Tilla looked both weary and confused. “Your wife is having a baby?”
“Emergency patient,” Valens explained. “A long way from home, can’t find her husband, and her waters popped in the middle of the tax office. I’m sure she’d rather see you than any of us.”
The tone of Tilla’s yes suggested she had more to say but she was saving it for later.
“Still a bit thin,” Valens observed after she had gone, “but charmingly freckled. The Gaulish sunshine’s done her good.” He flung himself back onto the couch. “I practically dropped the letter when I read that you’d married her, you know.”
Ruso could hardly believe it himself at times. He was still not sure how a destitute British slave with a broken arm had managed to slip past the defenses of an educated and civilized man-especially a man who had been determined not to repeat the mistake of his first marriage. It was not as if Tilla had deliberately set out to lure him. She had consistently refused to embrace the qualities one might seek in either a slave or a wife. She showed neither obedience nor respect, and both he and Valens had given up hoping that she would ever learn to cook properly. Yet he had found that he was much happier with her than without her. Back at home, with their relationship under the dubious scrutiny of his family, marriage had seemed the natural-even the honorable-thing to do.
“But then I thought,” Valens continued, “what harm can it do? And I’m delighted to see you both. Not to mention that rather promising amphora I notice has arrived with you. You, me, Tilla-it’ll be just like the old days in the Legion.”
Ruso, noting the absence of mold on the walls and beer stains on the furniture, said, “Not quite.”
“Well, no, we’ve come up in the world since then. At least, I have. Did you notice my rather lovely consulting rooms on the way in? Once word gets around that you’re a personal physician to the famous
…” He smiled and spread his hands in a gesture that was somewhere between a modest shrug and an attempt to demonstrate the enormity of the good things that had come his way since they both left the army. “Anyway, let’s hope young Firmus likes you. Then who knows how high you might go?”
Ruso frowned. “Who’s Firmus?”
“Some sort of junior relative who’s in charge while the procurator’s laid up.” It was not a ringing endorsement of Firmus’s competence as an employer. Ruso suspected that Valens, having failed to find him a job despite all the breezy assurances in his letters that it would be no problem, had now offered his services to the first person who looked open to persuasion.
“Tell me about him.”
“Looks as though he’s cracked a couple of ribs, and he’s seriously shaken up. Not to mention embarrassed. Between you and me, I’d imagine that when the governor’s away on tour he’s supposed to be sitting in his office running the province, not gallivanting around chasing wild boar. Especially a man of his age.”
“I meant Firmus,” explained Ruso, who was not interested in the accident that had temporarily disabled one of Hadrian’s two top men in Britannia.
Valens shook his head. “Frighteningly young, Ruso. As they all are these days. He came trotting in while I was strapping his uncle up and said he had a mad native ranting about a missing husband and stolen money, and now she was about to give birth on the floor of his office and what should he do?” The grin reappeared. “Unfortunately I’d just filled the procurator with poppy juice, so he wouldn’t have cared if Juno herself was giving birth in the office. Young Firmus was looking a bit desperate, and I’d just heard that your ship was coming in on the next tide, so everything fell into place rather neatly.”
“You told him I’d rush all over Britannia for the tax office, hunting down this woman’s missing husband?”
“From what I can gather, all he needs is someone to nip up the road to Verulamium-which is a pleasant enough place, by the way-chat to the locals, and confirm whether this fellow’s really abandoned his wife and run off with all their money. Just come back with a report the lad can hand over when the procurator gets back to work. What could be simpler?”
“If it’s so simple, why can’t he find someone else to do it?”
Valens sighed. “He could, Ruso. Frankly, I should think the next-door neighbor’s dog could do it. But you’re the one with no money and no job. I’ve solved your problem and his at the same time, you see? You might try and be grateful.”
Ruso said, “I’ll do my best.”
Another cry from upstairs penetrated the room. Valens winced. In the silence that followed he said, ‘I hope she doesn’t go on too long, poor woman. You can hear it all over the house.”
Ruso got to his feet. “I suppose if I’m going to look for her husband,” he said, “I’d better try to talk to her while she’s still listening.” It seemed like bad luck to say, While she’s still alive, although given the number of women who did not survive childbirth despite the best of help, it might have been more honest.
4
Upstairs, everything was going very well.
He was not sure whether this was true, or whether Tilla was just saying so to keep her patient calm.
The air held the spearmint smell of the pennyroyal Tilla had taken from Valens’s medicine shelves. The woman was kneeling on the floor with her back to him, elbows resting on the bed and head bowed in concentration. A thick tail of tangled red hair cascaded down over a cream linen shift that Ruso thought he might have seen before on his wife. A selection of cloths and woolen bandages and sponges had been laid out next to the bowls of water on top of the cupboard. A little figurine of a goddess had been placed on a stool in the corner. In front of it was a lit candle and an offering of some of the olives they had brought from Gaul. Tilla might have started worshipping Christos while they were away, but here she was taking no chances.
He beckoned her out of the room to explain what he wanted, adding, “Don’t tell her I’m a doctor.”
His wife looked askance at him. “Do not think of behaving like one. It is bad enough managing with no birthing stool and no helpers.”
“If you need us to-”
“If I am truly desperate, I will ask you to fetch a neighbor.”
Back in the room, the woman was eager to tell him her troubles. The torrent of words tumbled over one another and at times he had difficulty separating them even though her Latin was good. It seemed that her husband and his brother had left Verulamium three days ago, intending to visit a neighbor on the Londinium road. They had not been seen since. Now the Council were accusing them of theft.
“You must listen!” she insisted, gripping a fistful of bedcover. “Something has happened to them. Nobody will listen to me. That is why I came to the procurator.”
She stopped talking, lumbered to her feet, and walked around to the window. Clinging onto the sill, she bent forward and cried out. Tilla stood behind her, patiently massaging her back and assuring her she was doing very well.
He waited for the contraction to pass, silently absorbing this fresh evidence that women were very poorly designed. He had, without telling his wife, added a book on pregnancy and childbirth to his collection of medical texts. Yet it still remained a mystery to him why Tilla, who knew more about childbirth than most, was so desperate to go through it. Picturing himself carrying a small son or even a daughter on his shoulders gave him an inexplicable sense of warmth and contentment, but had his own part in the procedure been as troublesome-not to mention dangerous-as this, he might have wondered whether it was worth the bother.
Finally Camma let go of the windowsill and whispered, “Another step closer?”
“Another step closer,” Tilla assured her. “Do not worry. My husband will help to look for your man. He is good at this sort of thing.”