Persona Non Grata (19 page)

38

R
USO SEEMED TO be doing no better finding out who had poisoned Severus than he had with disciplining Marcia. Who, how, and why? might be the right questions but he did not like the answers he had found so far and he was running out of places to search for new ones. He had even toyed with the idea that the man might have poisoned himself, only to dismiss it as a sign of his own desperation.

He scowled at the crack in the side of the pond. The news of the death would not even have reached Rome yet. There was still time for him to sort out this mess. Meanwhile, he needed to clear his head. He needed a change of scene. He needed to get back to work. He might be a man hovering on the brink of ruin, but he knew how to wield a scalpel. There was one man in town who might be glad to see him, and just possibly that man might know something about poisons.

As he was reaching for his stick, a figure he did not recognize strolled in through the gate, patted the dog on the head, and made for the house. Arria appeared in the doorway and bustled down the steps to meet him, crying, “There you are!” and holding out a hand to be kissed.

Moments later Ruso found himself being introduced to Diphilus the builder, a man on the oily side of handsome. He was, as Arria announced with joy, available for dinner tomorrow evening. Ruso suspected Diphilus was the sort of man who was available for dinner any eve ning as long as he wasn’t paying for it.

“Are you available for clearing drains this morning?”

“Gaius is just out of the army,” said Arria, as if she had to excuse him. “Wounded by those dreadful Britons.”

Diphilus smiled at them both and said he would be honored to look at the drains of a war hero. Arria looked delighted. Ruso, feeling outnumbered, went across to the stables. He would probably get more sense out of the mule.

Two early shoppers had paused to chat in the shade of the Forum wall. Ruso was relieved to see that the latest exhortation to support Fuscus, partially obscured behind them, was not long enough to begin with “G. Petreius Ruso, veteran of the . . .” His relief was shortlived. Glancing back over his shoulder as he rode past, he saw the wall from a different angle.

He had just made out, “The town poisoner says vote for . . .” when the shorter of the two women shouted, “Oy! Who d’you think you’re staring at?”

Ruso urged the mule on down the street, pursued by a cry of, “We’re respectable married women! You keep your eyes to yourself!”

The Games were not taking place for another two days, but as he squinted up at the glaring white stone of the amphitheater he could see small silhouettes moving about on the parapet, slotting in the masts for the sails that would be pulled across to shade the audience from sunstroke. Below them, other shapes appeared and vanished again, hurrying around the stone lattice of arches and corridors that formed the massive and elegant oval in which Fuscus’s entertainment would take place.

A cart piled high with animal cages was being maneuvered beneath the carved bull’s heads that adorned the main entrance. Whatever was in the cages was smelly but silent and hidden by a sailcloth that had been thrown over the top as a rough shade. Ruso rode on around the outside of the building. As he passed, some sort of animal noise— a roar or a bellow, it was hard to say which—echoed from deep within the arches. The mule pricked up its ears, but plodded on past the municipal slaves busy sweeping the flagstones. Presumably whatever had made the sound would have its blood mixed in with the sand of the arena in a couple of days.

Farther on, someone was applying fresh paint to the entrance numbers on the sides of the arches. Traders were unloading their vehicles. A sweet stall, a fritter vendor, and a souvenir salesman had already claimed the shade under the trees across the street, hoping to attract early trade. All were no doubt grateful to Fuscus for the opportunity to make a little extra money. As, in a roundabout way, was Ruso.

The gladiators’ barracks in the building next door were marked by a gaggle of excited females clustered around the heavy gates, waiting for a glimpse of their heroes. Ruso hoped that Marcia and Flora had never stooped to cupping their hands around their mouths and yelling encouragement through the cracks in the woodwork. Still, these alarmingly forthright young women might be of use to him now. Their devotion would have armed them with the information he needed.

Ruso dismounted and led the mule into the haze of competing perfumes.

“What’s the name of the doctor in there?” he asked a couple of pink-cheeked girls whose diaphanous outfits were made even more distracting by the way they stuck to their owners in the heat.

One of them seemed about to reply when a scream from a girl by the gate set off a cacophony of shrieking. Cries of “Who can you see?” merged with a chant of, “Xantus, Xantus, Xantus!” and several devotees were leaping to fling scraps of fabric and posies of flowers over the gate. Ruso wondered whether Xantus was embarrassed. A little leather bottle of something (perfume? Love potion? Magic formula for courage?) sailed over into the barracks. He tried his question again, hoping for a name he recognized.

“Gnostus,” said one of the girls, not bothering to look around.

This was not encouraging. He had never heard of a doctor called Gnos-tus. He led the mule forward, clearing a path with the untruthful “Watch your backs, he bites!” until he was standing in front of the gates. Rapping on the wood with his stick, he shouted, “Visitor for Gnostus!”

There was a pause. A small slot in the door slid open. A pair of bloodshot eyes appeared and a voice repeated, “Gnostus?” as if wondering whether the visitor had gotten the name right.

Ruso unfastened his medical case and held up the largest pair of surgical forceps he possessed. Ignoring the mingled gasps of horror and delight from the crowd, he said, “I’m the other surgeon.”

“Wait there,” said the voice. The slot snapped shut again. As the girls giggled and whispered behind him, he tucked the forceps into his belt and indulged in some unnecessary straightening of the mule’s headband.

His wait was rewarded with the sound of the bar being lifted out of its brackets. Girls began to inch forward as one of the gates moved back. They stopped at the emergence of a leather whip, followed by the doorman who yelled, “No admittance to the public!” and cracked the whip in the air as if he were disciplining animals. From the squealing that followed, it was hard to tell whether the girls were excited or terrified.

As soon as the tail of Ruso’s mount was safely inside, the gate slammed shut behind him and the bar thudded back into position.

The dust in the center of the wide courtyard bore witness to the scuffles of a morning’s training, but the battered wooden sparring posts stood deserted in the midday sun. Abandoned shields and leather jerkins and shin guards were stacked in one corner. The favors that had been tossed over the gates were nowhere to be seen. A low murmur of conversation and the scrape of spoons on bowls suggested the trainees had retreated into the shade of the low building on the right to eat. Without its occupants the courtyard, with its stink of sweat and embrocation, could almost have been one of the military training grounds Ruso had left behind in Britannia—except that one of the posts bore a set of manacles dangling from a heavy chain, and the Twentieth had more sense than to arm itself with the impractical nets and tridents he saw piled up beside the gate as he handed the mule’s reins to the doorkeeper.

The doorkeeper’s “First on the left, mate” was rendered unnecessary by a sudden roar of pain from that direction. Moments later a skinny man of about Ruso’s own age emerged from the door wiping bloodstained hands on his apron. Ruso was convinced he saw a brief flash of recognition on the face before the man demanded, “What other surgeon?”

“Hello, Euplius!”

Euplius’s face arranged itself into an expression of confusion. “Who?” He retreated back into his room, beckoning Ruso to follow. “We haven’t met. I’m Gnostus, all the way from Ephesus. Doctor to the finest gladiator troupe in Gaul. Those are my apprentices. And you are?”

“Ruso, se nior surgeon with the Twentieth Legion,” said Ruso, glancing at a heavily muscled man who was sitting on a chair between the trainees and clutching a bloodstained rag to his mouth. Surely his memory could not be that bad? It was many years since he and Euplius had met during their apprenticeships, but could there really be two medics cursed with those ears?

“As in Gaius Petreius Ruso?” queried Gnostus, lifting the lid from a jar and pouring liquid into a wooden cup. “I’ve heard of you.” He handed the cup to his patient.

“Not everything you’ve heard is true,” Ruso assured him.

“Keep swilling that around the cavity,” ordered Gnostus. “Slowly.”

The man removed the rag, took a tentative sip, and grimaced.

“It’s good stuff,” Gnostus promised.

The man did not look convinced.

Gnostus offered the jar to Ruso. “Guess.”

Ruso dipped in the tip of a finger and licked it.

“Bisobol gum in wine,” said Ruso, identifying part of the disgusting taste. He nodded to the patient. “Good for toothache and gum disease.”

“What else?” demanded Gnostus.

Ruso tried another dip. “Poppy.”

“And?”

“Not a clue.”

Gnostus grinned. “It’s a new recipe I’m trying out. Excellent results so far.”

One of the apprentices leaned forward to sniff it. The patient mumbled something indistinct, which might have been gratitude and might have voiced the suspicion that the doctors were lying to him.

As they watched the apprentices escort the shambling patient out across the courtyard with his jaw cradled in one hand and the cup in the other, Gnostus said quietly, “Sometimes I wonder why I bother. He’ll probably be dead in a couple of days.”

“You just have to patch them up and send them back out there,” said Ruso, seizing a chance to emphasize his credentials. “Exactly what I’ve been doing with the Legion.”

Gnostus closed the door. “You gave me a shock, Ruso. How long is it?”

Ruso felt his shoulders relax. “Fifteen years?”

“And more,” agreed his companion.

“So why are you calling yourself Gnostus?”

The creases were deeper but the lopsided grin that formed them was still the same. “Bit of misunderstanding about the labels on bottles,” he explained. “Angry relatives. It wasn’t my fault, but you know how it is.”

“I do now,” said Ruso.

“New name, new town . . . I hear you’ve had a few problems. You should try it.”

“I’m hoping it won’t come to that. In the meantime I was wondering if you’d be needing an assistant surgeon for the games.”

“I’ll be needing a bloody miracle worker,” observed Gnostus glumly, sinking down onto a stool. “But at least you’ll have some idea which bits to stitch together. Unlike some. I’ll say one thing for Fuscus, he knows how to draw a crowd.”

“They’re gathering around the gates already,” observed Ruso, settling himself on the treatment table. “What is it women see in gladiators? Most of them are slaves and they’re nearly all filthy ugly.”

“Who knows?” said Gnostus. “You wouldn’t believe the offers the gate staff get.”

“They don’t allow women in here, surely?” asked Ruso, hoping there was nothing else he did not want to hear about Marcia.

“Only the women who pay enough,” said Gnostus. “And sometimes we have to house the ones due for execution. But they’re chained up, of course.”

Ruso pondered this grim prospect for a moment. He needed the work. Just as, faced with Fuscus, he had needed the man’s influence. He said, “How much do you know about poisons?”

Gnostus observed that poisoning did not make for much of a show, and suggested, “The people you want to ask are the Marsi.”

“I’ve tried,” explained Ruso. “They were insulted.”

Gnostus grinned. “I’ll bet. Next time, ask for Valgius and tell him Gnos-tus still doesn’t want to buy his snake.” He pointed at Ruso’s stick. “So. War wound?”

“Not exactly.”

When Ruso told him, Gnostus was incredulous. “They let you go home with just a cracked metatarsal?”

“Long leave,” explained Ruso, not entirely truthfully. He was adding, “And I was missing the sunshine,” when there was a knock on the door.

The new arrival was a youth of about eighteen who might have been handsome in a thin and poetic way had it not been for the jagged scab that ran from eyebrow to hairline.

“Afternoon, Tertius,” said Gnostus, not bothering to get up from the stool. “What is it this time?”

The youth glanced at Ruso and then back at his own doctor. “Please, sir, I’d like to consult doctor Gaius Petreius.”

Gnostus sighed. “He’ll only say the same as me.”

“It’s a personal matter.”

“You don’t have personal matters,” Gnostus pointed out, ignoring the pained look on the youth’s face. “You won’t have any personal matters for the next two and a half years. If you last that long.” He turned to Ruso, who had gotten to his feet, and murmured, “Whatever he thinks he’s got, he’s going in the arena. Otherwise the pairs will be one short, and the boss won’t want to refund the hire money to Fuscus.”

“I can’t sign you off sick,” Ruso explained to the youth. “You’ll have to—”

“I don’t want to be signed off sick, sir!” the lad exclaimed. “I just want to know if there’s a message.”

Ruso blinked. “Message?”

“From Marcia.”

39

I
THOUGHT THAT’S why you were here, sir,” said Tertius, clearly frustrated at Ruso’s bafflement. “She said you were coming home to settle her dowry at last so she could buy me out.”

Ruso did not know which part of this sentence to pick on first. “Marcia knew I was on the way home?”

“She said you’d be back soon.”

At last the mystery of the letter was solved. It had not been sent by Severus at all. Marcia had taken up forgery and then lied to him about it. Restraining a momentary flash of fury at the thought that he had been dragged into this whole mess by his own sister, Ruso said, “Why would I give her a dowry so she could borrow money to go around buying gladiators?”

Tertius coughed. “She wasn’t going to tell you that part, sir. But we’re running out of time. I was hoping you were here to see to it yourself.”

Ruso, perched on the edge of Gnostus’s operating table, looked the stringy youth up and down and wondered if young men were getting stupider or whether he had been just as much of a fool at that age. He understood how it felt to be desperate to leave home, albeit for different reasons. He had been lucky enough to have a childless uncle in search of an apprentice. Arria— equally keen for Ruso to leave—had managed to persuade his father that medicine was not such a terribly disreputable trade for a decent citizen’s son, even if it was mostly the province of slaves. She had avoided adding, “and Greeks,” since Uncle Theo was in the room at the time.

If Ruso had been in the position Tertius now described to him— parents honest but dead, no money and no connections— would he have considered selling himself to a gladiator trainer?

No, he would not. “You could have joined the army.”

“But then I couldn’t marry Marcia,” pointed out Tertius, as if this made sense.

“You couldn’t marry her if you were carried out of the amphitheater on a funeral bier, either,” pointed out Ruso, and then regretted it when he saw the look on Tertius’s face.

“I was a bit drunk at the time, sir.”

“Ah.”

“There were three of us.”

Evidently it was true: Young men were getting stupider. “What happened to the other two?”

“When they sobered up they sent for their fathers to buy them out.”

“Leaving you stuck here for three years.”

“Only two and a half now. I’ve been training ever since.”

“So this will be your first real fight.”

Tertius nodded. “I’m good. Ask anybody. I’m only a Retiarius now, but everybody says I’m Samnite material. I’m fast, and I reckon I can entertain the crowd.”

“I see.” If Tertius was going into the arena armed only with a net and a trident, he would certainly have to be fast.

“I thought if I was good, the trainer wouldn’t want to lose me.” He paused. “To be honest, I always thought the fights were fixed.”

Ruso wondered what Tertius could possibly have imagined would be going through the head of any designated loser in a “fixed” fight. Perhaps he had expected to be pitted against a lesser— and less valuable— man. And to be fair, many of the professional bouts in the local amphitheater ended in battered defeat rather than death. Until someone like Fuscus came along with too much money and demanded more excitement.

Ruso looked at the cracked forehead and the chewed fingernails. “You’re not a marvelous prospect for my sister,” he observed.

Tertius squared his shoulders. “I’m not a coward, sir. I’m a hard worker. You ask anybody here.”

“But you’re a gladiator.”

“I love her, sir!” said Tertius, as if this made some sort of difference. “I love your sister. And she loves me.” He had been standing with his hands behind his back and his feet apart. Suddenly he stood to attention. “Sir, I would like to request permission to marry Marcia Petreia.”

It was like being back in the army. Except that none of the things for which he had been asked permission in the army had ever involved his sister. Ruso sighed. “Stand easy, Tertius. You can’t marry anybody while you’re under contract to a gladiator trainer.”

“That’s why she was trying to buy me out, sir.”

Clearly Marcia and this youth were well suited: each as dimwitted as the other.

Ruso got to his feet. “It would have been better if she’d told me the truth in the first place.”

“I’m sorry about that, sir. When I see her I’ll have a word with her.”

It was so cheeky that, had the circumstances been less grave, Ruso would have smiled. As it was, he said, “I don’t know how much news you get in here, Tertius, but I’m hardly in a position to help you at the moment.”

“You’re free, sir. And nobody else is going to.”

Ruso observed that his sister’s beloved might not be very bright but he was certainly per sis tent. “I’m not going to promise anything to do with Marcia Petreia,” he said. “And you shouldn’t expect anything from me. But if circumstances change, and I find I’m able to help you, then I’ll see what I can do.”

Ruso watched the spring in the youth’s step as he made his way back across to the barracks and wondered if that last vague promise made him almost as much of a fool as Tertius himself.

Gnostus had given him the key to the medical room before heading off to join his apprentices for lunch and told him to lock the door on the way out. Apparently all doors were kept locked here and sharp weapons stored out of reach. Movement around the compound was carefully controlled by the staff and a favored few among the top fighters. Gladiators might be heroes but most of them were also slaves. The veteran with the whip was there both to keep the public out and the occupants in.

Thus it was with some surprise that Ruso, turning to make his way across to the mess and return Gnostus’s key, found himself face-to-face with his former father-in-law.

Probus’s demand of “What are you doing here?” was an unwelcome echo of their last meeting.

“Looking for a job. You?”

“Business.”

“You’re investing in gladiators?”

Probus scowled. “Of course not. Here on behalf of Fuscus. You don’t think he deals with these people himself, do you?”

Ruso, who had never really thought about the business side of public entertainment, said, “I thought he was supposed to have handpicked the fighters.”

“Then he fixed a price with the trainer and left the rest up to me.”

Ruso hoped “the rest” did not include the sanctioning of job offers to medical assistants. “How’s Claudia?”

“None of your business.” Probus moved closer and lowered his voice.

“You had no right to ask her to look into Severus’s commercial dealings.”

“I thought you might know who else he’d upset.”

“Do you have the least idea what releasing private information to someone like you would do for my reputation?”

“Speaking of reputation,” said Ruso, “you could have told me Marcia was looking for a loan before I heard it as gossip.”

“That’s exactly my point,” snapped Probus. “Client confidentiality.”

“She wasn’t a client. You refused her. Quite rightly.”

Probus eyed him for a moment. “You were a deep disappointment to me, Ruso. So much ability, yet so little . . .” he paused, searching for a word. Finally he settled on, “. . . judgment.”

“I didn’t poison your son-in-law.”

“What you’ve never understood is that for a man to succeed in life, it matters what people think of him. A lost reputation is impossible to recover. In my line of business, I have to be seen as utterly trustworthy.”

“Mine too. What if this poisoner goes for Claudia next?”

“Are you threatening my daughter now?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. And stop telling Fuscus I did it, will you?”

When Probus did not answer, he continued, “Someone knows the truth. Help me find out.”

“There will be a proper investigation. We’re waiting for instructions from Rome.”

“I’m not.”

Probus took a step closer. “You have no idea what you’re doing, Ruso. Are you trying to drag me down with you? And Claudia too? Because I won’t let that happen.”

“Tell me something, Probus. When a man lends the money for a shipping venture, who carries the risk? The one who borrows it and arranges the voyage, or the lender?”

“A shipping loan?” The voice was incredulous. “We are discussing my daughter’s safety!”

“Humor me.”

“The lender, of course. High risk, high return.”

“That’s why you sent Justinus on the ship.” Ruso moved closer and murmured, “Severus lost you a lot of money, didn’t he?”

“You know nothing about my affairs.”

“If someone tells the investigator from Rome that Severus sank a lot of your money on the
Pride of the South,
you might be a very plausible suspect.”

“You wouldn’t!”

“You know how it is. Whoever gets picked as the culprit will have all his private business pegged out for inspection in the Forum while the lawyers argue over his moral character.”

A couple of thickset men dressed only in grimy loincloths strolled across the courtyard and began to sort through the pile of nets, one of them displaying a lattice of scars across his back as he bent over. Others were beginning to emerge from the barrack room. Shrieks of “Xantus!” rose over a chant of “Am-pli-a-tus, Am-pli-a-tus!” and hammering on the gates. Probus stepped aside in disgust as something that looked distinctly like female underwear landed in the dust near his feet. He glanced around to make sure he could not be overheard before murmuring, “I thought better of you than this, Ruso.”

“We’re caught in the same net,” said Ruso. “There’s nothing to be gained by fighting each other. Help me.”

“If you try to take me down—or Claudia—I’ll ruin you. You think I don’t know you’re still in far more debt than the farm is worth?”

“So. We share what we know, and we help each other.”

Probus appeared to be considering his options, and not liking any of them. Finally he said, “I have to get ready for the funeral. I can give you some time tomorrow morning. Come alone, and don’t tell anyone. You’ve caused enough trouble already.”

“I’ll be there,” promised Ruso. Watching his former father-in-law cross the courtyard and enter a shadowed door in the corner, it struck him that if Probus was involved in the murder after all, a lone and secret visit to his house was definitely not a good idea. But the banker was also taking a risk in associating with him. They could circle around each other deciding whether to land the first blow, like the pair of fighters now donning their glittering armor in the afternoon sun, or they could try and behave like partners with a common interest in seeking the truth.

In the meantime, he was off to visit some men who claimed they weren’t poisoners, either. There seemed to be a lot of that about.