Daminius was calling, “Are you all right, Doctor?”
“Wait a moment!”
If only he had been given time to prepare for this. If only he had not wasted the morning dealing with trivia: trying to find reasons not to eat supper with his wife’s dubious acquaintances; complaining about the odd disappearance of his new hospital clerk; hearing a long trail of petty grievances from men who imagined he could do something about them.
He muttered a prayer to Aesculapius for the surgery and one to Fortuna for a lucky escape, and took another look. The trapped leg was visible just above the ankle. There seemed to be a second boulder beneath it, pinning it in place. The foot was probably crushed beyond repair.
Only a few more inches and Pertinax might have tumbled down the slope to safety. Now if he were to be rescued, Ruso would have to work his way up under the overhang of rock and crouch there, slicing flesh, carefully sealing off delicate blood vessels and wielding a bone saw while he tried not to think about the weight precariously balanced above his head. Even the patient thought it was not worth the risk. As for what Tilla would say . . .
It was usually best not to think about what Tilla would say.
He thought instead about Valens’s wife, and their boys, and how he would no longer be an honorary uncle but the man who had helped their grandfather to die rather than try to save him.
“I’m all right!” he called. Stretching up to the left, he managed to get a grip on the root of a tree that was buried in the mound of debris. “It’s Ruso, sir. Nearly there now.”
He hauled himself up and across, feeling the muscles burning in his arm and shoulder, and tried a tentative foothold on a broken scaffolding pole.
When he got there, Pertinax’s eyes opened for a moment and then closed again. His face was oddly striped where trickles of water had washed the mud away.
“It’s Ruso, sir,” he repeated, scanning for other injuries. “Can you tell me where it hurts?” He could see nothing else apart from scrapes and bruises, but then he could see very little under the muck, and he wasn’t about to start cutting clothing off. “Let’s get you out.” He untied the rolled cloak from around his waist and draped it over the prefect’s body. “I expect you’re a bit cold?”
Faintly, without opening his eyes, Pertinax mumbled, “Go away.”
The prefect’s skin was clammy. The man was deteriorating fast. Ruso looped the spare end of rope around the handle of his case before balancing it on the slope. He felt as clumsy as a child’s dancing doll suspended on the end of a wire. “Sir,” he said, opening the case and grabbing the probe that always slipped out of its clip, “your foot’s trapped between two rocks. I’m going to get you free now and then we can go back to the fort.”
“Uh. Too late.”
“No, sir. If we do this, there’s a very good chance—”
“Kill me.”
It was possible Ruso was about to do exactly that, but not in the way his patient wanted. “I can’t do that, sir.”
“Bloody useless. All of you.”
“Yes, sir.” Ruso blew away some loose grit from the skin of the unfashionably hairy leg. Searching for a topic to distract the patient, he discarded the weather as too trivial, the landslide as too frightening, and any mention of supervising the hospital as more likely to depress than inspire him. What Pertinax thrived on was challenge. “Sir, if you die, your daughter and your grandsons will be left in the care of your son-in-law.”
“What?”
“Valens will be looking after the family, sir.”
“Man’s an idiot.”
Ruso grinned. “You‘re absolutely right, sir.” He glanced up, inadvertently clunking the borrowed helmet against the rock above him. He held his breath. Nothing happened. He let the breath out again.
As if the gods were being deliberately perverse, the light changed. The sun went behind a cloud, making it even harder to see what he was doing down here under the gloom of the overhang.
The foot would be safely clamped in one place while he worked, even though it was at a difficult angle and he couldn’t get underneath it properly. But if Pertinax thrashed about, he could set the whole slide in motion again. Ruso scooped away some of the muck from beneath the man’s calf, then swabbed the skin with diluted vinegar. He needed an assistant up here to hold the patient. He didn’t have one. He set the dirty cloth aside, wiped his hands on a clean one, and reached for the scalpel.
“Keep absolutely still for me now, sir. This might sting a bit.”
It was even more of a lie than usual, but what else could he say?