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this morning.”
    Ruso, who had often felt the urge to murder an enthusiastic trumpeter first thing in the morning, reminded himself that this was a serious matter. “I’ll have the postmortem report ready by the end of the day, sir,” he promised.
    “What? We don’t need you to go near the body.”
    “No?” What did they want him for, then?
    “Sorry to disappoint. I know how much you medics enjoy the chance for a dig about, but any fool can see how he died and we already know who did it.”
    Afterward, Ruso blamed the bedbugs. He would normally have kept his mouth shut. But today he had woken up tired, he had witnessed a shocking accident, performed harrowing surgery, seen a strange creature he did not believe in, and worst of all, despite Gambax’s ointment— alum boiled in cabbage juice, apparently—he was still itchy. He was used to his profession being insulted, but today he was not in the mood to put up with it.
    “I don’t enjoy it, sir,” he insisted. “I’ve got better things to do. I was only offering because a close inspection of the body might offer you some more evidence for the murder case.”
    The prefect’s eyebrows rose. “Evidence?”
    “What sort of weapon was used,” said Ruso, improvizing wildly. “Whether the victim put up a fight and might have injured the attacker. Whether he was killed where he was found, or whether he was moved afterward. That sort of thing.”
    “I see.”
    A soft voice pointed out, “We already know what the weapon was, sir.”
    The prefect glanced at the man beside him. “But the rest might be useful, don’t you think, Metellus?” He returned his attention to Ruso. “You can do all that?”
    “Sometimes, sir,” said Ruso, realizing he had now advanced too far to retreat. “It depends on the circumstances.”
    The man leaned across and whispered something in the prefect’s ear. Moments later Ruso found himself admiring the nymph from the shelter of the covered walkway while the prefect and the other man were arguing on the other side of the office door. He hoped the prefect would lose. He didn’t want to meet a dead trumpeter. He wanted to go and check on the amputee and then track down a good masseur followed by a hot meal. Preferably washed down with a glass of decent wine.
    When he was summoned to return the prefect said, “You can examine the body and report your findings back to Metellus.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “The circumstances are unusual,” said the prefect.
    As Ruso wondered what the usual circumstances of murdered trumpeters might be, Decianus confirmed most of the gossip he had already picked up at the infirmary: that the body of a Batavian soldier had been found this morning about a hundred paces outside the fort, in an alleyway between a butcher’s shop and a general store. “At the moment,” continued Decianus, “relations with the natives are tense, and a rumor has gone around that this death was something to do with the rebel horseman I’m told you saw this afternoon. Metellus has investigated, and it turns out to be a simple brawl outside a bar. The culprit is a native who will be arrested very soon and tried by the governor when he arrives in four days’ time. In the meantime I don’t want my men unsettled. Any suggestions that the murder is something to do with the local gods are to be firmly denied.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Despite anything you may think you find during your examination.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “So just to avoid any confusion, Metellus will help you with your report. Now, what I really wanted you for in connection with the murder is something else. Tell me what you know about treating madness.”
    Ruso realized, too late, that he was scratching the back of his ear instead of replying. At length he said, “Not a great deal, sir. I’ve met some cases in the past. I can offer comfort, but I can’t promise a cure. Frankly, I think anyone who tells you they can is lying.”
    “Hm.” Evidently this was not