Terra Incognita by Ruth Downie

before. She dared not say so. The centurion would only hit her again for failing to remember where. Perhaps it was in a dream. The gods visited people in dreams. Everyone knew it.
    “Tall, short, fat, thin, young, old? What were his clothes like?”
    She closed her eyes and murmured a prayer to Cernunnos for courage.
    “Speak up, girl. What did he look like?”
    She opened her eyes. “He is the man-god we saw on the horse, sir. He is the god with the antlers.”
    This time she had braced herself for the stick, but the pain of the second blow on top of the first still made her gasp.
    “I don’t want to hear that rubbish. Was there a man or wasn’t there?”
    “It was the god Cernunnos, sir, I swear. I felt him brush past me.”
    “Tell me what he looked like.”
    “He had antlers!” What more could anyone need to know?
    The centurion gave an exaggerated sigh. “Try telling me what he was doing.”
    “He is standing with his hand on the wheel of a wagon. One moment he is there, the next he is vanish in the dark.”
    The centurion glanced at his men. “All right. Let her go.”
    The grip on her arms was released.
    “Stay where I can find you,” he ordered. “I’ll be talking to your master later. And if you’ve lied to me, I’ll have you flogged.”

8
    T HE HOSPITAL, S IR? ”
    Ruso had unfastened his armor, slung his riding breeches over one shoulder, and was clad in a creased and sweaty tunic whose edges were splattered with mud and bloodstains. The Batavian soldier from whom he had just asked directions looked at him with mingled concern and confusion, then glanced up and down the busy street of the fort in the apparent hope that he might spot a building he had failed to notice before. Since the stronghold at Coria had turned out to be extremely small—an energetic sentry atop the timber turret of the east gate could have held a shouted conversation over the clang of the smithy with one on the west—this did not seem likely.
    “I think the nearest hospital’s at Vindolanda, sir,” the man suggested. “Shall I go and ask somebody for you?”
    “Vindolanda?”
    “Out on the west road, sir. You could be there by dinnertime on a fast horse.”
    “But you must have a hospital!” insisted Ruso. “The gate guard told me it was next to headquarters. I’ve got an injured man arriving any minute.”
    The man frowned. “Not more trouble, sir?”
    “Traffic accident,” explained Ruso.
    The man pointed to a long low wood-framed building across the road. “They must have meant the infirmary. You won’t find a medic there now, though, sir. Not at this time of day.”
    “I am the medic,” explained Ruso. The man did not look entirely convinced.
    The closed door of the infirmary had painted carvings of gods nailed up on either side. The uglier of the two must be some sort of protector that the Tenth Batavians had brought with them from wherever Batavia was. The other, with a snake curled around his stick, was Aesculapius, the god of healing. At least the carpenter would find a familiar helper here. The artistic effect was spoiled by an untidy message chalked on the door: “Days to Governor’s Visit” was followed by a cloudy blur slashed over with a white “IV.”
    Ruso stepped forward, rapped on the wood, and lifted the latch. The door did not budge. Squinting at the latch to see if it were jammed in some way, he knocked again. Surely the Batavian had not meant that in the absence of the doctor, nobody at all would be running the infirmary?
    Somewhere beyond the building the tramp of boots grew louder. An order was bellowed and the tramp changed rhythm. Evidently “Days to Governor’s Visit IV” was inspiring some serious marching practice.
    He knocked again.
    From inside came a shout of, “We’re closed. Come back in an hour.”
    Ruso slammed the flat of his hand three times against the door. From somewhere within came a roar of “Answer the bloody door, Gambax!”
    There was the scrape of