operating table. This was good news, but within seconds the warmth from the brazier in the corner had reawoken the itches on Ruso’s back and ribs along with the smell of horse in his clothing. He placed his medical case on the side table, slid a bronze probe down his spine, and enjoyed a few blessed moments of relief.
His concentration was interrupted by a voice from the doorway.
“Everything to your liking in here, is it, sir?”
“Very good,” said Ruso, hastily removing the probe. “Is there usually a centurion in the corridor?”
“That’s Audax, sir,” said Gambax, adding, “It’s one of his men lying murdered in the mortuary. Would you like to see the rest of the facilities?”
The rest of the facilities consisted of a steamy kitchen containing a ruddy-faced cook with a limp and two fingers missing, a couple of untidy storerooms, the smaller of which contained a vast barrel, and a latrine with the usual stench defying the usual effort to mask it. The mortuary was behind the centurion, and thus inaccessible. These were the facilities to service four smelly and stuffy wards containing seventeen beds and fifteen patients, four of whom were sitting around a table with a jug of beer. Judging by the speed at which they concealed the evidence of gambling when Ruso appeared, the four were not terribly sick.
One of the patients in the next room looked up from a board game with his neighbor and offered Ruso an unexpectedly warm welcome. “A doctor! Good to see you, sir! How’s Doctor Thessalus?”
“About the same,” put in Gambax from the doorway.
“What’s the matter with him, sir?”
“He’s ill,” said Gambax.
“Doctor Thessalus saw to both of us, sir,” said the man, indicating his comrade, whose shoulder was heavily bandaged. “But we haven’t seen anybody since.” He leaned forward and flung back the blankets to reveal a splinted leg. “Would you like to start with me, sir?”
“Not just now,” said Ruso, not wanting to trespass uninvited on a colleague’s territory. “I’ve got a casualty arriving in a moment.”
“Ah!” said the man, nodding, as if that explained the state of Ruso’s attire. He lowered his voice. “Wasn’t that Stag Man again, was it, sir?”
“Traffic accident,” said Ruso, then, realizing there was no hope of swearing 170 legionaries to silence, added, “There was a rider who’d put some sort of animal thing on his head. But he was nowhere near the accident.”
The man and his friend exchanged glances. “You want to be careful around here, sir,” he said. “He’s just left one of our lads dead in a back alley.”
“He’s got powers,” put in the man with the shoulder injury. “The locals are saying the gods have sent him from the Other World.”
Ruso said, “Well, when I saw him, he was very firmly in this one.”
Back in the office, the Batavians’ deputy medic was still keeping company with his beer. “Have you called the staff in, Gambax?”
Gambax looked at him over the rim of the cup. “Don’t you worry, sir. Your lads aren’t over the bridge yet.”
“I need men here now. I need a room scrubbed out and aired and a fresh mattress brought in.”
“What—right now, sir?”
“Right now. And while they’re doing it maybe you could find me some calamine, or alum in honey?”
There was a slight twitch at one side of Gambax’s mouth as he said, “You didn’t happen to stay at the Golden Fleece last night, sir?”
“Never again.”
“Yes,” said Gambax. “That’s what they all say.”
9
A S SOON AS the cart rumbled in beneath the wooden towers of Coria’s west gatehouse, the slave who had been driving the runaway cart was marched to the fort lockup and the groaning carpenter carried into the infirmary. His breathing was definitely worse, although nothing seemed to have penetrated the lungs.
Ruso did what he could to ease the breathing, cleaned up the minor cuts and scrapes, and supervised the dressing of the
His concentration was interrupted by a voice from the doorway.
“Everything to your liking in here, is it, sir?”
“Very good,” said Ruso, hastily removing the probe. “Is there usually a centurion in the corridor?”
“That’s Audax, sir,” said Gambax, adding, “It’s one of his men lying murdered in the mortuary. Would you like to see the rest of the facilities?”
The rest of the facilities consisted of a steamy kitchen containing a ruddy-faced cook with a limp and two fingers missing, a couple of untidy storerooms, the smaller of which contained a vast barrel, and a latrine with the usual stench defying the usual effort to mask it. The mortuary was behind the centurion, and thus inaccessible. These were the facilities to service four smelly and stuffy wards containing seventeen beds and fifteen patients, four of whom were sitting around a table with a jug of beer. Judging by the speed at which they concealed the evidence of gambling when Ruso appeared, the four were not terribly sick.
One of the patients in the next room looked up from a board game with his neighbor and offered Ruso an unexpectedly warm welcome. “A doctor! Good to see you, sir! How’s Doctor Thessalus?”
“About the same,” put in Gambax from the doorway.
“What’s the matter with him, sir?”
“He’s ill,” said Gambax.
“Doctor Thessalus saw to both of us, sir,” said the man, indicating his comrade, whose shoulder was heavily bandaged. “But we haven’t seen anybody since.” He leaned forward and flung back the blankets to reveal a splinted leg. “Would you like to start with me, sir?”
“Not just now,” said Ruso, not wanting to trespass uninvited on a colleague’s territory. “I’ve got a casualty arriving in a moment.”
“Ah!” said the man, nodding, as if that explained the state of Ruso’s attire. He lowered his voice. “Wasn’t that Stag Man again, was it, sir?”
“Traffic accident,” said Ruso, then, realizing there was no hope of swearing 170 legionaries to silence, added, “There was a rider who’d put some sort of animal thing on his head. But he was nowhere near the accident.”
The man and his friend exchanged glances. “You want to be careful around here, sir,” he said. “He’s just left one of our lads dead in a back alley.”
“He’s got powers,” put in the man with the shoulder injury. “The locals are saying the gods have sent him from the Other World.”
Ruso said, “Well, when I saw him, he was very firmly in this one.”
Back in the office, the Batavians’ deputy medic was still keeping company with his beer. “Have you called the staff in, Gambax?”
Gambax looked at him over the rim of the cup. “Don’t you worry, sir. Your lads aren’t over the bridge yet.”
“I need men here now. I need a room scrubbed out and aired and a fresh mattress brought in.”
“What—right now, sir?”
“Right now. And while they’re doing it maybe you could find me some calamine, or alum in honey?”
There was a slight twitch at one side of Gambax’s mouth as he said, “You didn’t happen to stay at the Golden Fleece last night, sir?”
“Never again.”
“Yes,” said Gambax. “That’s what they all say.”
9
A S SOON AS the cart rumbled in beneath the wooden towers of Coria’s west gatehouse, the slave who had been driving the runaway cart was marched to the fort lockup and the groaning carpenter carried into the infirmary. His breathing was definitely worse, although nothing seemed to have penetrated the lungs.
Ruso did what he could to ease the breathing, cleaned up the minor cuts and scrapes, and supervised the dressing of the
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