Medicus

AUTHOR'S NOTE

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.

The word medicus was used to describe men of various ranks, and the hierarchy Ruso is attempting to climb is pure conjecture. What is not in doubt is that the doctors of antiquity were remarkably skilled. Cataract surgery might have been terrifying, but it was possible. However, there were no modern antibiotics or anesthetics, and accurate knowledge sat alongside such beliefs as Pliny's suggestion that snakebites could be cured with human earwax. Small wonder, then, that the sick turned to Aesculapius, the god of healing, who may or may not have had a Thanksgiving fund, but who certainly deserved one.

As for the rescue of Trajan, Cassius Dio records that he was saved from the Antioch earthquake by a mysterious stranger. Whether this stranger was Ruso or the god Jupiter, I leave to the reader to decide.

The goings-on at Merula's bar were partly inspired by Pompeii, where the names of long-dead girls remain on the walls of their workplaces. Two thousand years later, of course, we have moved on. Slavery is illegal. Yet I fear that is scant comfort to any young woman a long way from home who is forced to provide "personal services" while the trafficker who holds her passport pockets her earnings. This appalling trade is going on right now, in our own cities, and it survives because it finds customers. I didn't need to make it up. Unfortunately.