Terra Incognita (10 page)

12

T
ILLA PAUSED AT
the top of the slope, taking in the sight of the broad meadows and the river snaking between the willows and dividing around the little islands. Home was just beyond the wooded ridge on the far side of the valley, not yet in sight. Perhaps that was a good thing. She would not spoil this moment by thinking about what she might find there. Instead, she would enjoy the memories of paddling in those stony shallows with her brothers and the other children while their parents exchanged goods and gossip at the market.

She had assured the medicus that this valley was beautiful, but in truth the memory of its beauty had faded with use. Now, seeing it basking in the afternoon sun, with the skylarks spilling music into the air like silver and the yellow splashes of gorse on the hillsides celebrating her return, she wanted to shriek with delight and run laughing down the road, leaving behind the sour-faced soldiers still tramping in their miserable column like a row of iron wood lice.

Instead she took in a deep breath of the precious air and told herself, “I am home!” before walking on, keeping pace with the baggage train. She had a duty to make sure Lydia was safe. Lydia would not be running around laughing today. Her man would not be running for a long time. Perhaps never. This morning he had been a healthy young Roman with a new daughter and a steady trade as a carpenter with the legion. By midday he had become a body lying in a cart with a crushed leg that the medicus had covered up so as not to frighten him. She tried not to think about what the medicus might have done to him while other men held him down. She had assured Lydia that her master was a fine doctor. This had seemed to comfort her. Evidently the girl knew very little about surgery.

She shifted her bruised arm to ease the ache that echoed the blows from the centurion’s stick. She would ask the medicus for some salve tonight. Perhaps she would also ask him to explain to the centurion that she had nothing to do with the accident, and that she was not in league with Cernunnos the horned god or with Taranis the god of thunder against anybody. The figure had simply appeared to her in answer to her prayers for another woman’s safety. It was not her fault if he had come back the next day and brought about a terrible accident. And if he had a face that was vaguely familiar, what of it? She must have seen him in a dream.

“Is that it?” Lydia was clutching the side of the cart with both hands and peering at the buildings on the low rise beyond the river.

“Yes.” Tilla followed her gaze, seeing the familiar mud brown rectangle of the fort and the jumble of thatched houses that spread out from it like a stain. The clang of a smithy echoed across the valley, interrupted by the distant whinny of a horse.

“It’s very small.”

Tilla had to agree. Yet the fort had not seemed small when she lived here. It had seemed massive and ugly and overwhelming.

She could make out tiny figures moving along the streets outside the fort. She wondered if she knew any of them. How many of the girls she had grown up with had been seduced by Roman money? What had happened to the girls who should have married her brothers?

She would not think about her family. She would not think about them because when she did, the sparkling river and the birds and the splendid yellow of the gorse became a hollow joy: a reminder of all that she had lost.

The civilians who had traveled with the Twentieth were barely across the bridge when a gaggle of residents—mostly women of assorted ages, sizes, and colors—surged down the slope to greet them. Bags were grabbed, with or without the owners’ permission. A blather of multi-accented Latin promised fine rooms, dry rooms, cheap rooms, rooms with no bother with the neighbors, rooms with good views of the river, snug and secure rooms, nice quiet rooms, rooms handy for the shops, rooms only a short stroll from the waterspout. . . . Nobody, Tilla noticed, even bothered to try the local tongue. These women were living their lives on the land her own people had farmed for generations, yet now it was she who was the stranger.

The mule’s bridle was seized by a shawled woman with badly bleached hair who assured them in Latin that she had a very comfortable loft room, and they should hurry now before someone else took it. “Close to the baths, over a very respectable eating house,” she assured them, tugging the animal past an official-looking inn and up the slope toward the houses while the driver protested in vain.

She did not release her grip until she had led them past the wooden ramparts of the fort, taken another turn down a side street and reached the grand doors of a gleaming white bathhouse. She waved an arm toward a snack bar opposite with an awning sagging over a couple of outside tables. “A week’s rent in advance,” she said, “and the back of the loft is yours.”

“I have no money,” whispered Lydia.

“Don’t worry,” Tilla assured her. “I know who has.”

13

R
USO RETURNED FROM
delivering his weasel-worded report to headquarters to find the infirmary office crowded with men and smelling of beer and stale sweat. He gave them a cursory glance and went across the corridor to visit the amputee.

The man was horribly pale. Ruso checked his pulse, which was as fast and faint as he expected. The man’s hands and remaining foot were cold. Ruso renewed the compresses on the rib cage and sat watching the labored breathing for a few minutes. “There isn’t much more we can do at the moment,” he said to the bandager. “Get the cook to feed you. I’ve got to go to a funeral this evening, but I’ll take over after that. Fetch me right away if there’s any change.”

After a swift visit to the bedridden patients in the four scruffy wards (four! Seventeen beds should present no challenge to a man who was used to supervising dozens . . . ), Ruso went to inspect the state of the treatment room.

As he stepped into the room he realized he was not alone. A large man crawled out from under the heavy operating table, scrambled to his feet and performed a salute that would have looked more impressive had he remembered to let go of the brush first.

“Stand easy,” said Ruso, recognizing the big Batavian who had helped with the carpenter that afternoon: a man who seemed to be perpetually stooping to duck under a lintel that wasn’t there.

The man’s arm returned to his side and the brush clattered onto the floorboards.

“Remind me of your name.”

“Ingenuus, sir.”

Ruso nodded. “Do the bandagers usually sweep the floors here, Ingenuus?”

The man looked flustered. “Sorry, sir. Only I thought in case the room was needed—”

“And nobody else here is getting on with it?”

Ingenuus glanced toward the door and muttered, “Well, somebody’s got to do it, sir.”

The table had been scrubbed, the instruments and bowls washed and dried, the shelves restacked with linen bandages and dressings, the restraints neatly coiled and put to one side.

“Very good,” said Ruso. “You can leave it there. Are you on duty this evening?”

“No, sir.”

“If you weren’t here, what would you be doing?”

Ingenuus thought about that for a moment. “We’re getting ready for the governor’s visit, sir. So I’d be doing a little polishing.”

“Right. Come down to the office for a moment, then you can go and polish.”

Ruso shouldered his way into the office past a couple of men who were lolling against the doorposts. “Gentlemen,” he announced, glancing around to make sure all the members of staff slumped against the furniture were gathering themselves into upright positions. Several cups were quietly put down or concealed behind backs, but the smell of beer lingered in the air. “Thank you for your help this afternoon.”

The murmurs of appreciation were decidedly wary. Ingenuus, unable to get his bulk past the men in the doorway, was listening in the corridor.

“I think we did as well as could be expected,” continued Ruso, aware that he was supposed to be making a motivating speech and that he had no idea how to make one. “The patient’s made a good start. Now, as you all know, Doctor Thessalus is out sick. In the meantime the prefect has asked me to take over temporary responsibility for the medical service.” He let that sink in for a moment before adding, “I’m looking forward to working with you.” He suspected this sounded like the lie it was, and certainly it did not seem to inspire his audience. There were more murmurs of something that might or might not have been assent. It occurred to him that some of these men were the ones he had seen gambling in the ward that afternoon.

Finally Gambax made a show of clearing his throat and said, “You don’t have to worry, sir. You just leave everything to us.”

The murmurs were much more enthusiastic this time.

“Thank you, Gambax. Although if I were to leave
everything
to you, it wouldn’t be worth me being here, would it?”

Silence.

“So, can we establish who’s on duty at the moment?”

Three hands rose.

“Right,” said Ruso. “And which of you are patients?”

One hand rose. Realizing too late that he was alone, its owner cast around for support. Finally four hands were in the air.

“You can go back to your room. The rest of you are dismissed. Thanks again for your help this afternoon and I’ll see you when you’re next on the roster.”

When Ingenuus and the hangers-about had shuffled away, he was left with Gambax, one orderly, and a bandager. He delegated the bandager to apply fresh dressings, the orderly to finish sweeping the treatment room and begin tidying the wards, and Gambax to remain to talk about “how we’re going to get ready for the governor’s visit.”

Gambax did not look thrilled.

“Over a beer,” suggested Ruso.

Gambax looked marginally less disgruntled. He retrieved his cup from its hiding place behind a box of medical records.

“And I’d like one too,” Ruso pointed out.

His new deputy produced a flagon and another cup from behind the box. “There you are, sir,” he said, pouring the beer himself and handing it over. “You know, for a minute there I thought we weren’t going to get along.”

The beer, although possibly safer to drink than the local water, was as awful as Ruso had feared. The conversation was not much better. It seemed Gambax was loyal to Doctor Thessalus, whose regime seemed to have consisted of letting the men do whatever they wanted, and he resented having a legionary doctor imposed upon him. He had more sense than to try the “leave it all to us” line again, but instead managed to give all the appearance of cooperation while finding Ruso’s questions strangely difficult to answer. When Ruso had heard, “I wouldn’t know, sir. Doctor Thessalus deals with all that,” for the fifth time, he gave up and asked about Doctor Thessalus instead. It seemed that the doctor had been looking tired lately and had just taken some leave, but it hadn’t seemed to help.

Ruso said, “What’s the matter with him?”

“Hard to say, sir.”

“Try.”

“I think he’s just out of balance from overworking, sir.”

This was not a problem that was likely to trouble Gambax. “Any idea what treatment he was trying?”

Gambax shook his head. “Sorry, sir. There aren’t any records.”

Ruso, who usually dealt with his own minor ailments and never quite got around to writing up his own records either, was in no position to criticize. “Did you know he went to see the prefect today?”

Gambax looked blank.

“When did you last see him?”

“A couple of hours ago, sir. I took him some lunch. I thought he’d like to see a familiar face.”

“And how was he?”

“About the same, sir.”

Ruso gritted his teeth.

“But you go and see him if you want,” said Gambax, in a tone that suggested it would be a waste of time.

“I’ll take him something to cheer him up. What does he like?”

Gambax scratched his chin. “He’s quite fond of music, sir. Can you sing?”

“Not in a way that would make anyone feel better.” Nor did he have the time to round up anyone who could, although it might be a useful therapeutic approach later. Music was supposed to soothe sufferings of the mind, and it certainly sounded as though Thessalus was suffering. “Anything else? Favorite food? Wine?”

Gambax looked vacant.

“Never mind,” muttered Ruso. “I’ll work it out for myself.”

“Right-oh, sir. Anything else I can help you with? More beer?”

“No thanks,” he said, glancing into his cup. “One’s enough.”

“Very wise, sir,” agreed Gambax, standing to collect the cup and feigning surprise at the amount that remained inside. “Sorry, sir. Take your time. I don’t suppose you gentlemen in the legions get much practice at drinking beer, do you?”

“It’s not our first priority,” said Ruso, suspecting from the look in the assistant’s eye that this was some sort of challenge. Legionaries versus Batavians. As he tipped back his head to drain the cup he was vaguely aware of a knock and a door opening. When the room was the right way up again, he found his clerk gazing at him with barely concealed disapproval.

“Albanus.”

“Reporting for duty, sir.” Albanus cast a professional glance around the room and was clearly unimpressed.

Ruso turned to Gambax. “This is my clerk. He’s very good. Albanus, you’ll be able to give Gambax here a hand with the records.”

The two men eyed each other. Gambax looked as though he did not want any help and Albanus looked as though he had no intention of offering it.

“Perhaps,” said Ruso, breaking the silence, “You and I might have a word outside, Albanus?”

When they were standing outside by the twin—or possibly rival— gods, the clerk said, “Sorry, sir. But are you absolutely sure he wants me to help out?”

“Of course not,” said Ruso, “But I do. And there isn’t going to be much else here to keep you busy.”

Albanus glanced around him. Ruso followed his gaze. The ramparts at the end of the street were stout enough but somehow the unevenness of the limewashed daub that filled the wooden frames of the fort buildings, and the fact that the infirmary building was not the only one still topped with lumpy thatch instead of tiles, gave the fort an air of quaintness and vulnerability. As if the place had been put up by enthusiastic amateurs.