Medicus

49

"Jupiter Optimus Maximus!" muttered Ruso blasphemously, I pausing in the doorway of the house and wondering whether to walk away again. It had been one of those days when Aesculapius had not been on his side. A bad day for the doctor and a worse one for his patients, whose sufferings had included emergency abdominal surgery that was unlikely to succeed, the extraction of a glass splinter from an eye, and the amputation of an infected foot. He was supervising the cautery of the stump by a nervous junior medic when an orderly interrupted to tell him there were five stretchers in the hall, bearing the victims of a loading crane that had broken loose down at the docks. In the midst of this no one thought to mention the retired trumpeter who had come in complaining of chest pains and who was only brought to Ruso's attention after he had dropped dead on the floor of the admissions hall. As soon as the man's distraught wife had stopped shrieking at Ruso and been escorted away in tears, someone tapped him on the shoulder and whispered that the surgical patient had died and Officer Priscus was conducting an urgent review of admissions procedures.

Ruso spoke to the comrades of the abdomen patient, saw to it that he was properly laid out, and went home for dinner.

He took a deep breath and entered the house. The sound of a meandering melody came from the kitchen. Exactly what his servant was doing in there-other than singing-was a mystery to Ruso, who flung open the door and demanded, "What on earth is that stink?"

The singing faltered to a halt. Tilla, flushed from leaning over whatever was boiling in the blackened pan above the coals, observed, "My Lord is home early."

He said, "Is that my dinner?"

By way of answer she pointed toward a shelf beyond the reach of the dogs. A coiled string of pink, glistening sausages were an unwelcome reminder of today's abdominal surgery.

"Dinner," she explained. "Soon." There were damp wisps of hair stuck to her forehead.

Ruso returned his gaze to the coals. An unpleasant suspicion began to grow. "Tilla, are you boiling socks in the same pan that you cook in?"

She shook her head vigorously. "I do not boil socks."

"It had better not be another one of your British recipes."

She glanced back at the pan as if she were wondering whether to lie to him, then drew herself up to her full height, looked him in the eye, and said, "Is medicine, Master."

Medicine? Ruso sighed. He was tired of medicine. He was not interested in medicine. He had come here seeking respite from other people's troubles and the last thing he wanted was a sick person in his own house. Mustering his sense of duty, he said, "Do you need something else for your arm?"

"No, Master."

"Is there another problem I should know about?"

"No, Master. I make dinner now."

"Good. Give that pot a thorough scrub before you use it again."

Those eyes were looking straight at him. The expression in them was not one of cooperation.

"Medicine is a tricky business, Tilla," he told her. "It isn't a case of boiling up a few weeds. You could end up poisoning yourself. I work with pharmacists who have trained for years, and even they don't get it right all the time."

She turned away from him, gave the pan a vigorous stir, and banged the spoon on the rim.

Ruso rubbed his hand over his tired eyes. He was being defied. He needed to do something about it. The something was probably not picking his servant up, shaking her, and roaring, "I want my dinner!" So instead he said with all the calm he could muster, "If you are ill, you must tell me about it. I am your doctor."

"Yes, Master."

"Are you ill?" Please, almighty gods, let it not be something female and complicated…

"No, Master."

"Good." He reached for the cloth that was lying on the table and wound the ends around his hands. "Open the door," he ordered, gripping the hot metal handles through the cloth and lifting the pan carefully off the coals. Beneath the steam was a greenish black goo that heaved and spat as a final bubble came to the surface.

She followed him outside and stood on the gravel of the alley in her bare feet as he tipped the pot over the bonfire patch. The pan clanged as he scraped out the last vestiges of goo with the wooden spoon. Seeing her standing there with her good arm folded over her bad one-he must change that bandage, it was filthy-he wondered if she had been conducting some bizarre magic ritual in his kitchen. Best not to ask. He said, "You have done good work tidying the house, Tilla."

"Yes, Master."

"But I don't want to catch you making medicine again, do you understand?"

"You will not, Master."

It only dawned on him later, as he sat down in front of a dish of sausages shortly to be followed by a bowl of boiled cabbage and an apple (a three-course dinner!) that this was not an entirely satisfactory reply.