Island of Ghosts (2 page)

Arshak shook his head. “No,” he said, “no. You lie to us, Roman. You lied to us all along. You, the emperor, all of you. You lie. There is no island.”

Facilis’ face was growing steadily redder. “You stupid bastard! By every god on earth or under it! Why would I march a troop of lunatic Sarmatians all the way from Aquincum to Bononia if there wasn’t anywhere to send them when we got there? I wouldn’t do it for the love of barbarian company, I can promise you that!”

“You would do it to cause our deaths,” replied Arshak, still very quietly. He never raised his voice when he was angry, never swore, and never boasted. He was a member of the royal clan, second son of the king’s own brother, and he had been taught that a nobleman answers insults only with his spear. It was lucky that the spear was stowed away in the weapons wagons, with Facilis’ men guarding it. Otherwise Facilis would have been dead several times over, and Arshak as well, executed for murdering a Roman officer.

Facilis glared at him. He wiped his hands down the sides of his tunic. “The emperor wants you alive,” he declared. “He wants you in his army. He swore to give you honorable posts, and you swore to serve him faithfully. Do you mean to break your oaths now, just because you’ve seen the sea?”

“The emperor wanted to kill our whole nation,” Arshak returned. “He lied to us.”

“If we go there,” said Gatalas, jabbing a hand fearfully toward the sea, “we will die in the water.”

“No!” Facilis insisted. He did not bother to deny that the emperor had wanted to exterminate our whole nation—everyone knew that was true—but he returned instead to his first point. “There is an island there.”

We all stared at him.

“There’s a huge island there, you stupid bastards! There’s a whole Roman province, with cities and roads and three legions and the gods know how many troops of auxiliaries! The ocean’s bigger than the gods-hated Danube, you idiots: you can’t expect to see clear across it!”

Arshak glanced up the hill behind us. Behind a handful of our officers, Facilis’ legionaries waited, leaning on their javelins and watching us. Two full cohorts of them, sixteen hundred men, drawn up six abreast: their ranks stretched up the road out of sight. The rest of our men were behind them, and the wagons with the weapons were still farther away, with the baggage. Of the two troops of Roman auxiliary cavalry, one was strung out down the road before us, waiting, and the other was guarding the baggage.

Arshak looked back at Facilis and smiled. Then, saying nothing, he touched his horse and started down the hill again, and the rest of us followed him in silence. Facilis sat still on his own horse, swearing as we rode past.

“We will not go on their ships,” said Gatalas, in Sarmatian, when we were well ahead of him.

“Of course not,” replied Arshak. “It’s a trick. We’d be helpless on a ship, with our horses packed in a hold like sheep, and our weapons left onshore. They wouldn’t even need to use swords on us. A few good swimmers could take us out, sink us and the vessel, and escape themselves without the least danger.”

“Death in battle is better than drowning,” Gatalas declared, rubbing the hilt of his dagger. “But I’d prefer it if I had something more than this and a rope to fight with. Do you think we could get our weapons back?”

“Probably,” said Arshak, almost eagerly. “My men have managed to keep thirty bows, forty quivers of arrows, and sixty swords hidden in our wagons. How many do your troops have?”

“Fifty bows and twenty-seven swords,” Gatalas replied promptly. “But only thirty quivers of arrows.”

“Ariantes?”

“Fifty-nine bows, sixty quivers of arrows, and a dozen swords,” I said, reluctantly. “But they’re all well hidden, and it will take a little time to get them out. Facilis is suspicious. He’ll find some way to obstruct us. Either we won’t be allowed near our wagons, or we won’t be allowed near our men, or both.”

“Facilis won’t be in charge in Bononia,” Arshak answered confidently. “The camp will have its own commander. Bononia’s a big place; the commander will be an important man, a legate or a procurator. You must have noticed how even tribunes don’t like taking orders from centurions, however senior. It won’t take much to ensure that we’re sent off to the wagons with our men.” Arshak smiled again, then added vehemently, “Facilis is mine.”

I sighed. I was not sure what I felt when I looked at the sea, but it was not anger or fear. Perhaps it was hope. I’d had enough of the worlds I knew, Sarmatian and Roman both, and here we’d ridden to the world’s end and were climbing down to touch something huge and mysterious beyond it. Why should I stop, here in this Roman city? Why not go on? I remembered the time long before when I had journeyed east, hoping to reach the Jade Gate of the Silk Country. I had been called back, halfway there. I regretted that still. Why stop again now, just short of the ocean?

Of course, I was tired. Some things had happened in the Roman war that had left me stunned, and when the war ended, I felt like one of the dead. I had a leg wound, too, which had meant that I’d ridden the first seven hundred miles of the journey with my leg in a splint, dazed with pain, and I’d floated through them in a kind of dream. Sometimes I woke up with a start and stared at myself in astonishment, but mostly I rode, ate, made camp, and gave orders to my men, all as though I were trailing behind myself and watching.

“What if they’re telling the truth?” I asked. “What if there is an island?”

“Why should you believe them?” returned Arshak, swiftly and angrily. “Why should we trust them?”

“I don’t trust them,” I answered wearily. “But we swore oaths to the emperor, and we aren’t yet certain that he was lying. If we fight them now, we will all die. You want to kill Facilis—but if you have to pay for the pleasure with the blood of all your men, is it worth it? Even if we managed to win our weapons, even if we gave them such a battering that they locked themselves in their forts and us out, still we couldn’t get home, not through a thousand miles of land held by our enemies. And the emperor would look at what we’d done, and note that even when Sarmatian troops surrender in a peace settlement, they can still rebel and shed Roman blood. He’d have no use for Sarmatian troops ever again. What could our people give then, to buy peace?”

Arshak scowled. “He wanted to kill us all anyway. He has betrayed us and he will betray those at home, whatever we do.”

“Better to die on land than in the water,” agreed Gatalas. “At least on land the soul can fly free to the sun.”

“But what if there is an island? If there is an island, it would be we who first betrayed them.”

“An island in the ocean, beyond the limit of the world!” scoffed Arshak. “And what’s more, an invisible one! If Facilis told you that there was an island in the sky and that you must climb up a mountain and jump off to reach it—would you believe him, and jump?”

“I wouldn’t choose a path that would end with all my men dead without at least tossing a stone off the mountain and looking where it landed! And I am not sure that the Romans would invent a Roman province across the ocean, simply to trick us. Britain may well lie thirty miles from here.”

“I will not cross the ocean!” cried Gatalas. “I will die cleanly in this world, and so will my men!” He stretched his hand toward the sun. “On fire I swear it!”

We rode on for a moment with the oath ringing in our ears. There didn’t seem to be any point in continuing the argument.

But I couldn’t leave it. When we reached this camp, we would have to begin planning our mutiny—and the more I considered it, the less likely it seemed that the Romans had invented Britain to deceive us. I had five hundred men who depended upon me to do what was best for them. “If I went,” I said at last, reluctantly, “on my own, without you, without any of my own people—if I went to see if this island was there, and came back and reported to you that it was—what would you do then?”

Gatalas looked at me fearfully. “What if it’s not an earthly island?” he asked, in a low voice. “If it’s there, beyond the ocean, it might be . . . a place where the dead walk. What would you be like if you came back then?”

“You’d still know, then, from looking at me, that you should not cross. You’d be free to fight the Romans with a clear conscience.”

“I’m not sure we’d notice any difference if you came back as a ghost, Ariantes,” Arshak said, trying to lighten the air a little. I met his eyes, and he dropped his smile: the joke was too true to be funny.

“Someone should check what the truth is before we take up arms,” I said.

“And if they refuse to let you go and come back again?” Arshak demanded.

“Then, again, we’ll know that they’re lying and we need have no doubts about fighting them.”

“Very well, very well,” Arshak said quietly. “Very well. You’re right: we must toss our stone off the mountain and see where it falls. A pity: my hands ache for a spear every time I see Facilis, and I will regret it as long as I live if he goes home to Aquincum unharmed.” After a moment he added, “And you’re willing to go? Because I’m not. It would mean swallowing what I said to Facilis.”

“I am willing to go,” I said. “I’ll tell Facilis as much this evening. Can I tell him that if we know he’s acting in good faith, we will go on their ships?”

Gatalas flinched, but, after a moment, nodded. “I will not be the first to break an oath.”

“Nor will I,” said Arshak again, unhappily. “But we’ll see what we can arrange for the Romans if it happens that they’re lying.”

Arshak was quite right about at least one thing, however: the procurator of the naval base where we stopped that night did not want to take his orders from Flavius Facilis. He’d had letters about us, and when we arrived he came out to the gate to look at us. It was easy for us to guess who the figure standing on the battlement was: he was wearing the long crimson cloak and gilded armor, and when we got closer we could see he had the narrow purple stripe on his tunic, marking him as a member of the Roman equestrian order. Arshak galloped up to the gate, stopped his horse, saluted respectfully, greeted him as “Lord,” and asked him where we could put our wagons. By the time Facilis had cantered up and suggested that we be confined to barracks instead, the procurator had already granted us leave to arrange the wagons in the shipyard, and wouldn’t back down: an equestrian appointed by the emperor doesn’t change his arrangements because a centurion who struggled up through the ranks thinks he ought to. Facilis turned crimson and swore under his breath, but had to accept it. He followed us to the shipyard, where he told us that if we “tried anything,” he would see to it that our bodies were burned. He knew enough about us to be aware that this was a terrible threat—but luckily the men couldn’t understand it.

I waited in the shipyard for my men, then waited, with them, for the wagons, then saw the wagons arranged and the men and horses settled. My bodyguard—the thirty men and two officers of my personal squadron—offered to come with me to see Facilis and the procurator, and also offered, though fearfully, to join me if I was allowed on a ship: I refused both offers. They had a great sense of the respect due me as their prince-commander, and Facilis would only offend it and them—and there was no point in dragging their proud loyalty in terror across the ocean when at best it was an unnecessary voyage. It was dark when I set off for the center of the camp.

The camp headquarters were shut and locked; the guards told me that the procurator was next door, in his house, and that Facilis was with him. I went to the house and asked to speak with them. The servants told me to wait, and when I’d tethered my horse, they ushered me into the courtyard so as to keep my smell of horses and camp dirt out of the house. The courtyard was colonnaded and paved with flagstones; a few bushes of rosemary straggled from terracotta pots. There was lamplight in the glass windows and a smell of cooking. I sat down in the shelter of the colonnade and waited, resting my head on my knees and rubbing my stiff leg.

“If it were up to me, sir,” came Facilis’ voice from behind me, “I’d have killed them all before they ever left Aquincum.”

That made me raise my head. A shuttered window on the courtyard had been pushed open, and the procurator was standing in a cloud of lamplight, looking out at the night. Facilis must have stood behind him. I remained where I was, in the shadow of the colonnade, and listened.

“But the emperor wants them alive,” Facilis went on, “so it’s my job to make sure they get to Britain that way. Sir, he appointed me himself. I’m Pannonian by birth, and I know the Sarmatians. He knew he could trust me to make sure of them.”

“You haven’t said anything to me that indicates there’s the slightest reason for concern,” the procurator replied irritably. “I know that the emperor put you in charge of them, Marcus Flavius, but he put
me
in charge of the British fleet. I can use my own judgment about how to get these barbarians across the Channel, and it seems to me that if I go clapping chains on their leaders, the men will be sure to mutiny.” (In the back of my mind I made a note that, although Facilis called him
dominus
, “sir,” he addressed Facilis by his first two names, informally: he spoke with the confidence of noble birth and high rank, and the centurion was forced to honor that.)

“You don’t know anything about them!” Facilis said. “You seem to think they’re like the Gauls or the Germans, nice safe
conquered
barbarians, who’ll more or less do as they’re told if you treat them kindly! Sarmatians are different. They’ve taken it into their heads that we’ve tricked them and mean to murder them, and they’ll try to hit us hard while we’re not looking. I’d stake my sword on it they’ve managed to hide some weapons in those wagons, for all our precautions, and they’re sitting about their fires now plotting how to kill us.”

He was perfectly correct on that.

“Really!” exclaimed the procurator in disgust, turning away from the window. “I seem to recall hearing that our invincible emperor
did
conquer them, by the favor of the immortal gods.”

“His ‘Thundering Victory,’ ” Facilis answered, in a tone of equal disgust. “Yes. I was there. But maybe you haven’t heard the details of what came
before
that victory. They’d been raiding us for years—they thought it was a brave and manly thing to slip across the Danube with a troop of cavalry and steal the flocks and property of Romans, killing anyone who got in their way. They weren’t afraid of us in the least. The cities cried out to the emperor as the raids got worse and worse, and the emperor decided to settle the Sarmatians for good. For a year we fought. We caught a raiding party on the Danube in the winter, and fought a battle actually on the ice of the river—but that only meant that the next raiding parties were bigger. We negotiated and got nowhere, and at last we set off to conquer the Sarmatians, with all the Danube legions, detachments from all the western legions and some of the eastern ones, more auxiliaries than I could count, and the emperor himself as commander. Twice the number of their army, at least; three, four times their number. We marched out into the plains—and found no one. You can’t besiege their cities, because they don’t have any; you can’t burn their crops to force them to give battle, because they don’t have any of those, either. They keep herds and live in wagons.