Gillian Bradshaw - Island of Ghosts

“We ought to finish up the day with a few drinks,” said Longus. “Or even a few drinks and a bit of action. Fortunatus has a couple of new girls.”

“Any good?” asked Comittus.

Longus rolled his eyes. “I like the Greek. Trufosa, she’s called. Little and dainty and hot as pepper-or so they say. I haven’t been honored yet. You ought to go, Ariantes. Fortunatus has said that if you come, you can have any girl you like, for free.”

“So that my men will go to his brothel rather than the other one?”

“I doubt it. They’re not short of Sarmatian custom as it is. Every time I’ve been in there recently, the place has been full of drunks weeping into their wine as they tell the girls about the beautiful horses they had to leave behind.” He clasped an imaginary cup in both hands, looked more mournful than ever, and began lamenting a lost horse in extravagant terms and a wickedly accurate Sarmatian accent. Kasagos and Leimanos laughed. Longus rolled his eyes, sighed deeply, and declared, still in a Sarmatian voice, “I miss my vife sometime, too.” Banadaspos, who hadn’t found the lament funny, realized at this that it was a joke, and laughed too. “No,” continued Longus, in his own voice now, “Fortunatus just wants to give his place a bit of class. Patronized by princes and senior officers! But a couple of the girls have said they’d be delighted to oblige you any time. Lupicilla still goes into floods of giggles at the thought of you knocking me off my horse. You really ought to come.”

I looked at him tolerantly. “Thank you, thank Fortunatus, no.”

If the goddess of love herself had appeared to me, naked and golden and smelling of myrrh, I would have fallen on my knees before her and begged her to give me Tirgatao. I wanted, I wanted desperately, but a man who’s parched with thirst cannot eat bread.

The door to the steam room opened suddenly, and Eukairios came in. “My lord,” he said to me, “may I speak to you a moment?”

I gestured for him to sit, but he remained standing. He glanced at the door, which he was holding open. I got up and went toward the changing room to get my clothes.

Facilis picked his head up. “What is it?” he asked suspiciously.

“A piece of news, Lord Facilis,” Eukairios answered politely. “If I may just speak with my master…”

“Wait a minute, man. If it’s so important it can’t wait until your master’s out of the steam room, it’s important enough that the rest of us need to hear it too.”

Eukairios looked at me nervously. “What has happened?” I asked him.

He shook his head and closed the door. “In the post this evening there was a letter for me from… from a correspondent of mine in Corstopitum. It said… I am sorry, my lord. Your friend Lord Gatalas is dead.”

“Dead?” I asked, in horror. “How?”

“In a mutiny against the authorities,” Eukairios admitted miserably. “Apparently, two days ago he quarreled with the camp prefect of Condercum and with his liaison officer. He turned them out of the fort, so they went at once to the neighboring forts, collected troops, and marched back to Condercum. He came out of the fort this morning with just his bodyguard, thirty-two men. They thought that he wanted to negotiate with them-but he’d come out to die. He’d ordered the rest of his dragon in Condercum to surrender, but rode out to battle himself. He and the thirty-two killed four times their number, including the camp prefect, before they were killed themselves. The rest of his men have surrendered and are under arrest in Condercum.”

“Marha!” I whispered. I bowed my head, blinking at it: Gatalas dead.

“Why didn’t anyone tell us?” cried Leimanos, jumping furiously to his feet.

“Don’t be stupid!” snapped Facilis. “It was over in two days. And no one would tell you anyway. You’d have gone to help him. A hundred and twenty Roman soldiers dead. Gods and goddesses! I tried to tell them!”

I went out into the changing room and began to put my clothes on. “Leimanos,” I said, “we need to summon all the men.”

“What do you think you’re going to do?” asked Facilis, pushing his way out after me.

“You think it better that they hear this in the taverns?” I asked, fastening my muddy trousers. I picked up my shirt and glared at the centurion. “You need have no fear, Flavius Facilis. I will not throw away the lives of my men chasing vengeance. As for Gatalas, he revenged himself.” I pulled the shirt over my head.

“Revenged himself for what?” demanded Facilis. “For being sent to a cavalry fort in pleasant country, well fed, well housed, well paid? A hundred and twenty Romans dead! And most likely because of a few words!”

“It needed forbearance!” I returned. “He was willing to keep his oaths if he could trust his commanders.” I sat down and pulled my boots on. Banadaspos was weeping as he did the same; Kasagos was muttering a prayer for the dead; Leimanos was dangerously silent. “Eukairios, as soon as I’ve spoken to the men, we need to write some letters.”

Eukairios coughed. “The letter that told me this… it came with some dispatches. They arrived by special courier. That’s why I had to see you at once.”

For a moment I couldn’t think what he meant. Then I understood: the dispatches had included orders to Comittus, Longus, and Facilis to arrest me, disarm my men, and confine us all to camp.

I turned to the Romans. “If the dispatches tell you to do anything,” I whispered, “do not do it yet! Please. Give me a chance to calm things down. Longus, if my men hear of this in the taverns, they will set on yours and there will be bloodshed. I need to assemble the dragon and speak to them all tonight. Tomorrow morning we can sacrifice to Marha and read the divining rods, and also pray for our friends’ souls. After that you can do what you like. The men will be steadier and will not do anything foolish.”

The three others were silent for a long moment. Then Longus said, “We weren’t going to read the dispatches tonight-were we, Comittus?”

“No,” agreed Comittus, understanding at once, “no-we’ve had a tiring day, and it’s getting late. We were planning to have a few drinks and get some rest.”

“And we can’t open them tomorrow morning, either,” Longus continued. “If you’re having some ceremony to worship the gods, obviously we ought to join in. The dispatches can wait until lunchtime.”

I looked at Facilis.

“May the gods destroy those dispatches!” he said. “I’m certainly not reading them tonight. I’m going straight to bed.”

“I thank you all,” I said, warmly, then grabbed my coat and hurried out into the chill dampness of the night to assemble my men.

When the drums had dragged them from the bathhouse, taverns, and brothels of Cilurnum, they heard the news with groans of dismay and wails of grief. There were no shouts of anger, though, and the promise of a sacrifice in the morning, and the chance of reconciling everything with the will of the gods, reassured them. They went to bed reminding each other that the divining rods had promised Gatalas death in battle, but had offered them, and Gatalas’ dragon, life and prosperity. I was aware, during the night, that the Asturians were mounting a guard on the fort walls overlooking our wagons-but it was unobtrusive enough that no one was offended.

We were woken before dawn by the sound of trumpets in the fort sounding the call to arms. I rushed out of my wagon, jumped on the nearest horse without bothering to saddle it, and galloped wildly up to the gate, cursing silently. I was sure that the Romans must have decided to read the dispatches after all, and I was afraid of the consequences. But as I reached the north gate, Comittus’ messenger came rushing out of it. “Lord Ariantes!” he shouted, waving his arms so that my horse reared up and put its ears back. “Lord Ariantes, the tribune wants you to come at once! And give the numerus the signal to arm! The barbarians have crossed the Wall!”