seemed to be enraptured.
Although he could not share it, there were times when Ruso was jealous of the comfort other people seemed to draw from their religion. Patients who retained a calm hope in the face of desperate and painful situations. One man had even offered to pray for Ruso's soul while Ruso amputated two of his toes. So although he had troubling doubts about Aesculapius, very little faith in Jupiter and his ilk, and-usually-silent contempt for the so-called divinity of emperors, Ruso had a solid belief in the value of religion. Leaving aside the water engineer who had to be tied to his bunk until he lost faith in his ability to fly from the top of his aqueduct, even the craziest of beliefs seemed to do less harm than any effort to dislodge them. So he would, if asked, have given Tilla permission for some sort of religious worship. But he had not been asked, and now he was witnessing blatant disobedience of a kind he had never encountered in a servant before. He had excused the attack with the soup bowl as a mistake. The business of cooking up medicines in his kitchen had been more of a misunderstanding. This was nothing short of defiance. He was now obliged, for the first time in his life, to administer a serious beating.
He was not sure what to use. Claudia had usually marked her displeasure by snatching up whatever came to hand-a spoon, a hairbrush, a shoe. He would have to use his belt. To that end, and because he was uncomfortable in them anyway, he would let the singing warble on while he climbed out of the trousers.
He was out of one leg and easing the second boot through the tube of fabric when he felt something drop into his hair. Logic vanished. Both hands shot up to sweep away the scorpion before it stabbed him in the scalp. The movement threw him off-balance. He hopped sideways, grabbing at the tree trunk to stop himself from falling. A bird flew up, squawking in alarm, and as Ruso realized that the thing that had fallen on his head was an autumn leaf, the song stopped.
He flattened himself back against the trunk, scarcely breathing.
In place of the song came a peculiar chanting, as if she were repeating the words of a spell over and over again. The chanting grew nearer. She was walking toward him.
There was no point in trying to hide. He stepped out from behind the tree.
The chanting stopped. Tilla was staring at him. At his face. At his feet. At his trousers. Then at his face again.
'Tilla.'
'My Lord.'
'You are supposed to be at work.'
'Yes, my Lord.'
'Instead, you are here.'
'Yes, my Lord.' She lowered her gaze again. For a moment neither of them spoke. Then she said quietly, 'My Lord's trousers are fallen down.'
Ruso slowly unrolled the belt from his palm and buckled it around his tunic, trying not to speculate on his servant's perception of what he was up to behind the tree. The punishment would have to wait until he had recovered some dignity.
51
Ruso looked up from the whetstone and put the scalpel down. 'Come in, Albanus.'
The door opened. Albanus appeared. 'How did you know it was me, sir?'
'Magic,' said Ruso, who had recognized the knock. 'Any luck?'
Albanus advanced into the surgery. 'Sir, the pharmacist says he doesn't know anything that uses all those ingredients.'
'Did you ask if you could use them separately?'
'Yes, sir. Or in any combination. And he said yes, it was dog's mercury, and you could use it as a purgative but you'd be safer using hellebore because too much would cause severe gastric problems and coma. The wood sorrel-he said he didn't know any uses for it but if you took lots of it you'd probably be ill, and he said the best thing to do with garlic mustard and nettles is to mix them with scrambled egg and eat it while it's still hot.'
'Good. Thank you.' Ruso retrieved the scalpel and began work on the other side of the blade.
A wax tablet and a collection of wilted leaves appeared by the whetstone. 'I wrote it down, sir.'
Ruso glanced across. The notes inscribed in the clerk's neat handwriting really did end with 'eat while still hot.'
'Very thorough as usual, thank you.'
'And there's somebody to see you, sir.'
Ruso cleared the greenery to one side of his desk. 'Send him in. Have you got his notes?'
'It's a her, sir.' Albanus left a slight pause before adding, 'I think you've got the notes already.'
Albanus had gone, leaving Ruso alone with his slave.
'Close the door, Tilla.'
The latch clanked into position.
He carried on stroking the triangular blade across the stone, conscious that she was waiting for him to speak. Her feet were in his line of vision. She was wearing the new boots.
He had asked her to report to him here as soon as she had finished the shopping. By this time, he felt, he would have worked out what disciplinary measures were appropriate. But despite mulling it over throughout their swift and silent walk back to town, and again in the few minutes since he had finished ward rounds, he had failed to make a decision.
He drizzled more oil onto the stone. As it soaked into the worn gray surface in the wake of the blade, he reflected that at least she had turned up as instructed. He had thought she might go gallivanting back to the woods in search of the plants he had confiscated from the basket. Garlic mustard and nettles. Edible and harmless, as the pharmacist had confirmed. Mix with scrambled egg. Eat while still hot. Perhaps he had done her an injustice. But dog's mercury? Severe gastric problems and coma? Surely it was a common enough plant for no one-especially the daughter of a midwife-to mistake it for something else?
He glanced up to find those eyes looking directly into his. Her mouth was set in the sort of line that suggested a direct approach would be a waste of time. Instead he said mildly, 'Are the boots a good fit?'
He could see he had taken her by surprise. She lifted her skirt to look at them. 'They are, my Lord,' she said, and then added, 'I thank you.'
He nodded. 'Good.' She had tidied her hair. He noticed for the first time that she had made beads from three acorns: one brown flanked by two green, threaded on a length of thin twine to form a necklace. As her doctor, he should have been pleased to note that she was starting to take an interest in her appearance. As her owner, he had more pressing concerns. He laid the scalpel on the whetstone and pushed it to one side. 'Now bring the basket over here and let's see what you've bought me.'
She had bought him bread, apples, five eggs, cheese, bacon, and green beans. He glanced into the greased leather pouch that held his own flint and steel, and which she had no business bringing out of the house. He put it back without comment and said, 'Tell me, Tilla. What tribe do you come from?'
She laid the folded cloak back across the top of the basket and put them both on a stool. 'The Brigantes, my Lord.'
The ones who were causing trouble. Somehow this was not a surprise. 'They are from the hills north and east of here?'
'Yes, my Lord.'
'And are they a very religious people?'
She shook her head. 'Not all of them, my Lord.'
'But you are faithful to your gods.'
'The goddess protects me.'
'And when you make medicine, is that something to do with your goddess?'
No reply.
'I'm interested in your medicine. Some of your plants here are new to me. Maybe I have something to learn.'
