Medicus

22

Ruso shambled along to the kitchen wondering which was more painful: his sore head or his sore foot. Wretched woman. He needed a long cool drink of-

Damn. The jug was empty. Valens had thoughtfully moved it to weigh down the lid of the breadbin against invading mice but hadn't bothered to nip out and fill it first. Inside the bin was a chunk of bread so hard that the mice could have sharpened their teeth on it. There seemed to be nothing else edible in the kitchen. He chose the least dirty of the cups on the shelf and limped to the dining room. Beer would be better than nothing.

A gang of puppies bounced at his feet as he dipped the cup into the barrel. He was replacing the lid when there was a knock at the door. Still clutching the cup and with puppies licking up the drips in his wake, he went to explain to whoever it was that Valens was out.

The moment the door opened, the arm of the young soldier outside shot up in a salute.

Ruso transferred the beer to his other hand, put out his good foot to prevent a puppy escape and lost his balance slightly before returning an untidy salute and asking, "What do you want?"

"Albanus, sir, reporting for duty."

Ruso frowned, trying to imagine what the man's duty might be.

"Have you come to help out?"

"Yes sir."

"Oh. Good. Well, you can start by getting some water. I've got a mouth like a sand dune and there's nothing to drink."

The man looked puzzled. "Water, sir?"

Ruso jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "Jug's in the kitchen."

He stepped aside, but the man did not move.

"Come in," ordered Ruso. "Shut the door before the dogs get out."

"Sir?"

"What?"

"I'm your scribe, sir."

Ruso stared at him and noticed the clues for the first time. The ink-stained fingers. The slight bulge to the eyes caused by peering at documents by lamplight. "Oh."

The man held up a satchel. "I've brought my equipment, sir."

"Well, you can take it away again," said Ruso. "I'm not on duty till this afternoon." He paused. "Report to me at the hospital at the seventh hour."

"Yes, sir." There was a pause. "What would you like me to do until then, sir?"

Gods above, Priscus had sent him an enthusiast. "Haven't you got some old records to copy?"

Yes, sir, he had.

"Then you can get on with that. Anything you can't read, ask me this afternoon. Don't make it up."

"Yes, sir."

The wretched man was still standing there.

"Anything else?"

"No, sir."

There was a silence, then Ruso remembered to say, "Dismissed."

After another snappy salute Albanus spun around, sending his satchel swinging outward and crashing back against his side, and marched off in the direction of the hospital. Ruso shut the door, sniffed the beer, and decided it wasn't better than nothing, after all. He limped back into the kitchen to fetch the jug. He had the feeling Albanus would have copied all the records in triplicate by lunchtime and be pestering him for more work. He could have given him the Concise Guide to copy. It was a pity that most of it wasn't written yet.

Ruso was carrying the jug out the door when there was a crash and a skitter of paws across floorboards. He turned. Several puppies were running for cover. One was perched on a side table, peering over the edge at fragments of a cup lying in a spreading pool of beer.

Ruso shut the door quietly, limped down the street to the water fountain, and stuck his head under it.