Chapter 1: Context

That autumn, the rain in London seemed endless. I stood in the corridor of the Department of Archaeology, watching the grey sky outside, droplets gathering on the glass and blurring the outline of the Thames. It was my second semester of my master's degree, specialising in the application of GIS in archaeology.

“Have you read Professor Linus Alder’s new paper?” my classmate Emma asked, leaning over with a cup of steaming coffee in her hand.

I nodded, without taking my eyes off the window. “The GIS analysis of Roman road networks in Britain, it’s brilliant.”

“More than brilliant, it’s revolutionary,” Emma said, blowing on her coffee. “How can he be so clever and yet so… distant?”

I turned towards the classroom, but her words stayed with me. Distant was indeed my first impression of Linus, and it had lasted for a full year.

Linus Alder was an associate professor in our department, in his early forties, tall and slender, always dressed in crisply pressed shirts and dark trousers. His teaching was almost severe in its rigour, yet always flawless in content. I first saw him in the opening lecture of Introduction to Spatial Archaeology, standing at the front of the room with complex GIS layers projected behind him.

“Archaeology is not a romantic adventure,” he said, his voice calm and precise, “it is a rigorous science. Every data point, every spatial analysis, must be exact.”

I was drawn to him immediately, that cool, rational presence pulling at me like a magnet. Yet no matter how often I asked questions after class, or how carefully I demonstrated my understanding in assignments, his responses remained professional and distant. He answered patiently, pointed out weaknesses in my analysis, but never crossed the boundary of lecturer and student.

Then Theo Blackwood arrived.

Theo Blackwood was a newly appointed lecturer, responsible for field methods and practice. In complete contrast to Linus, he swept into the classroom with a burst of energy. In his forties, solidly built, with skin darkened by years of outdoor work, the lines at the corners of his eyes deepened whenever he smiled.

“Just call me Theo,” he announced in the first session, his voice booming. “Out in the field, titles don’t matter. What matters is what you find, and how you record it.”

At first, I felt nothing in particular towards Theo, only that he was perhaps a little too enthusiastic. Then I began to notice something odd, he seemed to avoid me.

It happened in the GIS lab. I was adjusting a 3D model of a Roman villa site when Theo came in with a group of undergraduates to guide them through drone data processing.

“Look at this area here,” Theo said, pointing at the screen. “From this orthophoto you can see that this linear feature, possibly a wall foundation, stands out clearly in the near infrared band…”

I was sitting nearby, half expecting him to greet me with the same easy smile he gave everyone else. Instead, he never looked my way, as if I did not exist. When our eyes did meet, he quickly looked away.

It kept happening. In the corridor, in the library, in the department café, whenever other people were around, Theo chatted warmly with everyone except me. When no one else was there, he would offer a brief greeting, then leave in a hurry.

I began to believe that he disliked me, perhaps even hated me. The thought confused and hurt me, as I could not remember ever offending him.

“Maybe you’re being too sensitive,” Emma said one lunchtime, poking at the quinoa in her salad. “Theo is friendly to everyone, maybe he just hasn’t noticed you.”

“No,” I insisted. “He’s deliberately avoiding me. Last week in the collections room, he came in, saw it was only me, and turned straight back out.”

Emma shrugged. “Maybe he was just busy.”

But I could feel the intention behind it. Every avoidance, every averted glance, felt like a small thorn in my heart. Ironically, this sense of being ignored made me think about Theo even more, more than my admiration for Linus.

In early November, the department announced the winter field project. It was based in Dorset, in south west England, investigating the relationship between an Iron Age settlement and later Roman occupation layers. I was selected as one of ten students, with Linus and Theo as co leaders.

“This is our first attempt to integrate high precision GIS with systematic excavation,” Linus said at the project briefing, the red dot of his laser pointer moving across the screen. “Theo will oversee field methods and recording, and I will handle spatial data collection and analysis.”

Theo stood on the other side of the room, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. “We’ll be using total stations, drones and ground penetrating radar,” he added, “but don’t forget, in the end it still comes down to our eyes and hands. Technology is a tool, not the goal.”

I sat in the third row, watching the two of them. Linus stood straight, focused, while Theo looked relaxed but alert. They were so different, yet oddly complementary.

After the meeting, students drifted out one by one. I slowed down deliberately, pretending to organise my notebook, hoping for a chance to speak to Linus. He was at the front, shutting down the equipment.

“Professor Alder,” I said, walking over, “about the multispectral analysis you mentioned, I wanted to ask…”

He looked up, his grey eyes behind his glasses unusually deep. “Yes, go on.”

I asked about the relationship between vegetation indices and subsurface features. He listened carefully, then took a photocopy of a paper from his briefcase.

“This article might help,” he said, his finger tracing a chart on the page. “Pay attention to how the author adjusts the NDVI values.”

I took the paper, our fingers brushing briefly. For a moment, I thought I saw something flicker in his eyes, then it was gone.

“Thank you,” I said.

He nodded and began packing his things. “In the field, you’ll assist Theo with recording and data entry. Any questions?”

“No,” I replied, though inside I felt disappointed. He had assigned me to work with Theo, not with him.

As I left the classroom, I almost collided with Theo, who was waiting outside with a field notebook in his hand. He clearly froze when he saw me.

“Oh, hi,” he said, his voice lower than usual.

“Theo,” I nodded politely, about to walk past.

“Wait,” he called, hesitating. “For the field project, can you use Trimble GPS equipment?”

“I learned the basics last semester.”

“Good,” he said, his eyes landing on my shoulder rather than my face. “I might need your help with that. I… I need to go.”

He left almost as if he were running away. I stood there, more convinced than ever that he had some kind of problem with me.

The night before we left for Dorset, I could not sleep. The lights of London blurred in the rain outside my window as I lay awake, thinking about the two men I would be facing for the next two weeks, one I longed for but could never reach, the other who seemed to dislike me yet whom I had to work closely with.

At five in the morning, the department coach departed on time. The sky was still deep blue, with only a faint glow on the eastern horizon. I chose a window seat, put on my headphones, pretending to be absorbed in my own world while actually watching people board.

Linus was the last to get on. He wore a dark green waterproof jacket and carried a professional camera bag, completely different from his usual tailored look. He scanned the bus, his eyes pausing on me for half a second, then took a seat near the front.

Theo was the opposite. He greeted everyone loudly as he came aboard, helped students stow their equipment, his laughter filling the coach. But when his gaze reached me, his smile faltered, and he turned instead to Emma to ask whether she had packed her waterproofs.

I looked out of the window, a wave of bitterness rising inside me. Why? What had I done wrong?

The coach left London and entered the English countryside. Mist lay over the fields, distant hills barely visible. I closed my eyes, trying to rest, but Linus’s calm voice and Theo’s deliberately averted gaze kept replaying in my mind.

The excavation camp was on private land in Dorset, beside the active site. When we arrived, the rain had stopped, but the sky remained leaden. The camp consisted of several large tents, two for sleeping, one for cooking and eating, one for equipment, and a small shelter for preliminary processing and recording of finds.

“Women in the eastern tents, men in the western ones,” Theo said, assigning accommodation. “Linus and I will be in the small tent next to the equipment. Drop your bags, and meet at the shelter in an hour to assign today’s tasks.”

Emma, another student called Lucy, and I were placed in the same tent area. As we sorted out our sleeping bags, Lucy chatted excitedly about possible discoveries.

“I heard they found Roman jewellery here last year,” she said, eyes bright. “Including a ring engraved with Mithras.”

Emma was more practical. “I just hope it doesn’t rain all day. Digging in mud isn’t romantic.”

I organised my things quietly, my mind elsewhere. Through a gap in the tent fabric, I could see Linus and Theo standing at the edge of the site, discussing something. Linus gestured at a tablet in his hand, Theo pointed at an area on the ground. As they spoke, Theo made an exaggerated movement, Linus shook his head slightly, but there seemed to be the faintest hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

That tiny change in expression jolted me. I had never seen Linus smile at anyone, not even in such a subtle way.

“Hey, are you alright?” Emma nudged my shoulder. “You look miles away.”

“I’m fine,” I said quickly. “Just thinking about the work.”

An hour later, we gathered in the shelter. The site had been divided into five by five metre trenches, each numbered. Theo assigned tasks, some students cleared surface vegetation, others helped set up the total station and GPS base station. I was placed in Theo’s group, responsible for recording.

“Our first step is to establish a precise coordinate system,” Linus explained, already pulling up topographic maps on his tablet. “Every find must be recorded in three dimensions, with an error margin of no more than one centimetre.”

Theo added, “Once we start digging, context is everything. The position of a potsherd can tell us when it was discarded, and by whom.”

All morning, I worked under Theo’s guidance. He showed me how to use the field notebook, how to assign numbers to finds, how to record soil colour and texture. His instructions were clear and professional, but he kept his distance. He did not clap me on the shoulder or crack jokes as he did with other students. Any physical contact was strictly limited to what was necessary for demonstration, and withdrawn immediately.

By lunchtime, the rain had started again. We crowded into the dining tent, eating simple sandwiches and hot soup. Linus and Theo sat at the other end, discussing the afternoon’s plans in low voices. I tried to catch their words, but only fragments reached me.

“The radar shows anomalies in the north east corner,” Linus said.

“Could be pits or storage features,” Theo replied. “But we’ll need to test it.”

Emma nudged me. “Do you think they’re friends? I can’t imagine Professor Alder having friends.”

I looked at them. Theo was talking animatedly, his hands moving as he explained something, while Linus listened quietly, nodding from time to time. There was an ease between them, a mutual understanding that did not require many words.

“They’re colleagues,” I said. “They’ve worked together for years.”

The afternoon work went deeper. I was assigned to assist with the ground penetrating radar. Linus operated the equipment himself, while I recorded scan paths and preliminary data.

“Look here,” Linus said, pointing to an arc shaped feature on the radar image. “This could be a wall foundation, but we’ll need to compare it with magnetometry data to confirm.”

He stood close enough that I could smell the faint scent of his aftershave, mixed with rain and damp earth. As we leaned over the screen together, his arm brushed lightly against my shoulder.

“Do you think this is Iron Age or Roman?” I asked, trying to prolong the moment of closeness.

“From the curvature, it looks more like Roman construction,” he replied, his voice low. “But we need excavation to verify it. Science requires evidence, not guesses.”

His professionalism made me admire him even more, and feel even more frustrated. He was always so rational, so restrained.

The rain continued, and by evening the camp was thick with mud. We were soaked, cold and exhausted. After dinner in the dining tent, most students went straight back to their sleeping tents. I needed to organise the day’s records, so I stayed behind in the shelter.

Only a single lantern lit the space, casting a soft glow. Rain drummed rhythmically on the canvas roof, creating a strange calm. I was concentrating on transcribing data when the flap was suddenly pulled aside and Theo stepped in.

He froze when he saw me. “Sorry, I didn’t realise anyone was here. I need to grab some forms.”

“It’s fine,” I said, keeping my voice steady. “I’m just sorting today’s records.”

He nodded and walked to the storage cabinet. As he passed me, I noticed how awkward his movements were, he even nearly knocked over a chair. He found what he needed and turned to leave, but paused at the entrance.

“You did well today,” he said, without turning around. “Your records were very thorough.”

Then he disappeared into the rain. I sat there, bewildered. It was the first time he had praised me directly, and yet it was delivered in such a strange, distant way.

Several hours later, when I finished my work and returned towards the sleeping tents, I saw something unexpected. At the edge of the camp, near the equipment tent, Linus and Theo stood with their backs to me, arguing intensely but in low voices.

“…this isn’t professional, Theo,” Linus’s voice carried through the rain, cold and sharp.

“I know! I know!” Theo replied, with a rare edge of irritation. “Do you think I don’t know that?”

“Then you need to control yourself.”

“I am controlling myself! God knows I am!”

Their voices stopped abruptly, as if they had realised how loud they were. Theo turned and walked towards his tent. Linus stayed where he was, tilting his head back to look at the sky as rain struck his face.

I slipped quietly back to my own tent, full of questions. What were they arguing about?

That night, I lay awake in the sound of rain and confusion.