to be seen.
There were people with chronic pain, in need of a miracle and receiving only medicine and advice they had probably heard a hundred times before. There were hideous stinking ulcers to clean and dress and lectures to be given to their weary owners about hygiene and exercise and diet. There were people whose descriptions of their symptoms made no sense at all even though he understood all the words. Ingenuus was unable to explain what “He has feathers in his chest” meant, and “My knees are runny” was about as helpful as Thessalus’s claim that his triangles were getting blunt.
None of the patients had called out Doctor Thessalus on the night of the thunderstorm.
A sickly three-year-old was followed by a perspiring man who shuffled behind the screens carrying a small pot with a lid in one hand and a stoppered jar in the other. He placed these offerings in the middle of the heavy table that Ruso had commandeered for his examinations, and said proudly, “There you are!” before standing back with his arms folded.
Ruso had thanked him, but explained that no payment was necessary.
“Oh, they’re not gifts!” the man exclaimed. “You’ve got to look at them.”
“I have?” said Ruso, eyeing the receptacles with a faint stirring of dread. “Perhaps if you could tell me what the problem is first?”
The man’s only response was a nod toward the pots. “It’s all in there,” he said.
Ruso stretched out one arm and lifted the lid off the pot. It was, indeed, all in there, although how it had been got in there was a matter on which he did not care to speculate. He replaced the lid.
“Aren’t you going to take a proper look?” demanded the man.
“That won’t be necessary,” said Ruso, twisting the stopper out of the jar and sniffing the liquid inside, which smelled just as he had expected.
“You’re all the same, you people,” grumbled the man. “I try to be helpful and nobody wants to bother. Well? What’s the verdict?”
“If you just give me some idea of what the problem is before I.. ”
“Hah!” As if this proved some point he had been trying to make, the man snatched up his samples and marched out, declaring, “Call yourself a doctor!”
“He is very good doctor!” echoed a loyal voice from beyond the screen, apparently addressing the line. “Take no notice of that rude man!”
“Tilla!” Ruso stood on tiptoe and peered over the top of the screen. He could not remember a time when he had been more pleased to see her. “Tilla, come here, will you?”
By the time Ruso had finished washing his hands, Tilla had joined him. He sent Ingenuus around the screen to see how many more patients were waiting and apologized for the mix-up over the gate pass. “I sent Albanus out but he couldn’t find you. Where have you been?”
“I see a friend, and just now I see Lydia whose man is dead.”
“I came to tell you about him last night, but it was too late. How is she?”
“There is a storm inside her head,” said Tilla. “But she is sleeping now.”
He reached for her sleeve. “Let me see that arm.”
She straightened her elbow so he could slide the fabric up over the old scar. The bruising had spread. Most of the expanse between her shoulder and her elbow was purple now.
As he smoothed on the salve, he could not resist leaning forward and kissing her ear. “I missed you last night.”
“I am staying with my uncle in the last house on the east road. Catavignus.”
“Catavignus the brewer? Gray hair, mustache? Guild of caterers? He’s your uncle?” So that explained why he thought he had seen the man before.
“Catavignus, the man who makes beer for the army,” she said. “But he is still my father’s brother.”
“Will he let me visit?”
She shrugged. “Why not? You are an officer. He will probably ask if you want to marry my cousin. My lord, there is something I have to ask you. It is about a friend.’
Before she could explain, Ingenuus appeared and announced that only fifteen of the people still waiting were actually patients.
“Fifteen? Gods above! Tilla, I want you to stay here.” Metellus would have to wait for his identity parade. He doubted Tilla could identify anyone anyway. “If we get any locals, you can translate.”
“My lord, I have to ask you-”
“Yes, ask me. Later. Just stay here and help me for now. You’ll put the women at their ease.”
As the morning wore on, Ruso came to the conclusion that Thessalus must have been a remarkably public- spirited soul to run a free clinic. Treating the genuinely sick was fair enough, but at least half of the people here were time wasters who would not have come if it had cost them anything.
So his penultimate patient, a man with obvious injuries, came as something of a relief-until Ingenuus burst out, “What’s he doing here?”
The thick tail of fair hair and the mustache said he was a local man. The bare feet and ragged tunic suggested he was poor. The splendid black eye, the split upper lip, the bruised cheekbone, and the hesitant gait- suggesting something about his person would only stay in the right place if he were careful not to dislodge it-said he had been in a fight. The man paused, looking from Tilla to Ruso as if he had been expecting somebody else.
Tilla seemed surprised to see him. She said something to him in her own language. He replied.
“I’m filling in for Doctor Thessalus,” interrupted Ruso. “What can I do for you?”
“He is a man of my people,” said Tilla quickly. “I will translate for you.”
“Don’t bother,” put in Ingenuus. “He knows what I’m talking about. Don’t you, sunshine?”
“I am here to see the medicus,” insisted the man in a Latin accented like Tilla’s. Ruso guessed the slight lisp was caused by the injury to his mouth. “I am a free man and there is no law against.”
“You’ve had the only sort of treatment you’re getting from us, pal.”
“Thank you, Ingenuus,” put in Ruso, overriding an objection from Tilla. “Go and tell the bath attendants we’ve nearly finished.”
Ingenuus raised a hand in warning. “I’m not leaving you alone with him, sir. Not after what he did to Felix. I dunno what he’s doing here, sir.”
Ruso eyed the native, realizing he must be looking at the man Metellus had arrested only last night for murder. Surely Metellus could have found some excuse to hold him, even if the news of Thessalus’s confession had leaked out? Under the circumstances, it was surprising that he had chosen to consult a military doctor.
The native, who was about his own height, appeared to be staring at him with a similar curiosity.
Steeling himself to treat the man as a patient like any other, Ruso ordered him to sit. He placed Tilla at a safe distance. There was no telling how a resentful local might react to a collaborator, no matter how friendly her offer to translate. Besides, he would rather the conversation were conducted in a tongue he could understand.
Ingenuus moved to stand beside the patient, one hand resting on the hilt of his unlatched dagger.
“When did all this happen?” Ruso asked, already knowing the answer.
“Some of it, two days ago. Much in the fort last night.”
That lip should have been stitched at the time, but Ruso was not going to play about with it now. The man might well be coming to a nasty end anyway as soon as the murder inquiry was completed.
“Let’s have a look,” said Ruso. “Take off your shirt.”
As the man did so there was a sharp intake of breath from Tilla. His well-muscled torso was purple and blue with bruising. His skin was spattered with blisters and burns, no doubt from some imaginative and painful method of questioning devised by Metellus. Ruso was crouched beside him trying to ascertain whether any ribs were broken when there was a sharp crack and the man’s head jerked sideways. Tilla cried out in alarm.
“Sorry sir,” said Ingenuus, who had just adopted the unusual approach of slapping a patient while the doctor was examining him. “Man was showing disrespect to your-” He paused, evidently not sure what the right word was. “To the translator, sir.”
Ruso glanced at Tilla, whose face was impassive. “Go and wait out in the hall, Tilla.”
“I am all right here.”
He frowned. “You’re distracting the patient. Go and wait outside.”
She did not move. “The soldier should have respect, my lord. This is a man of my people.”
