Medicus (34 page)

72

L
ET 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."

73

T
ILLA HAD SAT exhausted on the floor of the little storeroom for some time, wondering what to do next. She did not understand why the officer with the many long words and the odd hair had ignored her requests to send a message to the medicus. Nor did she understand why he had brought her to this place outside the fort. She knew where she was. Even if she had not recognized the route from the glimpses afforded by a badly tied blindfold, she would have guessed from the rattle of the brittle willow wands that rolled away beneath her as she sat down.

It must be dark outside now. The shop had fallen silent. She had heard the shutters being dragged across and the clank of the lock. It seemed no one would come for her until morning.

Then, not long ago, there had been shouting and banging nearby. She thought she recognized the voice of the medicus. She had leaped up and begun hammering on the door. "My Lord! It is Tilla! I am here, my Lord! Help me!"

From somewhere outside there was a loud crash, and then the voices faded. No one came. Perhaps it was not him. Perhaps he would not have helped her anyway

Not long after that came the sound of voices raised in anger. The words were muffled by the stone of the wall. She could not make out what was happening.

Her captors had left her necklace in place. She ran a forefinger along the smooth curve of one of the acorns. She would not taste the poison yet. But if she could escape no other way, it was ready.

The willow wands rattled as she stood up. The officer had ordered the man in the shop to help him drag something heavy across the door after she was shut in. Tilla felt around for the latch, running her fingers around the cold metal shapes and trying to understand how the mechanism worked. The latch was the kind that could be opened from both sides. It seemed the officer had not bothered to wedge it shut, relying on the weight of whatever they had put against the door to hold it closed. She bent down and snapped the end off a willow wand, then poked it under the latch to hold it up. She cleared the rest of the wands back to make a space for her feet. Then she braced herself with her back against the door and the boots the medicus had bought her planted firmly on the floor, and pushed.

Nothing happened.

Tilla relaxed, took a deep breath, and heaved again. Something behind her moved a fraction, then fell back into place as her strength gave out. She stood up, shrugged her bruised shoulders to loosen them, shook each leg in turn, then braced herself a third time, took a deep breath, pursed her lips, and heaved. The door moved farther, but not far enough. The fourth attempt was worse than the first. She was sliding down in despair when she heard someone jangling the lock on the shutters. A man was shouting her name. A man she had once hoped she could trust. She held her breath.

"Are you in there? Tilla, it's me! Ruso! Can you hear me?" And then, to someone else, "Can you see how this damned thing works?"

The medicus had planned to sell her. But he was a better prospect than the one with the odd hair, who reminded her of a dead spider. "I am here, my Lord!" she cried, banging on the door again. "Help me!"

Moments later she was almost knocked backward by the enthusiasm of his embrace. "Tilla! Thank the gods! Where have you been? Are you all right?" He drew back. "What's the matter?"

She shook her head. She must remember why he was pleased to see her. It would be so easy to be deceived again. "It is nothing, my Lord." If she explained how the cavalrymen had left her bruised and stiff, he would pretend to care.

"I was afraid you were dead." The dark eyes were searching hers. "Where have you been?"

She swallowed. "You would sell me."

"What? No, you don't understand—I never wanted to—"

From somewhere back in the shop, Bassus's voice cut him short."You never wanted to? Are you joking? We had a deal!"

"Nobody will be selling her," put in another voice. "That slave is the legal property of the Aesculapian Thanksgiving Fund."

The medicus turned and demanded to know how long she had been locked up here. "Until the deadline ran out, I suppose?"

They both ignored the torrent of words that followed.

"So," she said to him, "it is true. You would sell me."

She tried not to flinch as the medicus took her by the shoulders. He looked as he must look when he was trying not to tell a patient bad news. "No," he said. "I mean, I didn't . . ."

She raised one hand to her throat.

"Well, yes . . ." Ruso stumbled on, correcting himself. "But I didn't—what are you doing?"

She put the acorn up to her mouth. "Why should I live as a slave in this world when I can be free in the next?"

His grip on her shoulders tightened. "What are you talking about?"

Her lips brushed against the curve of the acorn as she made the words. "Let me go, or I will take the poison."

"Tilla, for pity's sake!" He was looking at the acorn, trying to decide whether he could grab it before she put it between her teeth. He would not be fast enough. They both knew it.

"You are as bad as the others," she told him. "You are worse. You pretend to have honor."

For a moment he said nothing. Then he raised his head. "Daphne needs you, Tilla. The baby is coming and she's in trouble. I think she's going to die."

"Go and help her yourself," she told him. "You are the medicus."

"That's how I know," he said.

"You lie to me. You are lying now about Daphne."

"Daphne will die," he urged. "I'm begging you, Tilla. If you know how to help her, come now."

She knew what he was thinking. He was wondering if she had lied about bringing out babies just as she had lied about being able to cook.

"Why do you care for Daphne? She is a slave. You are a medicus to the soldiers."

"If you can't help," he said, "say so now and I'll go and do my best." He was afraid, but not for himself. He was afraid for Daphne.

"You will make it worse," she told him. "Let go of me and show me where she is." She raised her voice so the other men could hear. "If anyone comes near, I will go to the next world."

The medicus turned to the men. "Stand back," he ordered. "Let her pass."