Ruth Downie: Medicus

He had seen many people die, and he could still make no sense of it.

One moment the body was a person with a will and a future and a sense of humor and a liking for honeyed dates or goat cheese or other men's wives. Then-and the change could take a second, or hours, or days, but the end was always the same-the body was just a mass of flesh which had to be disposed of before it stank. And whatever anyone said about ghosts or open doors or crucified Judean carpenters, nobody had ever come back, so how could anyone say with any confidence that there was a better place-or any place at all?

He knelt, stretched out his hands, and let the cold dry earth run through his fingers. Plants had begun to grow on the grave. He assumed they were weeds, although in the moonlight it was impossible to tell. It had been difficult enough to make out the name burned along the wooden post that was hammered into the top of the grave as a marker, but finally he had picked out all the letters: SAUFEIA. Spelled correctly. One "f."

He had never met this young woman in life. He had only seen the battered and decaying husk of a body from which the soul was long gone. He owed her no duty beyond that of a doctor to a patient. He had more than fulfilled that duty. Yet still he felt guilty.

The people who buried Saufeia's ashes had not left a spout to connect the dead to the living, so he lifted the cup of wine he had bought from the stall-how Roman these people had become! — and held it at arm's length above the grave. He listened for a moment to the sounds of celebration drifting over from the bonfire. Then he began to tilt the cup until a thin stream of wine ran from it to soak into the soft earth. As it trickled into the ground he said quietly, "May you rest in peace, sister. May you enjoy a better life in the next world than you suffered in this one. May you forgive us all for not avenging you sooner, and…" He paused to clear his throat, "and may the dead be kind enough to forgive me for not telling the whole truth, because I have a duty to the living."

"Sometimes," murmured a girl's voice, "is good not to tell too much truth."

Ruso felt his whole body begin to shake. The night when the doors are open between the living and the dead… And yet it was the wrong voice. He knew that voice. He knew it very well indeed. Slowly, he lowered the cup onto the grave and was relieved to press his hands onto the solid earth. He told himself he was not losing his mind. He was simply confusing his memories: an understandable mistake brought on by the strange surroundings of the moonlit cemetery and too much free wine at the bar.

"Hail and farewell, Saufeia," he whispered, then scrambled hastily to his feet.

"Are you finish?" The words were spoken by a woman in native dress with a shawl pulled over her head.

He stared at her, squinting in the moonlight. "You aren't really here," he informed her. "I've had too much to drink. I am going to walk to the real world now, past next year and back into this one, and then I am going to bed, and when I wake up tomorrow morning you won't be there."

The girl eyed him solemnly and then said, "My Lord is afraid he is losing his mind."

"I'm not losing my mind," he insisted, "I'm drunk."

"My Lord is drunk," she agreed, "but I am here. She pushed back the shawl and held out one bare arm. "See?"

He rubbed his eyes and looked at the pale arm. Then he took it and turned it over, marveling at its straightness.

"I have seen you go to the bar," explained Tilla. "I wait outside for a very long time while you drink, and I follow you."

He had thought many times about what he would say to Tilla if he ever saw her again. He could not remember what he had decided. Instead, he found himself slipping back into the role of doctor. "The muscles in the arm will be weak," he heard himself telling her. "You must do exercises every day to build them up again. Clench your fist for me. Good. Do you have full movement in the hand?"

She gave a deep, throaty chuckle. "Now will you will ask me if my bowels are open today?"

He let go of the arm. "No. I'm sorry, Tilla, I-" He glanced around them at the deserted cemetery. "I can't believe you're here. I thought you were never coming back."

"The first time I meet you," she said, "I am thinking I wish to die. I want to go to the next world. You, with your bandages and your exercises and eat your dinner and have you use the pot yet, you keep me here."

Ruso scratched his ear. "I'm not sure about the next world," he said.

"That's why I prefer to keep people in this one, just in case."

"Then I find out that you want to sell me."

"That was a mistake," said Ruso. "I wasn't thinking straight."

"A mistake, yes."

"Did you bring the message about Phryne?"

"I send a boy to the gate. I have to find out what has happened to that Priscus man. To know if it is safe to come."

"I thought you would stay at home with your people."

She paused. "I think about you and the other good-looking doctor," she said. "In that terrible house."

"Valens is trying to engage a better one," said Ruso.

"My arm is mended," she said. "I am still in this world, and I have to thank you. If you sell me, you can get a better house. Then I will find a way to the next world and you will have money."

He stared at her. "You mean I sell you, I get lots of money, and if you don't like the new owner you kill yourself? What sort of an arrangement is that?"

"Is honorable."

"Is ridiculous. I told you, I don't believe in the next world. And I wouldn't dream of sending anyone to it so I can have a better house. That was never what I needed the money for." He hesitated. "If you really want to do something for me, come home."

She looked him up and down. "You have not shave. There are dark rings under your eyes." She placed a finger close to the pin on his chest.

"There is a hole in your cloak."

"I've been doing a lot of night duty."

The sound of cheering and laughter drifted over from the bonfire.

She said, "Will your better house have mice?"

He took a deep breath. "If you come back," he said, "you will not be sleeping with the mice. You will be sleeping with me."

Another burst of distant laughter broke the silence. He was beginning to think he had made a serious mistake when she reached forward, took his hand, and turned to address the grave.

"We must leave now, sister," she said. "We will pray for you. Watch over us in the new year from the next world."

They were almost back at the fort gates when Tilla said, "I must tell you some truth, my Lord. You could not sell me anyway"

"Why not?" said Ruso, happy to launch into an argument now that he was assured of her company. "I have the documents. You told me yourself that Innocens bought you in a legitimate sale."

There was a slight pause before she replied, "I told you he pay money for me."

"Exactly."

"The woman he pay is not the one who-"

"Stop!" ordered Ruso. "Whatever it is, I don't want to hear it. I'mtired of the truth. Just carry on the way you are, Tilla. That's an order."

Ancient accounts of Roman Britain are tantalizingly patchy, and everything we have-even passages purporting to tell us what the Britons were thinking and saying-comes from the conqueror's pen. The earliest British stories were not recorded until an era as far removed from Hadrian as we are from Shakespeare. However, many of the gaps are still being filled by archaeology, and anyone in search of reliable information about our ancestors should most definitely look there rather than within the pages of an entertainment such as this.

The layout and remains of Deva can be seen in the streets of modern day Chester, although the port silted up many years ago. The Twentieth Legion really did carry out major rebuilding there during Trajan's reign, but the schedule, the delays, and the bad behavior were imposed upon their innocent ghosts by me. I should also confess that while the administration portrayed here was inspired by the Roman army's meticulous record keeping, some of the arrangements might come as a surprise to scholars. They might be less surprising to anyone who has attempted to plait the fog of public finance for a living.