dish around the head until it’s dead.” Thessalus giggled, then clamped a hand over his mouth before indicating a chair and saying with exaggerated politeness, “Do sit down, Doctor.”
Ruso cleared away a scatter of scroll cases, upon some of which he could just make out the names of medical writers. Turning, he found Thessalus perched on the edge of a folding stool.
“Now,” said Thessalus, rocking the stool toward him with his hands clasped together but remaining out of reach. “How are you feeling today? Is it any better?”
Ruso sniffed the air in the untidy room, picking up a waft of wine mingled with the hair oil. It was clear he was not going to get much help—or even sense—from Thessalus. “I am well. Are you feeling ill?”
Thessalus giggled again. “No, I’m lovely. Are you? You look tired. It’s tiring being a medic, isn’t it? All those problems. All that misery. They all want a miracle, don’t they?”
“True.”
“I’ve run out of miracles. I told them. I looked in the miracle jar and, oh dear, someone’s left the stopper off and all the miracles have flown out.”
“I heard you went to see the prefect today.”
“Did I really?” This seemed to be a great surprise. “Is he ill?”
“I heard you went to talk about a man called Felix.”
“Felix? Oh dear, you want to stay away from him. There’s nothing you can do for him now.”
“Where is he?”
Thessalus frowned. “Where’s who?”
“Felix.”
Thessalus looked around the room. “He isn’t here, is he?”
Knowing Metellus had searched the rooms, Ruso could say with confidence that he was not. “I’m told you might know where he is.”
Thessalus shook his head. “Doctors don’t know all the answers, you know. What color is time? Where do the thoughts of the dead go? How is it diseases spread but miracles don’t? Have you ever thought of that?”
“No, I can’t say I have.”
Thessalus tapped his chest. “Greek, you see. The race of thinkers. Romans do; Greeks think. And write rather good books.”
“My grandfather was Greek,” said Ruso.
“Ah, you understand! Welcome, philosopher! Well, a quarter of a philosopher. Torn between thought and action, I suppose.”
Ruso cleared his throat. He needed to take charge of this conversation. “How long have you been stationed at Coria, Thessalus?”
“Ah, the Roman practicality. Back to the facts. Take the patient’s history. To tell you the truth, I arrived here some time ago and I’ve been at a junction ever since. Of course, if we don’t hold firm at the join we might as well all go home.” Thessalus paused. “Do you ever find you wake up in the wrong bed, Doctor? Or is that just me?”
“The wrong bed?”
“You wake up and the bed’s wrong, the walls have moved, you can smell things that shouldn’t be there, the sounds are different, and you think, Where am I? Who’s put me here? ”
Worryingly, Ruso could recall exactly that sensation. “I think it’s when you’ve been dreaming about a place where you used to live—”
“Ah, you think that. But how do you know? How does any of us know? Who’s to say that while our bodies are resting, our souls don’t go wandering somewhere else? Back into the past? What about the future? Do you ever have the feeling that you’ve seen something before, even when you know you can’t have? What if our souls travel into the future before our bodies do, Doctor? Have you thought of that?”
Ruso suspected that Thessalus’s soul often went on trips unaccompanied by his body. He said, “Do you find this happening a lot?”
“Oh dear me, no.” Thessalus clasped his hands together. The dark eyes narrowed and his head tilted slightly on one side in a way that implied concern. “Do you?”
Ruso wondered whether he adopted the same pose himself, and whether his patients found it as unnerving as he now did. “Not often, no.”
“It’s so nice to be able to chat with a fellow medic, you know. Such a
Ruso cleared away a scatter of scroll cases, upon some of which he could just make out the names of medical writers. Turning, he found Thessalus perched on the edge of a folding stool.
“Now,” said Thessalus, rocking the stool toward him with his hands clasped together but remaining out of reach. “How are you feeling today? Is it any better?”
Ruso sniffed the air in the untidy room, picking up a waft of wine mingled with the hair oil. It was clear he was not going to get much help—or even sense—from Thessalus. “I am well. Are you feeling ill?”
Thessalus giggled again. “No, I’m lovely. Are you? You look tired. It’s tiring being a medic, isn’t it? All those problems. All that misery. They all want a miracle, don’t they?”
“True.”
“I’ve run out of miracles. I told them. I looked in the miracle jar and, oh dear, someone’s left the stopper off and all the miracles have flown out.”
“I heard you went to see the prefect today.”
“Did I really?” This seemed to be a great surprise. “Is he ill?”
“I heard you went to talk about a man called Felix.”
“Felix? Oh dear, you want to stay away from him. There’s nothing you can do for him now.”
“Where is he?”
Thessalus frowned. “Where’s who?”
“Felix.”
Thessalus looked around the room. “He isn’t here, is he?”
Knowing Metellus had searched the rooms, Ruso could say with confidence that he was not. “I’m told you might know where he is.”
Thessalus shook his head. “Doctors don’t know all the answers, you know. What color is time? Where do the thoughts of the dead go? How is it diseases spread but miracles don’t? Have you ever thought of that?”
“No, I can’t say I have.”
Thessalus tapped his chest. “Greek, you see. The race of thinkers. Romans do; Greeks think. And write rather good books.”
“My grandfather was Greek,” said Ruso.
“Ah, you understand! Welcome, philosopher! Well, a quarter of a philosopher. Torn between thought and action, I suppose.”
Ruso cleared his throat. He needed to take charge of this conversation. “How long have you been stationed at Coria, Thessalus?”
“Ah, the Roman practicality. Back to the facts. Take the patient’s history. To tell you the truth, I arrived here some time ago and I’ve been at a junction ever since. Of course, if we don’t hold firm at the join we might as well all go home.” Thessalus paused. “Do you ever find you wake up in the wrong bed, Doctor? Or is that just me?”
“The wrong bed?”
“You wake up and the bed’s wrong, the walls have moved, you can smell things that shouldn’t be there, the sounds are different, and you think, Where am I? Who’s put me here? ”
Worryingly, Ruso could recall exactly that sensation. “I think it’s when you’ve been dreaming about a place where you used to live—”
“Ah, you think that. But how do you know? How does any of us know? Who’s to say that while our bodies are resting, our souls don’t go wandering somewhere else? Back into the past? What about the future? Do you ever have the feeling that you’ve seen something before, even when you know you can’t have? What if our souls travel into the future before our bodies do, Doctor? Have you thought of that?”
Ruso suspected that Thessalus’s soul often went on trips unaccompanied by his body. He said, “Do you find this happening a lot?”
“Oh dear me, no.” Thessalus clasped his hands together. The dark eyes narrowed and his head tilted slightly on one side in a way that implied concern. “Do you?”
Ruso wondered whether he adopted the same pose himself, and whether his patients found it as unnerving as he now did. “Not often, no.”
“It’s so nice to be able to chat with a fellow medic, you know. Such a
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