Medicus

67

Payday dawned at last. There was still no sign of Tilla. Ruso spent the morning trying to do justice to the needs of his patients, which were as pressing as ever. Outside, however, it was apparent that the Twentieth was working itself up to a level of excitement that heralded a busy night for the medical service. The enthusiasm raised by the quarterly arrival of cash had been swelled by the anticipation of at least the first installment of Hadrian's bonus to his loyal troops. The bathhouse scaffolding was abandoned, its occupants presumably waiting in other jostling lines like the one he was now passing outside a centurion's quarters. A neglected noticeboard at the head of a barracks block announced an inter unit sports event this afternoon in the amphitheater-a gallant but probably doomed attempt to direct the Twentieth's payday energy into useful channels. If this unit was anything like any of the others Ruso had known, by evening the real entertainment would be in full swing. The bars would be overflowing with off-duty soldiers, and men who ought to know better would be doing things they would very much regret in the morning. If Tilla was still somewhere in the town, he hoped she would have the sense to stay behind closed doors.

Minutes later, he walked away from the camp prefect's office still staring at the bottom figure on the copy of his account. Perhaps you'd like to take some time to check the figures, sir. This couldn't be right. There must be some mistake.

She had not miraculously returned to the house while he was out. He sat on his one chair and ignored the puppy that scrambled up his leg and danced around before settling on his lap. Outside, a shout of laughter echoed along the street from one of the barracks blocks. Ruso dipped his hand into the jar Valens had been given by a grateful patient and groped around for the last of the olives.

The figure at the top of the sheet was fine. The "Brought forward" figure was correct. Miraculously, the army had managed to send his records across two seas and two continents in time for the clerks to do the arithmetic. The down payment on the gift to celebrate the accession of the noble emperor Hadrianus was most welcome, except that a large chunk of it had been compulsorily diverted into his savings account. "Deductions," read the line underneath. That was where the trouble started.

Following all the usual deductions for his keep and the legionary celebration at Saturnalia was a figure for "Loan repayment"-they'd taken the whole advance back at once, of course-and an item called "Expenditure." The amount defied all his attempts to live frugally. The details were listed on a separate sheet and included "Meals taken at the hospital" and "Private use of hospital facilities."

Perhaps you'd like to take some time to check the figures, sir. Ruso licked the olive brine off his fingers and began to count. Three attempts brought three confirmations of the impossible figure against "Makes a total of." Next he deducted the amount he owed the Aesculapian Thanksgiving Fund. Then he took off the sum he had arranged to be sent to Lucius. Finally he subtracted enough to cover his bill at Merula's.

Ruso leaned back in his chair and stared gloomily at the empty olive jar. What would remain in his purse was barely enough to see a civilized man through the next three weeks, let alone three months. No wonder men on basic pay resorted to stealing from Priscus's linen closets. He could not live for three months on this. He must take the time to find more private patients. He must get on with his writing. He must get promoted. He must find Tilla alive-and when he had, he must sell her.

As he framed this thought in his mind, two things occurred to him simultaneously. One was that he didn't want to sell her and he never had. The other was that today he had somewhere new to look.

Ruso had never bought a slave at a market. There had always been someone else-father, uncle, wife, other slaves-to deal with that sort of thing. The only time he had needed to buy his own staff was after his divorce, when he had taken the post in Africa. That had been a simple matter of moving into the house occupied by his predecessor and handing over a sum of cash to retain the slave couple who already worked there. He had, of course, bought Tilla, but that had not been a planned purchase. He had never been called upon to assess the suitability of strangers to join his household, and he had never paid any attention to how it was done. Which was why, he supposed, he was surprised to see that the notice announcing the arrival of the slave trader had now been amended to read,

VIEWING FROM 6TH HR TODAY, AUCTION AT OTH HR.

Deva, being less a town than a collection of houses outside a fort, did not have a forum. Instead, the action had been crammed into the space between the amphitheater and the fountain. Peering above the heads of the shoppers, Ruso could make out stalls offering jewelry, EFFICIENT SCRIBE SERVICES, hot pies, FORTUNE-TELLING, and PORTRAITS PAINTED WHILE YOU WAIT. A succession of bright balls rising and falling in the air marked the passage of a juggler, and the area by the oil shop had been cordoned off to make a performance space for a dancing bear, currently sitting in its cage with its back to the crowds.

Ruso pushed his way toward the huge open-sided marquee that filled one side of the open space. From its roof swung a sign announcing

L. CURTIUS SILVANUS, DEALER IN SLAVES: RELIABLE STAFF FOR THE DISCERNING EMPLOYER.

The people crowded into it fell into four categories. The merchandise were the cheerless ones with chains around their ankles and labels around their necks. The customers were the ones peering and poking at the merchandise and asking them to open their mouths, flex their arm muscles, or prove they could speak Latin. The security staff appeared to be doing nothing at all, while a couple of clerks fluttered around a makeshift office formed by a row of folding desks.

Ruso shoved his way to the desks and arrived just as an African with a lined face and a thick gold rope around his neck pushed his way in through a flap at the back of the marquee.

"Are you the owner?"

The man bowed. "Lucius Curtius Silvanus, at your service."

Ruso explained about Tilla.

"I assure you, sir, my staff take great care. We very rarely buy in the street and only then with full documentation and references." He indicated the stock with a sweep of his arm. "All purchases come with a money-back guarantee for a full six months. We certainly wouldn't take on anything with an obvious injury."

Ruso nodded. "And is this everyone? Or do you have a special collection?"

The man smiled, revealing a wide gap between his two front teeth.

"Ah, sir, I'm afraid they are for inspection by appointment only. But all our present collection have been with us for at least ten days."

"Nevertheless-"

The man's expression hardened. He summoned a clerk and ordered him to show Ruso the list of the private collection. There were a couple of Greek tutors, a geometry teacher, a painter, a family physician (Ruso would have liked to meet that one), three "beautiful young boys" whose talents were not listed, and a set of fourteen-year-old twin girls, described as "very beautiful, black hair, green eyes, good figures, soft-spoken, and eager to please."

"How much are the girls?" he inquired, wondering what prices were like here.

"More than you can afford," said the clerk-evidently a sharp judge of character.

Nothing here seemed likely to lead to Tilla. He was about to leave when a woman's voice said, "Good afternoon, Doctor!" and he turned to find Rutilius's wife smiling at him.

"We heard about your housekeeper," put in Rutilia the Younger. "Have you come to buy another one?"

"Such a shame," sympathized her mother. "It's so difficult to find good staff."

The daughter said, "I hope the madman hasn't got her. Have you looked in the river?"

"Really, dear!" chided the mother. She was apologizing for her daughter's tactlessness when Ruso heard a distinct cry of "Doctor!" from somewhere across the marquee. "I'm sorry," he interrupted, relieved. "I have to go. Someone's calling me."

"Doctor!"

The boy was perhaps eight or nine years old. He had ginger-colored hair and his face was blotched with pink, as if he had been crying. He was dressed in a plain brown tunic. Like all the other slaves, he was barefoot. The iron cuff looked as though it could snap his thin white ankle. He was chained to a massive bearded native on one side and an elderly man with a bent back on the other. Ruso stared at him, trying to remember where he had seen him before.

The boy sniffed, wiped his nose on the back of his hand, and said, "It's me, Doctor. Lucco."

Ruso frowned. "Lucco? From Merula's?"

The boy nodded. "Yes, sir."

"What are you doing here?"

The boy's eyes glistened with tears. "I'm being sold, sir." He swallowed hard and squared his shoulders. "I'm a good worker, sir. And I'm quick to learn. Really I am."

Ruso gazed at the skinny form with a mounting sense of dismay, knowing he could not say what the boy was hoping to hear. What could a man with no money possibly say or do to reassure a child who was chained like an animal, waiting to be auctioned to the highest bidder? He closed his eyes and fought the urge to utter a curse on the spirit of his weak-willed father, on his spendthrift stepmother, on his half sisters, who combined the worst qualities of both. He wanted to lay a hand on Lucco's shoulder and assure him that all would be well. Only it probably wouldn't.

At least he could save the boy from being poked and peered at for a few minutes. He said, "Why are you being sold, Lucco?"

The boy eyed him for a minute, as if he was wondering what to answer. Ruso groaned inwardly as he realized his mistake. The child thought he was being interviewed for a job. "Lucco," he explained gently, crouching down to speak to him face-to-face, "I can't buy you. I'm sorry. I may look rich to you, but the truth is, I'm not."

The boy sniffed again. "Yes, sir."

The old man burst into a fit of coughing. In his efforts to stifle the cough he staggered backward, dragging the chain and jerking Lucco's ankle sideways. The boy winced and bent to rub his leg. The big native turned and growled something at the old man, who ignored him.

"Lucco," said Ruso, wishing he did not have to ask this, "you remember my slave, Tilla?"

"She used to feed her dinner to the birds."

"Well, now she's missing. I'm afraid that whoever hurt Saufeia might hurt her. If you know anything at all about what happened to Saufeia, or to Asellina, you must tell me. Nobody's going to punish you for talking now."

The boy shook his head. "I don't know nothing about Saufeia, sir. Everybody thought Asellina had gone to live somewhere nicer. All the girls cried when they found her."

"I see."

"I like it at Merula's," said the boy. "I don't want to go nowhere else."

"You're a bright boy, Lucco," said Ruso. "You'll do well wherever you go."

The boy replied politely, "Yes, sir."

Ruso stood up straight, glancing around him and wondering if it would be kinder to get out of the way and let potential buyers assess the boy's worth. The more the better. A slave for whom there were several bidders would fetch a higher price and logic dictated that a valuable asset would be well treated. The trouble was, logic rarely dictated what people did in the privacy of their own homes.

"Sir?"

He turned.

"Sir, please could you give my mother a message?"

"Your mother?"

"Please could you tell her Bassus told Merula about the oysters?"

Ruso frowned. "Bassus told Merula about the…?"

"The oysters, sir. So Merula told him to take me to the trader." An energetic sniff was followed by, "Bassus said he was going to find a nice family for me, but now he's gone and told Merula about the oysters. My mother doesn't know."

Ruso was now thoroughly confused. "You mother doesn't know about the oysters?"

"She doesn't know I'm here." The boy glanced over at the clerks behind the desks. "Do you think they'll let me go and say good-bye?"

Ruso doubted it very much. "You are being sold because of oysters?"

The boy nodded. "I didn't mean to do it, sir. I mean, I didn't mean…" His voice tailed into silence.

Ruso scratched his ear. This story was beginning to sound familiar. He lowered his voice so they could not be overheard. "Wasn't Merula's last cook sold because of serving bad oysters?"

Lucco nodded, dumb.

"And now Merula's found out you were involved?"

Something approaching panic entered the boy's eyes. "Please, sir!" he muttered, barely audible above the hum of conversation in the marquee. "I won't ever do it again!"

"I'm not going to tell anyone, Lucco." If no one had seen to it that the damnation of "attempted poisoner" was written on the child's label, he was certainly not going to do it himself.

"I didn't mean it, sir," whispered Lucco. "Somebody said the officer from the hospital was there. I thought they meant the nasty one."

Ruso was having difficulty following him again. "Tell me about these oysters," he suggested.

"Cook had them on the side to throw away."

"And you sent them out to a customer?"

He nodded. "It was just a bit of a joke, sir."

A bit of a joke that could have ended in a charge of attempted murder and a gruesome execution for its perpetrator. As it was, Valens had suffered acute food poisoning and Ruso had been obliged to do the work of three men and had ended up so far out of his senses that he had bought a girl on a building site.

He put his hand back on the boy's shoulder. "I'll go and see your mother right away. Where do I find her?"

"She'll be working, sir."

"Yes, but where?"

The boy stared at him. "Where she always works, sir. At Merula's."

It was Ruso's turn to stare.

"You know her, sir," said the boy "They call her Chloe."