The girl was no longer with him when he woke in the morning, but the fire was freshly built up and a basin of water lay on the hearth to warm, with linen beside it and his clothing on a rack, also near the flames. Rustem lay still a moment, orienting himself, then made his first gesture with his right arm towards the east, murmuring the name of the Lady.
There came a knocking. Three times. First significant sound. The sound and the number benign omens for the day. The steward entered to his call. The man seemed anxious and disconcerted. Not surprisingly, given the events of the night before.
But there was more to it than that, evidently.
It seemed that Rustem had people attending upon him already. A number of them, and some were distinguished. It had not taken any time at all after the wedding yesterday for word to spread of the arrival in the City of a Bassanid physician and teacher, temporarily residing in a city home of the Master of the Senate. And whereas drunken young Hippodrome partisans might be viciously abusive of all foreigners, those afflicted in body and soul had a differing view of the arcane wisdoms of the east.
Rustem had not given this possibility any thought at all, but it was hardly an unwelcome development. And might prove useful. Sitting up in bed he stroked his beard, thinking quickly, and instructed the steward-whose manner had visibly gained in deference since last night-to have the patients return after midday. He also told him to advise them frankly that Rustem's fees were very high and to be prepared for that. Let them all decide he was no more than a greedy Bassanid, simple in his purposes here.
What he wanted was high-born or wealthy patients. The ones who could pay those fees. The ones who might possibly know things that mattered, and might confide them to a doctor. People did that, everywhere, and he was here for a reason, after all. He asked after his patient, and the steward reported that the wounded man was still asleep. He gave instructions to have someone look in on the fellow at intervals and report- discreetly-when he woke. No one was supposed to know that the man was here. It was still a source of some amusement to Rustem, how utterly overwhelmed the very dour, proper steward had been last night by the arrival of a mere athlete, a person from the games.
"Jad of the blessed Sun!" he had cried out when the charioteer had been helped across the threshold. His hand had shaped a religious sign, his tone had suggested he was seeing the named deity, not merely invoking him.
Holy men and charioteers, that is who they honour in Sarantium. An old saying. It appeared to be true. Divertingly.
After washing and dressing himself and taking a light morning meal downstairs, Rustem had the servants set about rearranging two of the main-floor rooms into examination chambers and fetching certain necessary things. The steward proved to be efficient and composed. They might be spying on him, but Bonosus's people were well trained, and by the time the sun was high on what had become a mild and beneficent day in early spring, Rustem had rooms and implements sufficient to his needs. He formally entered the two chambers, left foot first on each threshold, invoking Perun and the Lady. He bowed to the four corners, beginning with the east, looked around, and pronounced himself satisfied.
A little before midday the boy, the Senator's son who had brought the athlete to them last night, had appeared again, his face tinged a greyish-white with strain. It seemed unlikely he'd had any sleep. Rustem had briskly sent him off to buy linens and certain items for the wound dressing. Tasks were what the boy needed. It was actually necessary to remind himself now that this was the person who'd killed Nishik yesterday morning. Things changed swiftly here, it seemed.
The lad looked grateful and frightened at the same time. "Um, if you please…? My father won't know I was the one who… brought him here? Please?"
That had been said last night, as well. It appeared the boy had been abroad without permission. Well, of course: he had killed someone in the morning. Rustem had nodded then and did so again now. The growing web of secrecy might also be useful, he had decided. People in his debt. The day was beginning well.
He would want a student or two eventually, for the proper tone and gravity, but they could come later. For now, he had Elita dress herself in a long, dark green tunic and showed her how to present patients to him in the inner chamber while others waited in the second room. He explained that she was to remain with him if the patient was female. Physicians were vulnerable to wild, inflammatory allegations and a second woman was a necessary precaution if there were no students available.
Just past midday he was informed by the steward that more than twenty people had now gathered-or sent their servants to wait-in the street outside the door. There had already been complaints from the neighbours, the man reported. It was a dignified district.
Rustem told the steward to make immediate apologies along the street and then take names of those waiting and set a limit of six patients for each day. It was necessary, if he was to achieve any of the other tasks he'd set himself while here. Once he had students they could begin a process of selecting among those who had most need of him. It was a waste of his time, really, to treat routine cataracts. After all, it was Merovius ot Trakesia whose methods he used, and they had to know those techniques here in the west.
Elita, rather appealing in the green tunic and looking somewhat less shy, came hurrying into the room. The fellow upstairs was awake. Rustem went up quickly and entered the room, left foot first.
The man was sitting up, propped by pillows. He was very pale, but his eyes were clear and his breathing seemed less shallow.
"Doctor. I owe you my thanks. I need to be able to race a chariot in five days," he said, without preamble. "Or twelve at the outside. Can you do this?"
"Race a chariot? I certainly can't," Rustem said pleasantly. He walked over and examined the patient more carefully. For a man who might have died the night before, he seemed alert. The breathing, on closer attention, wasn't as good as he'd like. Not surprising.
The man smiled wryly after a moment. There was a brief silence. "You are indirectly telling me to slow down, I suspect."
He had had a deep, ripping stab wound that had barely missed reaching a maramata point and ending his life. He had then been kicked in the same ribs the knife had slid between, causing what must have been appalling pain. It was very possible his lung was collapsed, fallen from where it should lodge, against the ribs.
It was something of a wonder to Rustem that this fellow had actually walked to this house. It was unclear how he'd managed to breathe adequately or stay conscious. Athletes would have high tolerance for discomfort, but even so…
Rustem picked up the fellow's left wrist and began counting through the various indicia. "Have you urinated this morning?"
"I haven't left the bed."
"Nor will you. There is a flask on the table."
The man made a face. "Surely I can-"
"Surely you can't, or I withdraw treatment. I understand there are physicians attached to your racing group. I am happy to have someone alert them and have you transferred by litter." Some people needed this manner. The signals from the pulse were adequate, though there was more agitation than was good.
The man named Scortius blinked. "You are accustomed to getting your way, aren't you?" He tried to shift a little more upright and gasped, surrendering the attempt.