to help you sleep?’
“I want something to stop me dreaming. Do you have that in your case? Freedom from one’s own dreams?’
Ruso wished he could place a comforting hand on that of his colleague. “Tomorrow we will begin to sort this out,” he promised. “Tomorrow we will begin to work on a cure.”
“His head,” whispered Thessalus.
“Sleep tonight, brother,” said Ruso. “We will find a way through.”
“What did I do with his head?” said Thessalus.
28
Ruso wandered back through the dark streets of the fort to the infirmary, still pondering what to do with Thessalus.
He had met patients with problems of the mind before, but even in the spring-known to be a dangerous time for people prone to madness- he had never come across one displaying both mania and melancholy on the same day. It was as if his two visits had been to two different men. And although no one believed Thessalus to be capable of murder, he was so utterly convinced he had done it that Ruso was beginning to wonder himself.
Normally he would have shared his concerns about a difficult patient with a colleague, but the nearest one was half a day’s ride away. Besides, the confession and Thessalus’s position as a fellow medic made it too delicate a matter to broach with an untried stranger.
He would have liked to write to Valens about the case, but the only way to get a reply before the governor’s arrival would be to use the official dispatch service. A humble medic was as likely to have access to that service as he was to have Mercury fly in through the window and offer to deliver the message in person. No: Whatever he did, he would have to do it on his own.
Back in his room, he scrambled down to the end of the bed and opened the trunk. Picking out one of the scrolls, he held it dangerously close to the lamp and began to scan it for diseases of the mind.
When he found it, the passage proved of doubtful use. The author contended, not unreasonably, that the treatment to be offered must depend upon the diagnosis. Given the symptoms he had exhibited so far, Thessalus was simultaneously in need of a day’s starvation, and a moderate diet. He needed to have blood let, and not to have blood let. He needed to be given a serious fright, and to be kept calm. He needed cold water poured over his head, and to have his head gently moistened with rose oil and thyme. He also, apparently, needed a good vomit.
Ruso slid the scroll into its container and threw it back into the trunk. His body was tired but his mind was still churning over the events of the day. Without Tilla, bed held little appeal. He decided to go for a late walk to clear his head.
Ruso had intended to ask the guard whether there was still any sign of movement behind Thessalus’s door, but as he approached he heard a crash, followed by a shout of “How long are you going to keep this up, you mad bastard?”
The voice was familiar. If Thessalus replied, Ruso did not hear it.
“This isn’t a game!” yelled the voice. “I’m not bringing you any more until you stop messing about!” There was a thump on the inside of the door and a shout of “I’m done here, let me out!” presumably aimed at the guard. Seconds later Gambax emerged and strode off down the dark street, oblivious to Ruso approaching from the opposite direction.
“What’s happened?” demanded Ruso, taking in the sight of a pale Thessalus cowering under his blankets. On top of the bed was an overturned tray. Liquid had streamed across the floor from a shattered cup and a loaf of bread had come to rest against the doorpost.
Ruso crouched by the bed. “Are you all right?”
Thessalus’s hand was shaking as he reached to turn the tray upright. “I’m sorry. Tell him I’m sorry.”
“You don’t have to be sorry,” said Ruso grimly. “Don’t worry, it won’t happen again. I’ll get someone else to bring your meals.”
“No!”
He was surprised at the strength of the man’s response. “You’ll still get your food,” he explained. “Just from somebody-”
“I want Gambax to come.” Thessalus glanced wildly around the room.
“The others…” His voice sunk even lower as his thin fingers gripped Ruso’s arm. “They’re trying to poison me.”
“I promise I’ll make sure they don’t poison you. We’ll have your food tasted before it arrives.”
“No-oh!” Thessalus withdrew his hand. “Mustn’t touch. Mustn’t- sorry.”
“I’ll bring it myself and taste it in front of you. How about that?”
Thessalus shook his head. “No. Please. You don’t understand. He doesn’t mean to shout. I want Gambax.”
“Perhaps we could eat out tomorrow,” suggested Ruso. “Is there anywhere you’d like to go, or shall I choose?”
“They have a guard at the door.”
“I’ll talk to them,” said Ruso, encouraged by the logic of this objection and confident that he would be able to get permission to take his patient out of this miserable confinement. “Perhaps we could go to the baths.”
“Gambax. I need to see Gambax. He understands.”
“I always find that a massage-”
“No.”
Ruso nodded. “We’ll stay here, then.”
“Rocking,” said Thessalus suddenly.
“How about taking me out for a ride tomorrow? You could show me around.”
“Rocking,” persisted Thessalus. “Rocking is good.”
Ruso, possibly recalling the same passage as his patient about the treatment of the insane, glanced up at the rafters. “We could suspend some sort of swing from up there,” he said. “So you think rocking in a swing might make you feel better?”
“No,” said Thessalus. “But it will keep you happy.”
Ruso was beginning to suspect that Thessalus knew much more than he did himself about problems of the mind. “I’ll see what I can arrange.”
“My head,” said Thessalus, staring at the rafters, “is full of words.”
“What sort of words?”
“All the words,” explained Thessalus. “Jumping around like frogs.” He lifted one hand and made a slow circling motion in the air. “ ’Round and ’round like frogs, bumping against the edges.” He turned to look at Ruso. “Hellebore for madness,” he said. “Thyme vinegar for clearing the head. Don’t drink it, Doctor. Only sniff. Vinegar shrivels the mouth.” He pulled a face. “Is it time to get up yet?”
“It’s evening.”
“Mustn’t get up in the dark. Bad things happen in the dark.”
“What sort of bad things?”
“Dreams. Bad dreams.”
“Can you tell me what you see in the dreams?”
Thessalus reached up a thin arm and grasped the back of the couch, hauling himself into a sitting position. Slowly, he eased his feet down toward the floor without throwing off his blanket, so that he was swathed in gray wool with one skeletal set of toes poking out at floor level. He ran both hands roughly through his hair, springing out the dark curls from where they had lain flattened over his ears, then rested his elbows on his knees and leaned closer to Ruso. Their eyes met. “I can see what you see,” he whispered.
“What’s that?”
“Blood.” Thessalus’s eyes were still locked on Ruso’s as if he were trying to gaze past their surface and into
