Lucius’s gaze jerked to the library door. Demetrius stood there, the weariness of his features a match to the limp drape of his mantle. His tone, however, had not lost its customary caustic wit. Lucius’s senses went on alert, but it seemed the old man’s comment regarding spirits had been an innocent one. Demetrius took no particular notice of Aulus’s pale form slumped at the far end of the reading table.
The specter lifted its head and stared dispassionately at the physician for a heartbeat, then looked away.
“So you’ve taken leave of the hospital at last,” Lucius said, his attention fixed on his brother. Aulus had been lurking in the upper passageway when Lucius had let himself out of his room a few hours earlier, all but fleeing from the woman asleep in his bed. He’d not trusted himself to pass the rest of the night in Rhiannon’s presence without making love to her.
One look at Aulus had been more than sufficient to drive any amount of lust from Lucius’s mind. His brother looked as if he’d met the wrong end of a centurion’s cane. Welts and bruises covered his face and forearms. A gash below his right eye dripped gray blood. His ethereal toga was torn in several places and his tunic sagged on one shoulder.
Demetrius stepped into the room and moved toward Aulus’s motionless form. Lucius half rose, ready to intervene, but at the last moment the physician frowned and chose another stool. Lucius let out a long, slow breath.
“You look fit to be washed down a sewer,” Demetrius commented. “Why are you not abed?”
“I might ask the same of you. Surely there are medics to care for the wounded.”
The Greek’s grizzled brows drew together. “Certainly, if you wish Vindolanda to lose even more men. As it is, two soldiers died today, despite my efforts.”
“Of wounds sustained in the skirmish?” Lucius asked.
“No. These men were not part of our escort. They had been ill with fever since before our arrival. Had they been properly cared for, I suspect they would be playing at dice rather than awaiting their eulogies.”
Lucius put aside the scroll he’d been reading. “Are conditions in the hospital so deplorable?”
Demetrius made a sound of distaste. “The pharmacy is depleted. The herb plot is crowded with weeds and it seems the dead physician is the only man in the fort who knew their uses. Zeus knows the soldiers who call themselves medics are idiots.” He gazed meditatively at his hands. “Perhaps there’s a healer in the fort village who can instruct me in local herblore.”
“Rhiannon is a healer,” Lucius heard himself say.
“Indeed? She may be of some use to me, then.” He shook his head. “But that is but a part of the problem. The sickroom is filthy—the pallets crawl with vermin. I have ordered a thorough cleaning of the entire facility. It will be a start, at least.”
“Good,” Lucius said. “And now I’ll give you an order. Seek your bed. It will do Vindolanda no good if its sole physician takes ill.”
Demetrius flicked a hand to the side. “Sleep! As my years advance, its allure diminishes. All too soon I will close my eyes for good. I’m loath to waste my remaining hours.”
Aulus stirred. Struggling to his feet, he began a slow circuit of the room. Lucius frowned. Was his brother favoring his left leg?
“You’re far too ornery for the grave,” he told Demetrius, forcing a light tone. “Hades himself will take leave of the underworld once you arrive.”
Demetrius snorted. “We shall see.” He waved at the neat row of scrolls lined up like soldiers. “So, my fellow insomniac—what are you about?”
Lucius shot a glance toward Aulus. The ghost had come to a halt behind Demetrius and was gazing wistfully at the pitcher of wine set out near the old man’s elbow. “Aulus wrote constantly, about everything.”
“Ah, yes,” Demetrius said. “To the detriment of serious study, as I well recall.”
“He was in the habit of recording every fanciful story he discovered, but wrote of his daily life as well. I hoped he might have recorded an account of the days before his death.”
“Ah.” Demetrius lifted the pitcher and poured a draught into the accompanying goblet. “Did he?”
Lucius rose with an abrupt motion and paced to the nearest shelf, giving Aulus a wide berth. “Not that I can tell.” He slid yet another scroll from its tube and checked its subject against its label. “You might trouble yourself to point a finger,” he muttered in his brother’s direction.
“What’s that, Lucius?”
“Nothing.”
Demetrius set down his drink and got to his feet. Halting at Lucius’s side, he squinted at the volumes Lucius had slid partway off the shelves. “Phaedrus and Plautus. Fable and comedy.” He shook his head. “How like Aulus. Have you found nothing useful?”