Terra Incognita by Ruth Downie Page A

that his eyes were still irresistibly drawn to the place where Felix the trumpeter’s head should be. It was just—not right. Every time he looked away, his imagination replaced the head and each new look was a fresh shock.
    He stood up and pulled the linen sheet back over the length of the table. Then he sat on a stool, balanced the note tablet on his knee, and tapped the point of the stylus against the wooden frame.
    He needed to have discovered something . Stating, “No sign of resistance,” and refusing to speculate on an unknown cause of death would only confirm what seemed to be a generally poor opinion of doctors here.
    The point came to rest on the corner of the wax. The murderer had not used his own weapon, which suggested the crime—or at least, the method—was not premeditated. Somehow, the murderer had managed to take Felix’s knife and use it against him without an obvious fight. Ruso dismissed the idea of an overpowering god and told himself he must be tired. A god would surely have used a more efficient manner of execution. No, Felix had fallen forward onto his knees . . .
    Ruso dug the point of the stylus into the wax. On the evidence he had found, it was not impossible that someone had approached the victim from behind and overpowered him by knocking him out.
    He readjusted his grip on the stylus and scraped, “Possible cause of death: head injuries,” and told himself the word possible meant he was not compromising his standards.

12
    T ILLA PAUSED AT the top of the slope, taking in the sight of the broad meadows and the river snaking between the willows and dividing around the little islands. Home was just beyond the wooded ridge on the far side of the valley, not yet in sight. Perhaps that was a good thing. She would not spoil this moment by thinking about what she might find there. Instead, she would enjoy the memories of paddling in those stony shallows with her brothers and the other children while their parents exchanged goods and gossip at the market.
    She had assured the medicus that this valley was beautiful, but in truth the memory of its beauty had faded with use. Now, seeing it basking in the afternoon sun, with the skylarks spilling music into the air like silver and the yellow splashes of gorse on the hillsides celebrating her return, she wanted to shriek with delight and run laughing down the road, leaving behind the sour-faced soldiers still tramping in their miserable column like a row of iron wood lice.
    Instead she took in a deep breath of the precious air and told herself, “I am home!” before walking on, keeping pace with the baggage train. She had a duty to make sure Lydia was safe. Lydia would not be running around laughing today. Her man would not be running for a long time. Perhaps never. This morning he had been a healthy young Roman with a new daughter and a steady trade as a carpenter with the legion. By midday he had become a body lying in a cart with a crushed leg that the medicus had covered up so as not to frighten him. She tried not to think about what the medicus might have done to him while other men held him down. She had assured Lydia that her master was a fine doctor. This had seemed to comfort her. Evidently the girl knew very little about surgery.
    She shifted her bruised arm to ease the ache that echoed the blows from the centurion’s stick. She would ask the medicus for some salve tonight. Perhaps she would also ask him to explain to the centurion that she had nothing to do with the accident, and that she was not in league with Cernunnos the horned god or with Taranis the god of thunder against anybody. The figure had simply appeared to her in answer to her prayers for another woman’s safety. It was not her fault if he had come back the next day and brought about a terrible accident. And if he had a face that was vaguely familiar, what of it? She must have seen him in a dream.
    “Is that it?” Lydia was clutching the side of the cart with both hands