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.

Rustem shook his head. In his most measured, calming voice now he said, "Galinus here in the west taught that there are three elements to any sickness. The disease, the patient, the physician. You are stronger than most men, I believe that. But you are only one of three parts here and this is a grave injury. Your entire left side is… unstable. I can't bind the ribs properly until I am certain of the stab wound and your breathing. Am I used to having my way? Not in most things. What man is? In treatment a doctor must, however." He permitted his tone to soften further. "You do know they can have us fined or even executed in Bassania if an accepted patient dies." A personal revelation was sometimes effective.

After a moment the charioteer nodded. He was a smallish, exceptionally handsome man. Rustem had seen the network of scars on his body last night. From his colouring, he was from the south. The same desert spaces Rustem knew. A hard place, making hard men.

"I'd forgotten. You are a long way from your home, aren't you?"

Rustem shrugged. "Injuries and sickness change little enough."

"Circumstances do. I do not wish to be difficult, but I can't afford to go back to the faction compound and face questions just now, and I must race. The Hippodrome is opening in five days, these are… complex times here."

"They may well be so, but I can swear to you by my deities or yours that there is no doctor alive who would agree to that, or could achieve it." He paused. "Unless you wish to simply get into a chariot and die on the track from loss of blood, or when your crushed ribs cave inward and stop your breathing? A heroic ending? Is that it?"

The man shook his head, a little too vigorously. He winced at the movement, and put a hand to his side. He then swore, with great feeling, blaspheming both his deity and the controversial son of the Jaddite god.

"The next week then? Second race day?"

"You will remain in a bed for twenty or thirty days, charioteer, then you will begin very careful walking and other movements. This bed or another, I hardly care. It isn't only the ribs. You were stabbed, you know."

"Well, yes, I do know. It hurt."

"And must heal cleanly, or you may die of the inflammation's exudation. The dressing must be examined and changed every second day for two weeks, fresh poultices applied and left undisturbed by further bleeding. I have to drain the wound again, in any case-I haven't even stitched it yet and I will not for several days. You are going to be in extreme discomfort for some time."

The fellow was staring at him intently. With certain men it was best to be honest about this. Rustem paused. "I am not unaware that the games in your Hippodrome are important, but you will not be part of them until summer and it were best if you made yourself easy with that. Wouldn't it be the same if you'd had a fall of some kind? Broken your leg?"

The charioteer closed his eyes. "Not quite the same, but yes, I take your point." He looked at Rustem again. His eyes really were encouragingly clear. "I am being insufficiently grateful. It was the middle of the night and you had no preparation at all. I seem to be alive." He grinned wryly. "Able to be difficult. You have my thanks. Would you be good enough to have someone bring me writing paper and let the steward send a discreet runner to Senator Bonosus letting him know I am here?"

A well-spoken man. Not at all like the wrestlers or acrobats or horseback performers Rustem had known as entertainers back home.

His patient dutifully provided a sample of urine and Rustem determined that the colour was predictably red but not alarmingly so. He mixed another dose of his soporific and the charioteer was quite docile about accepting it. Then he drained the wound again, checking the flow and colour carefully. Nothing unduly alarming yet.

Men such as this one, who had experienced pain on a regular basis, knew the needs of their own bodies, Rustem thought. He changed the dressing, looking closely at the crusted blood around the wound. It was still bleeding, but not heavily. He allowed himself a small flicker of satisfaction. There was a long way to go, however.

He went downstairs. There were patients waiting. The six he had allowed. Today it was simply the first six in line; they'd devise a more precise system as soon as they could. The morning's first omens had proven true, even here among the unbelieving Jaddites. Events were developing in a very benign way.

That first afternoon he examined a merchant dying of a tumour that was eating at his stomach. Rustem was unable to offer anything at all, not even his usual mixture for this extreme level of pain, since he hadn't brought that with him and had no connections here with those who mixed physicians" private remedies. Another task for the next few days. He would make the Senator's boy be useful. Employ him like the servant he'd killed. It appealed to his sense of irony.