Medicus

section for months. Tonight he was going to finish it.

He moved the lamp to a better angle and began to read through what he had written so far. Halfway down the page he paused to note with satisfaction that Tilla had stopped crashing around in the kitchen. No doubt she was regretting her display of temper. He thought he had handled it rather well. Now he had the rest of the evening for 'Treatment of Eye Injuries.'

His finger had reached the bottom of the first page before it struck him that he could not remember what he had just read. This was not encouraging. If he found it boring, what about his readers? He picked up his stylus, tweaked the wick of the lamp with the sharp end, and reassured himself that the author of a book whose content was worthwhile need not concern himself with elegant style. People who wanted to know something useful would not want to hunt through pages of authorial showing off to find it. The task of a medical writer-particularly a concise one-was to offer immediate and practical help, not tell jokes. He took another gulp of wine and started to read again in the brighter light.

Perhaps he should leave the bedroom door open, just in case there was some very quiet wailing and cursing going on.

Perhaps not.

He had more important things to do than waste his evening wondering what his servant was up to.

The trouble with women was that no matter what you did, they were never satisfied. Instead of being grateful for the efforts made on their behalf-sometimes quite considerable, and at no small inconvenience-they chose to pick on one small matter that had not been attended to, and complain about it.

What else was he supposed to have done about that girl? Stride into the bar and demand that Merula hand her over? What Tilla did not seem to understand was that in the absence of an official complaint by someone willing to take up her case-which Ruso certainly wasn't, since the girl was none of his business-no one was obliged to do anything at all about Phryne. Not tonight, not next week, not ever.

In the meantime, while the medicus to the Twentieth sat in the wavering light, pondering the welfare of local barmaids over a cup of wine and a bellyful of chicken stew, there could be a frightened legionary lying injured out in some dark and distant outpost, unable to summon even a bandager, wishing to the gods that either he or his companions knew something about first aid.

Ruso straightened his chair, cleared his throat, and began to fill the central leaf with writing.

He wrote steadily to the foot of the wax, read it through, and was correcting it when he heard the front door open. He and Valens grunted a mutual good night and moments later he heard the other bedroom door shut. There was no sound from the kitchen.

Ruso flipped the wooden leaf over and began to fill the other side.

He was surprised when a distant trumpet sounded for the next watch, which told him he had been writing for a couple of hours now.

The lamp was starting to sputter as he finished the last sentence. He pushed the wick down to conserve the oil, propped the tablet beside the lamp, and reread his work. It was good. He slapped the tablet shut and put it back on the top of the pile. He would get Albanus to make a clean copy in the morning.

His thoughts returned to Tilla's concern for Phryne. She had a point.

The girl's situation was not a happy one, and it would doubtless be getting worse with every hour she spent in that place. At least, though, she had the protection of being the daughter of a freeman. The law would- eventually-help her in a way that it would never have helped Saufeia, or Asellina, or the unfortunate Daphne. Neither the law nor the army offered any hope to slaves whose owners expected them to work as prostitutes. Their only choices were to cooperate, kill themselves, or run away. And if the escape went disastrously wrong, there seemed to be few who would care. He hoped the business about the hair had whetted the second spear's appetite for investigation. And that Phryne would not take it into her head to run away tonight.

Ruso picked up his cup of wine. He blew out the struggling lamp before the flame scorched the dry wick and headed for the door.

He stood for a moment, breathing in the warm air of the dining room. As his eyes adjusted to the dark he could make out a bundle huddled on the couch, faintly outlined by the dull glow of the dying embers in the fire. He held his breath, but he already knew how quietly she slept. He could hear only a faint crackle of burning and the thud of his own heart. He took a step forward.

There was the rustle of fabric and the bundle moved. 'My Lord?'

He groped for a taper and knelt to push the end into the embers. 'That business this afternoon, Tilla. The near miss.'

'Is not an accident, my Lord.'

'Whatever it was, you did well. That's all. Go back to sleep now.'

'Good night, my Lord.'

The end of the taper caught into a yellow flame. He lifted it out and set it to the candle on the table.

'My Lord?'

'Yes?'

'I know you try to help Phryne.'

He paused, candle in hand, by the kitchen door. 'I am sorry if you were hoping for more.'

'I am not hoping for anything, my Lord.'

Ruso poured himself a cup of water in the kitchen. / am not hoping for anything, my Lord. Considering the fortunes of the slaves he had come to know since moving to Deva, that was hardly surprising.

He paused by the couch on his way back to the bedroom, setting the candle and the water on the table. 'Before you sleep, Tilla,' he said, 'I have something to ask you. No-' he held out a hand, 'don't stand up.'

She pulled the blankets around her shoulders, curled her feet in beneath her, and stifled a yawn. The dog must be sleeping on Valens's bed: There was room beside her on the couch. Ruso chose the edge of the table instead. One of his feet brushed against something. He glanced down to see two small boots set in a neat pair. 'I have been told more than once,' he said, 'that Saufeia could read and write.'

'Yes, my Lord.'

'There is something people are not telling me.'

She frowned. 'I am telling my Lord everything he asks.'

'I want to know why it matters. Does it have something to do with what happened to her?'

From outside the house the sound of boots on gravel rose and rapidly faded as the guard relieved from the last watch took a shortcut on their way back to bed.

'What about the other girl? Do you know anything about that?'

'Asellina. She ran away.'

'Was she meeting someone?'

'Her man says it is not him. Nobody knows another man.'

'What do the girls think happened to her?'

'Nobody knows anything, my Lord.'

'And what about Saufeia? Does anybody know anything about her?'

She did not answer.

'Merula isn't going to hurt you, Tilla. She's no fool. She wouldn't dare touch someone else's slave.'

Her hair was loose over her shoulders. She began to twirl a strand around her forefinger.

'You told me about Phryne, and something will be done about it. If someone would tell the truth about Saufeia, perhaps something could be done about that too.'

'The truth will not bring her back.'

'The truth may save some other girl from the same fate.'

There was a crackle from the grate as the embers shifted and sent up an orange fountain of sparks. The finger stopped twirling. 'The truth I know, my Lord,' she said, 'is not enough. You will ask more questions, and people will hear the questions and know I tell you, and the person who tell me will be very sorry.'

'The person who tell-who told you is Chloe, isn't it?'

'Whatever you say, my Lord.'

'You are a very stubborn woman.'

'Yes, my Lord. Whatever you say.'

He shrugged. 'I'm not staying up to argue. In the morning, I want you to tell me.'