Island of Ghosts (3 page)

“We had reports, though, that their king was in the northeast of the country, and his army with him, so we marched on. And when we’d gone a long way, they attacked our supply train and chopped our rear guard to pieces, cutting us off. We sent out foraging parties, looking for food and water, and sometimes the foraging parties came back, and sometimes they didn’t. I’ve been out myself, and come across a dip in the hills and found a party of thirty lads lying there, shot full of arrows, with everything stripped off them but their tunics, and their skulls looking like peeled grapes—and all the hills around empty, just grass and dust. Didn’t you see the scalps hanging from their horses’ bridles when they came in? Arshak has thirty-seven, ten on the bridle and the rest stitched onto his coat, all from Roman soldiers he’s killed with his own hands—and he’d love to add mine to his collection. Jupiter! he would!”

“Those tassels on the bridles?” said the procurator. “Those are scalps? I thought . . .”

“Those are scalps. It’s a custom of theirs. But that was just playing with us. One night when we were making camp, their army turned up. Good! we thought. Our turn at last! I tell you, sir, the heavy cavalry rode right over us. Twice. They used the lance on the way there, and the long swords on the way back, and all the while the light cavalry rained arrows on us. Twenty men I lost from my century that day, and the rest ran into our camp as soon as it was built, and hid. Next day we tried to retreat—and we couldn’t. We managed to reach a patch of hills, the one damned patch of hills in that whole dry plain, and there we sat like a weasel up a tree, perishing of thirst, and didn’t dare come down. And we would have died there, all of us, if the gods hadn’t favored the emperor and sent the most torrential thunderstorm. The horses slipped in the mud, and we rushed out and caught them. By Mars, it was sweet, to catch them on the ground for once! They had enough fighting pretty quickly then, and galloped off, and a party of our auxiliary cavalry went after them and found one of their base camps, where they had some of their herds and some of the women and children: we drove off the herds and killed the bitches and their brats, and that was our Thundering Victory!

“It hurt them, all right, hurt them enough that they started begging us for peace. But they’re not conquered yet. You can’t conquer a people who don’t build cities: it’s like trying to carry water in your hands. The emperor thought of exterminating the whole horde of them. But it would have taken time to catch them all, and by then he had no time, and a rebellion in the East screaming for his attention. So when they offered to give us eight thousand troops if we went away, the emperor accepted, with the provision that all the troops had to be heavy cavalry. He wanted the troops—we’d all seen how good they were—and he knew that if we had them, they wouldn’t. Only the important men, what they call
azatani
, can afford armor: the commoners fight as mounted archers. To get eight thousand heavy cavalry, they had to send us practically every nobleman between the ages of sixteen and thirty—the very men who’d started the whole war with their raids across the Danube, and who’d poured out rivers of our blood. They won’t start any wars now until the next generation grows up. But there’s no province of Sarmatia yet, and while there’s a Sarmatian alive, there never will be. There’ll be more wars, in ten, fifteen years’ time, and this lot know that just as well as I do.”

“Yet they’ve been disarmed, and come quietly all the way from Aquincum.”

“I’ve already said: they’re not as thoroughly disarmed as I’d like, and I’ve heard of them killing armed opponents with just a rope and a dagger. And they won’t come quietly now. Sir, I
know
they’re planning to mutiny. You’ve got to step on them hard. There’ll be another four thousand of them coming through Bononia next year, and if you let this lot cause trouble, you’ll have trouble with them all.”

That made me blink. We hadn’t been told where our fellows were being sent. So, another four thousand of us were also on their way to Britain? I wondered if they included my sister’s husband. I wondered how my sister was managing, overseeing the cattle alone. The picture of her, riding out to check on the herds, with little Saios bouncing on the saddle in front of her, suddenly seemed more real than the courtyard of the procurator’s house and the voices in the room behind me.

“They’re vicious brutes,” Facilis was urging. “They don’t respect anything but force. You need to show them you’re stronger than they are. You need to break their spirit.”

“And you think I should arrest . . . who?” asked the procurator, resignedly.

“All the squadron captains,” Facilis said promptly. “All forty-eight of ’em. And the three company commanders, the prince-commanders of the dragons—them especially. They’re all from the great families, what they call the scepter-holders. The rest of the men are their dependants.”

The procurator winced and turned away from the window. “If that’s true, Marcus Flavius, it seems to me that their men are almost certainly going to mutiny if we arrest them. I would expect my own clients to defend me, in such circumstances. There’ll be bloodshed.”

“But if we arrange it right, it will be Sarmatian blood, not Roman,” returned Facilis.

“Marcus Flavius, I’d rather no blood was shed, Sarmatian or Roman! It would reflect very badly on me if I couldn’t get these people across the Channel without killing half of them. The thing I’d expect to do would be . . . well, talk to the most reasonable of the company commanders, win his support. Set him against the other two, if need be—divide and rule, eh? Calm them down, give them a few days to realize that we’re not tricking them or planning to murder them, and then ship them across quietly.”

“A reasonable Sarmatian commander?” said Facilis. “Sir, that’s a contradiction in terms. I wouldn’t trust any of the bastards. Look at them! There’s Arshak, the king’s nephew: he’d rather kill Romans than feast on figs and sweet wine, and he hates me. Then there’s Gatalas. He was green with fear at the sight of the sea this afternoon, but by reputation he’s a lunatic of a fighter and completely unpredictable—you won’t win him over. And then there’s Ariantes, the quiet one: I trust him least of all. He’s clever, and he’s led more and worse raids into Roman lands than either of the others. Give them a few days and they’ll hatch some plan to slaughter the lot of us. Arrest them, search the wagons for weapons, and give a good flogging to anyone caught hiding arms and anyone who resists.”

I’d heard enough. If the procurator followed this advice, I’d end up with half my men dead trying to free me. Perhaps that was what Facilis wanted. I stood up. “Flavius Facilis!” I called, going to the window as though I’d only just arrived in the courtyard. “Lord Procurator! May I speak with you?”

The procurator jumped back from the window like a man who’s put his hand in a hole and found a snake there. “Who are you?” he demanded. He had not particularly noticed me when I came into the camp. Arshak had done all the talking.

Facilis answered that question for me. “Ariantes!” he exclaimed, pushing past the procurator, gripping the window frame and glaring at me. “How long have you been listening?”

I didn’t answer. “May I speak with you both?” I repeated.

“Certainly, certainly,” said the procurator, though looking at me rather doubtfully, as though I were a wild animal—which, after Facilis’ account of us, was hardly surprising. “Uhh . . . will you come in . . . um,
Lord
Ariantes?”

I knew, when I heard that
Lord
, that he would listen to me. Perhaps he didn’t like being pressured by Facilis and wanted to try his own plan; perhaps he was genuinely afraid of bloodshed; perhaps it was simply that we were both noblemen. For whatever worthy or unworthy reason, I would be heard. Facilis realized it as well, and began to go crimson. “Thank you, Lord Procurator,” I said, bowing my head. I walked round the courtyard to the door and found my way in.

The room was a dining room. It had a mosaic floor, painted walls, and the couches had feet of ivory. The light from the lamps on the gilded stand glowed on the polished table, where a glass wine bowl stood half-empty with two silver cups beside it. I held my hands at my sides, afraid to touch anything:my clothes were stiff with dirt. I’d been in such a room before only when a raiding party I’d led had sacked some rich man’s villa in Pannonia. The cups there had sometimes been gold, though.

Facilis had swollen like a bullfrog and was glaring at me. “How long were you out there listening?” he demanded again.

It would be no use talking to him. He must have been aware where the path he’d been urging would have led. I wondered if there was any one in particular of the “lads” who died in the war whose death he held against us—he was old enough to have had sons. I turned to the procurator instead. “Lord,” I said, “I have come to tell you that my people are afraid to cross the ocean.”

“You’ve come here to
announce
the mutiny?” snarled Facilis, rigid with indignation. “Sir—”

The procurator raised his hand for silence, then nodded to me to continue.

“When we surrendered at Aquincum,” I told him, “we swore oaths to obey the emperor. We do not wish to break them. But we cannot see any island out there, and we do not entirely trust the good faith of the Romans: we know that the emperor wished to exterminate us. We have never seen the sea before, nor have we been farther in a boat than across the Danube, and our religion holds that those who die by water must expect a wretched fate in the afterlife. Some of us are saying now that we have been betrayed, and we would do better to die on land. Some of us are desperate.”

“Lord Ariantes!” exclaimed the procurator, in amazement and distress. “Let me assure you, we haven’t the least intention of harming your troops! I am the man responsible for seeing them ferried safely over to Britain, and I would be disgraced if there were serious trouble: it’s the last thing on earth I want! And Marcus Flavius Facilis here was charged with seeing you safely to your journey’s end: he, too, would be disgraced if any harm came to you.”

“Lord Procurator,” I said, “I am sorry, but you cannot give any assurances that my people would trust. But I do not want serious trouble, either. If you would be disgraced, we would die, and die for nothing if you are acting in good faith and this island of Britain is indeed across the ocean, just out of sight. Now, I have suggested to the others that I cross the ocean myself first, if that is agreeable to you, and then return to report on the island, if it is there. They would believe me where they would not believe you, and if I can prove to them that they have not been betrayed, they agree to embark when you wish.”

“Arshak and Gatalas agreed to this?”Facilis demanded incredulously.

“They agreed,” I said. “Why would they want to die in Bononia?”

The procurator beamed. “Is that all it needs?” he asked. “Of course, Lord Ariantes, of course I accept your suggestion! I can send you across on a fast galley first thing tomorrow morning.” He looked at Facilis triumphantly. “I should have had this man arrested, eh? All Sarmatians are unreasonable, eh?”

Facilis looked bewildered. “What are you playing at, Ariantes?” he demanded.

“I am not playing at anything, Flavius Facilis.”

“Come on! I know you hate all Romans. What kind of game is this?”

“I am a servant of Rome,” I told him. “I accepted that servitude to buy my people’s freedom, and I could hardly go on living if I hated all Romans. Why should I wear out my heart? With any luck, you can go back to Pannonia in a few days, and I can go to my posting in Britain. I will not lie awake, regretting that you live. I intend to forget about you completely.”

All the journey, he’d gone red when he was angry. He had shouted and sworn and hurled insults. He’d spoken of Arshak’s hatred with relish. I hadn’t expected him even to pay attention to my declaration of indifference. But he went pale—or rather, yellow-gray, leaving the red in uneven blotches of broken veins across his cheeks—and he stared at me without saying a word. The pupils of his eyes contracted until he looked almost blind. I’d seen that look before, on the faces of men who’ve gone mad, in battle or grief. The crimson rages had been nothing: this was serious. I backed away.

“You killed my son,” said Facilis, in a choked voice. I stopped with my hand on the door. “You killed my only son and you intend to forget about me completely?”

He had his sword out. I didn’t dare move.

“Centurion!” cried the procurator. “Centurion! Put that weapon away!”

Until that moment I had never understood how powerful Roman discipline could be. Facilis stood rigid for a moment longer, fixed on me with that insane passion of rage—and then he began to shake. His head snapped away, and he fumbled the sword back into its sheath. “You stinking Sarmatian bastard,” he whispered. “It might have been you that did it. It might have been any of you.” He rubbed his face with one of his thick hands, and I saw that he was starting to cry. Coarse, cruel, miserable old man. I wanted, stupidly, to console him. But he was right: if his son had died in battle, it might have been me who did it. It might have been several thousand others, but it might have been me. So how could I console him?

“I am sorry, Facilis,” I said after a moment. “I also have dead to mourn.”

“You!” he exclaimed in disgust. “Sorry! Don’t make me sick! You bastards started that war.”

That was true, too, as far as it went. I turned to the procurator and said—quickly, so as to get out—“My lord, I will go tell my fellows that you are arranging for me to cross the ocean in the morning. Good health, my lord.”

And so the next morning I set out for Britain.

II

T
HE  SUN  WAS
  shining again, and the water sparkled in the light when I came down to the quay; on the sea’s plain, the waves curled whitely in the breeze. I smelled the sea for the first time then, salt and alien, and for all my bold offers, I was afraid. The procurator had arranged for me to travel in his dispatch vessel, a small bireme that carried letters and messages between the base in Bononia and one on the British coast opposite, a place called Dubris. It was a quick, light galley with one large sail and fifty oars arranged in two banks: it was shallow-decked, thin-skinned, and seemed to be held together only by a few bits of rope. When I stepped down into it I felt it shiver under my weight. The flimsy thing seemed to me quite certain to sink. But my fellows and all my men were watching me, so I waved to them, called “I’ll see you tomorrrow!” and tried to look confident as I searched for a place to sit. My leg wound had left me limping and clumsy, and I bumped into the rowing benches. The captain hurriedly ushered me to the back, out of the way, and arranged me beside the steersman. One of the sailors began to beat time on a small drum, the ship was loosed from the dock, the oars dipped into the water, and we slid out across the blue-green waters of the harbor. I clutched the ship’s side until my fingers ached, desperately praying that it wouldn’t sink.