Awaiting him was a two-person delegation from the physicians" guild.
His mood changed, very quickly.
Both men were visibly and vocally outraged to find a foreigner having set himself up to practise medicine in Sarantium in a private home without so much as a visit to the guild or a by-your-leave. Given that he was here-ostensibly-to lecture, to learn, to buy manuscripts, share information with western colleagues, this anger was likely to bring consequences.
Rustem, furious with himself for an obvious oversight, took refuge in ignorance and earnest apologies… he was from a small town only, had no idea of the complexities of things in a great city, had had no intention at all to offend or transgress. Patients had gathered outside without his having put forth any word at all. The steward would confirm that. His oath-just like their own in the tradition of the west's great Galinus- required him to try to be of aid. He would be honoured to attend upon the guild. Immediately, if permitted. Would cease seeing patients, of course, if they requested it. Was entirely in their hands. And, in passing, might his distinguished visitors wish to join him in dining with the Master of the Senate tonight?
They registered that last remark, more than anything else. Declined the offer, of course, but noted it, along with where he was staying. Whose house it was. Access to corridors of power. The possibility he might be someone not to be offended.
One could be amused, really. Men were the same all over the world.
Rustem escorted the two Sarantine doctors to the door, promised to be at the guild rooms by mid-morning tomorrow. Begged their expert assistance in all matters there. Bowed. Expressed, again, his contrition and the degree to which he was gratified by their visit and looked forward to sharing their knowledge. Bowed again.
The steward, expressionless, closed the door. Rustem, an eccentric mood coming upon him, actually winked at the man.
Then he went up to attend to the streaking of his beard again (it needed regular care) and change for dinner at the Senator's house. Bonosus had been asked by the patient to come here. He probably would. By now Rustem had a pretty good idea of the importance of the wounded man asleep in the next room. Charioteers and holy men. He wondered if he'd be able to turn tonight's dinner talk to the possibility of war. Too soon, he decided. He had just arrived, spring was only beginning. Nothing could or would happen at speed, surely. Except the racing, he thought.
Everyone in Sarantium-even the dying-seemed to be thinking about chariots. A frivolous people? He shook his head: too hasty an assessment, likely wrong. But in his new role as an observer of the Sarantines for the King of Kings he would have to attend the Hippodrome, he decided, like a physician visiting a patient.
It came into his mind abruptly to wonder if Shaski liked horses. He realized that he didn't know, and that since he was so far from home he couldn't ask.
It changed the feel of the afternoon, for a time.
When the Senator came, late in the day, his manner was grave and brisk. He noted the changed downstairs rooms without comment, heard Rustem's account of the night before (with, as promised, no mention of the boy), and then entered the room of Scortius and firmly closed the door behind himself.
Rustem had urged him to keep the visit brief and Bonosus did so, coming out a short while later. He said nothing, of course, about the conversation that had taken place within. They were carried by litter to his principal residence. He remained singularly distracted during the dinner that followed.
It was an immensely civilized evening, nonetheless. The guests were served wine as they entered by the Senator's charming daughters: clearly the children of an earlier wife, the one here was much too young to be their mother. The two girls withdrew before the party was led to the dining couches.
Rustem's experience of such things owed more to his time in Ispahani lands than to any encounters at home, of course. Kerakek was not a place where invisible music played softly through the evening and impeccable servants hovered behind each couch, attentive to the least hint of a need. Under the polished guidance of the Senator's wife Rustem was made welcome with the other guests, a Bassanid silk merchant (a courteous touch, that) and two Sarantine patricians and their wives. The Senator's wife and the other two women, all elegant, poised and at ease, were much more conversational than those in Ispahani ever tended to be at such gatherings. They asked him a great many questions about his training, his family, drew him out on the subject of adventures in Ispahani lands. The mysteries of the far east, rumours of magics and fabled creatures, held an obvious fascination here. There was a discreet avoidance of Rustem's dramatic arrival in Sarantium the morning before; the drama, after all, had been occasioned by the Senator's son-who was nowhere to be seen. It became clear that no one knew about the equally dramatic late-night events involving the charioteer. Bonosus said nothing. Rustem wasn't about to bring it up.
A physician owed a duty to his patient.
In his best robe and carrying his walking staff, he attended at the guild the next morning, conducted by one of the household servants, bearing a note of introduction offered him by the Senator over the last wine of the evening.
Rustem made all the necessary gestures and remarks, and found himself welcomed with courtesy. It was peacetime, and these were members of his own profession. He wasn't about to stay long enough to represent a threat, and he might be useful to them. It was arranged that he would deliver a lecture in two weeks" time here at the guild-hall. They sanctioned his treatment of a handful of patients a day in the rooms he'd set up, and he was given the names of two apothecary and herbalist shops where accurately mixed medicines could be obtained. The matter of students was deferred (a bit too much permanence implied?) but Rustem had already decided that would have to wait in any event, as long as the charioteer was in the house.
And so he set in motion-more easily than he could have expected- a life, a pattern to his days, as springtime flowered in Sarantium. He paid a visit to a public bathhouse with the Bassanid merchant of the night before and established that the man had access to messengers going to Kabadh. Nothing was said explicitly, much exchanged by inference.
A few days after that a message arrived from Kabadh, and a great deal was altered.
It came by way of yet another Bassanid. At first, when the steward informed Rustem of the presence of one of his countrymen in the morning line of patients, Rustem had simply assumed that an eastern merchant had chosen to be treated for some ailment by a physician familiar with eastern regimens. The fellow was his third patient of the day.
When the man entered, soberly garbed, neatly barbered, Rustem turned to him with an inquiring glance and asked after his health in their own tongue. The patient said nothing, merely withdrew a parchment from within his clothing and extended it.
There was no formal seal that might have given warning. Rustem opened the parchment and read. He sat down as he did so, felt himself going pale, was aware that this ostensible patient was watching him closely. When he finished, he looked up at the other man.
It was difficult to speak. He cleared his throat. "You… know what this says?"
The man nodded. "Burn it now," he said. His voice was cultured.
There was a brazier in the room; the mornings were still cold. Rustem went over to it and put the parchment in the flame, watching until it was consumed.