future with her would not have included harboring and supporting her as a fugitive slave or having to desert from the legion to flee prosecution from her owners. What if he hadn't been prepared to take the risk? What if he had been afraid of being punished for encouraging her? What if…
Gods above, he was doing it again!
Diagnosis
A man burdened with too many responsibilities
Treatment
Long term, concentrate on getting the family out of debt In the meantime, stay calm
Hold out for eleven days until payday
Use Hadrian's bonus to clear all of the loan from the Aesculapian fund and most of the one from HQ
Find — private patients ways to campaign for promotion somewhere cheap and civilized to live. (The CMO's quarters will do nicely.)
Avoid — hospital administrators rogue slave traders destitute or deceased females, and any temptation to find out what happened to them civilian liaison officers any more bright ideas from Valens
Eventually, he would be able to realize his investment in Tilla. He would do it without the help of Bassus, whose bar-trade contacts would probably all be as seedy as Claudius Innocens. He had noticed an advertisement for a traveling slave trader chalked up on a couple of walls on the way out of town, but he did not want to take that route either. Bassus's claim that the local dealers would rob him blind was not the only reason for his reluctance. Having kept her alive, he felt some responsibility toward the girl. He wanted to have some control over where she ended up. If there really were a shortage of good staff in Britannia then some respectable household would have a suitable vacancy. By the time the arm was healing-say, in six to eight weeks-that officer would have turned up.
Ruso, counting three steps to a breath now instead of four, sniffed at the fresh drop of drizzle perching on the end of his nose and glanced at the men slogging forward around him, who had now summoned enough breath to join in the indecent lyrics of marching songs. They would be earning a fraction of his salary, and many of them were supporting families. How did they do it? Were a poor family's needs less than those of the comfortably well off? Were they all closet philosophers, assuring their women that there were lots of things they didn't need? Or was Priscus right, they simply stole whatever they wanted?
Underlying all these was a deeper question: How could one be an educated and intelligent man and not know this sort of thing?
On the first day of Ruso's apprenticeship, his uncle had warned him that a little knowledge would unlock the gates to vast and unsuspected deserts of ignorance. No matter how diligent he was in study, how careful in observation, and how keen to learn from others, the causes of most diseases and the reasons why some patients recovered and some didn't would remain a mystery. The difference between a real doctor and the latest quack who shambled into town offering miracle cures in a bottle was that a real doctor knew his limitations. This speech the fourteen-year-old Ruso had regarded with a level of scorn that he was later glad he had kept to himself.
A true philosopher, he mused now, would be delighted instead of taken aback at every new revelation of his ignorance. A true philosopher would understand that the path to knowledge lay first with the discovery of new questions.
Did continuous rasping of short breaths signify swelling lower down in the throat and was it possible to kill oneself by running until one's airways closed up?
Ridiculous. Of course not. It just felt as though it was.
What caused the head to pound during exercise, and why, despite careful strapping to ward off blisters, did old boots always rub in new places?
You can do this, he told himself. You have done it many times before.
Count. Each step a bonus. Each step an achievement. Set small targets.
One and two and three and four and…
'Out of practice, Doc?' Ruso glanced at the fresh-faced young optio who had fallen in step beside him.
'Good to get-' He tried not to sound out of breath, '-out again. Haven't had much-time lately.'
'Busy over at the hospital?'
'Short-staffed.' He must get the optio to do the talking. 'Been with the-legion long?'
'Ten years this winter. My people are from Baetica, but my father was a centurion in the Twentieth.'
'Born in Deva?'
'No, no. My father got married after he retired back home.'
'Like it here?'
'You get used to it. Hey, are you the doctor that's investigating the murder?'
'No,' said Ruso. He had neither the breath nor the desire to elaborate.
They were passing some native houses now. These were set well back from the road, beyond the wide shoulder where brown sheep lifted their heads as the soldiers approached then bounded away to graze at a safer distance. Smoke curled from thick cones of thatch squatting on round stumpy houses. Several small children of indeterminate sex were fighting over a rope swing dangling from the branch of a tree. Chickens wandered in the mud and a boy was leading a reluctant goat past an untidy stack of hay with a pole sticking out of the top. Ruso saw all this but heard none of it. The sounds of these other lives were muffled beneath singing accompanied by the thump of legionary boots and the jingle of buckles.
Aware that his 'no' had sounded abrupt, Ruso said, 'What are the locals like?'
'We've got both sorts 'round here,' explained the optio. 'One or two who know what a bathhouse is for.'
'And?'
'And a bunch of thieving sheep-shaggers.'
'Ah.'
'You'll find some of the girls friendly, but you'll need to watch your step.'
'Really?'
'Half of them have a string of brothers who want to knife you to restore the family honor. The other half are sent by those honorable families to latch on to an army salary so they can move out of the mud hut. Not much of a choice, is it?'
Ruso smiled. 'I hear the second spear has a daughter.'
The optio laughed aloud. 'You won't get near that one.'
'Not me. A friend.'
'Not a chance, Doc. Not a chance.'
Ruso glanced across at the native huts just as a shapely girl emerged from a gateway carrying two buckets. Moments later he was aware of confusion ahead of him: the sort of confusion caused by someone tripping and the men behind not being able to stop in time. The singing gave way to shouting and swearing. Later runners saw what was happening and parted to flow around the sprawled bodies. Ruso sidestepped to the left, glancing at the playing children who had stopped to stare. The girl had vanished. The optio stayed behind, yelling abuse at the tangle for watching the bloody natives instead of where they were going.
Minutes later a breathless man caught up with Ruso and conveyed the optio's message that one of the fallen men had a suspected broken ankle. Ruso muttered a silent prayer of respect to whichever fate had cursed the unfortunate legionary and hurried back to help. He no longer had to pretend now. He really was both enthusiastic and committed.
41
'You're doing what?'
Valens's hand, clutching his spare underpants, paused above his kit bag. 'Seems they're paying a visit to some hairy mountain chieftain whose resolve needs stiffening.'
'And they want you to go along?'
Valens resumed his efforts to stuff underwear into the few remaining crevices in his kit bag. 'I can do a quick tour of the outpost units while I'm there. It's time somebody checked them over.'
