The girl retreated to sit on her bed. He pressed the cool damp wadding against the back of his head and rested his head on his knees. There was some water left in the cup. He splashed some of it across his toes. It made cold trails inside his sandal but no difference to the pain.
He could make no sense of it. He had done everything in his power to help this girl.
He sat up straight. The girl shrank farther back into the corner, eyes darting between his face and his hands, evidently waiting for the beating to start. He noted for the first time that her hair now hung in two long braids that left wispy curls around her temples.
"Well?" he demanded.
"Master?" she whispered, twisting the end of one of the braids around her finger.
"Are you insane, or do you have a good reason for wanting to murder me?"
"No, Master." Her Latin, he noted, seemed to have undergone a sudden improvement. He wondered in what other ways she had tried to deceive him.
"Do you know what happens to slaves who attack their masters, Tilla?"
The braid twisted tighter. Her lower lip began to tremble. "No, Master."
He hoped she wasn't about to cry. "Well let me tell you," he growled, his head and his toe throbbing in grim unison. "First every slave in the household is arrested. Then the questioners are sent for. It is the questioners' job to extract the truth, and they will carry on their work for several hours, whether their victim talks or not"-in fact it felt as if they were currently in action in the area of his big toe-"because nobody believes that a slave will tell the truth without torture. And because it is not enough to punish the guilty. A message must be sent to all the other slaves who might be thinking of knocking their masters and mistresses on the head. An example must be set." He glared at her. "Is that what you want? To be an example? Or can you explain yourself?"
He removed the wadding and cooled it again in the cup. The pain was clanging inside his skull like a clapper in a bell.
The girl swallowed. "I am going to the next world."
"If I call the questioners, young woman, you will go very, very slowly. And be hard to recognize by the time you get there."
She seemed to be giving this careful thought. Finally she said, "I do not think it is you who comes."
"You thought I was somebody else? I suppose it didn't occur to you to find out first?"
She lifted her good hand to touch one ear. "Soldier boots," she said, pointing to his feet. "Bad man."
Ruso stared at the pale figure with sudden comprehension. He said, "You were going to fight off one of Merula's customers with a soup bowl?"
She nodded.
He cleared his throat. "You are completely wrong," he informed her, arranging his words carefully because the ringing in his head was growing louder and threatening to jumble them. "You are my patient, under my protection. I apologize if that was not explained to you. Clear up the mess and get back into bed. You will not be punished-this time."
The girl crawled across the floor, gathering the broken shards of the bowl. Then she eased herself onto the mattress and pulled up the covers. Ruso noted that the bright blankets seemed to be reserved for the public rooms: This one was ordinary sheep-brown.
"You are here to rest until you get better," he said. "The door is locked to keep you safe."
The girl glanced at the bars on the window, then closed her eyes, as if she was tired of trying to understand.
"Is your arm painful?"
She nodded.
He crouched beside her and checked the bandages. She was lucky:
The splint had held. There was no sign of movement. He placed his fingers and thumb around her upper arm. No swelling or heat. He laid her hand between his.
"Move your fingers." He felt the ends of the fingers twitch between his palms. "Good. Are you eating the food?"
She nodded again.
"Light diet, no flesh, no strong drink, no seafood, and you must drink plenty."
"Beer," she ventured.
"Beer?" He cleared his throat, aware that a professional should not allow wispy curls and a borrowed tunic slipping down over one shoulder to distract him from his work. He recalled his mind to his duty. "Absolutely no beer, nor anything like it." He gestured toward the lidded bucket in the corner, glad that she had not had the strength to use it as a weapon. "Are you passing water?"
She nodded.
"Good."
He reached into the open case. "I'll give you something for the pain, then you can sleep." He measured a few drops into the empty cup and handed it to her.
She took a sip and wrinkled her nose.
"Drink," he ordered, miming the gesture.
She tipped her head back. He retrieved the cup and measured himself a potent dose of the same painkiller, then stood up and closed the shutters. The room was chilly. She had only one blanket.
Downstairs, a lyre player was competing with the din of voices, the to-and-fro slap of the kitchen door, and the clatter and scrape of crockery. From the balcony Ruso could see only two serving girls for all the tables. Both looked harassed. There was a shout of laughter from the far side of the room, where Merula was pouring drinks for a group of officers.
Ruso turned away. The noise was making his head worse. There was still one cubicle with an open door. He limped in and whipped a rich blue blanket off the bed. He picked up a cushion as well. In the doorway he paused and tossed the cushion back onto the bed. There was no point in making her too comfortable.
When he returned the girl was lying flat on the bed with her eyes closed. He laid the blanket over her and tapped her shoulder. "Before you go to sleep," he said, sliding the key into her hand, "make sure you use this."
21
Ruso was trying to make his way down Merula's stairs without it being obvious that he had acquired a limp during his visit when he recognized Decimus, the hospital porter. The man was slumped over the crowded bar, wiping his eyes with a grimy fist. He also recognized the signals the barmaid was making to the doormen over the man's head. Ruso sighed. His head hurt. His foot hurt. His dignity was injured. He would not normally have interfered with an off-duty soldier's right to make a fool of himself in a public bar. But it was Decimus who had warned him about Priscus's imminent return yesterday morning, and he supposed he owed the man some sort of favor.
Hoping nobody would tread on his toe, he threaded his way between the tables. Finally close enough not to be overheard, he said, "Time to go, soldier."
The man looked at him wetly, sniffed, and informed him that he wouldn't understand.
"You're drunk."
"You don't know what it's like, sir."
"Go now, Decimus, before you get into trouble."
"You never liked him anyway. You always said get rid of him."
"Ah." Ruso rubbed the back of his head where what remained of the soup was setting his hair into stiff clumps. "The invisible dog."
"Bastard." The porter twisted on his stool and spat noisily onto the floor.
"Oy!" A bald man whose toes he had just missed spun around and glared at him.
"Bastard made us knock him on the head. He was a good dog. He was my best friend. He was faithful, that's what he was." The orderly waved an arm in the air. "He was faithful! None of you lot, you don't know what faithful means!"
"Get a grip, man!" urged Ruso, feeling pain dance around his skull as he grabbed the man's arm and hauled him toward the door. Unfortunately for them both, Decimus's feet did not follow. Instead, with another shout of "Bastard!" he toppled sideways onto Daphne, who screamed as her tray of drinks slid into the bald man's lap.
The bald man leaped up and shoved her aside, roaring, "I warned you, sunshine!" at the porter.
"He was the best dog in the legion!" yelled the porter. "He was-ow!"