Free Medicus by Ruth Downie

them, but as soon as he explained that he had work to do they seemed to have forgotten all about him.
    At least they didn't keep popping in to ask how it was going. The Concise Guide had been conceived—the only thing that was, thank the gods—during his marriage to Claudia. It had been a welcome retreat. The early work had progressed fluently, but several chapters in, it had occurred to him that he was no longer being "concise." Instantly, the flow of words seemed to dry up. While he waited for inspiration to return, he went back to the beginning and edited the first chapters to half their original length. That was when Claudia asked to see how much he had written.
    "Is that all?"
    "It's supposed to be concise."
    "So is it finished now?"
    "No."
    "Well, when will it be?"
    "Later."
    "You ought to talk to Publius Mucius if you're stuck. He writes books."
    "I am not stuck!" To prove it, he had begun to devise an Overall Plan. This was what he should have done in the first place. He had entangled himself too early in the detail.
    Ruso stared gloomily at the four versions of the Overall Plan, which he had removed from the trunk and stacked on the corner of his writing table. Each version had made good the shortcomings of its predecessor, but some new drawback had soon become apparent. He had kept all the versions in case he wanted to refer to them later—it would be a nuisance to find he'd rubbed something flat only to have to rewrite it—but incredibly, considering the hours he had spent poring over each one, he could not now remember which was which. He did not know whether the tablet claiming to be the LATEST VERSION really was, or whether he should be working from the NEW. And what was AMENDED amending?
    Ruso sighed. The truth was, despite all the hours he had spent on it, the Overall Plan had been a waste of time. Maybe the whole project—no, he couldn't abandon the Concise Guide after all this work. Any fool with a stylus and a modicum of education—even Publius Mucius—could write a book, and plenty of them seemed to make money at it. Unlike most of them, he actually knew something worth passing on. He must simply get on with it. He picked up the stylus, frowned at the title "Treatments for Eye Injuries," and began to write.
    One of the dogs was scratching at his door. Ruso reread what he had just written and realized he had left out a vital word. He upended the stylus and flattened the wax.
    There was another shout of laughter from outside. When it died away there was a brief moment of peace, then the scratching started again. Ruso made a conscious decision to ignore the dog, rewrote line three, and mentally arranged the essential points of "Treatments for Eye Injuries" into the right order.
    The scratching stopped. A plaintive whine came from under the door. Ruso wrote "Next, check for . . ." With the writing end of the stylus poised above the wax but no patient in front of him as a reminder, he realized he couldn't remember what to check next. He flung the stylus down and made for the door, managing as he went to stub his toe on the corner of a trunk that didn't quite fit under the bed.
    When he opened the door the terrier bitch rushed in and then stopped dead, sniffing, while several small shapes bounded past her and disappeared under the bed. Ruso narrowly missed treading on another one in the doorway.
    One of Valens's friends, a veterinary surgeon, was waving his arms in the air, demonstrating the height of a jump taken by a filly with the potential to be one of the best horses in the province.
    "Ruso!" Valens paused to pick out a date from a bowl propped on the arm of the couch. "Want to buy a horse?"
    "Not today."
    "How's the work going?"
    "Well, the dog was eager to read it."
    "Oh, sorry!" Valens gestured toward Ruso's room with the date. "I meant to tell you . . . " Ruso waited while Valens bit one end off the date. "I think you've got a mouse in there. She was at the door this afternoon. If you leave her,