T
HE ASHES OF
Felix’s pyre were still smoldering on one side of the road as the flames rose from the brushwood stacked beneath the body of the carpenter on the other. The man’s eyes had been opened so that he could see the heavens as his comrades watched the smoke rising into the pale morning sky. Ruso stood at attention with the men of the Twentieth, uncomfortable in the knowledge that many of them would be blaming him for the death. The civilians who had traveled up from Deva with them were huddled together, silent and grim faced. One or two of the women were weeping. Lydia stood impassive, a dark shawl covering her head, one hand patting the back of the child mewling over her shoulder. Next to her Ruso recognized Susanna from the snack bar, stolidly attending her second funeral in two days. To his surprise, Tilla was not with them.
As soon as the ceremony was over, Postumus’s men shouldered their packs and marched westward, leaving a squad of eight legionaries to stand guard over the pyre. Most of the civilians loaded up their belongings and set off after them. Susanna patted Lydia on the shoulder and hurried away to open up. Lydia seated herself on the ground in front of the collapsed pyre. As Ruso crouched beside her, he could see the glint of the flames in her dark eyes.
“We will catch the person who did this, Lydia.”
“Ask him to give me my man back,” she said, not looking at him.
As he returned to the fort, he passed a makeshift potter’s stall at the roadside. A linen merchant was setting out his wares and two old women were squabbling as they hung up a display of leather bags and belts. Someone had laid four scraggy cabbages on a cloth beside a crate containing a hen. He stepped aside to allow a girl to pass with a clumsy handcart loaded with bread. Today was market day, and everyone else’s life would go on.
Ruso dropped in to see Thessalus on the way back from the funeral, and discovered him hunched over his breakfast. Gambax seemed to have taken a more conventional approach to delivery this time, and the crockery was intact. Ruso stole a sip of the wine. Thessalus, drizzling oil onto a hunk of bread with an unsteady hand, did not seem to notice him. The wine tasted the same as last night: army vinegar laced with something that shouldn’t be there.
Ruso hoped Gambax knew what he was doing with the dosage. He said, “I’m on the way to the infirmary. Any advice?”
“Lock the door,” said Thessalus, drizzling the oil in a circle. “Keep them out. You can’t do anything for them.”
“Thanks,” said Ruso. “I’ll bear that in mind. I came to tell you: There’s good news. Metellus has arrested a native for the murder of Felix. Whatever you dreamed up, Thessalus, you have nothing to feel guilty about. Just concentrate on getting well. I’ll be back to see you as soon as I can.”
To his surprise, when Thessalus looked up from the bread his eyes were glistening with tears. “I told you this would happen,” he said. “They will find someone else to blame. Now I have killed two men.”
This was not the reaction Ruso had expected to his good news. Wishing he had kept quiet until later, he knelt beside Thessalus and handed him a cloth. “Courage, brother.”
“Don’t touch me! Don’t come near me!”
Ruso backed away. “Sorry. Would you like anything to read? Something else to eat?”
“I want to sleep with no dreams.”
“We will make you well,” Ruso promised, although he was not entirely sure how.
T
HE TWIN GODS
guarding the infirmary door (which now read: “Days to Governor’s Visit III”) had been busy overnight. Miracles had been performed. The four malingerers had all enjoyed sudden cures and been discharged back to their units, and Gambax had actually managed to complete a rota before heading off to some administrative meeting or other at headquarters.
The newly vacated ward was descended upon by orderlies bearing scrubbing brushes and buckets and bedding in a manner that suggested intention if not efficiency. Ruso put his head around the door frame and declared their efforts to be splendid.
Only slightly less miraculously, the splinted leg still had no inflammation. The man with the shoulder wound was still pessimistic, and the morning sick parade offered the usual coughs and stomach complaints, bad backs, sore eyes, and dodgy knees. All seemed genuine. Ruso chose not to ask if any of their owners was under the command of Audax.
He sent a junior officer with a wrecked knee hobbling out, moved his chair into the treatment room, and was reading
The Varieties and
Uses of the Poppy
when Albanus came to tell him that Gambax had returned. Ruso put his scroll aside and braced himself for a difficult interview.
“You wanted to see me, sir.” Gambax’s expression as he appeared in the doorway of the treatment room suggested the summons was very inconvenient.
“Shut the door, Gambax.”
The man glanced back into the corridor as if hoping to find an excuse to go somewhere else, then dropped the latch.
“Will this take long, sir? I’ve got a list of—”
“That depends on how long you take to tell me the truth.”
Alarm showed in Gambax’s eyes, but only for a moment.
“When I asked you what was wrong with Doctor Thessalus, you told me you thought he was just in need of a rest.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Is there anything you’d like to add to that?”
“No, sir.”
“No ailments that you’re aware of?”
“No, sir.”
“How long have you been giving him poppy tears?”
A blink was the only betrayal of emotion. “About three months, sir, off and on.”
“But you don’t think there’s anything wrong with him?”
“I was obeying orders. He asked me for them.”
“And you didn’t think to wonder whether this was a good idea?”
There was pause before, “I respect the doctor’s judgment, sir.”
“I see. What would you think of an orderly who shouted at a patient and threw a meal tray at him?”
Gambax’s throat moved as he swallowed. “I didn’t throw it at him, sir. I threw it on the floor.”
“Why?”
“I was trying to help him, sir.”
“What?”
“I was trying to shock him back into sanity.”
“By telling him to stop messing about and threatening not to bring his happy juice anymore?”
“It probably wasn’t a good idea, sir.”
“Cutting down his supply would have been a good idea months ago. You’re supposed to be both pharmacist and record keeper here. You’ve kept doling out powerful medicine to a man you know isn’t sick—or wasn’t when you started—and not even bothered to keep a note of it.”
When the man did not reply, he prompted, “Haven’t you?”
“He said it helped him sleep, sir.”
“At breakfast?”
Ruso sighed.
The Varieties and Uses
had warned against using poppy tears in the eyes, and everyone knew that too much would be fatal. But the author was only one of several authorities who recommended poppy as a miracle cure for all kinds of ailments. Many remedies included it in small doses. He often prescribed it himself to relieve pain, and it would certainly help the patient sleep. However, for a healthy man to be taking regular and heavy doses of poppy over a period of three months was surely abnormal, and Gambax must have known that. The deputy had deliberately lied to him.
In other circumstances, Ruso would have relieved him of duty. But as the sole pharmacist, Gambax was a necessary evil. And the last thing Ruso wanted was to suggest to a man in charge of dangerous medicines that he had nothing to lose.
“While the staff are sorting out the wards,” said Ruso, “I want that mess around the pharmacy table tidied up. I want everything properly and clearly labeled. I want a complete, up-to-date record of everything you’ve got there, and I want you to make a list of what gets dispensed every day. I’ll be inspecting the area and checking the records on a regular basis. In the meantime you’re not to go near Thessalus without me present. If I hear that you’ve so much as looked at barrack block two, I’ll have you charged with insubordination. Is that clear?’
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Now go and get on with it.”
When he had gone Ruso stared at the cloak hanging on the back of the closed door.
I respect the doctor’s judgment,
indeed! Of course he did. As long as Thessalus was happily doped up and dependent on Gambax for his supply, the staff had been left to manage the infirmary in whatever way suited them best. And what had suited most of them was to sit in the office with the door barred, drinking beer.
I was trying to help him, sir.
Gods above.
Still, he had Gambax on the run at last. He was making progress with the prefect’s order to sort out the medical service. Even if he was beginning to sound worryingly enthusiastic about the sort of administrative procedures he could never usually be bothered to follow himself.
Gambax had failed to shut the door. He could see movement in the corridor outside.
“Albanus, you’re lurking.”
The clerk grinned, stepped into the treatment room, and closed the door. “Could I possibly come in here for a moment, sir? It’s safer than out there.”
Ruso indicated a seat. “Tell me, Albanus,” he said, tipping back his chair so that the front legs left the ground, “have you ever heard of the torpedo fish?”
“It gives some sort of shock, sir.”
“Excellent,” said Ruso, wishing Gambax were there to hear himself proved wrong. “You haven’t by any chance got a remedy for a man whose triangles are falling apart, have you?”
“I think the only remedy for that is death, sir.”
“No doubt,” said Ruso, mildly surprised. Albanus was not in the habit of making jokes.
Seconds later it became apparent that no joke was intended. “It’s a bit of an obscure piece, sir. Plato. My father was a teacher. He made me translate it once. I can’t remember much about it, but I think when your triangles finally crumble they release your soul to fly to . . . somewhere.”
“What triangles?”
“I never really understood it. But I think Plato thought everything was based on mathematics and people are made out of little triangles and the sharp edges help you digest your food.”
“Gods above,” said Ruso, scratching one ear. “No wonder people are rude about the Greeks.”
“I probably haven’t explained it terribly well, sir.”
“No, I’m sure that’s right. It explains something Doctor Thessalus said to me yesterday.”
There was a thump from the corridor, then a curse and the sound of something cumbersome being dragged along the floor. Ruso guessed the orderlies had finally realized they needed to change the mattresses before they put on the fresh bedding.
“I’ve finished sorting the records, sir,” said Albanus. “There’s lots of gaps but at least you can find what there is now.”
“Excellent,” said Ruso. “I’ll come and have a look.” He caught Albanus’s eye. “Maybe it’s better not to disturb Gambax at the moment. But I’d like you to start checking the rest of the infirmary paperwork. Find out how they’ve been placing the orders, paying the bills, and so on.”
Albanus was chewing his lower lip. “I don’t think Gambax will like me interfering in that very much, sir. He’s a bit agitated already.”
“That’s why you’ll have to do it discreetly when he’s not there. In the meantime, I want you to nip around to the gatehouses and see if you can find a guard who can remember where Doctor Thessalus was called to on the night of the murder, and what time he arrived back. I tried last night but I didn’t get very far. While you’re there, see if they’ve had any messages from Tilla. If they haven’t, I think you’d better go out and try to track her down.”
“Right-oh, sir. What do I say if they ask why I want to know about the doctor?”
“Say ‘medical reasons,’ ” said Ruso. “That usually works.” He tipped his chair forward again. “Now I suppose I’d better go and encourage the scrubbers.”
T
HE THORN HEDGE
finally came into sight on the far side of the river meadow. Tilla looked above her shoulder again to make sure that there was no one following her before she forced herself to slow down and recapture her breath. Beyond the thorn hedge, smoke was seeping lazily skyward from a dumpy cone of thatch. As she drew closer she could make out the tops of the beehives.
Nobody noticed her approach. Veldicca was on her knees, ripping early weeds out of one of the herb beds. There was a green shawl tied across her back, sheltering the shape of a sleeping baby. In the doorway of the house a small girl was grinding flour while two hens loitered, waiting to lunge at the spilled grains of wheat.
“Veldicca!” called Tilla as she pushed open the gate.
The young woman took one look, scrambled to her feet, and backed away in alarm.
“It is me,” Tilla assured her.
“Daughter of Lugh?”
“Alive. May I come in?”
Veldicca peered at her for a moment, then hurried forward, slapping the worst of the mud off her hands before embracing her. “They told us you were dead!”