“ ‘He doesn’t pretend to know everything, but he does his best for his patients.’ ”
“Yes, my lord.”
“This has been my ambition.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“If it ever becomes my ambition to have them say, ‘There is Gaius Petreius Ruso, the man who sends his servant out to steal for him,’ I will let you know.”
“I understand this,” came the reply. “I am doing it before you tell me.”
Felix was going to have to do something about the native. The man had been pestering him for days. Now he had stepped right up to the table in front of everyone in Susanna’s and started jabbering again about honor. About the law. About compensation. Felix had explained, politely, that he couldn’t be breaking his promise, because he’d never made one.
That was when the native had begun to shout about cows. Felix began to lose patience with him. He didn’t have one cow to hand over, let alone five, even if he’d wanted to. “Sorry, pal. It’s not that I don’t want to help, but it’s not really my problem, is it?”
Any normal native would have shut up and slunk off home to his smoky house and his skinny children, glad that he hadn’t been taken outside for a beating. This one started yelling about gods and shame and vengeance.
Felix held his hands up. “Look, pal, I’ve said it nicely. I’m sorry if you think I’ve been plowing your field, but she never said a word about you to me. You can have her. I’ll back off.”
Instead of calming down, the native had tried to climb over the table and grab him. The other lads had thrown the man out into the street. What had he been thinking of? One basket maker taking on four Batavian infantrymen? Especially four Batavian infantrymen who found themselves in a bar where the beer had run out. When he came back for more, already with one eye swelling up and blood dribbling from a split lip, they were all so surprised that they burst out laughing.
They were pretty soft with him, considering. They left him in a fit state to run away, still shouting to the street that everyone would see what happened around here to men who didn’t honor their debts.
More beer arrived. They were still laughing and searching for imaginary cows under the table when they heard the trumpet announcing the approach of curfew. The others got to their feet. Felix glanced across to where Dari the waitress was showing more than a glimpse of cleavage as she stretched forward to clear tables. “I’ll be in later,” he said. “I’ve got some business.”
When they had gone, Felix slid his arm around Dari’s waist. “You’re not going to let me down, are you?” he said.
2
From the way the medicus was hunched over the writing tablet, Tilla guessed he was either making the wax speak to his brother across the sea, or doing his accounts. She restrained an urge to stride across the bedroom, wrench the stylus out of his hand, and poke him in the eye with it.
As far as she had been able to work out, the medicus’s family lived in a fine house whose roof baked beneath the everlasting sunshine of southern Gaul, while its foundations stood in a deep and perilous pool of debt. When she had found this out she had felt sorry for him. She knew that he sent most of his money home to his brother, and she knew that it was never enough. In the same way, she knew, she could never fully repay what she owed him for saving her life. More than once, while he frowned over the latest letter from the brother, she had slipped away and brought out the purse from its hiding place, secretly adding up how much she had saved for him and imagining his pleasure when she presented it.
But now he had taken the money that she had spent months building up for him and squandered half of it on the best room that the surprised innkeeper could offer. Worse, the smug expression on his face as he had patted the fine large bed suggested he expected her to be grateful. It was one of those moments when, no matter how loyal she knew she should feel toward this man, she found him utterly exasperating.
She had squinted at the covers and said, “There will be bugs.”
He had assured her that this room was usually kept aside for important travelers.
“Rich men’s bugs,” she had said, surveying the painted walls.
“Sleep on the floor, then,” he had replied. “The bugs and I will have a quiet night.” But she had seen him opening a bag from his medical case and sprinkling something under the bedding. As if that would make any difference.
The water in which she was standing was like gritty brown soup. She balanced on one foot while she rinsed the other with fresh water from the jug. Brown smudges mingled with older, unknowable stains on the linen of the innkeeper’s towel.
She did not want to curl up with the medicus in that borrowed bed, bugs or no bugs. She would rather have been outside in the yard, bedding down under the canopy of the hired cart in the company of the woman who had just had the baby. It was not wise for any woman to be left with only a boy driver for protection in a place like this. Especially not a woman with a new baby. But the medicus’s patience had been wearing thin today, and by the end of the journey she had felt too tired and dirty to point out to him that Lydia’s needs were just as important as his own.
Instead she had waited obediently for him outside the army transit camp, feeling the mud stiffen on her skin, ignoring the curious passersby and the loudmouths who thought their comments were funny. By the time he had finished doing whatever it was soldiers did and they had walked down to the inn, the lamps were being lit.
The inn’s bathhouse had turned out to be a small and not very clean set of rooms occupied by sweaty latecomers scraping off the dirt of their day’s journey. She had only paused long enough to collect water and towels. So now here they both were, trapped in a costly privacy neither of them seemed to be enjoying.
The medicus was still sitting on the rented bed, scratching out his letters by the light of the lamp. He would certainly not be telling his brother how much money he had just handed over to the landlord of the Golden Fleece.
Tilla reached for her clean undertunic and dragged it over her head. He had not thanked her for saving him from cheats and liars. He had not even thanked her for the money. No matter what he used it for now, the gift was spoiled.
She unwrapped the towel from around her hair. A silent blaze of white appeared around the window shutters. In less than a heartbeat it pulsed again and was gone.
The Medicus glanced up. “Was that lightning?”
“Yes.” There. Now she could not be accused of refusing to speak to him.
He went back to his writing. He began adding up on his fingers and muttering. Accounts, then. That was one of the odd things about Romans. Everything was valued in useless metal discs.
She had never stolen any real wealth. Nothing anyone could actually use-tools or cows or a winter seed store or clothes to keep the cold out. All she had done was to even up the barter occasionally so that the medicus got a fair deal. And yes, she had included the money she had been given for helping three new lives safely into this world. He had taken it without a thought, and wasted it.
There was a distant rumble of thunder. She began to rub the wet snakes of her hair with the towel. She hoped Lydia and the baby were safe. Her man had rushed across to admire his new daughter this morning before the march set off, but now he would be sharing a tent with the other soldiers. He had promised the driver extra money to make sure the cart in which his new family was sleeping was parked somewhere secure overnight. The boy, who knew the road, had agreed to bring it into the yard at the inn.
Tilla wrung drips out of the ends of her hair and felt ashamed. At the very least, she should have taken the trouble to check that the driver had followed his orders.
She glanced at the big bed and the wooden chest in which her meager possessions would have fitted twenty times over. This was not right. She and the medicus, two healthy adults, had all this to themselves. They were safe from thieves behind a barred door. Meanwhile outside, a newborn baby and its mother were huddled under the canopy of a hired cart that smelled of old vegetables.
