Terra Incognita (24 page)

“Catavignus, the man who makes beer for the army,” she said. “But he is still my father’s brother.”

“Will he let me visit?”

She shrugged. “Why not? You are an officer. He will probably ask if you want to marry my cousin. My lord, there is something I have to ask you. It is about a friend.’

Before she could explain, Ingenuus appeared and announced that only fifteen of the people still waiting were actually patients.

“Fifteen? Gods above! Tilla, I want you to stay here.” Metellus would have to wait for his identity parade. He doubted Tilla could identify anyone anyway. “If we get any locals, you can translate.”

“My lord, I have to ask you—”

“Yes, ask me. Later. Just stay here and help me for now. You’ll put the women at their ease.”

As the morning wore on, Ruso came to the conclusion that Thessalus must have been a remarkably public-spirited soul to run a free clinic. Treating the genuinely sick was fair enough, but at least half of the people here were time wasters who would not have come if it had cost them anything.

So his penultimate patient, a man with obvious injuries, came as something of a relief—until Ingenuus burst out, “What’s he doing here?”

The thick tail of fair hair and the mustache said he was a local man. The bare feet and ragged tunic suggested he was poor. The splendid black eye, the split upper lip, the bruised cheekbone, and the hesitant gait—suggesting something about his person would only stay in the right place if he were careful not to dislodge it—said he had been in a fight. The man paused, looking from Tilla to Ruso as if he had been expecting somebody else.

Tilla seemed surprised to see him. She said something to him in her own language. He replied.

“I’m filling in for Doctor Thessalus,” interrupted Ruso. “What can I do for you?”

“He is a man of my people,” said Tilla quickly. “I will translate for you.”

“Don’t bother,” put in Ingenuus. “He knows what I’m talking about. Don’t you, sunshine?”

“I am here to see the medicus,” insisted the man in a Latin accented like Tilla’s. Ruso guessed the slight lisp was caused by the injury to his mouth. “I am a free man and there is no law against.”

“You’ve had the only sort of treatment you’re getting from us, pal.”

“Thank you, Ingenuus,” put in Ruso, overriding an objection from Tilla. “Go and tell the bath attendants we’ve nearly finished.”

Ingenuus raised a hand in warning. “I’m not leaving you alone with him, sir. Not after what he did to Felix. I dunno what he’s doing here, sir.”

Ruso eyed the native, realizing he must be looking at the man Metellus had arrested only last night for murder. Surely Metellus could have found some excuse to hold him, even if the news of Thessalus’s confession had leaked out? Under the circumstances, it was surprising that he had chosen to consult a military doctor.

The native, who was about his own height, appeared to be staring at him with a similar curiosity.

Steeling himself to treat the man as a patient like any other, Ruso ordered him to sit. He placed Tilla at a safe distance. There was no telling how a resentful local might react to a collaborator, no matter how friendly her offer to translate. Besides, he would rather the conversation were conducted in a tongue he could understand.

Ingenuus moved to stand beside the patient, one hand resting on the hilt of his unlatched dagger.

“When did all this happen?” Ruso asked, already knowing the answer.

“Some of it, two days ago. Much in the fort last night.”

That lip should have been stitched at the time, but Ruso was not going to play about with it now. The man might well be coming to a nasty end anyway as soon as the murder inquiry was completed.

“Let’s have a look,” said Ruso. “Take off your shirt.”

As the man did so there was a sharp intake of breath from Tilla. His well-muscled torso was purple and blue with bruising. His skin was spattered with blisters and burns, no doubt from some imaginative and painful method of questioning devised by Metellus. Ruso was crouched beside him trying to ascertain whether any ribs were broken when there was a sharp crack and the man’s head jerked sideways. Tilla cried out in alarm.

“Sorry sir,” said Ingenuus, who had just adopted the unusual approach of slapping a patient while the doctor was examining him. “Man was showing disrespect to your—” He paused, evidently not sure what the right word was. “To the translator, sir.”

Ruso glanced at Tilla, whose face was impassive. “Go and wait out in the hall, Tilla.”

“I am all right here.”

He frowned. “You’re distracting the patient. Go and wait outside.”

She did not move. “The soldier should have respect, my lord. This is a man of my people.”

“And not a good one.” He stepped across to her and murmured, “He’s a known troublemaker. You’re better off not getting involved.”

“He has done nothing wrong!”

“He speaks Latin, Tilla. We don’t need you.”

She glanced at the native and then walked out without looking at Ruso, her back very straight. Ruso turned to find Ingenuus resting the point of his dagger just beneath the man’s ear and demanding, “Think you’re funny, do you?”

“Put the knife away,” snapped Ruso. Allowing a patient to have his face slapped during an examination might possibly be excused, but allowing him to have his throat cut was distinctly unprofessional.

“He winked at her, sir. I saw him do it.”

Ruso took a long breath to steady himself. “Thank you, Ingenuus.” He turned to the man. “You chose to come here for medical help,” he said. “I will treat you, but only if you behave yourself. Agreed?”

“Are the bones broken?” demanded the man.

“There’s no serious damage as far as I can tell.”

“Then I go,” he said, snatching up his shirt and turning his battered gaze on Ingenuus. “I will be standing up now, soldier. Don’t be afraid.”

“I won’t,” snarled Ingenuus. “But you’d better be.”

When he stood, the man was a good handspan shorter than Ingenuus. Ruso followed him past the screens, keen to see him off the premises.

The native said something to Tilla as he left. She did not seem to notice. She was leaning against the wall with her arms folded, watching the middle of the hall. The women’s bathing session had come to an end while Ruso had been behind the screens. The center of the hall was now occupied by two naked weightlifters with oiled muscles.

“Back to work, Tilla,” he ordered her. “We haven’t finished.”

Two women were just vacating the empty benches where his patients had been waiting. The older of the two was clutching an overflowing basket. The other was looking at him through small unfriendly eyes.

“Sorry about that,” he said. “I’ll see you now.”

The unfriendly one shook her head. “No need. I have waited so long, I have got better.”

“You should talk to the doctor,” urged her friend. “After all this waiting,” but the woman seemed to have lost interest.

“Come back if it bothers you again,” said Ruso, generous with his time now that none was being demanded of him.

“There you are, Tilla!” said a voice from the doorway. The silhouette of Albanus was standing on the threshold. “What are you doing here? This is the men’s session!”

“My master is working,” replied Tilla, not taking her gaze off the grunting weightlifters. “I am helping.”

Albanus looked at Ruso for support. “But I’ve been looking for her for
hours
, sir!”

Tilla shrugged. “This is not my fault.”

Ruso stepped between them and thanked Albanus for his fruitless efforts.

“I did hear something else about the murder, sir,” murmured Albanus. “They arrested a man last night, but I think they’ve released him.”

“Ah,” said Ruso, not wanting to discourage his clerk by pointing out that he knew this already. “I see. Thank you. Incidentally, since you’ve now spoken to most of Coria, you haven’t heard of any tonics being peddled locally, have you?”

“You mean cough medicines, that sort of thing, sir?”

“Not exactly,” said Ruso. “I mean medicines with doctors’ names attached. Specifically, my name.”

Albanus’s eyes widened. “You’re selling a tonic, sir?”

“No. But somebody seems to think I am.”

Albanus shook his head. “I haven’t come across it, sir. Do you want me to buy you some?”

“Absolutely not. See if you can find out who’s supplying it, then come and tell me.”

He moved to stand between Tilla and the weightlifters, and was relieved when she did not step aside to retain her line of vision (what would he have done? Grabbed her? Sidestepped again so they moved across the hall in a kind of shuffling dance?). “Now, what was it you wanted to ask me?”

“It does not matter now.”

He frowned. “You aren’t sulking, are you, Tilla?”

“I told you. It does not matter now.”

Three years with Claudia had taught Ruso that when a woman said something did not matter and refused to tell you what it was, it usually mattered a great deal—to her, if not to you. Frequently her way of punishing you for not knowing what it was in the first place was to refuse to tell you until you gave up asking. This was her cue to accuse you of not caring about her, otherwise you would have known what she wanted you to know without having to be told. Finally, if you were lucky, she would explain the latest way in which you had failed her expectations. If you were not lucky, she would explain
all
the ways. In detail.

It was disappointing to find Tilla heading down this path. The northern air was definitely making her more awkward.

“I need to talk to you about the man who came to the clinic,” he said.

“Rianorix is a man of my people,” she repeated.

He drew her into a corner away from eavesdroppers and explained about the murder. The noise in the hall was such that he had to place his lips very close to her ear to make sure she heard. This made it difficult to concentrate on what he was supposed to be saying, so the explanation was twice as long as it needed to be.

When it was over she said simply, “I know this, my lord. But he did not do it.”

“We don’t know that.”

“You do not,” she agreed. “So I am telling you.”

“In that case, who did?” asked Ruso, wondering whether Tilla had picked up any local gossip that had eluded the army.

“It was the gods, my lord.”

“I see.” Of course it was. “You don’t happen to know if the gods had any help from anyone?”

A crease appeared in the middle of her forehead. “I hear they send a medicus.”

“I think that’s very unlikely,” he informed her.

“This is what I think,” she agreed. “Medici do not listen to the gods.”

Albanus was still waiting by the door. “You’ll have to come with me to the fort,” Ruso told her. “There’s an officer who wants to talk to you.”

She seemed anxious, as well she might after being questioned by Postumus. She asked, as he knew she would, what the officer wanted. He said he could not tell her. She asked why not. He said he was not allowed to, adding that it was nothing bad, and she would understand when she got there. “The officer needs your help,” he said. “Just do your best.”

The eyes looked into his own. “You do not trust me?”

He said, “That’s not the point, Tilla. I was asked to say nothing. Would you rather I lied and said I didn’t know?”

She did not speak to him all the way back to the fort and in through the gate. She still refused to speak to him when he delivered her to Metellus’s office.

He drew the aide aside and murmured, “Half the town knows about Thessalus. It didn’t come from me.”

“I know,” came the reply. “It’s a damned nuisance. The governor’s given strict orders not to give the locals any excuse to start trouble, so we’ve had to release the native suspect until we can get this wretched confession sorted out. We’ll be keeping an eye on him, of course. But we don’t want them claiming we’re holding a man who can’t possibly be guilty.”

“Any sign of the—?”

“No.”

Ruso said, “I need to talk to you later to try and pin down some facts about Thessalus. But if you have any problems with Tilla, come straight to me. She’s my property and not to be touched. Agreed?”

“Don’t worry, Ruso.”

“And you should know that she’s saying she knows the native and he’s innocent.”

Metellus smiled. “They always are,” he said.

38

T
WO WARDS WERE
now pristine, sweet smelling, and empty. The orderlies were disappointed to discover that all their fine work was to be spoiled by the installation of patients before the governor had a chance to admire it. The pharmacy table was also a model of good order. Instead of a mess, it held a tray. On the tray was a bowl of some sort of broth, bread, a wine cup, and a small jug.

“Doctor Thessalus’s lunch, sir,” announced Gambax.

Ruso dipped a finger in the lukewarm broth. “Tastes all right,” he observed, “but it’s not very hot.”

“It’s been here some time, sir.”

Ruso took a sip from the water jug and examined the bread before suggesting, “Next time, perhaps you could wait for me before you have it served up.”

Gambax said “Yes, sir” with such studied neutrality that Ruso wanted to stomp on his toe. Instead he took a sip from the cup, and the sour taste of watered army wine took him back for a moment to the legion and his relatively innocent days at Deva. “That’s fine,” he said, replacing the cup. “Let’s round up somebody to sit with him and head over there.”

Thessalus was perched on the edge of the couch. Judging from the way he fixed his gaze on the tray, he was hungry. As he reached up to take it, Ruso noticed his hands were unsteady.

“My meals delivered by three men,” Thessalus observed, looking up at them. “And a guard outside the door. I was never worth so much attention before.”

“Gambax has come with your meal as you asked,” explained Ruso. “I’ve tasted your food and I promise you there’s absolutely nothing in it that shouldn’t be. This man will keep you company for a while and I’ll come and see you later.”

“Why? Are you afraid I shall be lonely?”