amputation site. He had just finished settling his patient into a hastily cleaned room under the care of the bandager from the Twentieth when he received a summons to report immediately to the prefect of the Tenth Batavians.
The yelling and clatter of weapons practice and the arrhythmic clang of the forge barely seemed to disturb the peace of the prefect’s courtyard. Ruso waited in a space between two tall amphorae that the household staff had reused as plant pots, and wished he had taken the time to borrow some clean clothes. In front of him, marooned on a stone plinth in a rectangular pond, stood a two-foot-high statue of a nymph whose skimpy attire was no more appropriately designed for life in the north than the house surrounding her. Ruso wondered what it must be like for the prefect and his family—assuming he had one—to have to scuttle from room to room via an open walkway in the depths of a British winter. He was eyeing the nymph with some sympathy when one of the doors under the walkway opened and he was summoned to enter the prefect’s office.
Prefect Decianus turned out to have all the finest qualities of Roman manhood except that he wasn’t—by blood—a Roman. His jaw was square, his shoulders were broad, and he had the air of solid dependability more reliably found in centurions than in the aristocratic holders of high office. When he said, “Doctor. You’re traveling with the vexillation from the Twentieth Legion?” his Latin had only the faintest of Batavian accents. Evidently he was one of those provincial leaders who were permitted to command their own troops overseas in the service of Rome.
“I was sorry to hear about the accident,” the prefect continued. “I’m told the men from the Twentieth will camp here tonight, then move up the road to Ulucium in the morning. Will your casualty be fit to travel by then?”
“No, sir.”
“What do you think about trusting him to our medical service?”
“I hear your regular medic is ill, sir,” said Ruso, hoping not to have to venture an opinion on the patchy regime at the infirmary and wondering if the silent man sitting at Decianus’s elbow was something to do with it.
“And you don’t want to leave your man in the care of our deputy,” observed Decianus.
Ruso looked him in the eye. “I think the patient needs experienced supervision, sir.”
“Good.” The prefect settled back in his chair and folded his arms. “Our own medic is due to move on in a few days,” he said. “His replacement is traveling up here with the governor. I’m told he’s keen to see military experience. I suppose that means he wants to explore the insides of my men. In the meantime we have nobody to fill the gap. I’m putting in a request to keep you until then.”
So unless Postumus objected—which was unlikely—it seemed Ruso would be here for at least the next four days. He would be able to look after the carpenter. That was good. He would have to work with Gambax. That wasn’t. He said, “Thank you, sir.”
“Don’t thank me. I want you to do a job of work. Our man Thessalus has not been . . .” the prefect paused, searching for a word. “He has not been on top of things for some time. One of our escorts was attacked by bandits the other day and it took three hours to organize a team to operate on the wounded. My men deserve better than that. You’re with the Legion, so you must be reasonably competent. While we have you, I want you to sort out the shambles that calls itself a medical service.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Ruso, less sincerely than before and realizing that the room was beginning to smell as though he had brought his horse in with him.
“Are you a hunting man, Ruso?”
Perhaps the prefect had noticed it too. “Not really, sir.”
“A pity. Never mind. The other thing I want you to do is connected with the body now under guard in the mortuary. I expect you’ve been told that one of our trumpeters was found murdered
The yelling and clatter of weapons practice and the arrhythmic clang of the forge barely seemed to disturb the peace of the prefect’s courtyard. Ruso waited in a space between two tall amphorae that the household staff had reused as plant pots, and wished he had taken the time to borrow some clean clothes. In front of him, marooned on a stone plinth in a rectangular pond, stood a two-foot-high statue of a nymph whose skimpy attire was no more appropriately designed for life in the north than the house surrounding her. Ruso wondered what it must be like for the prefect and his family—assuming he had one—to have to scuttle from room to room via an open walkway in the depths of a British winter. He was eyeing the nymph with some sympathy when one of the doors under the walkway opened and he was summoned to enter the prefect’s office.
Prefect Decianus turned out to have all the finest qualities of Roman manhood except that he wasn’t—by blood—a Roman. His jaw was square, his shoulders were broad, and he had the air of solid dependability more reliably found in centurions than in the aristocratic holders of high office. When he said, “Doctor. You’re traveling with the vexillation from the Twentieth Legion?” his Latin had only the faintest of Batavian accents. Evidently he was one of those provincial leaders who were permitted to command their own troops overseas in the service of Rome.
“I was sorry to hear about the accident,” the prefect continued. “I’m told the men from the Twentieth will camp here tonight, then move up the road to Ulucium in the morning. Will your casualty be fit to travel by then?”
“No, sir.”
“What do you think about trusting him to our medical service?”
“I hear your regular medic is ill, sir,” said Ruso, hoping not to have to venture an opinion on the patchy regime at the infirmary and wondering if the silent man sitting at Decianus’s elbow was something to do with it.
“And you don’t want to leave your man in the care of our deputy,” observed Decianus.
Ruso looked him in the eye. “I think the patient needs experienced supervision, sir.”
“Good.” The prefect settled back in his chair and folded his arms. “Our own medic is due to move on in a few days,” he said. “His replacement is traveling up here with the governor. I’m told he’s keen to see military experience. I suppose that means he wants to explore the insides of my men. In the meantime we have nobody to fill the gap. I’m putting in a request to keep you until then.”
So unless Postumus objected—which was unlikely—it seemed Ruso would be here for at least the next four days. He would be able to look after the carpenter. That was good. He would have to work with Gambax. That wasn’t. He said, “Thank you, sir.”
“Don’t thank me. I want you to do a job of work. Our man Thessalus has not been . . .” the prefect paused, searching for a word. “He has not been on top of things for some time. One of our escorts was attacked by bandits the other day and it took three hours to organize a team to operate on the wounded. My men deserve better than that. You’re with the Legion, so you must be reasonably competent. While we have you, I want you to sort out the shambles that calls itself a medical service.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Ruso, less sincerely than before and realizing that the room was beginning to smell as though he had brought his horse in with him.
“Are you a hunting man, Ruso?”
Perhaps the prefect had noticed it too. “Not really, sir.”
“A pity. Never mind. The other thing I want you to do is connected with the body now under guard in the mortuary. I expect you’ve been told that one of our trumpeters was found murdered
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