something being removed from the latch. A slack-jawed creature with lank brown hair appeared and stopped chewing for long enough to say, “What do you want?” in the same fluent but guttural Latin as the other men Ruso had met on the way through the fort.
“Gaius Petreius Ruso, medicus with the Twentieth. There’s an urgent casualty coming in. Didn’t you get the message?”
The soldier pulled open the door and managed something that might have been a salute. “Gambax, sir. Deputy medic. What message?”
Ruso stepped into the dingy corridor. At the far end he could make out a square soldierly shape planted outside one of the doors. The shape showed no interest in him as he followed Gambax into a cramped and ill-lit room that seemed to be both an office and a pharmacy.
“I was just having some lunch,” explained Gambax.
“At this hour?”
“Busy morning, sir.” The man scooped up the remains of a raisin pastry and brushed crumbs off the desk. “We’ve had a murder. The body was brought in this morning.”
“Sorry to hear that,” said Ruso, noting that it did not seem to have affected his appetite. “Where’s the doctor?”
“Gone sick, sir.”
This was not good news. “I’ve done an emergency amputation on the road. Crushed femur, and I think there are broken ribs and bruising to the lungs. He’ll be here any minute. Where is everybody?”
“The lads have gone off to get a bite to eat, sir.”
Ruso took a deep breath and reminded himself that he was not in Deva now. He could not expect a country outpost serving six hundred men to be run in the same way as a legionary hospital serving five thousand.
“Don’t you worry, sir,” Gambax assured him, reaching for a cup and swilling the pastry down with something that smelled very much like beer. “The watch’ll give them a shout when your lads come in over the bridge. How about a drink while you’re waiting?”
“No thanks,” said Ruso. He glanced across at what must be the pharmacy table. Above it, a cobweb billowed gently in the breeze from the open window. Three shelves held a jumble of pots and bottles and bags and boxes. A few had labels indicating their contents, written in a large untidy script. Most did not. The table itself held a weighing scale and an abandoned mortar bowl containing some sort of brown paste. Beneath it were a couple of wine amphorae—medicinal wine, he assumed—and a wastebasket crammed with wilted greenery. The basket was topped with a selection of broken pots projecting from a pale crusted mass of green slime. Some of the slime had dripped down the side of the basket and hardened into a small semicircular pancake on the floorboards. Ruso said, “Who’s the pharmacist?”
“That would be me, sir.”
Somehow this was not a surprise. “What medicines have you got for pain relief and postoperative treatment?”
“All the basics, sir. And plenty of poppy tears and mandrake.”
Ruso hoped the man knew which containers they were in. He glanced down at the desk. A few stray crumbs remained. Black inkstains had spread themselves along the grain of the wood, running into the circular imprints of cups bearing drinks long ago consumed. A wooden tablet addressed in the same large hand as the medicines lay to one side.
“I keep the records as well, sir.”
“I thought you might.”
“Yes, sir. We’re an auxiliary unit here. We don’t have lots of staff like you’re used to in the legions. Would you like to take a look at the treatment room, sir? Just through that door, next on the left.”
Now that Ruso’s eyes had adjusted to the gloom he could make out that the figure at the end of the corridor was a squat centurion with a savage haircut. The man’s glare suggested that whoever was behind the door he was guarding was not receiving visitors.
Evidently Gambax was not in charge of the treatment room, where two cobweb-free glass windows allowed the surgeon enough light to see what he was doing on the
“Gaius Petreius Ruso, medicus with the Twentieth. There’s an urgent casualty coming in. Didn’t you get the message?”
The soldier pulled open the door and managed something that might have been a salute. “Gambax, sir. Deputy medic. What message?”
Ruso stepped into the dingy corridor. At the far end he could make out a square soldierly shape planted outside one of the doors. The shape showed no interest in him as he followed Gambax into a cramped and ill-lit room that seemed to be both an office and a pharmacy.
“I was just having some lunch,” explained Gambax.
“At this hour?”
“Busy morning, sir.” The man scooped up the remains of a raisin pastry and brushed crumbs off the desk. “We’ve had a murder. The body was brought in this morning.”
“Sorry to hear that,” said Ruso, noting that it did not seem to have affected his appetite. “Where’s the doctor?”
“Gone sick, sir.”
This was not good news. “I’ve done an emergency amputation on the road. Crushed femur, and I think there are broken ribs and bruising to the lungs. He’ll be here any minute. Where is everybody?”
“The lads have gone off to get a bite to eat, sir.”
Ruso took a deep breath and reminded himself that he was not in Deva now. He could not expect a country outpost serving six hundred men to be run in the same way as a legionary hospital serving five thousand.
“Don’t you worry, sir,” Gambax assured him, reaching for a cup and swilling the pastry down with something that smelled very much like beer. “The watch’ll give them a shout when your lads come in over the bridge. How about a drink while you’re waiting?”
“No thanks,” said Ruso. He glanced across at what must be the pharmacy table. Above it, a cobweb billowed gently in the breeze from the open window. Three shelves held a jumble of pots and bottles and bags and boxes. A few had labels indicating their contents, written in a large untidy script. Most did not. The table itself held a weighing scale and an abandoned mortar bowl containing some sort of brown paste. Beneath it were a couple of wine amphorae—medicinal wine, he assumed—and a wastebasket crammed with wilted greenery. The basket was topped with a selection of broken pots projecting from a pale crusted mass of green slime. Some of the slime had dripped down the side of the basket and hardened into a small semicircular pancake on the floorboards. Ruso said, “Who’s the pharmacist?”
“That would be me, sir.”
Somehow this was not a surprise. “What medicines have you got for pain relief and postoperative treatment?”
“All the basics, sir. And plenty of poppy tears and mandrake.”
Ruso hoped the man knew which containers they were in. He glanced down at the desk. A few stray crumbs remained. Black inkstains had spread themselves along the grain of the wood, running into the circular imprints of cups bearing drinks long ago consumed. A wooden tablet addressed in the same large hand as the medicines lay to one side.
“I keep the records as well, sir.”
“I thought you might.”
“Yes, sir. We’re an auxiliary unit here. We don’t have lots of staff like you’re used to in the legions. Would you like to take a look at the treatment room, sir? Just through that door, next on the left.”
Now that Ruso’s eyes had adjusted to the gloom he could make out that the figure at the end of the corridor was a squat centurion with a savage haircut. The man’s glare suggested that whoever was behind the door he was guarding was not receiving visitors.
Evidently Gambax was not in charge of the treatment room, where two cobweb-free glass windows allowed the surgeon enough light to see what he was doing on the
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