the shade under the trees across the street, hoping to attract early trade. All were no doubt grateful to Fuscus for the opportunity to make a little extra money. As, in a roundabout way, was Ruso.
The gladiators’ barracks in the building next door were marked by a gaggle of excited females clustered around the heavy gates, waiting for a glimpse of their heroes. Ruso hoped that Marcia and Flora had never stooped to cupping their hands around their mouths and yelling encouragement through the cracks in the woodwork. Still, these alarmingly forthright young women might be of use to him now. Their devotion would have armed them with the information he needed.
Ruso dismounted and led the mule into the haze of competing perfumes.
‘What’s the name of the doctor in there?’ he asked a couple of pink-cheeked girls whose diaphanous outfits were made even more distracting by the way they stuck to their owners in the heat.
One of them seemed about to reply when a scream from a girl by the gate set off a cacophony of shrieking. Cries of ‘Who can you see?’ merged with a chant of ‘Xantus, Xantus, Xantus!’ and several devotees were leaping to fling scraps of fabric and posies of flowers over the gate. Ruso wondered whether Xantus was embarrassed. A little leather bottle of something (perfume? Love potion? Magic formula for courage?) sailed over into the barracks. He tried his question again, hoping for a name he recognized.
‘Gnostus,’ said one of the girls, not bothering to look round.
This was not encouraging. He had never heard of a doctor called Gnostus. He led the mule forward, clearing a path with the untruthful ‘Watch your backs, he bites!’ until he was standing in front of the gates. Rapping on the wood with his stick, he shouted, ‘Visitor for Gnostus!’
There was a pause. A small slot in the door slid open. A pair of bloodshot eyes appeared and a voice repeated, ‘Gnostus?’ as if wondering whether the visitor had got the name right.
Ruso unfastened his medical case and held up the largest pair of surgical forceps he possessed. Ignoring the mingled gasps of horror and delight from the crowd, he said, ‘I’m the other surgeon.’
‘Wait there,’ said the voice. The slot snapped shut again. As the girls giggled and whispered behind him, he tucked the forceps into his belt and indulged in some unnecessary straightening of the mule’s headband.
His wait was rewarded with the sound of the bar being lifted out of its brackets. Girls began to inch forward as one of the gates moved back. They stopped at the emergence of a leather whip, followed by the doorman who yelled, ‘No admittance to the public!’ and cracked the whip in the air as if he were disciplining animals. From the squealing that followed, it was hard to tell whether the girls were excited or terrified.
As soon as the tail of Ruso’s mount was safely inside, the gate slammed shut behind him, and the bar thudded back into position.
The dust in the centre of the wide courtyard bore witness to the scuffles of a morning’s training, but the battered wooden sparring-posts stood deserted in the midday sun. Abandoned shields and leather jerkins and shin-guards were stacked in one corner. The favours that had been tossed over the gates were nowhere to be seen. A low murmur of conversation and the scrape of spoons on bowls suggested the trainees had retreated into the shade of the low building on the right to eat. Without its occupants the courtyard, with its stink of sweat and embrocation, could almost have been one of the military training-grounds Ruso had left behind in Britannia — except that one of the posts bore a set of manacles dangling from a heavy chain, and the Twentieth had more sense than to arm itself with the impractical nets and tridents he saw piled up beside the gate as he handed the mule’s reins to the doorkeeper.
The doorkeeper’s ‘First on the left, mate,’ was rendered unnecessary by a sudden roar of pain from that direction. Moments later a skinny man of about Ruso’s own age emerged from the door, wiping bloodstained hands on his apron. Ruso was convinced he saw a brief flash of recognition on the face before the man demanded, ‘What other surgeon?’
‘Hello, Euplius!’
Euplius’ face arranged itself into a expression of confusion. ‘Who?’ He retreated back into his room, beckoning Ruso to follow. ‘We haven’t met. I’m Gnostus, all the way from Ephesus. Doctor to the finest gladiator troupe in Gaul. Those are my apprentices. And you are?’
‘Ruso, senior surgeon with the Twentieth Legion,’ said Ruso, glancing at a heavily muscled man who was sitting on a chair between the trainees and clutching a bloodstained rag to his mouth. Surely his memory could not be that bad? It was many years since he and Euplius had met during their own apprenticeships, but could there really be two medics cursed with those ears?
‘As in Gaius Petreius Ruso?’ queried Gnostus, lifting the lid from a jar and pouring liquid into a wooden cup. ‘I’ve heard of you.’ He handed the cup to his patient.
‘Not everything you’ve heard is true,’ Ruso assured him.
‘Keep swilling that around the cavity,’ ordered Gnostus. ‘Slowly.’
The man removed the rag, took a tentative sip and grimaced.
‘It’s good stuff,’ Gnostus promised.
The man did not look convinced.
Gnostus offered the jar to Ruso. ‘Guess.’
Ruso dipped in the tip of a finger and licked it.
‘Bisobol gum in wine,’ he said, identifying part of the disgusting taste. He nodded to the patient. ‘Good for toothache and gum disease.’
‘What else?’ demanded Gnostus.
Ruso tried another dip. ‘Poppy.’
‘And?’
‘Not a clue.’
Gnostus grinned. ‘It’s a new recipe I’m trying out. Excellent results so far.’
One of the apprentices leaned forward to sniff it. The patient mumbled something indistinct, which might have been gratitude and might have voiced the suspicion that the doctors were lying to him.
As they watched the apprentices escort the shambling patient out across the courtyard with his jaw cradled in one hand and the cup in the other, Gnostus said quietly, ‘Sometimes I wonder why I bother. He’ll probably be dead in a couple of days.’
‘You just have to patch them up and send them back out there,’ said Ruso, seizing a chance to emphasize his credentials. ‘Exactly what I’ve been doing with the Legion.’
Gnostus closed the door. ‘You gave me a shock, Ruso. How long is it?’
Ruso felt his shoulders relax. ‘Fifteen years?’
‘And more,’ agreed his companion.
‘So why are you calling yourself Gnostus?’
The creases were deeper, but the lopsided grin that formed them was still the same. ‘Bit of a misunderstanding about the labels on bottles,’ he explained. ‘Angry relatives. It wasn’t my fault, but you know how it is.’
‘I do now,’ said Ruso.
‘New name, new town … I hear you’ve had a few problems. You should try it.’
‘I’m hoping it won’t come to that. In the meantime I was wondering if you’d need an assistant surgeon for the games.’
‘I’ll be needing a bloody miracle-worker,’ observed Gnostus glumly, sinking down on to a stool. ‘But at least you’ll have some idea which bits to stitch together. Unlike some. I’ll say one thing for Fuscus, he knows how to draw a crowd.’
‘They’re gathering around the gates already,’ observed Ruso, settling himself on the treatment table. ‘What is it women see in gladiators? Most of them are slaves and they’re nearly all filthy ugly.’
‘Who knows?’ agreed Gnostus. ‘You wouldn’t believe the offers the gate staff get.’
‘They don’t allow women in here, surely?’ asked Ruso, hoping there was nothing else he did not want to hear about Marcia.
‘Only the women who pay enough,’ said Gnostus, ‘and sometimes we have to house the ones due for execution. But they’re chained up, of course.’
Ruso pondered this grim prospect for a moment. He needed the work. Just as, faced with Fuscus, he had needed the man’s influence. He said, ‘How much do you know about poisons?’
Gnostus observed that poisoning did not make for much of a show and suggested, ‘The people you want to
