If only he had known earlier that Senecio’s youngest son had been spreading the rumor. He could have confronted the old man about it this morning. As it was, Tilla had agreed to try and talk to the family tomorrow. They were unlikely to tell her anything, let alone the truth. But she had a better chance than anyone else he could think of, and until he knew the tale about the body was a lie or until Candidus turned up, he knew he would be uneasy. She would go there on the pretext of warning them to prepare for another visit from the soldiers, who would soon be there demanding to know what Branan had seen. After that . . . “If you’re going to say or do anything you shouldn’t,” he told her, “then don’t tell me about it.”
She had said, “You know I will not,” and kissed him.
He had no idea whether she had meant she would not do anything untoward or that she would do whatever she thought was necessary but not tell him about it. It was true that a man had to be master in his own house, but there were times when it was best not to know.
He had deliberately left Pertinax until the end of his round. The man continued to make remarkable progress. It was a shame he did not appreciate it. Despite being trapped in a hospital bed, he seemed to consider himself still on duty and obliged to keep up standards by pointing out any shortcomings that came to his attention. Or, as Valens would have put it, he was well enough to grumble. Ruso resisted the temptation to try and cheer him up by telling him his daughter was on the way. It was anyone’s guess what state the roads were in, and in his experience, no matter how skilled they were at terrifying grown men, fathers always worried about their daughters.
He was concentrating on examining the wound, making the usual checks for inflammation and hemorrhage, when he became aware that Pertinax’s complaints had turned to “. . . this half-baked nonsense about a body in the wall. I suppose you’ve heard?”
“Yes, sir.”
“The centurions need to work them harder,” said Pertinax. ”If they want something to be frightened of, they can be frightened of us.”
Ruso said, “Can I ask who told you, sir?” Whoever it was, the man clearly needed a good fright himself. Ruso was looking forward to administering it until Pertinax said, “That tribune with the bad smell under his nose. What do they call him?”
“Accius,” supplied Ruso. It was not like Pertinax to forget a name.
“Him,” Pertinax agreed. “Came in here this morning. I told him you need a better clerk straightaway.”
Ruso felt his mouth fall open and closed it again. After repeating the words to himself to check that he had understood correctly, he said, “Thank you, sir.”
“Don’t thank me,” growled Pertinax, swiftly closing the chink of generosity as if he were embarrassed by it. “The place is a shambles. I can tell that even from here. How many times have I got to ask before I get a pair of crutches?”
Chapter 23
Ruso placed the lamp on the table in the doctor-on-duty room and flipped open the writing tablet he had chosen from the vast selection of used items in the office. Someone had already tried to obliterate what appeared to be a shopping list from the surface of the wax, so he had decided to wipe it clean and put it to better use.
If Albanus did not manage to call in here on the way over to Arbeia, he would arrive at his new job completely unaware that the nephew was missing.
To—Albanus, Tutor at the House of the Prefect, Arbeia
In the absence of the prefect’s name or unit, he would have to entrust this to somebody with some common sense and hope for the best.
From—G Petreius Ruso, Medical Officer, XXVV, Parva.
Ruso to Albanus.
I hope you have arrived safely in Arbeia.
He tapped the stylus on the casing of the tablet for a moment, then began:
I am writing to you about your nephew Candidus. He worked here at the hospital for three days but I am sorry to say that we have not seen him since the ninth day before the kalends of November. He left no message and we have been unable to trace him. I am hoping you may have heard from him.
As soon as he turns up I will write again. Meanwhile if you have any idea where he might be please put my mind at rest.
Tilla and I are well and she sends her good wishes.
She didn’t, but it would do no harm to pretend. Not knowing what to say about Grata, he ended with:
Go well, old friend.
Then he slapped the tablet shut, put the stylus down, and pinched out the lamp. His eyes felt gritty even when he closed them. He felt better for having written the letter, even though he was not going to send it yet. There was always the chance that when the pharmacist returned from leave—which must be soon—he would know exactly where Candidus was, and they could all stop worrying. If he didn’t, the letter would be sent, and the worrying would carry on.