Island of Ghosts

by Gillian Bradshaw

  What were we going to do? The tribunes had said nothing whatever about that, almost certainly out of deliberate policy. Julius Priscus had carefully avoided showing us how many men he actually had in Dubris. At the tribunal he’d appeared with just the three tribunes and twenty of his dispatch riders: I guessed that Facilis had come on his own. Probably that meant the legate did not have many men with him. A handful of men from his legion, then, and fifteen hundred of us to move: he would certainly try to keep us ignorant, bewildered, and unsure of our directions, dependent upon himself and his officers not just for guidance but for the means of life. We had been given our weapons back-a thing I suspected the legate now regretted-but we were not Roman soldiers yet by any means. We were barbarians, and would be kept ignorant of everything we had no immediate need to know.

  I could imagine the Romans busily writing letters at the naval base. Planning where we would go, how we would journey there, what we would eat on the way; alerting other troops to our movements in case there was trouble. I had no desire whatever to take advantage of the lack of guards, but I wanted some control over what was to be done with my friends, my followers, and myself.

  The following day, when I’d checked that the wagons and horses were ready for the journey to Eburacum and that we were well provisioned, I took my horse, shooed off my bodyguard, and set out into the town looking for Lucius Javolenus Comittus.

  I found him at his quarters in the naval base-a couple of small rooms at the end of one of the barracks blocks. He appeared himself at my knock, looking tousled, bad-tempered, and, when he saw me, surprised.

  “Oh!” he said. “Lord Ariantes. Uh… I was just planning the itinerary for our troop.”

  “That is what I have come about,” I replied. “May I speak with you, Lucius Javolenus?”

  “Uh… yes, yes, of course! Come in out of the rain.”

  I unsaddled and tethered my horse, and limped in. The room was stone and narrow; I disliked the cold, enclosed feel of it intensely. Comittus had moved a desk underneath the window, to get the light, and it was littered with parchment, tablets, and sheets of wood.

  “Thank you for the dinner last night,” said Comittus.

  “It was our pleasure. I have come, Lucius Javolenus, because I thought perhaps I could be of help. When my lord the procurator Natalis was trying to gather supplies for us, he allowed me to check his lists, and I found that he had much misjudged what was needed. He ordered wheat, and my men have complained at eating grain all the way from Aquincum. They are not used to it; it makes their teeth hurt, they say.”

  “Oh!” Comittus exclaimed in alarm, and picked up one of the sets of tablets. “I’ve ordered it, too. Don’t you eat wheat at all?”

  “Some, a little, to thicken a stew or make flat cakes. But in our own country we eat mostly meat-fresh and dried beef, mutton, and horsemeat-and milk and cheese from mares, sheep, and cattle. Now, I understand you do not eat horses or drink mare’s milk, but dried and salted beef is easily obtained, as is cheese. Would it be possible to replace a part of the order for wheat with orders for some of these things?”

  We were soon going over what supplies would be collected where. Comittus made some effort to cloud the itinerary, and referred to “supply depot one, supply depot two,” and so on, but I gathered we would reach the provincial capital, Londinium, on the third day of the journey, pick up more supplies four days later somewhere to the north, and two days later again would be at a place called Lindum, which was Comittus’ home: Eburacum was three days’ ride north of that. “And there we will stop?” I asked.

  “Well, not us,” he replied, “That is, we’ll stop briefly, but.. I wasn’t supposed to tell you this.”

  “Why is it secret? Are we not meant to know that the three dragons will be split up?”

  “Deae Matres! How did you know that?”

  I was honestly surprised. “We have been sure from the beginning that we would be posted to different camps as soon as we arrived at our destination. All along you have feared to have too many of us together. When we left Aquincum there was some question whether our group was not too large to be safely contained on the journey.”

  Comittus laughed. “So much for secrets!”

  “That was not much of one,” I said. “Come, you are supposed to ‘advise’ me, or so you said. Can I not even know where I am to be posted?”

  He laughed again. “Very well! You’d certainly know anyway in a few days’ time. You and I and our company will go on to Cilurnum, on the Wall; Gatalas’ dragon goes to Condercum, which is also on the Wall; and Arsacus’ stays in Eburacum.”

  “What is this ‘Wall,’ then?”

  Comittus pulled the sheet of parchment out from under the tablets and spread it on top of them. “Look,” he said, pointing, and I looked and saw a meaningless huddle of lines, with the tiny black scratches of writing scattered about them. “Here’s Eburacum,” he went on-and the lines resolved themselves into a map. I leaned over it, frowning and trying to make sense of it. My people use maps, but ours are only lines scrawled to show camps, landmarks, the sun’s position, and days’ riding; Roman maps are different.

  “All this territory,” Comittus went on, spreading his hand upward from the blotch that was Eburacum, “belongs to the Brigantes. They’re a big tribe, a bit wild, sheepherders mostly, with some farmers. They’ve caused problems in the past-uprisings. The last was twenty-five years ago, but they’re still not entirely happy with being ruled by Rome-that’s the way the government in Londinium puts it. If you ask me, they’re just annoyed at having to take orders from a lot of southern tribesmen in togas. Anyhow, this”-he enclosed a similar area, above the territory of the Brigantes-“belongs to the Pictish tribes, the Selgovae, the Votadini, and the Novantae. Now, they are nothing but trouble. We pushed the frontier up to here”-he drew a line with his finger above the area he’d just shown me-“and put a line of forts through Pictish territory, but we had nothing but grief from it. They raided, they stole sheep, they sprung ambushes on the men that tried to get them back-and what’s worse, they feuded with the Brigantes behind our backs. So about twelve years ago we dropped the frontier back south to the old wall, the one built by the deified Hadrian, and recommissioned that. That’s the wall we’ll be keeping. It runs from here to here”-he spanned it with his fingers, a line between the Brigantes and the Picts-“with a castle for a few dozen men every mile, a major fort every six miles or so, and a great stone wall, bank, and ditch across every inch. We also have some advance forts beyond the wall, to keep the Picts in order, but they still raid the Brigantes. They think it’s a brave and daring thing to creep up to the Wall in the dead of night, murder the sentries, and slip into the South to steal the property of Romans.”

  “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 A
rshak 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.”

  V

  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.

  “In twelve days we will be in Eburacum, and four days after that, in Cilurnum, where we will be based. I hear that it is a pleasant place beside a river, with abundant grazing for horses and good hunting nearby. We will need to travel no more than thirty Roman miles in any day, and I trust that we will be well provided for along the way. There are no more oceans to cross, and we will travel now as warriors, armed and honorable, and not as wretched prisoners. May God favor us!”

  They cheered, waved their spears, and shouted, “Marha!” I gave another signal to the drummer, and he rattled out the call to march, which was taken up by the banner-bearers of the squadrons. Arshak and Gatalas were still speaking to their men, so we circled the parade ground while we waited for them to start. I never like to keep the men standing about waiting.

  “What did you say to them?” asked Comittus, who’d turned his horse beside mine.

  I told him, roughly.

  “Would they really start fighting duels if you hadn’t warned them?” he asked in amazement.

  I looked at him sideways, wondering what it must be like to lead a body of men who did not fight duels over every half-imagined slur. “Of course,” I said. “Though not so much with men from this dragon. We all know one another. But there are one or two points of conflict with the troops that follow Arshak and Gatal
as.”

  “What? I ought to know if I’m to… liaise properly.”

  True enough. “The others sneer at the Roxalani in my company, and the Roxalani sometimes take offense. I am lucky in Kasagos, who is senior to the other Roxalanic captains. He is a sensible man and a priest and diviner, and he knows how to calm his fellow tribesmen and soothe their opponents-but still they fight, at times. Then we are second to Gatalas in the order of march. The men do not mind coming behind Arshak, because he is of royal blood, but Gatalas, they say, is no better than myself. So they and Gatalas’ men boast to one another that their horses are faster, their armor stronger, their own skill greater, and their commanders braver and more glorious-and sometimes they fight over it.” After a moment I added, “They did it to some extent even on the way from Aquincum. But then they were unarmed, and they were too wretched with bad food and weariness to have much heart for boasting. It will be worse now.”

  I could have added that now Gatalas’ men were certain to say to mine, “Your commander is a Romanizer,” and my men would probably reply angrily, “Who got you that beef you’re eating?” and there would be blows over that, too. But what would be the point of trying to explain the danger and dishonor of Romanizing to a Roman?

  The Romans were waiting for us by the tribunal. Priscus had even fewer troops than I’d expected: fifty dispatch riders and one century. He sent Arshak’s dragon in front, with a guide, and followed it with his own troops and their baggage. Gatalas’ dragon came next, and then the wagons, and finally my own company brought up the rear. Normally I would have expected that to be a dusty position-but everything was far too wet. The worst problem was horses losing horse-sandals in the churned-up mud verge of the road. As soon as I’d arranged the squadrons, I was obliged to leave them to dig the horse-sandals out on their own while I joined the legate. Senior Roman officers usually ride together when their forces are on the march, though Sarmatians stay with their men. Facilis had imposed the Roman order of march on us during the journey from Aquincum, largely to keep an eye on the officers and separate us from our followers, and I wasn’t surprised to find that Priscus retained this precaution.