Island of Ghosts

GILLIAN BRADSHAW

I
sland
of
G
hosts

 
TOR
^®

A TOM DOHERTY ASSOCIATES BOOK
NEW YORK

www.eBookYes.com

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

ISLAND OF GHOSTS

Copyright © 1998 by Gillian Bradshaw

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.

Edited by Jenna A. Felice

Map by Mark Stein Studios

A Tor Book

Published by Tom Doherty Associates, Inc.

175 Fifth Avenue

New York, NY 10010

Tor Books on the World Wide Web:

http://www.tor.com

Tor
^®
is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, Inc.

eISBN: 0-312-87075-2

First edition: August 1998

First mass market edition: May 1999

This book is also available in print as ISBN: 0-312-86439-6

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

X

XI

XII

XIII

XIV

XV

XVI

XVII

Historical Epilogue

“Those looking for a successor to Robert Graves would do well to consider Gillian Bradshaw.”

—The Philadelphia Inquirer

Praise for
Island of Ghosts

“[Bradshaw is known for] atmospheric accuracy, period characterizations, and rousing plots. . . . Despite the fiery turmoil of the climactic duel and intrigues involving legionnaires, Druids, turncoats. . . .
Island of Ghosts
hinges on character rather than plot. Although Ariantes is rewarded with Roman citizenship for his courage—the highest recognition the state bestows—can he ever really be Romanized? Gillian Bradshaw asks the questions like this, ambiguities that lend the conventions of the historical novel a rare and unusual depth.”

—The Boston Globe

“If you’re in the mood for adventure, but already have vicariously climbed Everest or survived a storm-tossed sea, then consider battling on the side of some likable barbarians in Roman Britain. . . . A plausible and rousing account . . . Bradshaw makes ancient history immediate and thrilling.”

—The Orlando Sentinel

“A vivid, atmospheric work. . . . Fluidly written, well researched, and luxuriant with colorful authentic detail.”

—Publishers Weekly

“Classics scholar Gillian Bradshaw has penned a historical novel of extraordinary depth and passion. . . . A multilayered drama that will appeal to fans of intelligent historical fiction.”

—Booklist

“Bradshaw explores the demands of loyalty and honor amid political intrigue and rebellion. She deftly melds her expert knowledge of the period with her moving portrayal of a compassionate and honorable man adapting to a foreign culture. Both the setting and the riveting plot should appeal widely. Essential for any collection of historical fiction.”

—Library Journal

Praise for the Previous Works of Gillian Bradshaw

“Bradshaw is a classics scholar as well as an excellent writer. . . . History comes alive in her expert hands.”

—The Philadelphia Inquirer
on
The Beacon at Alexandria

“Gillian Bradshaw’s
The Bearkeeper’s Daughter
is splendid entertainment! . . . It’s really a wonderful book, riveting, fresh, and exciting.”

—Phillip Parotti

“Constantinople of the sixth century
A.D
. lives, breathes, and flourishes in this new novel. . . . Poetically clear and carefully researched, with an energy that carries it right along.”

—Kirkus Reviews
on
The Bearkeeper’s Daughter

“I enjoyed it immensely. The author tells a good story with wit and style, and never forgets the function of a novelist: to entertain and inform. I wish her great success.”

—Richard Selzer on
The Beacon at Alexandria

“Ms. Bradshaw’s supreme talent of combining history and fiction is a treat for anyone who enjoys escape to the opulence of mankind’s past.”

—Rave Reviews

To Robin

Eur.
Hel.
625–26

I

W
E  MUTINIED  WHEN
  we reached the ocean.

We’d been riding for fifty-one days, three companies of us with half a legion and two troops of Roman auxiliaries to guard us. We left Aquincum late in July, and rode through the heat of August: the dust and the flies were appalling. Most of the army bases where we stopped along the way didn’t have proper supplies laid up for such a large body of men, as nobody had sent messages telling them to do so; of what they did have, the Roman troops took the best for themselves, leaving us sour barley soup and coarse black bread. We weren’t used to the diet, and it made us ill. The hooves of our horses wore down on the paved Roman roads, and the beasts went lame. The Romans refused to give us leather to make horse-sandals, so we cut up the leather bindings of our wagon awnings. Then, early in September when we left the Rhine and turned west into Gaul, it began to rain, and the water ran through the loose awnings and soaked everything: bedding, food, clothes. Everything stank of wet wool, wet horses, rotting barley, and unwashed wet men, and we hated the feel of our own skins. Only our armor and weapons were safe: they had been wrapped in oilcloths at Aquincum and packed into twenty wagons of their own, which the Romans took charge of.

Then one afternoon, just before the middle of September, we were starting down from the hills when we saw it: the ocean. It had rained all that morning, but the rain had stopped about midday, and now the sky was clearing. The clouds parted and let down a watery light westward beyond us, and we looked up and saw a huge gray plain turn suddenly and impossibly blue. We had never seen the sea. We reined in our horses and stopped in the road, staring at it. The sun shimmered on the waves as far out as our eyes could see: no shadow of land darkened even the farthest limit of the horizon.

“It’s the end of the world!” whispered Arshak.

Gatalas gave a long wail of grief and dismay and covered his face. The sound rose up above the clatter and rumble of the troops behind us and before us, and when it stopped, there was complete silence. Then there was a rustling whisper—“What is it?” “The sea, we’ve reached the sea”—running back down the line. A few dozen men and horses trotted forward, leaving the road and fanning out across the hill. Then there was silence again.

Marcus Flavius Facilis, the senior centurion in charge of us, came galloping up from some discussion with his subordinates. He was a stocky, bull-necked man, white-haired, with a face that went crimson when he was angry. It was beginning to go crimson now. “What’s the matter with you bastards now?” he demanded, in Latin. He always spoke to us in his own language, though few of the officers and even fewer of the men understood it. During the long journey he had not bothered to learn Sarmatian even enough to give us orders.

Arshak, who did understand it, pointed at the sea. Gatalas didn’t even look at him, but sat with his hands over his face, rocking back and forth in his saddle.

Facilis only glanced at the sea. His eyes slid lightly away from that shining vision of blue and silver, and fixed instead on the city down the hill from us, a comfortable huddle of red tile and gray thatch. He sat back in his saddle with a grunt of satisfaction. “Bononia!” he exclaimed, almost cheerfully. “Bononia at last! That’s where we’ll be staying tonight. And tomorrow I can say good-bye to the whole stinking lot of you. Come on, you bastards: hurry up and you’ll sleep in dry beds tonight.”

“And tomorrow?” asked Arshak, very quietly. “Where will we sleep tomorrow?”

“That depends how long it takes to embark you all,” replied Facilis. “I imagine it will take a few days to ferry all of you across.”

“They said there was an island,” said Arshak, still very quietly. “They said that we would be sent to an island called Britain, and there we would have our weapons back, and be accepted as soldiers of the Romans, and receive honorable appointments and payment for our service. That is what the emperor himself swore to us at Aquincum.”

“Yes,” agreed Facilis, “and the sooner you get down this hill—”

“There is no island,” said Arshak.

“May I perish!” said Facilis, going red again. “What the hell do you mean?”

Gatalas took his hands away from his face. “There is nothing there!” he screamed. “Nothing! Nothing but ocean!” He turned his head away from that terrible immensity.

“You pigheaded barbarians!” shouted Facilis. “You stinking idiots! Of course there’s an island. It’s across there”—he waved his hand at the sea—“about thirty miles off.”