to go to work.”
55
Ruso had barely got past “Days to Governor’s Visit II” and established that Valens was still asleep in his bed when three men attempted to crowd into the treatment room at once.
First in was an overweight cavalryman with fuzzy splashes of blood seeping into the weave of his damp blue tunic who declared, “It’s not me, it’s him.”
“Him” was a staggering comrade with a rag clutched against his arm. He too had been out in the rain and had blood on his clothing. It was also smeared on his face, on his fingers, and down one leg.
“Sit him down,” ordered Ruso, turning to the third member of the trio, a flush-faced Ingenuus. “What have we got?”
“Sword cut, sir. Accident.” Ingenuus glared at the friend. “I’ve already offered to help.”
“He needs a doctor,” insisted the bulky one. “Are you a doctor?”
Ingenuus squared his shoulders. “I’m a fully trained bandager!”
“Well, when the doctor’s finished, you can bandage it, can’t you?”
Ruso looked the man in the eye. “Thank you for bringing him in. Go and wait outside.”
“But I’m his mate!”
“We’ll call you when he’s ready.”
The man eyed him for a moment as if considering defiance, then appeared to think better of it and instead crouched beside his injured comrade. “You’ll be all right,” he assured him. “This one’s a proper doctor. From the legions. He does this stuff all the time. That’s nothing more than a scratch to him.”
When the friend had gone, the injured man glanced at Ruso and murmured, “Thanks. He was giving me an earache.”
Ruso pulled up a stool beside him. “Let’s take a look.”
The victim watched as the rag was peeled back to reveal a gaping but apparently clean cut. “Look at that!” he muttered as if offended rather than injured. “Clumsy bloody idiot. He’s going to kill somebody before long. And it’ll probably be me.”
“How did it happen?” inquired Ruso, swabbing the skin with a cheap wine that added a duskier red to the scarlet.
“He’s got the paws of a bear and the brain of a turnip, and some fool put him in a job where he could wave a sword about.” The injured party sucked air past his teeth. “Ow! We’re patroling about three miles out and some dozy Brits with an overloaded vehicle won’t get out of the way. We ask to see their customs token and guess what? They’ve paid the tax, and they know they’ve got it somewhere, but they just can’t lay their hands on it. So we tell them to pay up now or go back to the border and pick up another token. They start getting lippy, so we decide to teach them some manners, and they scuttle off in into the woods and start chucking stones at the horses. We go after them and turnip brain decides there’s room for two abreast between the trees. If this is going to stop me riding, I swear I’ll kill him. I’m trying to get into the governor’s escort.”
“It won’t stop you for long,” said Ruso, pressing the clean pad Ingenuus had just handed him over the wound and fearing he would soon be the one with the earache. “It’s not deep, but you’ll need a few stitches.” He turned to Ingenuus. “Ready?”
“Me?”
“You can deal with this, can’t you?”
Ingenuus shook his head and backed away. “Sorry, sir. I haven’t done stitching yet. Doctor Thessalus was going to teach us.”
“Time you learned.”
The patient’s eyes widened. “He’s not learning on me!”
“No,” Ruso assured him, “he’s just going to get everything ready and then watch.”
“Is this going to hurt?”
“I’ll be as quick as I can. Do you want something for the pain?”
The man grimaced. “Just get it over with.”
While Ingenuus was preparing the equipment, the man said, “If you don’t mind me asking, sir, how is Doctor Thessalus?”
“About the same,” said Ruso, choosing the vaguest of his selection of vague answers, which included As well as can be expected, and Comfortable. “Just get up on the table for me, will you?”
“Only some of the lads were wondering, sir,” said the patient, lying down with his head resting on his uninjured arm. “We heard they were going to get him out, but instead that bloody basket maker’s running around laughing at us. And now all his little friends are getting uppity as well. All they had to do was get out of the way. What’s the matter with them?”
“You should have seen the basket maker yesterday at the clinic,” put in Ingenuus. “Came strolling in…” he illustrated the movement with a sweep of the hand holding the needle “and looked like he wanted the doctor’s translator to kiss his bruises to make them better.”
“Holy Jupiter!” The patient was staring at the needle. “Haven’t you got anything smaller than that?”
“The small needle, Ingenuus,” suggested Ruso, catching his eye in time to stifle any objection that this was the small needle and making a mental note to remind him about not brandishing surgical equipment in front of the patient. He returned his attention to the man on the table. “Keep still now. Ingenuus, hold him steady, will you?”
“Perhaps you could have a word with headquarters, sir,” suggested Ingenuus, passing the needle to Ruso and handing the patient a leather strap to bite on before continuing on a topic that was obviously of far more interest to him. “They’d listen to an officer. Perhaps they don’t know what’s going on out there.”
“I’m sure they’ll be keeping an eye on the situation and briefing the governor,” said Ruso. He stabbed in the first stitch.
The patient grunted.
“Well done,” said Ruso, drawing the thread through. “Won’t be long now.”
“Some of the lads might not want to wait for the governor, sir,” put in Ingenuus, who had clearly not grasped that the purpose of this conversation was to distract the patient, not the doctor.
“Then they’ll have to control themselves,” snapped Ruso, knotting the thread and clipping it short. “This is going together nicely. You won’t have much of a scar here.” As the second stitch went in, the patient groaned and clutched at the edge of the table.
“We’re not saying anybody’s going to do anything,” continued Ingenuus, unabashed. “We’re just saying, if anybody did, nobody would care much. And whoever did it wouldn’t be as stupid as he was and go ’round making threats in public beforehand, would they?”
Ruso glanced at him. “I shall be testing you later on stitching technique.”
Ingenuus, as he had hoped, fell silent and let him concentrate.
56
'Doctor!” exclaimed Catavignus, hurrying to the entrance of the brewery and elbowing aside the surly slave boy who had opened the door. “Come in out of the rain! Would you like to try our latest batch, or shall I send out for some wine?”
“Actually,” explained Ruso, taking a deep breath before he stepped into the fug and hoping Tilla had not been serious about Catavignus asking him to marry her cousin, “I was hoping to have a word with your niece. Darlughdacha.”
Catavignus’s smile could have signaled recognition, or amusement at his pronunciation. Whichever it was, it vanished as he explained that his niece-for whose safe return he could never thank Ruso enough-was not there. She
