Gillian Bradshaw - Island of Ghosts

It was a chill, overcast day, but not actually raining or snowing, and we rode along companionably, discussing the preparations for the festival until we were close enough to Corstopitum to begin looking for the farm. I was glad of Longus, in the end, since I had never actually ridden to River End Farm and hadn’t been paying proper attention when I rode from it: we needed to ask directions, and none of the people we found to ask spoke Latin. Facilis abandoned us to our search and turned toward Corstopitum, saying that he would meet us on our way back if he could.

We found the farm shortly before midday: my heart rose when we saw the colonnaded wings of the courtyard before us, enclosed in a valley that the melting of the snow had left a deep green. I hadn’t noticed before, but you could see the river shining in the distance as you rode down the mud track to the farm gate. Sheep dotted the hills to our left, and I wondered if Cluim was with them.

There was a shout as we reached the gate, and when we rode up to the courtyard, the redheaded servant Elen held the front door open for a man I hadn’t seen before. He was a tall, solid man with iron gray hair, well dressed for a Briton, having a gold collar as well as a checked cloak with a fine pin. He stood in the middle of the porch with his legs apart and his arms crossed, glaring at us.

“Greetings,” I said, stopping Farna in front of him. “Is the Lady Pervica at home?”

“Are you that Sarmatian she saved?” he demanded.

“I am. Are you one of her servants?”

His face reddened and he glared harder. “I am Quintilius son of Celatus, owner of Two Oaks Farm, and a friend and associate of Pervica. I was here doing some business with her and advising her.”

I looked at him a moment. It was to be expected that an attractive young widow with a good farm had “friends and associates.” I would have to discover how friendly and how close the association was. “Greetings, Quintilius,” I said, politely. “May I ask that you tell the lady that Ariantes son of Arifarnes, commander of the Sixth Numerus of Sarmatian Horse, is here to speak with her about the stallion, as he promised?”

At this moment Pervica herself came to the door. She stopped, framed in it, and stood still, staring at me around the side of her “friend and associate.” The moment I saw her I knew that what I had felt before was not mere fancy. I smiled at her and she smiled back. I dismounted and pulled off my helmet, holding it carefully so that the long red crest wouldn’t sweep the mud, and bowed my head to her. “Many greetings, Lady Pervica,” I said.

“Many greetings, Lord Ariantes,” she replied, stepping around Quintilius and coming forward. “Did I hear you say you’d come about the horse?”

“Yes, Lady-and about another matter to do with horses, if you have time to discuss it.”

“Of course. But I rather doubt that all of you will fit into my house.”

I glanced back at my men, sitting on their steaming horses in their armor and grinning. “No,” I agreed. “But if you will permit them to build a fire in back, they will make themselves comfortable while we are talking.”

“I’ll see if we can find them some beer and bread,” she said. “Elen!”

“Pervica, no!” protested Quintilius. “I’ve told you, you should have nothing more to do with any of these barbarians! The gods know what the savages might take it into their heads to do-you’ve heard the stories about them! How can you-”

Longus burst out laughing. “Oh, tell me the stories about them, please!” he said, jumping off his horse and elbowing his way to the front. “I’m sure you don’t know half of it, but tell me anyway.” He bowed sweepingly to Pervica. “The name’s Longus, by the way, most esteemed lady, Gaius Flavinus Longus, senior decurion of the Second Asturian Horse of Cilurnum. I’m sure my friend Ariantes would have introduced me in another minute. I hope there’s room for me indoors. Unlike the Sarmatians, I prefer to rest indoors when it’s cold.”

The presence of a Roman officer silenced Quintilius, though he still looked deeply dissatisfied. Pervica smiled warmly at Longus, then turned to Elen and began giving orders about bread and beer. I turned back to my men and told them to go into the back and make themselves comfortable near the barn, but first to unload the present for Pervica from the packhorse and bring it into the house. Longus held the door for Pervica and followed her in; Quintilius, scowling, shoved in front of me. Leimanos followed me with the present, and after him came Eukairios with his tablets.

I clinked my way to the dining room, where I found a charcoal brazier lit for warmth and the rosewood tabletop covered with papers and a strongbox. Pervica stared when Leimanos appeared with the present. I’d rolled it in a carpet to keep it safe. “What’s this?” she asked.

“A gift, Lady,” I answered. “A small thing in token of my gratitude to you.”

“It’s beautiful!” she exclaimed, staring at the carpet, which Leimanos set down on the floor.

It was a good one, red wool patterned with galloping black horses and, in the center, a golden sun. I’d intended for her to keep it. But I smiled and knelt to unfold it. “This is the covering,” I told her, undoing the knots that secured the carpet. I lifted the top fold away. “This is the present. You said you disliked the painting in this room; I thought you might prefer this one.”

The painting was of a battle between the Greeks and the Amazons. I’d seen it in a villa I’d looted in Pannonia, and taken it home because one of the Amazons looked a bit like Tirgatao. She’d pretended not to like it for exactly that reason, so it hadn’t been in the wagons when they were looted. I’d brought it with me thinking it might be useful to bribe a Roman with, but hadn’t wanted to part with it, until now.

“Jupiter Optimus Maximus!” exclaimed Longus, staring at the painting, which was on a plank of wood about four feet long by two feet high. An Amazon astride a leaping white horse dominated its center, leaning down to slash at the fallen Greek below her, who’d caught her wrist and was pulling her off. Behind them horses danced, armor gleamed, cloaks flapped brightly, and beautiful men and women struggled with each other. The struggle did not seem terribly serious, and the battle was more of a festival frolic than a warlike contest. The whole painting bubbled with color and exuberance. The Amazon who looked like Tirgatao was in the upper lefthand corner, drawing a bow threateningly on a Greek in a gold helmet. You could see from the look on her face that she meant to hit him, but she’d probably kiss him afterward.

“This is really superb!” Longus observed, picking up the painting and setting it on the table, braced upright against the strongbox. “Where did you get it?”

“I had it in my wagon,” I answered misleadingly. “I have been told it was painted by Timomachos of Byzantium and is quite valuable.”

Eukairios made a strangled noise and dropped his tablets. “It’s not genuine!” he said.

“Of course it is genuine,” said Leimanos, offended for me. “The man we took it from wept, and said it was worth more than forty thousand denarii.”

So much for my restraint.

“You stole it?” asked Quintilius, as though this confirmed his worst suspicions.

“My lord took it on a raid,” Leimanos corrected proudly. “His planning and our strength had carried us almost to Segedunum, and we found the house of a former governor of Asia, a palace fit for a king. Ten alae of cavalry they had searching for us, and half a legion: we looted the house, drove off the cattle, ate, drank, and set out again. We met one ala and destroyed it, and went home safe to our own wagons.”