserable. It's a medical decision.'
'But one that has an effect on the laundry bills.' Priscus sighed. 'I appreciate your point, but the next time there is a major call on our resources-an epidemic, or a serious accident, or more trouble with the locals-if the budget has been frittered away on inessentials, we'll have no contingency funds to deal with the crisis.'
Ruso scratched his ear. 'Well, if a plague or a war breaks out, won't someone in Rome notice and send us some more cash?'
Priscus shook his head sadly. 'Unfortunately, things are never quite that simple. But of course, nobody takes the trouble to discover the real reasons for difficulties: instead everybody blames the administrators. The fundamental problem we have, you see, is that the people who do the spending are not the ones who have to explain it to the camp prefect. I have to do that. And very shortly the camp prefect will have to explain it to the imperial audit inspectors, and believe me, Ruso, no one wants to fall out of favor with the imperial audit inspectors. They go through the books like terriers hunting a rat.'
'Hospital administrators hunting a wolf,' suggested Ruso.
'You may have heard that the hospital administrator of the Second Augusta fell on his sword after one of their visits.'
'Wasn't he the one who was selling the medicines and keeping the cash?'
Priscus looked offended. 'All I ask, Ruso, is that if you make decisions affecting my budgets, you should clear them with me first.'
'You want me to prescribe whatever's cheapest?'
'The medical decisions are yours,' Priscus assured him. 'But I would be grateful if you would keep me informed. Perhaps we could ask Albanus to copy any relevant items from your notes.'
Gods above, the man had been planning this ever since his return! Ruso frowned. 'I can't have patient records put in the hands of the requisitions clerk.'
'Simply the treatments.'
'No. You could track them. If you want to know how medicine stocks are going, ask the pharmacy. If you want to know how many pillows are being used, get someone to check your cupboards. That's your job. My job is to get the men here back on their feet as quickly as possible.'
Priscus drew a long breath in through his nose and said nothing.
Ruso suppressed a smile. He had never before seen himself as an irresponsible spendthrift. He was quite enjoying the notion.
His enjoyment was short-lived. Priscus reached for another file. Apparently in future the administration would be obliged if he would sign for meals taken when on duty.
'I shouldn't have to pay for them. They deduct enough for food as it is.'
'Precisely. Which is why I have seen to it that Albanus has spent the morning going through the rosters to give the pay office separate lists of meals the kitchen has served you when on and off duty. Because payday, as we are all aware, is almost upon us. And otherwise they would have charged you for all of them.'
Ruso stared at him for a moment and then said, 'Oh,' and forced himself to follow it with, 'Thank you.'
Priscus inclined his head slightly. 'A pleasure to be of service,' he said.
28
Tilla was pondering the question of food-how much she could save and hide without arousing anyone's suspicions-when there was a thump low down on the door as if someone had kicked it and a small voice announced in Latin, 'It's Lucco, missus. I can't knock, I'll drop your tray.'
The ginger-haired kitchen boy had brought a steaming bowl of broth, half a loaf of bread, and a cup of water. He placed the tray on the bench and watched as she tore a chunk of bread away with her teeth. She placed it on the windowsill before breaking it awkwardly into crumbs with one hand and pushing it out between the bars.
Finally he said, 'What do you do that for?'
'I have guests.'
The boy looked anxious. 'Cook didn't say nothing about guests.'
'You can wait and see them if you like,' she offered, moving the stool to use it as a table and seating herself on the bench. She gestured toward the tray and offered him some bread.
He shook his head. 'Mistress says you're too skinny and you got to eat it all.'
She tore off another chunk and watched the glistening brown of the broth soak up and darken the bread. By the time she had eaten it, the first sparrow had arrived. Lucco said, 'I could get Stichus to find a trap,' and at the sound of his voice the sparrow flew away.
Tilla frowned. 'I do not trap my guests. Sit still and say nothing.'
Moments later several sparrows returned and there was frantic action on the windowsill until a male blackbird brought order by frightening the sparrows away and helping himself to the last remaining crumbs. When he had gone Lucco said, 'We could have had sparrow pie.'
'Is it good?'
'We'd find out.'
Tilla fished out a dripping chunk of bread with her spoon.
'I had dormouse once,' Lucco announced. 'And swan. Stichus brought me some back from a dinner party.'
Romans, Tilla reflected, would eat anything that moved. She could almost believe the rumor that they fattened snails in milk and ate them.
'How long have you worked here, Lucco?'
'I was born here,' he told her.
'In this place?'
'In this room.'
She glanced around at the bare walls and felt sorry for a child who had been given such a poor welcome into the world. 'How old are you?'
'Eight winters.'
She dipped the spoon to capture more bread. 'You have the same name as one of my uncles, Lucco, you measure your age in winters like me, and yet you speak in the tongue of the army.' She switched to her own language. 'Who are your people?'
The boy shook his head. 'We talk Latin here. We honor the emperor.'
'But among ourselves?' she persisted.
Still clinging to the Latin, the boy answered that the mistress did not like them to 'talk like natives,' adding, 'The customers don't like it neither.'
Convinced that he understood, she continued, 'Where can I find people around here who are not ashamed of their own tongue, Lucco?'
The boy looked at her for a moment, then stepped across to pick up the bucket in the corner. 'I forgot,' he said, 'Mistress says I got to empty you out.' Moments later he was gone.
She had not been alone for long when there were three short raps on the door. Instead of Daphne, the ample young woman with the silver ankle chain was lolling against the doorpost. 'Tilla,' she said. 'Is that your real
