‘You shouldn’t be chasing a man like Stilo on your own.’
She said, ‘Back in that …’ She had no name for it. ‘Back down there. Did something hit Stilo?’
He said, ‘Damn. I forgot to pick it up.’
‘What?’
‘My lunch,’ he said. ‘The Army teaches you to throw stones, but I reckoned that at that distance an apple in the eye would stop him just as well.’
77
‘Ferox!’ gasped the man, struggling to rise while Ruso’s blood-splattered assistants tried to hold him down on the table. ‘Where’s Ferox?’
Ruso, who dared not remove the wadding over the wound until his patient was still, said, ‘He’ll be in later. We need to deal with you first.’
‘No, he’s worse! Where’s Ferox? What have they done with him? Let me go!’
A fist escaped and narrowly missed Ruso’s jaw.
‘Somebody else is dealing with your friend,’ said Ruso, seizing the flailing arm and glancing across at Gnostus, who looked up from washing the sand out of a nasty head wound and drew one finger across his throat.
Ruso turned back to the patient. ‘Lie still and let’s have a look at what’s going on here, shall we?’
The man continued to thrash about. ‘Let me go! I’ll find him. I’ll bring him in. He’s down. He needs help.’
‘Somebody else will see to him.’
‘You’re lying! You’re all lying to me!’
Ruso eyed the dirt-streaked face. At least the man’s lungs were in good order. ‘You’re right,’ he said, too tired to lie any more. ‘Ferox is dead. Fate chose to take him and not you. Lie still and let me look or you’ll be joining him.’
‘You bastard, you filthy lying dog! He’s not dead!’
Ruso had already given the man as much mandrake as he dared, but it seemed to be having little effect.
‘Ferox is with the gods,’ a female voice assured him. A hand, smaller and cleaner than those that were trying to force him down, reached out to rest on his forehead. ‘I will pray for his soul,’ promised Tilla, who until now had been standing in the shadows.
When she began to pray over the patient in British, Ruso was relieved. As long as nobody understood, she could — and no doubt would — rain down any number of curses on the politician who had paid for thousands of people to watch death as entertainment, and possibly on himself as well for joining in.
As the babble of British rose over the operating table, the man’s arching chest sank back down. His grimace relaxed. ‘Ferox!’ he whispered to the stone vaulting above their heads. ‘There you are. I didn’t mean it, mate. I didn’t mean it.’ His voice was growing sleepy. ‘You were supposed to go left. Up, down, left. Both left. I told you, mate, you got to … you got to pay … pay attention.’
Ruso lifted the wadding from the side of the chest and began to explore the injury.
He had patched up the wound and was giving orders for the patient to be kept poulticed and under observation when another fresh and whimpering load was manoeuvred in from the corridor. The bearers rolled the occupant of the stretcher on to the table, announced, ‘Hamstrung, can’t stop it bleeding,’ and retreated to their station.
Tilla cried, ‘That is him!’ at the same moment as Ruso recognized the filthy and blood-streaked figure curled up in front of him.
‘Tertius? How did this happen?’
Tertius groped a hand towards his own. ‘Is that you, sir?’
‘Yes,’ said Ruso, lifting the dressing to peer at a gaping wound behind the lad’s left knee. He said, ‘Who did this?’
Tertius’ weak response was something between a laugh and a sob. ‘Sorry, sir. I wasted your money.’
‘He came back,’ said a voice from Gnostus’ side of the room. ‘Silly bugger came back to make up the numbers so his mate didn’t have to take on two men.’
Ruso shook his head in disbelief.
‘How bad is it?’ The voice was barely recognizable as the confident youth from earlier this afternoon.
‘Nothing to worry about,’ Ruso lied, directing the assistants to get him into a better position while he hunted for the main source of the bleeding. Tilla fetched a lamp from one of the brackets and held it close. He was finishing the first cautery when there was a commotion out in the corridor, and a voice that should have been inaudible down here shrieked, ‘How dare you? He’s my fiance! Let me in!’
Ruso winced as the door crashed open. ‘It’s me!’ cried Marcia, rushing across to the table. ‘Tertius, don’t die! Get out of the way, Gaius!’
Instead of getting out of the way Ruso placed another sponge in the wound and ordered one of the assistants to hold it there. Then he gripped his sister’s shoulders with bloodstained hands and said firmly in her ear, ‘If you want to help, shut up and wait outside. You’re embarrassing me and you aren’t helping him.’
‘But he’s hurt! Oh, what did you sign up for, you stupid, stupid boy? What am I going to — ugh! Gaius, your hands are horrible, get them off!’
‘Wait outside,’ Ruso repeated, nodding to the other assistant, who propelled her towards the door.
‘You can’t throw me out, I — what’s she doing here? You said she ran away! Get off me! Gaius, tell him to let me go!’
‘And while you’re out there,’ Ruso called over his shoulder, ‘think about growing up. There’s a brave man lying here and he deserves better than this.’
78
The games were over. The rows of seats were practically deserted apart from the slaves gathering up litter and lost children. Already three had been corralled near the east exit, where a plump and jolly woman was consoling them for their lack of parents by feeding them sausage fritters. Outside there were still plenty of people milling about, buying food and haggling over the price of souvenirs. Ruso made the mistake of catching the eye of a vendor. The little terracotta shapes rattled in the tray as the vendor scuttled forward to block their path and suggested that the young lady might like a little memento of her trip to the city.
‘I am trying to forget,’ said Tilla.
No, they did not want a bronze model of a gladiator waving a sword. Nor did they want any of the terracotta portrayals of execution victims being done away with in various gruesome fashions, even if they were an absolute bargain, and the man’s master would be furious when he found out he’d practically been giving the stock away.
‘I’ve got my own reminder, thanks,’ said Ruso, holding up his hands. He had pulled on a clean tunic to walk back to the gladiators’ barracks, but he had not had time for a thorough scrub. The vendor retreated with a look that mingled respect with alarm.
Tilla said, ‘I think I will see this place in bad dreams.’
Ruso put one arm around her shoulders. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.
‘We should have caught that Stilo man.’
‘Somebody will. Tell me what happened in Arelate.’
After a moment she slid a hand around his waist. It was not the sort of thing one would normally be able do in public.
‘At least this wretched foot is a good excuse for something,’ he observed, leaning on her to limp forward.
By the time they reached the gladiators’ barracks the usual crowd had dwindled to a few subdued young
