Ruso and the Root of All Evils

64

Outside the gladiators’ barracks, groups of rival supporters had taken to trading insults and chanting the names of their favourites in an atmosphere that suggested a party rather than a fight. Inside, half a dozen men Ruso did not recognize were sparring with wooden practice weapons under the eye of a trainer. The yard smelled of beef stew, grease and fear.

He made his way across to the surgery, where the assistants were ripping up linen rags and rolling them into bandages. Gnostus was perched on the operating table by the window, running one finger along the script of a writing-tablet. At the sight of Ruso, he leaped up and thrust the tablet under his nose. ‘Anything I’ve missed off?’

Sponges, plenty of ligatures, splints, needles … Ruso scanned the list, mentally rearranging it into a more logical order. It would be no good remembering something vital tomorrow.

‘There could be as many as twenty casualties in here,’ pointed out Gnostus. ‘And we’ll have to patch up the animal hunters, too. But of course some will go straight to the undertakers.’

Ruso nodded. ‘Looks fine to me,’ he said, handing the list back. ‘As long as your boys know where to find it all.’

Gnostus glanced round to make sure there was nobody but the slaves in earshot, then admitted, ‘I’ve never done anything as big as this before. Any advice?’

Ruso watched a slave chase a long strip of linen along his knee until it became a fat roll of bandage and wondered what he could possibly offer that would help. ‘Talk to your men beforehand,’ he suggested. ‘Make sure everybody knows who’s doing what. Split the roles into examination, surgery and dressing, get the porters organized and delegate the simple stuff.’

‘That’s how they do it in the Legions?’

‘That’s how I do it. Once things hot up, you just have to try to keep going without yelling at the staff or falling asleep over the patients. So, what do you want me to do?’

Gnostus thought about that for a moment. ‘Right now,’ he said, ‘look confident while I get the team together for a briefing.’

‘Do they know I’m the town poisoner?’

‘You haven’t met my lads,’ said Gnostus. ‘You’ll fit in nicely.’

Ruso spent most of the briefing wondering what was happening to Tilla and Cass, and the rest trying not to speculate on the tales that could be told by the half-dozen scarred and ragged individuals summoned to support the medical staff. Gnostus introduced him as a veteran surgeon from the Twentieth Legion. If any of them had heard anything else about him, their faces did not betray it. Despite looking as though they had just been scraped out of a gutter, they also seemed to know what they were doing.

As the men shuffled out, Gnostus grinned at Ruso. ‘I s’pose this is like tying your bootlaces to you, isn’t it?’

‘Oh, gods above,’ muttered Ruso, glancing out of the door and seeing Tertius approaching across the yard. Then, in answer to Gnostus’ question, ‘No, not really. No, it isn’t. I’ve never done anything quite like this before either. Excuse me a minute.’

Tertius stopped and stood to attention as Ruso approached.

‘Tertius, I’m sorry — ’

‘I’d like to thank you for trying to help, sir,’ said Tertius stiffly. ‘And to request a small favour.’

While Ruso was hoping a small favour would not mean smuggling him out through the gate, the lad held out one fist, turned it over and opened it to reveal an iron ring and a couple of fat sestertius coins on his palm. ‘I’d be grateful if you could give the ring to Marcia and the money to my aunt, who works at the amphora factory of Lollia Saturnina.’

Ruso took the ring and the coins and slipped them into his purse. ‘Of course.’ He pulled out the writing-tablet that was tucked into his belt and said, ‘Marcia asked me to give you this.’

The youth took the writing-tablet that Ruso had eventually accepted from Marcia late the previous night and refrained from unsealing and reading. Initially she had been so unrepentant over the ‘come home’ letter that he had refused to take it. But she had pointed out that Tertius had done nothing wrong and he might be dead in two days’ time, and did Ruso want to make his last hours on earth even more miserable than they already were? Didn’t he want to make him happy and confident and give him the best possible chance in the arena?

Tertius snapped the thread and ran his finger along the lines of text, his lips forming the words as he deciphered them. He swallowed hard, then held out the tablet to Ruso.

‘I want you to know that your sister’s letter is completely respectable, sir.’

‘I’m sure it is,’ said Ruso, motioning it away with his hand. In the circumstances he felt the lad deserved something passionate rather than respectable, but preferably not from his own sister. ‘I wish I could help.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘We haven’t got the money,’ explained Ruso, feeling irrationally guilty that he had not tried to raise it. ‘At the moment, nobody would want to lend it to me.’

‘That’s all right, sir,’ declared Tertius, raising one arm in a good imitation of a military salute. ‘I wish you good fortune.’

‘And I you,’ said Ruso, returning the salute and noting how much more mature Tertius seemed to be now that there was no hope of escaping the arena tomorrow. He said, ‘I hope we’ll be in a position to discuss this again in the future.’

Tertius dropped his arm. ‘You can count on it, sir,’ he said, his face lighting up in a grin that would have broken Marcia’s heart.