be told anything!” and closed the door on, “Wives are not important!”
Turning, he was startled to see Valens and the apprentices watching him across an empty operating table. The tall skinny apprentice looked as though he was about to offer some comment. The short one elbowed him in the ribs.
“Glad you’re back,” said Valens, tactfully ignoring the argument he must have overheard. “The boys are keen to get a closer look at this body you’ve so kindly sent us. Ready, chaps?”
The shorter of the chaps looked more apprehensive than keen, but dutifully chorused, “Yes, sir!” with his eager-faced companion.
“You’re in luck,” Valens assured them. “You’re starting with a fresh one. I remember my first corpse when I was about your age …” He raised his voice as the youths disappeared into the adjoining storeroom to fetch the body, making sure they did not miss any of the graphic details of his first postmortem.
The short lad reappeared clutching one end of a stretcher with a sheet draped over it. Finally noticing the expression on his face, Valens added, “Don’t worry, he’s not about to sit up and complain. Bring him in and we’ll get him cleaned up.’
As the remains of Julius Asper were maneuvered into the surgery, a thump on the ceiling told Ruso that Tilla had just dropped one of the bags on the bedroom floor. While the body was being unloaded onto the table, a series of smaller thumps and bangs told him she was unpacking. Valens was observing, “Notice the rigidity? You may need to cut the clothes off,” when something screeched across the floor above him. Ruso guessed the box of crockery had been rammed back under the bed.
The short apprentice was approaching the body as one might a dangerous animal when a fierce knocking shook the outside door of the surgery. The clothing shears in his hand clattered onto the tiled floor.
Valens sent the tall boy to get rid of the caller.
“Very sorry, sirs,” Ruso heard the lad say. “The doctor’s—”
The door was flung open with a force that knocked the boy sideways. A voice bellowed, “The assistant procurator of the province of Britannia and Senior Magistrate Caratius of Verulamium!’
After this grand announcement, Firmus’s entry was something of a disappointment. He sidled in, shoulders hunched as if he was afraid he might brush against something unpleasant, and squinted at the body. He was followed by a tall man in a deep blue traveling cloak pinned by a magnificent enameled brooch in the shape of a prancing horse. The dusty sandals below and the grim expression above suggested he had come a long way to see this, and he was not impressed. Behind him, a massive native wearing chain mail ducked in under the lintel before Firmus’s elderly slave closed the door.
Firmus backed away to stand against the shelves. The grimfaced one who must be Senior Magistrate Caratius approached the table and leaned over the body of Julius Asper. A heavy gold earring glinted through the gray hair that had escaped the braid and straggled around his jaw.
“That’s one of them,” he confirmed. Despite his appearance, his Latin had no trace of a native accent. “Which of you is the investigator?”
Ruso introduced himself. He was about to offer condolences when the man interrupted with, “No sign of the money, I suppose?”
“Not yet, sir.”
“But you have men out looking for it?”
Wishing the magistrate would keep his voice down, Ruso glanced at Firmus for some guidance on how to proceed. The youth’s face was pale beneath the tan. He was gazing in the direction of Julius Asper’s feet. The elderly slave leaned forward and began to describe the body.
“Not now, Pyramus!” snapped his master. “I can see quite enough.”
Their presence made Ruso aware of how the mingling aromas of a doctor’s surgery and an unwashed dead body might strike an outsider and what his audience might be making of the saw cuts scarring the sides of the
Turning, he was startled to see Valens and the apprentices watching him across an empty operating table. The tall skinny apprentice looked as though he was about to offer some comment. The short one elbowed him in the ribs.
“Glad you’re back,” said Valens, tactfully ignoring the argument he must have overheard. “The boys are keen to get a closer look at this body you’ve so kindly sent us. Ready, chaps?”
The shorter of the chaps looked more apprehensive than keen, but dutifully chorused, “Yes, sir!” with his eager-faced companion.
“You’re in luck,” Valens assured them. “You’re starting with a fresh one. I remember my first corpse when I was about your age …” He raised his voice as the youths disappeared into the adjoining storeroom to fetch the body, making sure they did not miss any of the graphic details of his first postmortem.
The short lad reappeared clutching one end of a stretcher with a sheet draped over it. Finally noticing the expression on his face, Valens added, “Don’t worry, he’s not about to sit up and complain. Bring him in and we’ll get him cleaned up.’
As the remains of Julius Asper were maneuvered into the surgery, a thump on the ceiling told Ruso that Tilla had just dropped one of the bags on the bedroom floor. While the body was being unloaded onto the table, a series of smaller thumps and bangs told him she was unpacking. Valens was observing, “Notice the rigidity? You may need to cut the clothes off,” when something screeched across the floor above him. Ruso guessed the box of crockery had been rammed back under the bed.
The short apprentice was approaching the body as one might a dangerous animal when a fierce knocking shook the outside door of the surgery. The clothing shears in his hand clattered onto the tiled floor.
Valens sent the tall boy to get rid of the caller.
“Very sorry, sirs,” Ruso heard the lad say. “The doctor’s—”
The door was flung open with a force that knocked the boy sideways. A voice bellowed, “The assistant procurator of the province of Britannia and Senior Magistrate Caratius of Verulamium!’
After this grand announcement, Firmus’s entry was something of a disappointment. He sidled in, shoulders hunched as if he was afraid he might brush against something unpleasant, and squinted at the body. He was followed by a tall man in a deep blue traveling cloak pinned by a magnificent enameled brooch in the shape of a prancing horse. The dusty sandals below and the grim expression above suggested he had come a long way to see this, and he was not impressed. Behind him, a massive native wearing chain mail ducked in under the lintel before Firmus’s elderly slave closed the door.
Firmus backed away to stand against the shelves. The grimfaced one who must be Senior Magistrate Caratius approached the table and leaned over the body of Julius Asper. A heavy gold earring glinted through the gray hair that had escaped the braid and straggled around his jaw.
“That’s one of them,” he confirmed. Despite his appearance, his Latin had no trace of a native accent. “Which of you is the investigator?”
Ruso introduced himself. He was about to offer condolences when the man interrupted with, “No sign of the money, I suppose?”
“Not yet, sir.”
“But you have men out looking for it?”
Wishing the magistrate would keep his voice down, Ruso glanced at Firmus for some guidance on how to proceed. The youth’s face was pale beneath the tan. He was gazing in the direction of Julius Asper’s feet. The elderly slave leaned forward and began to describe the body.
“Not now, Pyramus!” snapped his master. “I can see quite enough.”
Their presence made Ruso aware of how the mingling aromas of a doctor’s surgery and an unwashed dead body might strike an outsider and what his audience might be making of the saw cuts scarring the sides of the
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