Medicus (14 page)

As Ruso dipped his hands into the warm water, he glanced at the face of the slave holding the bowl. The man's expression gave nothing away.

26

R
USO HAD JUST persuaded his stomach to calm down after the unaccustomed riches of a good dinner when the answer to his prayers arrived, much too late. He was woken with the message that he was needed at the hospital. The unlucky patient had been on the way back to barracks from guard duty. In the dark he had tripped, landed badly, and dislocated his shoulder. He was finally drugged into semi-consciousness, then painfully and forcefully reshaped and bandaged. Ruso trod the couple of hundred steps back to his bed with more care than usual, only to be summoned an hour later to prescribe medicine for a man having a seizure. On return he left the message slate propped against his bedroom door with SLEEPING IN, DO NOT DISTURB scrawled across it.

Thus it was with neither joy nor enthusiasm that he opened the front door to urgent knocking shortly after dawn and found his clerk calling to ask whether there was anything he wanted done.

"What I want done," explained Ruso, summoning all the patience he could muster and wondering what sort of a clerk could fail to understand a staff rotation, "is for you to push off and not bother me until I tell you to. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir."

"Dismissed."

"Yes, sir," replied the man, saluting, but instead of pushing off as ordered he remained on the doorstep.

"I said,
dismissed."

"Yes, sir."

"So?"

"Are you ordering me not to come, sir?"

"Of course I'm ordering you not to come! Is there something the matter with your hearing?"

"No, sir."

Ruso leaned against the door frame and yawned. "Albanus," he said, "are you deliberately trying to annoy me?"

The man looked shocked. "Oh no, sir."

"Do you want to be charged with insubordination?"

"Oh no, sir!"

"Then what is the matter with you?"

Albanus's shoulders seemed to shrink as he glanced around to make sure there was no one listening in the street. "Officer Priscus's orders, sir."

"Officer Priscus," explained Ruso, "has seconded you to me. So you do what I tell you."

"Yes, sir."

"So what's the problem?"

"Sir, he's my superior. So when he tells me to report to you in the morning, I have to do it."

Ruso sighed. "He only meant the first morning."

Albanus shook his head. "No, sir. He told me again yesterday."

Ruso ran a hand through his hair. "I'll talk to him. Now get lost."

Albanus nodded eagerly. "Shall I get lost anywhere in particular, sir?"

27

P
RISCUS SNAPPED OPEN one of the folding chairs and held it out to Ruso before inserting himself behind the polished desk. As he sat down Ruso noticed two things: that the glass eyes of the wolf pelt were now glaring up at a coat of fresh limewash instead of a damp patch and that the chair he had been given had surprisingly short legs. He was obliged to look up at Priscus in order to speak to him, although since the administrator was busy aligning his bronze inkwell against the edge of the desk, there did not seem to be much point in starting yet.

Priscus lifted his hands and held them just above the inkwell, as if poised to catch it should it try to jump back to its original position. Finally satisfied, he smoothed his hair, which did not seem quite as black today. "Really," he remarked, "one would think that most men were capable of obeying a simple order to leave things where they find them." Finally he looked at Ruso. "Oh dear. I seem to have given you the wrong chair. Would you like to . . . ?"

Ruso lounged in the chair, tipping it onto its back legs. "This is fine," he assured Priscus, enjoying the look of disapproval.

"I'm glad you've come to see me," said Priscus. "I need a word."

"Albanus,"
suggested Ruso.

Priscus's eyebrows rose in a surprise that might have been genuine. "Are you dissatisfied with his work?"

"His work is fine. He's keen, he knows Latin and Greek, and he's the only clerk I've ever met who could spell
phthisis
right without asking."

"Excellent. I thought you would find him useful."

"He's too useful. He follows me around like a shadow. I can hardly take a pee without him being there to record the event."

"Ah." Priscus inclined his head slowly as if he were afraid any sudden movement might dislodge the hair. "This will be the result of my reassigning his other duties so he can concentrate on helping you settle in."

"Fine. He's assigned to me. Agreed?"

"Indeed."

"So I should be giving him his orders."

Priscus entwined his fingers and leaned forward across the desk. "Is there some difficulty of which I'm not aware?"

"I think we've just sorted it out."

"Excellent. We try and run a tidy administration here, Ruso, but I do appreciate that the complexities are a little hard to grasp. So if there are any difficulties with which Albanus can't help you, I hope you won't hesitate to come straight to me."

Ruso saw the man watch as he lowered the chair back onto all four legs. "There is one thing," he said.

"How can I help?"

"We'd be able to use the supplies much more efficiently if the staff didn't have to keep finding you to ask for keys."

Priscus placed both hands on the edge of the desk. "The men are not permitted to help themselves to supplies," he said. "If I expect to be away for any length of time, I arrange for adequate stocks to be available."

"But. . ."

"Sadly, Ruso, this a policy we have been forced to adopt. There are people in and out of the building at all hours and even the staff are not always above reproach, so I find it wisest not to tempt them. Lock it or lose it, I'm afraid."

"I've never had this problem before."

"No. But there was an unfortunate incident with an inventory check some time ago, and the chief medical officer was . . . " He hesitated, appearing to grope for a word. "Most dissatisfied. My predecessor was given a dishonorable discharge. Not wishing to follow him, I instigated a policy of supervised access to storage areas."

As he spoke there was a knock on the door. Having nothing further to say, Ruso started to get up. Priscus motioned him to sit. "If you wouldn't mind waiting, Ruso? Just a couple more things . . ."

Ruso contemplated the wolf as its killer countersigned dockets for orders to the pharmacy and questioned the need for a new set of scales.

When the pharmacist had gone—leaving behind his request for the scales on a substantial pile labeled FURTHER CONSIDERATION—Priscus turned back to Ruso.

"I do apologize for the interruption," he said. "I'm sure you must be rather busy at the moment."

"I'm told it will improve when we have a CMO."

Priscus raised one eyebrow. "Someone in this room, perhaps?"

"I'm the second medicus," Ruso pointed out.

"But only in terms of date of arrival, surely?" Priscus attempted a smile. "I hear you have combat experience. I would imagine that would stand you in good stead."

Ruso, wishing to discuss neither the ghastly mess of the Jewish rebellions in Cyrenaica nor his own job prospects, said, "What was the other thing you wanted to see me about?"

The administrator turned to one side and pulled a file down from the shelf. "Just a couple more small matters that need to be straightened out in time for the auditors . . . " He flipped open the file and ran his finger down the columns. "Yes, here we are. Charge for private use of isolation room and facilities, five days, immediate payment requested. Perhaps the bill has been mislaid?"

"I don't think I've ever had one."

"Really? I shall have to look into it. This is exactly the sort of slackness the auditors will pick up on."

"Let me have the bill and I'll take care of it."

"Thank you. I am sorry to have to mention it, but we must tighten up on expenses. Otherwise we may be forced to cut back on the services the hospital offers."

"Ah," said Ruso, wondering which service Priscus would be proposing—reluctantly, of course—to cut.

"In fact, I was hoping to have a word with you and Doctor Valens about some suggestions for cutting costs."

"Well, here I am."

"Simple economies, Doctor. Matters which I assure you will add no burden at all to the medical staff." Priscus spoke with an intensity that reminded Ruso of the gleam in the glass eyes of the wolf. "For example, by insisting that most of the hospital business is conducted during the daylight hours, we could save a considerable amount on candles and lamp oil over the course of a year."

"So I imagine," said Ruso, who had often wished he could find a way to stop people from inconveniently falling ill during the night.

"Small savings soon add up, provided one makes a thorough budget first," continued Priscus, moving his hands in a parallel motion as if caressing a small saving in the air above his desk. "Let me give you a simple example. Boiling dressings in larger quantities gives an economy of scale, but we need to invest more in stock in order to keep the supply up. Short-term expense against long-term gain. Which is why . . ."

Ruso braced himself.

"We are instigating a system that will account for the resources each individual uses."

"How many man-hours will it take to add that up?"

"That's the beauty of it, Ruso." Priscus seemed genuinely enthusiastic. "The men are here anyway. It's simply a matter of putting them to the best possible use. A short-term concentrated expenditure analysis will allow us to set consistent spending policies. Which will in turn make it possible to exercise some form of budgetary control."

"Are you telling me the army's running out of money?"

"Oh dear me, no! But we should be making the best use of available resources, don't you agree?"

"I suppose so."

"And these days the idea that everyone has the authority to order whatever strikes his fancy just won't do. If everyone just' orders in one thing extra, the budgets are out of control. Let me give you an example. Only yesterday I caught one of the orderlies changing pillows between patients."

"Aren't they supposed to?"

Priscus positively beamed at him. "The stock of pillows and covers," he explained, "is calculated to balance with the timing of the laundry. Unless they are noticeably soiled, pillows are changed on Fridays. Yesterday was Tuesday."

"I ordered the change."

Priscus looked surprised. "Desirable, no doubt, but surely not medically necessary?"

Ruso frowned. It probably hadn't been necessary, but he was not prepared to concede that to Priscus. "Fresh beds cheer people up. People get better quicker when they aren't miserable. It's a medical decision."

"But one that has an effect on the laundry bills." Priscus sighed. "I appreciate your point, but the next time there is a major call on our resources—an epidemic, or a serious accident, or more trouble with the locals—if the budget has been frittered away on inessentials, we'll have no contingency funds to deal with the crisis."

Ruso scratched his ear. "Well, if a plague or a war breaks out, won't someone in Rome notice and send us some more cash?"

Priscus shook his head sadly. "Unfortunately, things are never quite that simple. But of course, nobody takes the trouble to discover the real reasons for difficulties: instead everybody blames the administrators. The fundamental problem we have, you see, is that the people who do the spending are not the ones who have to explain it to the camp prefect. I have to do that. And very shortly the camp prefect will have to explain it to the imperial audit inspectors, and believe me, Ruso, no one wants to fall out of favor with the imperial audit inspectors. They go through the books like terriers hunting a rat."

"Hospital administrators hunting a wolf," suggested Ruso.

"You may have heard that the hospital administrator of the Second Augusta fell on his sword after one of their visits."

"Wasn't he the one who was selling the medicines and keeping the cash?"

Priscus looked offended. "All I ask, Ruso, is that if you make decisions affecting my budgets, you should clear them with me first."

"You want me to prescribe whatever's cheapest?"

"The medical decisions are yours," Priscus assured him. "But I would be grateful if you would keep me informed. Perhaps we could ask Albanus to copy any relevant items from your notes."

Gods above, the man had been planning this ever since his return! Ruso frowned. "I can't have patient records put in the hands of the requisitions clerk."

"Simply the treatments."

"No. You could track them. If you want to know how medicine stocks are going, ask the pharmacy. If you want to know how many pillows are being used, get someone to check your cupboards. That's your job. My job is to get the men here back on their feet as quickly as possible."

Priscus drew a long breath in through his nose and said nothing.

Ruso suppressed a smile. He had never before seen himself as an irresponsible spendthrift. He was quite enjoying the notion.

His enjoyment was short-lived. Priscus reached for another file. Apparently in future the administration would be obliged if he would sign for meals taken when on duty.

"I shouldn't have to pay for them. They deduct enough for food as it is."

"Precisely. Which is why I have seen to it that Albanus has spent the morning going through the rosters to give the pay office separate lists of meals the kitchen has served you when on and off duty. Because payday, as we are all aware, is almost upon us. And otherwise they would have charged you for all of them."

Ruso stared at him for a moment and then said, "Oh," and forced himself to follow it with, "Thank you."

Priscus inclined his head slightly. "A pleasure to be of service," he said.

28

T
ILLA WAS PONDERING the question of food—how much she could save and hide without arousing anyone's suspicions—when there was a thump low down on the door as if someone had kicked it and a small voice announced in Latin, "It's Lucco, missus. I can't knock, I'll drop your tray."

The ginger-haired kitchen boy had brought a steaming bowl of broth, half a loaf of bread, and a cup of water. He placed the tray on the bench and watched as she tore a chunk of bread away with her teeth. She placed it on the windowsill before breaking it awkwardly into crumbs with one hand and pushing it out between the bars.

Finally he said, "What do you do that for?"

"I have guests."

The boy looked anxious. "Cook didn't say nothing about guests."

"You can wait and see them if you like," she offered, moving the stool to use it as a table and seating herself on the bench. She gestured toward the tray and offered him some bread.

He shook his head. "Mistress says you're too skinny and you got to eat it all."

She tore off another chunk and watched the glistening brown of the broth soak up and darken the bread. By the time she had eaten it, the first sparrow had arrived. Lucco said, "I could get Stichus to find a trap," and at the sound of his voice the sparrow flew away.

Tilla frowned. "I do not trap my guests. Sit still and say nothing."

Moments later several sparrows returned and there was frantic action on the windowsill until a male blackbird brought order by frightening the sparrows away and helping himself to the last remaining crumbs. When he had gone Lucco said, "We could have had sparrow pie."

"Is it good?"

"We'd find out."

Tilla fished out a dripping chunk of bread with her spoon.

"I had dormouse once," Lucco announced. "And swan. Stichus brought me some back from a dinner party."

Romans, Tilla reflected, would eat anything that moved. She could almost believe the rumor that they fattened snails in milk and ate them.

"How long have you worked here, Lucco?"

"I was born here," he told her.

"In this place?"

"In this room."

She glanced around at the bare walls and felt sorry for a child who had been given such a poor welcome into the world. "How old are you?"

"Eight winters."

She dipped the spoon to capture more bread. "You have the same name as one of my uncles, Lucco, you measure your age in winters like me, and yet you speak in the tongue of the army." She switched to her own language. "Who are your people?"

The boy shook his head. "We talk Latin here. We honor the emperor."

"But among ourselves?" she persisted.

Still clinging to the Latin, the boy answered that the mistress did not like them to "talk like natives," adding, "The customers don't like it neither."

Convinced that he understood, she continued, "Where can I find people around here who are not ashamed of their own tongue, Lucco?"

The boy looked at her for a moment, then stepped across to pick up the bucket in the corner. "I forgot," he said, "Mistress says I got to empty you out." Moments later he was gone.

She had not been alone for long when there were three short raps on the door. Instead of Daphne, the ample young woman with the silver ankle chain was lolling against the doorpost. "Tilla," she said. "Is that your real name?"

"Is Chloe yours?"

"Of course not. Let me in."

As soon as she was inside, she closed the door. "I hear you've been asking questions."

"I like to learn." So Lucco had talked. And Daphne had not kept the signal a secret. She would have to be more careful.

Chloe said, "Leave the boy alone. If you must ask questions, ask me. And if you're thinking of running away, my advice is, don't bother."

"I did not say what I was thinking."

"They all think about it. I suppose you've heard the tale about Asellina and her sailor."

"There is a girl who ran away with a sailor?"

Chloe shrugged. "So they say. You did well to get ahold of the key. Nobody's done that before. But if you think it'll be easy . . ." She opened the door a fraction and checked the landing before closing and locking it, "it's time somebody told you what happened to Saufeia."

It seemed that the ill-fated Saufeia had thought she was clever. Clearly she had not realized the dangers that lurked beyond the doors of Merula's.

Tilla said, "Does no one know who killed her?"

Chloe shrugged. "They had an investigation. Lined us all up and asked if anybody saw anything. Of course nobody was stupid enough to say yes. So the soldiers helped themselves to whatever they fancied, pushed off back to the fort, and we've never heard a word."

"Surely it does not end there?"

"Where's it going to go?"

"To find out the truth."

Chloe gave a bitter laugh. "The truth isn't going to bring her back, is it? 'Round here you learn to keep your mouth shut."

Tilla shook her head. "Poor Saufeia, with no one to avenge her."

Chloe looked at her strangely. "They couldn't. They don't know who did it."

"And no family to mourn her passing."

"Look, we did our best. Merula paid for the funeral. Nobody knew what gods she served so we said prayers to all the ones we could think of while Stichus dug the hole, then we threw flowers in and poured a cup of wine over the urn. We even planted violets on top of the grave. Anybody would think we liked her."