Gillian Bradshaw - Island of Ghosts

“They could not bring cattle across a wall in the dead of night,” I said.

“They can get sheep over, though,” said Comittus, “and anything else movable. And slaves.”

I’d forgotten about slaves, of course; I’d never taken any on my own raids across Roman borders.

“They’re allowed through at the forts,” Comittus went on. “They can go to markets in the South, provided they leave their weapons behind and pay a toll. But the raiders have often slipped back through with returning market-goers, hiding their weapons and passing off stolen property as their own. And sometimes the raiders are killed, and that makes trouble, too, because their relatives to the north think we owe them the blood price for the dead. Every now and then there’s a big raid, organized from a mixture of greed and vengefulness, and then troops have to be rushed from all over the Wall to deal with it. That’s why we were so pleased to get heavy cavalry. A few of you could deal with a fairly big raid, and you can move fast. Whenever anything happens, the troops at Eburacum are always too far away.”

“Then you should not keep Arshak at Eburacum.”

“Well…” Comittus said, and coughed with embarrassment.

I looked away from the map. “You mean by that, that Arshak should not have changed his coat yesterday afternoon.”

“Well… yes,” Comittus said, and suddenly gave me a confidential grin.

I looked at the map again, and drew my finger along the line of the Wall. The situation did not seem as bloody as I’d feared in the darkness of the night before. And Arshak might fret angrily in a legionary fortress, but even he would hardly start a mutiny there for lack of bloodshed. “What is this place Cilurnum like?” I asked.

There was a stamp of feet outside and we both looked up to see Flavius Facilis glaring at us red-faced through the window. Absurdly, we both gave a guilty start, like two small boys caught by their father using his bow case to carry frogs.

“Julius Priscus wanted to see you, Tribune,” grated Facilis. “We’re all comparing notes on the itinerary.”

Comittus hurriedly picked up his tablets and went to the door. I followed him.

“He didn’t ask to see you, Ariantes,” Facilis told me, “and I don’t think the tribune did, either.”

“He was giving me advice on what supplies to order,” said Comittus defensively.

“He was digging for information,” corrected Facilis. “Why else would he be slipping in here quietly and leaving his bodyguard behind?”

“Why should I not know things that concern my company?” I asked. “We are soldiers, not prisoners, as the legate himself said. And I thought, Flavius Facilis, that some advice on supplies was needed. I have nineteen men too ill to ride and a whole dragon complaining of sore teeth, to say nothing of nearly thirteen hundred horses with sore feet, because we were not supplied with what we needed on the way from Aquincum.”

I expected an angry response to this. Instead, Facilis looked at me for a long minute, and then declared, “The legate said almost exactly the same thing to me yesterday. There are times, Ariantes, when you’re just like a Roman. What do your men think of it?”

I picked my saddle up from the porch and went to my horse. “I have asked you not to insult me,” I said, putting the saddle on the animal’s back. The shaft had struck flesh, and I was angry.

He gave a snort. “Very well. You want to give your advice to the legate, then?”

“Would I be heard?” I asked bitterly.

“Yes. If you confine yourself to supplies.”

I stopped buckling the saddle.

“Yes, you bastard, he’ll hear you!” Facilis shouted. “He wants you in Eburacum in good shape and ready to fight. He’s keeping me to balance your crew, but he’ll listen to you sooner. Come now, and he’ll probably send you off to arrange your damned supplies-with me to write the letters for you, since he knows I’ll keep my mouth more tightly closed than the tribune.”

“And you would be willing to write the letters for me?” I asked.

He was silent for a moment, still red in the face, still swollen. But his look was one of exasperation with himself, rather than of rage. “Yes,” he said at last. “Yes, I’ll have to work with you, won’t I? You’re going to be here, and you’re going to be sending letters anyway, as soon as you’ve collected that scribe Natalis gave you. And I’m going to be camp prefect in Cilurnum. I can hardly go on hating you. Why should I wear out my heart?”

I began unsaddling my horse again. “We’re not obliged to like each other,” I remarked.

He snorted. “And a good thing, too.”

The scribe Eukairios did not show up that day, and that night I began to believe that he had indeed run off in Bononia. The following morning, however, while we were busy striking camp and harnessing the horses, one of my men appeared at my wagon escorting him. I’d just finished arming myself for the journey and had climbed onto Farna, who was the best horse I had for carrying armor. The slave stopped in his tracks and stood looking up at me with a mixture of misery and resolution. He looked even smaller and drabber among so many glittering Sarmatian horsemen, and he was clutching a bundle of clothing tied to a stick.

“I’m sorry I’m late, my lord,” he said. “The dispatch vessel didn’t arrive back in Dubris until last night, so I stayed at the lord procurator’s house until this morning.”

“I am glad you arrived in time,” I replied. “We will set out shortly; you should get into the wagon.”

The men slept six to a wagon, but because I was commander, I had a wagon to myself. These were light wagons for campaigning, horse-drawn, not the heavy ox-wagons we would have lived in at home. But mine was still a large one, and both the body and the felt awning were stained red; the four horses that drew it were already harnessed. They were matched red bays, not large animals, but strong, enduring, and with some spirit, and they were tossing their heads and moving restlessly under the yoke. “I… don’t know how to drive…” Eukairios began, looking at them and losing some of his resolution.

“No one expects you to. The men of my bodyguard take turns. Just climb in and sit down.”

He climbed in; after a moment, he climbed through into the front and sat on the edge of the driver’s bench, over to one side.

Comittus galloped up on his shallow-hocked black. He had a gilded helmet and breastplate, and was wearing the purple tribune’s sash: he, too, had armed for the journey. “We’re ready to go!” he called, his eyes dancing with excitement. I turned and gave the troop drummer the signal to give the call to assemble: I had a few things to tell the whole dragon before we set out.

A few minutes later the wagons had been whirled out of the way and the dragon was gathered before me. The rain had finally stopped, and there was a bright September sun. I looked out over a plain of steel and horn, gleaming in the light. The horses shifted and danced, the banners of the squadrons tossed in the light breeze, and behind me on my left I could hear the air singing in the mouth of the standard.

“My brother azatani,” I shouted, trying to pitch my voice so they could all hear, “we are bound on the final stage of our journey, and I ask two things of you. First, I have sworn upon fire that we will do no harm to any Roman along the way: I entrust you with the keeping of my oath. I don’t say just that I want you to respect the lives and property of those you meet; I say that even if a thief should visit us, you must be blameless. Take him alive and give him to the legate to punish. Second, remember, now that you are armed again, that we are not in our own country and not free to follow our own customs. If you fight duels among yourselves, not one but both the duelists will die, the first at the hand of his opponent, and the second executed by the Romans as a murderer. I cannot defend you from that; even if you fight a man of another company for the sake of my own honor, I cannot defend you. So if you must fight, do so with blunted weapons, and not to the death.