joy to talk to someone who understands. Between you and me—” Here the young Greek leaned forward to the point where the stool was about to overturn and seized Ruso’s left knee, digging his fingernails into the flesh—“I think I’ve been alone here far too long. My triangles are getting blunt.”
“Ah—very possibly,” said Ruso, prizing the fingers off his knee and wondering if the prefect and Metellus might be wrong about the man being incapable of violence. “It can be a lonely job.”
“Oh!” Thessalus, motionless, was staring at his hand as if he were seeing it for the first time. He withdrew it, sat back on the stool, and glanced into his palm as if to check that nothing else unexpected was lurking inside. “Dear me. Sorry about that. And I was going to try my new approach.”
“New approach?”
“Talking. You must never touch the patient. You just talk to him until he feels better.”
“Look, is there anything I can do to help?” said Ruso, not optimistic. “The prefect said something was worrying you.’
“To help? Well, that’s very decent of you. But no, not really. I’m absolutely fine. If you really want to help somebody, you might find a few men in the infirmary. I think I left some behind in there.”
Ruso got to his feet. He could no longer remember any of the questions he had wanted to ask Thessalus. “I’ll see to the men,” he promised. This patient did not seem to be in need of any immediate help. In fact, despite being as mad as a bee in a bottle, he was the most cheerful person Ruso had met since arriving there.
“Do come back and see me again, Doctor.”
“I will,” he promised, not adding, And I’ll be better prepared.
“Excellent!” Thessalus smiled. “Next time, make sure you remember the fish!”
15
R USO INTERCEPTED HIS luggage on its way into the infirmary and extracted a clean tunic and his bathing kit. Then he went out through the fort gates, past more tethered horses, and into the civilian street. On his left a gang of grubby children eyed him from a doorway. Opposite was a shop front bearing crude pictures of a saucepan, a shoe, and what might have been a cabbage beneath the flaking legend, We Sell Everything. A cockerel was poised to strut inside the shop when a man emerged from the doorway, aimed a kick at the bird, and sized up Ruso before deeming him worthy of a gap-toothed smile. Ruso nodded an acknowledgment. The shopkeeper was too dark to be a native. He wondered how far the man had traveled to end up selling everything on the edge of the empire, and why he had bothered.
In front of the next shop, a crippled boy was flapping a branch over a carcass to keep the flies off it while an angular woman and a man in a blood-smeared leather apron were haggling in a Latin that was clearly the first language of neither.
It had just struck him that the narrow passageway between the two shops must be the scene of the murder, when a squad of soldiers appeared, marching a scruffy pair of civilians toward the fort. Butcher and customer glanced around briefly and then went back to haggling. One of the children shouted something and the others giggled. Evidently the sight of locals under arrest was nothing unusual. As soon as they had passed, Ruso followed his curiosity into the alley.
He had imagined the murder scene as a backstreet, but the gap between the buildings was only about three feet wide. A few weeds straggled down either side of a worn strip of mud, and the place was gloomy even in daylight. Why the victim would have chosen to walk down here late on a night when he had already been threatened with violence was a mystery.
Ruso sniffed. The usual alleyway stench of urine and dog droppings was blanketed by heavy layers of incense and rose oil. Evidently the priests had been around to purify the place. Even so, he suspected it would be a long time before many people ventured down this unlucky shortcut again.
About ten paces in, he paused. Behind
“Ah—very possibly,” said Ruso, prizing the fingers off his knee and wondering if the prefect and Metellus might be wrong about the man being incapable of violence. “It can be a lonely job.”
“Oh!” Thessalus, motionless, was staring at his hand as if he were seeing it for the first time. He withdrew it, sat back on the stool, and glanced into his palm as if to check that nothing else unexpected was lurking inside. “Dear me. Sorry about that. And I was going to try my new approach.”
“New approach?”
“Talking. You must never touch the patient. You just talk to him until he feels better.”
“Look, is there anything I can do to help?” said Ruso, not optimistic. “The prefect said something was worrying you.’
“To help? Well, that’s very decent of you. But no, not really. I’m absolutely fine. If you really want to help somebody, you might find a few men in the infirmary. I think I left some behind in there.”
Ruso got to his feet. He could no longer remember any of the questions he had wanted to ask Thessalus. “I’ll see to the men,” he promised. This patient did not seem to be in need of any immediate help. In fact, despite being as mad as a bee in a bottle, he was the most cheerful person Ruso had met since arriving there.
“Do come back and see me again, Doctor.”
“I will,” he promised, not adding, And I’ll be better prepared.
“Excellent!” Thessalus smiled. “Next time, make sure you remember the fish!”
15
R USO INTERCEPTED HIS luggage on its way into the infirmary and extracted a clean tunic and his bathing kit. Then he went out through the fort gates, past more tethered horses, and into the civilian street. On his left a gang of grubby children eyed him from a doorway. Opposite was a shop front bearing crude pictures of a saucepan, a shoe, and what might have been a cabbage beneath the flaking legend, We Sell Everything. A cockerel was poised to strut inside the shop when a man emerged from the doorway, aimed a kick at the bird, and sized up Ruso before deeming him worthy of a gap-toothed smile. Ruso nodded an acknowledgment. The shopkeeper was too dark to be a native. He wondered how far the man had traveled to end up selling everything on the edge of the empire, and why he had bothered.
In front of the next shop, a crippled boy was flapping a branch over a carcass to keep the flies off it while an angular woman and a man in a blood-smeared leather apron were haggling in a Latin that was clearly the first language of neither.
It had just struck him that the narrow passageway between the two shops must be the scene of the murder, when a squad of soldiers appeared, marching a scruffy pair of civilians toward the fort. Butcher and customer glanced around briefly and then went back to haggling. One of the children shouted something and the others giggled. Evidently the sight of locals under arrest was nothing unusual. As soon as they had passed, Ruso followed his curiosity into the alley.
He had imagined the murder scene as a backstreet, but the gap between the buildings was only about three feet wide. A few weeds straggled down either side of a worn strip of mud, and the place was gloomy even in daylight. Why the victim would have chosen to walk down here late on a night when he had already been threatened with violence was a mystery.
Ruso sniffed. The usual alleyway stench of urine and dog droppings was blanketed by heavy layers of incense and rose oil. Evidently the priests had been around to purify the place. Even so, he suspected it would be a long time before many people ventured down this unlucky shortcut again.
About ten paces in, he paused. Behind
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