Medicus

72

Let the doctor through!" roared a guard as the gates swung open and an untidy jumble of men surged in under the torchlit archway, eager to be out of the rain that was now cooling the payday fervor of the Twentieth. Ruso shouldered his way against the flow.

"Let the doctor through!" echoed a second guard, helpfully shoving the nearest man aside and dragging Ruso forward.

Once outside, he sprinted along the street, weaving in and out of groups of off-duty legionaries. Several were under escort and attempting to step smartly. A couple had abandoned their legs altogether and were being carried home by their comrades. The bars must be closing. So, this was civilized Britannia. A place where the army felt it could trust the locals enough to relax in their presence. Ruso was willing to bet that these sort of antics were not going on in the hill country.

There was a rectangle of light around Priscus's front door but no one answered his knocking. He slammed the flat of his hand three times against the wooden paneling so the whole door shook. "Priscus! It's Ruso!"

"Oy! You!" bellowed a voice from down the street. "Get away from that door!"

Ruso slammed his hand against the door again. "Priscus! Open up!" He spun around to explain, "Doctor. Medical emergency," just as the pair of junior officers moved apart in the darkness to each grab an arm.

"Name?" demanded one of them.

He told them.

"Where's your bag of tricks?"

"I came straight here," said Ruso, truthfully enough.

"Why aren't they letting you in, then?"

"I don't know. This is definitely the house." He turned and hammered on the door again. "Priscus!"

"There's someone in," observed one of the men, bending to try and peer through the gap at the side of the door. "There's a light. Perhaps he's too ill to get to the door."

Ruso lifted one boot to crash it against the lock, but Priscus's house was made of stronger stuff than the linen closet. The door shuddered and held firm.

"Don't you worry, Doc," one of the men assured him. "We'll get you in. Ready?"

Moments later the three of them were picking themselves up from Priscus's door, which was now detached from its splintered frame and lying flat on the hall tiles.

Insisting that he didn't need a stretcher team, he dismissed his helpers and strode down the hallway to where a figure-not the one he had expected-was standing with folded arms in the doorway of Priscus's living room.

"Bassus! Where is she? What's he done with her?"

"He can't see you," said Bassus, showing no sign of surprise at the unusual form of entry. "He's talking to me. Put the door back on your way out."

The veteran's silhouette filled the narrow corridor. He was a fraction shorter than Ruso but a lot heavier, and he was a professional doorman. Ruso wished he had not dismissed his eager comrades in arms. If it came to a struggle, he was not going to get in.

"The army won't let you sell her," he said. "He's trying to take her for the hospital fund."

"Who?"

"Tilla. He's found Tilla. Didn't he tell you?"

From somewhere behind Bassus came a cry of "Doctor!" Surprisingly, Priscus sounded relieved that he had arrived.

"Miserable bastard's not telling me anything," observed Bassus.

"Yet."

"She was picked up earlier today," said Ruso. "He's got her somewhere. Let me talk to him."

Bassus appeared to think about it for a moment, then said, "Be my guest," and stepped aside to allow Ruso past.

Priscus, hair awry, was huddled in one of the wicker chairs. He half rose to exclaim, "Doctor!" then shrank back into the chair as Bassus approached.

"Pull up a seat," suggested Bassus, gesturing to a stool in the corner.

"I haven't come here for a rest," retorted Ruso. "I've come to find my servant."

"Suit yourself." Bassus flung himself into the second wicker chair. Priscus closed his eyes to shut out the sight of the doorman's large boots being planted on the delicate table.

Underneath the table, the fruit bowl lay in pieces. Its contents rested where they had rolled across the floor. The servant was nowhere to be seen. Ruso, who had no idea what was going on and no time to find out, said, "Priscus, where's Tilla?"

The administrator cleared his throat. "As steward of the Aesculapian fund-"

"Where is she?"

"As steward of the Aesculapian fund, I have a duty to…"

Ruso's steps made a sharp sound on the tiled floor. Standing over Priscus, he emphasized each word. "Where is Tilla?"

Priscus sat up in the chair and made an attempt to push his hair back into place. "As I have just been telling this… man," he said, glancing at Bassus, "I will not be bullied. The girl is in a safe place and I must remind you that following default of a loan repayment, I have a perfect right as steward of-"

"I want to see her. Now."

The wicker creaked as Priscus squirmed in the chair and glanced at Bassus. "Under the circumstances," he said, "I could perhaps arrange release of the girl on receipt of immediate cash payment. With an additional sum as penalty for a missed deadline plus the cost of recovery."

It was Bassus who demanded, "How much?" as Ruso said, "The girl. Now. You'll get the money first thing in the morning."

"Oh dear, no, I'm afraid not. It has to be a simultaneous-"

"Don't be ridiculous," snapped Ruso, wishing he had not lent all of his spare money to Stichus. "Nobody's going to walk around at night carrying that much cash. You've got my signature on the agreement. Just hand her over and you'll get your money in the morning."

Bassus was shaking his head sadly. "He needs the money tonight, Doc. He's got a few debts to pay himself." He reached down into the chair and waved a writing tablet at Priscus. "Haven't you, sunshine?"

Priscus sighed and looked up at Ruso as if hoping for support. "I have already explained," he said, "that the money is in long-term investments. I am not in a position to withdraw such investments without warning, and certainly not at this hour of the night."

"Long-term investments? Hah! You've been feathering your nest!"

"Bassus," said Ruso, feeling he should show more loyalty than he felt, "you're talking to an officer. Watch what you're saying."

"I know what I'm saying." Bassus lifted his legs and gave the table a swift kick. It toppled over. The crash as it landed on the tiles echoed around the room. "Oops," he said, "there goes another long-term investment."

Priscus sprang to his feet. "Really! I must protest!"

Bassus moved surprisingly fast for such a heavy man. The chair skidded backward on the tiles as Priscus landed in it, gasping for breath.

"Now listen to me, you scraggy-faced runt," growled Bassus, "me and Stich, we work our balls off out there, and we don't get nothing from you except trouble and promises."

Ruso looked from one to the other of them, baffled. He had assumed Bassus was collecting a debt. Why would Merula's doormen be expecting anything from Priscus?

Bassus was thrusting the writing tablet forward so that it was almost touching Priscus's nose. "There it is, see? All written down. All agreed. My retirement fund. You told us it was there."

"It is there."

"Good. Because I want it now. And if you don't hand it over, I'll have the girl instead."

"The girl is the property of the Aesculapian Thanksgiving Fund!" insisted Priscus. "She's legionary business."

"Legionary business, huh? I'll bet the legion don't know how much it's chipped in to the cost of this place. Where is she?"

"She's not here."

Bassus leaned forward and hauled Priscus out of the chair. He was saying, "Well, tell me where she is and we'll go and get her, shall we?" but Ruso was not listening. He was moving toward the sound that had just turned his stomach. It was the muffled sound of a woman screaming.

It was the shrill, tormented shriek of a woman in terrible pain. By the time he burst into Priscus's bedroom it had stopped. There was nobody in the room. Just the empty bed, a few cupboards too small to hide a prisoner, and…

He stepped forward and tugged aside the curtain covering part of the back wall. This should surely have been the rear boundary of the property, but instead of blank plaster there was a door. It had already been forced: The lock was hanging loose. As he dragged it open, another scream filled his ears.

The dark space in front of him seemed to be a corridor. "Tilla!" he yelled, heading toward faint streaks of light that marked a doorway. "Tilla!" He collided with something that fell over with a crash of broken crockery. It barely masked the screaming. Holy gods, what were they doing to her?

"Leave her alone!" he roared.

All three occupants of the room looked up as he burst in: the naked, sweating, and breathless woman squatting on the floor and the people either side of her, holding her by the arms.

"You'll be all right," one of them assured her. "The doctor's here."

In reply the naked woman grimaced, flung her head back, and gave a terrible groan of pain. It was the pain of a woman in labor. Instead of Tilla, Ruso had found Daphne. He glanced around the room, mystified. "What are you doing here?"

"She can't give birth in the bar, can she?" retorted one of the girls supporting Daphne. "So they've dumped us back here, out of the way. We don't know what to do."

"It's stuck," added Phryne, who was holding Daphne's other arm.

Ruso stared at Daphne. He was an army surgeon. He was a medic.

He was a man. A man who knew the limits of his knowledge, and a difficult delivery might well be beyond them, even if he had his case with him. "Where's the midwife?"

"On another call," explained the girl grimly.

Ruso lifted a candle from its stand and squatted in front of Daphne. "I'm just going to take a quick look and see what's going on," he explained.

It was worse than he had feared. It was not even a breech. What he could see of the child was not a head nor a pair of buttocks, but a tiny hand. The baby was wedged sideways. There was no way to bring it out at this angle. If it would not turn, he would have to improvise a scalpel with the knife slung at his belt. And someone would have to decide which should be allowed to live: the mother or the child.

Before he could say anything, the cords in Daphne's neck tightened, her mouth opened, and she let out another long and piercing shriek, as if all the pain and horror of her mutilation were finally being released to reverberate around the room.

There was a brief silence as Daphne paused for breath. He put his hand on her arm. "Try not to push," he urged. "I'm going to get help." He had no idea how much Tilla knew about delivering babies. He prayed that it was more than he did.

He realized where he was on the way back to find Priscus. They had put Daphne in one of the rooms that looked out onto Merula's narrow back yard: the private living quarters that joined onto the building behind. The bedrooms used by Merula and the doormen.

It was becoming clear to Ruso that he had underestimated Priscus. The man's tentacles stretched far beyond the hospital. It seemed that the administrator employed the doormen at Merula's. Quite possibly he controlled Merula herself. What had the civilian liaison officer said? Invest in a bar by all means, but don't get involved in running it. It won't go down too well higher up. With the help of his builder, Priscus had contrived a private entrance through which his every appetite could be indulged while his respectable front door remained unsullied by the taint of the bar trade.

Ruso heard the administrator before he saw him. The man was still protesting, the pitch of his voice rising with fear. Bassus, not distracted by Daphne's screams, had him pinned against the wall of the living room. Priscus peered around as Ruso approached. "Ruso! Help me! He's gone mad! He'll kill me!"

Ruso addressed himself to Bassus. "If we don't get Tilla in there in the next few minutes," he said, "Daphne will be dead and so will the baby. That's not going to help your retirement fund."

"See?" grunted Bassus, making a sudden movement that resulted in a howl of pain from the administrator. "He's not going to help you. He's on my side. Where is she?"

With something like a sob, Priscus said, "She's quite safe. I promise. Let me go."

Bassus tightened his grip. Priscus gasped.

"Where?" demanded Bassus.

Priscus seemed to be having trouble getting the words out. "In the-in the storeroom. Behind the shop-" The sentence ended with a shriek.

"Which shop?"

"Next door!" screamed Priscus. "The basket maker's!" He twisted awkwardly to look across the room. "That key on the hook."