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  Usually Ruso spared the deity no more than a passing nod. Now he paused to stand in front of the niche and murmur a promise of two and a half denarii should the girl in Room Twelve survive until morning.

  Having thus enlisted extra help for the cost of only half his winnings, and with nothing to pay if the god failed to perform, Ruso headed back to Room Twelve to see what more could be done to improve his chance of winning this unexpected and probably illegal wager.

  4

  ARE YOU SURE he's—dead?" asked Ruso, the words punctuated by grunts as he struggled to maneuver his end of the stretcher through the door.

  "Positive, sir," said the surgical orderly, deftly kicking the door shut behind him. "The man who told me heard it from someone who got it from one of the kitchen staff in the legate's house. It'll be announced at parade this morning."

  "How do the kitchen staff know?"

  "The dispatch rider popped by for something to eat while the legate read through the message, sir."

  Ruso suppressed a smile. "I suppose you know the cause of death?"

  "Not sure yet, sir. All we know is, he had a funny turn on the way back from sorting the Parthians out."

  They lowered the stretcher onto the table. "Do we know who's taken over?" asked Ruso, sliding out one of the carrying poles.

  "The army are backing Publius Aelius Hadrianus, sir." The orderly slid out the other pole and stacked them both in the corner. "I'm told he's a very generous man when it comes to bonuses. Double the going rate is what I hear."

  "Does anybody know what the going rate is?" asked Ruso. "Half the army wasn't even born when Trajan took over, let alone on the payroll."

  "Hard to say, sir," said the orderly, "but in nineteen years it's bound to have gone up, isn't it?" He bent over the table. "Just lie on your left, now." As they rolled the girl first to one side of the table and then the other, slipping the stretcher sheet out from beneath her, he observed, "Nothing of her, is there?"

  When they had settled the girl, the man hurried out to refill the water bucket, complaining that someone else should have refilled it the previous night. "You can tell Priscus isn't here."

  Ruso waited, hearing distant voices. The clump of boots on floorboards in the corridors. The usual clatter from the kitchen. Window shutters crashing open to let in the new day A day the anonymous girl in the mortuary would never see. Ruso, who did not like to inquire too deeply into matters of religion, wondered vaguely if she and Trajan would meet each other on the voyage into the shadowy world of the departed. He eyed the girl lying on the table in front of him. It might have been kinder to let her join them.

  Laid out under a crumpled linen gown that smelled faintly of lavender, she looked smaller than she'd appeared to him yesterday And younger. He wondered how old she was. She must have a name, a tribe, a language. The trader had been yelling at her in Latin but the words she had mumbled as the poppy juice carried her into oblivion sounded British.

  That was the only time he had heard her speak. When he had put his head around the door of Room Twelve just after dawn and said, " 'Morning! Did you sleep well?"—She was alive! He must go and tell Valens—she had looked at him with those eyes that were the color of—well, whatever it was—as if she did not understand the question.

  The eyes were open again now. The pupils had been shrunk to small black dots by the medicine he had given her. She was staring up at the dust motes floating in the sunshine that streamed in from the high windows. She showed no curiosity about where she was.

  She did not seem to have grasped the purpose of the gleaming instruments laid out on the cloth beside the empty water basin. She was not alarmed by the rolls of bandages stacked on the shelves, nor did she seem to be wondering what so many empty bowls might be there to catch.

  Ruso was pleased with himself. Deciding the right amount of poppy juice to administer had been a tricky business. The borrowed works he had hurriedly consulted last night had implied that in all respects that would matter this morning, women were the same as men, only smaller. In Ruso's experience, however, there was much about women that was dangerously unpredictable, and one of the attractions of army life was that he was no longer expected to live with one.

  "Everything all right, sir?" The orderly was back, splashing clean water into the basin.

  Ruso nodded. "I think she's about ready."

  The orderly began to buckle a leather strap across the girl's legs. She lifted her head slightly.

  "Nothing to worry about," said the orderly, who was a practiced liar.

  The girl's head fell back. She closed her eyes and appeared to be drifting off to sleep.

  The door opened. Valens's head appeared, then retreated. "Sorry!

  Didn't know you were in here."

  Ruso called after him, "What about that five denarii?"

  Valens reappeared, glanced at the body on the operating table, and grinned. "You must have cheated."

  "I could do with some help."

  "I'm supposed to be doing rounds. What have you got?"

  As the girl continued to doze while the orderly strapped her down, Ruso jerked a thumb toward the bandaged arm lying on top of the linen sheet. "Compound fracture of radius and ulna about halfway down. Probably three or four days old. I redressed what I could last night but it was too dark to operate."

  "I like a challenge," said Valens, and closed the door behind him. "Have you heard? Trajan's dead."

  "I know," said Ruso, who had private reasons to mourn the emperor's passing. "Sounds as though it's going to be Hadrian."

  Ruso began to remove the bandaging he had put on last night. The girl's body jerked as she tried to raise herself. The orderly gripped her shoulders and held her down.

  On the other side of the table, Valens stroked her good hand, leaned over, and said gently, "We're going to see to your arm. We'll be very quick."

  Ruso wished he had remembered to say that himself.

  They began to soak the rag that had been stuffed into the wound.

  "I met him once," mused Ruso.

  "Hadrian?"

  "Trajan. InAntioch."

  "I suppose he'll be the Divine Trajan soon."

  "No doubt," agreed Ruso. At least, none that he was foolish enough to express in public.

  "May he rest among the gods," added Valens.

  "Among the gods indeed, sir," echoed the orderly.

  Ruso left a brief silence that could have been respect or rebellion, then murmured, "Water."

  The orderly refilled the jug.

  "Think Hadrian'll try and take the North back?" asked Valens.

  "Why not?" Ruso said. "He'll be wanting to make an impression.

  Britannia's big enough to count, but remote enough not to matter."

  "He'll have to send more legions if he's serious about it. We're spread pretty thin here."

  "He might not go for it. He's Trajan's man. He might just carry on the Divine Trajan's policies." Ruso glanced at the orderly. "No doubt the kitchen staff will let us know. Here it comes . . . " He lifted off the rag and dropped it into the wastebasket.

  Both men leaned forward to peer at the swollen and blood-caked mess that had once been an arm.

  Valens brought one hand down over his own elbow with a chopping motion and raised his eyebrows in question.

  Ruso shook his head. "It looks clean. The wrist's intact."

  Valens strolled around the table, looking at the injury from a different angle. "I wouldn't," he murmured. "You'll only make a worse mess and end up taking it off anyway."

  "It might work. If you broke your arm—"

  "I'd pray I didn't get some would-be hero like you."

  "I think we should try."

  There was a pause.

  "She's my patient," added Ruso.

  Valens shrugged. "Fine. She's your patient. So, do we know how much Hadrian values his loyal troops?"

  "He'll be doubling the usual bonus, apparently."

  "How much is that?"

  "
Not a clue."

  As they began to clean the wound, the girl gasped. Her face twisted into a grimace of pain.

  "Try and lie still," said the orderly, tightening his grip and glancing to check that all the straps were fastened.

  "We'll be very quick," promised Ruso, wishing he could make patients believe it the way Valens did.

  "My friend's famous for being quick," added Valens. "Ask all the girls." He glanced at Ruso. "What's she called?"

  "I don't know."

  "Ruso, only you could round up two women and not know the names of either of them."

  "Next time," said Ruso, "I'll tell them my friend would like to be introduced." He picked out a stray thread of rag with the tweezers. The girl gave a low moan.

  "Shush now," said the orderly.

  Ruso hoped she wouldn't be a whimperer. Whimperers were worse than screamers. Screamers made him cross, which made him work faster. The sound of a whimperer trying to be brave was a distraction.

  The girl didn't whimper. She clenched her teeth and didn't make another sound.

  There was a rap at the door.

  "What?" snapped Ruso. A very young soldier appeared, swallowed, and announced, "Urgent message for Gaius Petreius Ruso."

  "That's me."

  "Sir, there's a man at the east gatehouse. He says you promised to pay fifty-four denarii first thing this morning."

  "It was fifty," said Ruso, not looking up. "And I'm busy."

  The youth did not reply. He was staring at the operating table.

  "Tell him I'll be down later," said Ruso.

  The youth swallowed again. "He said to tell you the extra is the tax and the cost of drawing up the documents, sir."

  Ruso nodded toward the mangled mass of the girl's arm. "If you don't get out right away, I shall do this to you too."

  The youth fled.

  Ruso aimed the tweezers at the wastebasket, missed, and said, "I think that's clean."

  Valens laid a hand on the girl's forehead. "We like this arm so much, young woman, we're going to put it back together for you."

  The orderly leaned down until his face was almost touching the girl's.

  "Breathe deeply now," he ordered. "Ready? In, out—In, out. . ."

  Ruso had rehearsed his speech all the way down to the gatehouse, but when he got there he found his time had been wasted. Instead of the wool trader, the guards presented him with an elderly slave with no teeth who made it clear that if he failed to return to his master with the right money, his life would not be worth living. Ruso, who had neither the time nor the inclination to get in line at the tax office, paid up. He also sent a message to say that if Claudius Innocens ever showed his face in Deva again he would be instantly arrested, but he doubted the slave would have the courage to deliver it.

  The clerk of the Aesculapian Thanksgiving Fund gave him a receipt for the two and a half denarii that Valens had borrowed from someone who had borrowed them from someone else who had very possibly borrowed them from the Aesculapian Thanksgiving Fund in the first place.

  Ruso went to thank the god personally. Standing in front of the statue, he fingered the two receipts tucked into his belt. One said that in gratitude and fulfillment of a vow, Gaius Petreius Ruso had paid the Aesculapian Thanksgiving Fund two and a half denarii. The other confirmed Gaius Petreius Ruso as the new owner of an injured and sickly girl with indescribable eyes and a name that seemed to be a series of spelling mistakes.

  Ruso gazed up at the statue of the god who had answered his prayer. For the first time he noticed that the painter had not just performed the usual touch-up over the rough spots. The god had been completely repainted. Ruso stood to take a closer look, and as he gazed into the brown eyes of Aesculapius he had the distinct impression that the god of healing was looking back at him, and laughing.

  5

  RUSO LAY ON the borrowed bed and stared into the gloom that hid the cracks in the ceiling plaster, reflecting that Socrates was a wise man. Surveying the goods on a market stall, the great one was said to have remarked, "What a lot of things a man doesn't need!"

  What a lot of things a man doesn't need. That thought had comforted Ruso over the last few months. The more you own, he had told himself, the more you have to worry about. Possessions are a burden.

  The kind of possessions which needed to be regularly fed were a double burden. They were only worth having if they earned their keep by doing the laundry, or barking at burglars, or catching mice, or carrying you somewhere, or chirping in a way that your ex-wife used to find entertaining. It was a pity Socrates hadn't thought to add, Which is why I never shop after drinking on an empty stomach.

  "As far as I'm concerned," Valens had said, carefully lowering the lid back onto the beer barrel so as not to tip the stack of dirty dishes that had been there when Ruso moved in, "If there's no one waiting for the room and you're not using much staff time to nurse her, you can leave her there."

  Ruso took the dripping cup of beer and wondered whether to clear up the dishes, or whether to wait and see how long it would be before Valens did. "She'll need proper nursing for a few days."

  "Fair enough. But the other one's got to be out of the mortuary tomorrow, claimed or not." Valens tossed a broken fishing rod into the corner to clear himself space on the couch. As he sat down, three puppies scuttled out from underneath. The puppies were a legacy from the previous occupant, whose lone and portly terrier bitch Valens had agreed to look after while the man was temporarily assigned elsewhere. "Gods, I'll be glad when Marius gets back to pick this stuff up. It's not all my mess in here, you know."

  Ruso, who had shared quarters with Valens before, made no comment. The offer of free accommodation had been too good to turn down, but he had known there would be a price to pay.

  "To tell you the truth," said Valens, "I thought you'd be bringing a servant or two. You used to have lots."

  "Claudia had lots."

  "Ah." Valens squinted into his own beer, rescued something with a forefinger, and flicked it over his shoulder. A rush of inquisitive puppies followed its course.

  "How long have you been a beer drinker?"

  "I'm not. Some native gave it to me as a thank-you for treating one of his children."

  Ruso frowned into his drink. "Are you sure he was grateful?"

  "Smells like goat's piss, I know. But you'll get used to it."

  Ruso tried another mouthful and wondered how long getting used to it would take. He said, "Can't the legion give us somebody to help keep the place straight?"

  Valens winced. "If you want some squinty-eyed misery who makes a ridiculous fuss about a little bit of a mess."

  Ruso deduced that this had already been tried. "What about a private arrangement? It wouldn't cost much between us."

  "The servants here aren't much better than the beer, I'm afraid. The first one we tried had a bad back. The next one kept sitting on the floor and crying and we didn't have the heart to beat her, so we sold her. At a loss, of course. Then we tried hiring a local girl, but Marius saw her kick the dog, so she had to go." Valens leaned back and indicated the size of the room with a sweep of his arm. The motion sent beer slopping over the side of his cup. "This isn't a big house, is it?" He transferred the beer to the other hand and wiped his wet fingers on the couch. "It can't be much work. I mean, we don't even use that end room." The beer slopped again, indicating the direction of the corner room, which had been abandoned as impossibly damp and was now growing several fine blooms of strange-smelling mold. "There's only the two of us to cook for," he continued, "and half the time we eat at the hospital. Can your girl cook?"

  "At the moment she can't even stand up."

  "No matter. We don't want one in a splint anyway. We want some nice healthy lass who's handy with dogs and cleaning."

  "And wants a challenge," observed Ruso, glancing through the open door into the earthquake zone that was Valens's bedroom. "Where would we put this healthy lass?"

  "In the kitchen, I suppose. When your
furniture turns up, she could have the mattress off that bed you're using.

  "Ruso did not reply.

  "We could always get rid of her later if your girl shows promise," Valens added.

  "I won't be keeping her. I'll start looking for a buyer as soon as she can be moved."

  "You'll just have to hope Priscus doesn't come back in the meantime."

  Ruso frowned. "Doesn't anybody know when he's coming?"

  "Doubt it. He likes to take people by surprise. He thinks it keeps them on their toes. He's not keen on private patients unless they pay well. By the way, that other dog isn't yours too, is it?"

  Ruso said, "What other dog?"

  "I didn't think it was. I'll tell them to get rid of it."

  Other dog?

  Ruso yawned. The girl in the mortuary was not his problem, but if he didn't get the live one out of the hospital soon, not only would he get off on the wrong foot with Chief Administrative Officer Priscus, but he would be saddled with every other passing stray for whom no one else wanted to take responsibility.

  Somewhere beyond the ill-fitting shutters of his bedroom window, a trumpet sounded the change of watch. He rolled over, wriggled to avoid the lump that always seemed directly under his shoulder no matter how many times he turned the mattress or shook the straw around, and closed his eyes. He was just dropping off to sleep when he heard a knock on his door and Valens asking if he was awake.

  "No."

  "Are you busy in the morning?"

  "Yes."

  "Too bad. Somebody's going to have to go down to Merula's."

  "Uh. Send an orderly."

  "It ought to be somebody official, and I'm on duty."

  "Can't it wait?"

  "No. One of the men's identified that body."