Medicus

'Claudia had lots.'

'Ah.' Valens squinted into his own beer, rescued something with a forefinger, and flicked it over his shoulder. A rush of inquisitive puppies followed its course.

'How long have you been a beer drinker?'

'I'm not. Some native gave it to me as a thank-you for treating one of his children.'

Ruso frowned into his drink. 'Are you sure he was grateful?'

'Smells like goat's piss, I know. But you'll get used to it.'

Ruso tried another mouthful and wondered how long getting used to it would take. He said, 'Can't the legion give us somebody to help keep the place straight?'

Valens winced. 'If you want some squinty-eyed misery who makes a ridiculous fuss about a little bit of a mess.'

Ruso deduced that this had already been tried. 'What about a private arrangement? It wouldn't cost much between us.'

'The servants here aren't much better than the beer, I'm afraid. The first one we tried had a bad back. The next one kept sitting on the floor and crying and we didn't have the heart to beat her, so we sold her. At a loss, of course. Then we tried hiring a local girl, but Marius saw her kick the dog, so she had to go.' Valens leaned back and indicated the size of the room with a sweep of his arm. The motion sent beer slopping over the side of his cup. 'This isn't a big house, is it?' He transferred the beer to the other hand and wiped his wet fingers on the couch. 'It can't be much work. I mean, we don't even use that end room.' The beer slopped again, indicating the direction of the corner room, which had been abandoned as impossibly damp and was now growing several fine blooms of strange- smelling mold. 'There's only the two of us to cook for,' he continued, 'and half the time we eat at the hospital. Can your girl cook?'

'At the moment she can't even stand up.'

'No matter. We don't want one in a splint anyway. We want some nice healthy lass who's handy with dogs and cleaning.'

'And wants a challenge,' observed Ruso, glancing through the open door into the earthquake zone that was Valens's bedroom. 'Where would we put this healthy lass?'

'In the kitchen, I suppose. When your furniture turns up, she could have the mattress off that bed you're using.

'Ruso did not reply.

'We could always get rid of her later if your girl shows promise,' Valens added.

'I won't be keeping her. I'll start looking for a buyer as soon as she can be moved.'

'You'll just have to hope Priscus doesn't come back in the meantime.'

Ruso frowned. 'Doesn't anybody know when he's coming?'

'Doubt it. He likes to take people by surprise. He thinks it keeps them on their toes. He's not keen on private patients unless they pay well. By the way, that other dog isn't yours too, is it?'

Ruso said, 'What other dog?'

'I didn't think it was. I'll tell them to get rid of it.'

Other dog?

Ruso yawned. The girl in the mortuary was not his problem, but if he didn't get the live one out of the hospital soon, not only would he get off on the wrong foot with Chief Administrative Officer Priscus, but he would be saddled with every other passing stray for whom no one else wanted to take responsibility.

Somewhere beyond the ill-fitting shutters of his bedroom window, a trumpet sounded the change of watch. He rolled over, wriggled to avoid the lump that always seemed directly under his shoulder no matter how many times he turned the mattress or shook the straw around, and closed his eyes. He was just dropping off to sleep when he heard a knock on his door and Valens asking if he was awake.

'No.'

'Are you busy in the morning?'

'Yes.'

'Too bad. Somebody's going to have to go down to Merula's.'

'Uh. Send an orderly.'

'It ought to be somebody official, and I'm on duty.'

'Can't it wait?'

'No. One of the men's identified that body.'

6

The shutters had been pushed back to let in the autumn sunshine. Beyond them, Merula's was almost empty. Benches were upturned on the tables. A boy of eight or nine was shoveling ash out of the grate under the hot drinks counter. A young woman with lank hair tucked behind her ears was sweeping sawdust into a gray pile with limp strokes of a broom. A buxom girl was barefoot on a stool, displaying a dainty silver chain around one ankle as she reached above a lamp bracket to wipe at the smudges on the wall. Ruso looked at the girl with the ankle bracelet. He thought of the discolored figure stretched out on the mortuary table. He w* shed he hadn't.

A door opened somewhere at the back of the bar and a third girl, this one heavily pregnant, emerged carrying a jar of oil. From somewhere in the shadows a gruff voice said, ' 'Morning, Daphne.'

Daphne came to an instant halt on the far side of one of the tables. Ruso had the impression she was holding her breath as the taller of Merula's two doormen stepped up close behind her.

'Just got out of bed, have we?' inquired the doorman. The pregnant girl flinched as he leaned around to peer into her face.

From the doorway Ruso noticed the cloth dangling unheeded in the hand of the girl standing on the stool, who had turned to watch the encounter. The lank-haired one shuffled away to sweep under the stairs.

The doorman was shaking his head despairingly. 'Daphne, Daphne, what am I always telling you about conversation? When a gentleman says hello, you say hello back. Good morning, Daphne.'

If Daphne made any reply, it was covered by the screech of the shovel being slid into the fireplace.

'Very nice. Now come here.'

He seated himself behind her on the table, placed his hands on her shoulders, and pulled her back toward him until she was standing trapped between his knees with the oil jar propped awkwardly against her swollen belly. 'You ought to be more careful,' he said, his large fingers re tying her loose braid with a surprisingly deft touch. 'You could have lost that ribbon. Couldn't you?'

She did not answer.

He gave her a rough shove forward. 'Run along, then. The mistress don't want to see you standing around chatting.'

As Daphne approached Ruso, her face was expressionless. She stood on tiptoe to fill the lamp on the bracket by the shutters. When she had finished, she wiped first her nose and then the neck of the jar with a cloth, and made her way back to the kitchen with the sway-backed walk of a woman working to counterbalance a heavy weight.

Ruso stepped forward onto the red tiles, avoiding a pile of sawdust. A broad figure emerged from behind the shutters to block his path. He recognized the fading ginger hair.

'We're closed,' said the man in a tone that suggested he too remembered Ruso's last visit, and not fondly.

'Is the manageress in?'

The solid shoulders rose just enough to indicate that the man's job was to know nothing, see nothing, and be as unhelpful as possible, and he was intending to do it to the best of his ability.

Ruso looked him in the eye. He was saying 'Would you like me to repeat the question?' when he heard another voice behind him.

'Who wants to know?'

He turned. The doormen had positioned themselves so that he was caught between them. 'Gaius Petreius