Terra Incognita

20

Ruso slumped down the roughly plastered wall until he was sitting on the floorboards with his legs stretched out in front of him. His eyes were level with the body of the carpenter, whose pulse had faded some time ago but whom he had tried desperately and hopelessly to revive. He stared at the body, which could have been asleep. He knew from experience that amputations were best performed on the spot: Crushed legs did not travel well. But he now realized the internal injuries would have killed the man eventually wherever the surgery was carried out. His fate had been sealed from the moment the wagon hit him. His doctor’s insistence on interfering had merely prolonged his suffering and given false hope to his comrades and his family.

There were sound reasons why Ruso had made the decisions he had made, but he knew only too well that logic would not lift the burden of failure. Nor would the memories of past successes: the amputees who survived to swing out through the hospital doors on their crutches; the fevers cured; the eyesight saved; Tilla, whose shattered right arm had seemed almost beyond hope. There was no relief to be found in reason. The only comfort he could offer himself was a reminder that this feeling will pass.

He got to his feet. Postumus would be here in a moment. He neatened the bedding and drew the sheet up over the carpenter’s face. Then he went to the door and summoned Albanus to take a report.

He was just finishing dictation when Postumus arrived. The centurion was freshly shaved. He had a heavy red scrape down one side of his face. In other circumstances, Ruso would have enjoyed that.

Once the centurion had paid his respects to the corpse, he and Ruso withdrew to the corner of the room. The men of the Twentieth had been scheduled to march out at dawn, but now they would stay for a funeral.

“There’s a child,” said Ruso.

“I know. Didn’t even have time to name it, poor sod.”

“Yes he did,” insisted Ruso, hoping Postumus would not demand the details. “I was there. They did it early.”

“What were you doing there?”

“Tilla was the midwife.”

“What did he name it?”

“I can’t remember.”

The black eyes met his own. “He must have had a premonition.”

“So it seems,” agreed Ruso, suspecting Postumus knew full well that the carpenter hadn’t officially named his daughter-why would he, when he would have expected to be alive eight days later to do it at the proper time?

Postumus frowned. “Even if he did, the girlfriend’s not entitled to anything. We’re not a bloody benevolent fund.”

“But if he’s named the child, and there isn’t any other family.. ”

Postumus glanced across at the bed. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Standing on the threshold between the images of the healing gods, the centurion paused and turned. “I’ve just lost one of my best men,” he said. “When we catch that bastard who cut the brake, I’ll nail him up myself. And if you ever recommend another barber like that one, I’ll do the same to you.”