Island of Ghosts by Gillian Bradshaw Read Free Book Online

Julii, after her husband. Was it really so clear to everyone that she wasn’t Julius’ Aurelia, but her own? And the name itself was an odd one for a woman of rank. When they acquire Roman citizenship and Roman names, many people retain their own name as their last and take the family name of the Roman they received the citizenship from, often the emperor. The obvious “Aurelius” was the man I’d met at Aquincum, or perhaps his predecessor. But that would make the citizenship of Bodica’s family very recent, and she didn’t carry herself like an upstart. And even without that puzzle to trouble me, I was staggered at the task of trying to explain the Sarmatians to four Roman officers at a dinner party. If I couldn’t convince them to change their plans, though, there’d be a mutiny in Britain even if there wasn’t one in Bononia. I might even lead it myself. I could not —could not—yield command of my own men to some ignorant and inexperienced young Roman.
    The white horse trotted down the street again, this time pulling a flimsy little chariot of painted wood and leather. Bodica was sitting on the bench seat while a groom drove, and Comittus rode behind on a flashy but shallow-hocked black stallion. Bodica noticed me and waved as she went by, and Comittus turned his horse aside.
    “Is your leg really all right?” he asked, stopping in front of me. “If it isn’t, you can ride Thunder back to the base. Here, I’ll walk.” He slid off the black and offered me the bridle.
    I looked at him for a moment. I do not like borrowing anything, but I doubted that I could walk the distance without straining the wound, and I’d had enough trouble with it already. (Riding’s no strain. I have ridden while asleep.) “Thank you,” I said, and took the bridle.
    “I’ll give you a leg up . . .” he began—but I was on top of the horse by then. I checked how it was trained, remembering to use my knees in the Roman fashion, instead of my heels as I would with my own horses. Comittus looked as though he had expected to instruct me on the horse, but thought better of it. “Well,” he said, and swallowed. “If you want to ride him to Natalis’ house, just give him to one of the orderlies when you get there and tell them I’m in the north barrack block; they’ll return him.”
    I looked at him for another moment. It had been a kind gesture to offer me his horse. He’d been trying to make friends. “I do not know where Natalis’ house is,” I confessed. “I have not yet been there. If it is agreeable to you, Javolenus Comittus, perhaps you could walk with me and show me the way.”
    He brightened and agreed at once.
    “What did you mean when you said this Arsacus would kill me for saying I was in command?” he asked as soon as we set off.
    “Was it unclear?”
    “No, but . . . what’s wrong with saying it?”
    “Arshak’s troops are Arshak’s men. He is . . .” I groped for a Roman parallel. “He is their patron, they are his clients. Their families also were clients of his father, and his father before him. You are a Roman—until this summer, an enemy. How would your clients feel if things were reversed? If they were marched out into the plains among the Sarmatians, and then told that you, their patron, were no longer their patron, but that they must look instead to a Sarmatian prince who knew nothing of their ways and could not even speak their language? Would they not refuse? And Arshak is the nephew of a king, and will not want a Roman tribune to interfere with him. He is not a patient man.”
    “Oh. I hadn’t thought of it that way.” After a moment, he asked earnestly, “So what should we do?”
    “Could you not call yourself an adviser? Or a mediator? Or a . . . liaison officer, who speaks for the legate, but leaves the command to us?”
    “I could! That’s all I will be, really.” He began to brighten again. “That’s all right, then! Though I hope I’m not appointed to . . . liaise