“God forbid!” he said vehemently. “I’d as soon tear a man’s skin off and wear it round the camp.”
“My people do that sometimes.” I felt very tired now, and ashamed. But the chasm had moved away a little, and I could breathe again. “I am sorry, Eukairios, that I have made you suffer too. I have seen enough suffering this year to wish to see no more of it. But if you should mention what I have said, I would have to kill you. A commander must be strong.”
“You don’t need threats, my lord, to make me be silent.”
Not because I must be strong, but because he knew I was weak. It was a strange feeling, being pitied by a slave. It should have made me angry, but didn’t. It was comforting, to have another human being in my wagon, not be alone; comforting to be able to grieve without fear. “Good night, then,” I said, beginning to drowse off.
“Good night, my lord.”
I did not want to meet his eyes next morning. But he walked up to me while I was saddling Farna, and asked, in the dry quiet voice he’d used in Bononia, whether I wanted any letters or accounts done. I asked him a question about how the Romans handled accounts, and he began explaining it. Comittus appeared while he was still explaining, and joined in the explanations. The talk was interrupted by our setting out, then resumed and continued for a while on the road. I was aware, as Comittus and I rode back to the place beside the legate, that Eukairios had turned his attention to the man who was driving my wagon and was trying to learn a few words of Sarmatian.
“He’s a good scribe,” observed Comittus. “Natalis did well by you.”
“Yes,” I answered. Natalis had done very well by me-or perhaps very badly. I could not treat the man as a slave now. Property does not wake up crying in the night, or pity the tears you shed in return. I might grow to hate the man because he knew my weakness-or we might end up friends. How we would manage remained to be seen.
“I suppose I ought to learn some Sarmatian, too,” Comittus said, thoughtfully.
I looked at him appreciatively. “I think the men will learn Latin. But a few words from you in their own tongue would please them.”
“I’ll try and learn some, then,” he declared, eagerly. “Though I must say I’m glad you speak Latin as well as you do. Your Latin is much better than the others’-a little formal, maybe, but it’s educated Latin. Where did you learn it?”
“My father had a… I do not know the word for it. A client or tenant; a man whom he permitted to farm some land where he had grazing rights, in return for some of the produce. There were a number of these people near the Tisza River, at the winter pastures. This one was educated. At any rate, my father used to remit a part of the tribute from this man in exchange for Latin lessons for myself and my sisters. He wished us to speak educated Latin. Nobles of our nation try to learn some Latin, but we have little opportunity to practice it, in our country, and only use it for trading, or raids. I had a better teacher than most.” I didn’t add the other truth about my Latin, that it was good because I’d enjoyed the lessons and gone to talk to the old man even when I hadn’t needed to. I’d always been ashamed of that. “He used to read us poetry,” I said instead.
Comittus laughed. “ ‘Arms and the man I sing, who first from the walls of Troy’?”
“Yes, he did read us that.”
“Did you like it?”
I shook my head. “We have our own songs of heroes, which are bloodier, and more to our own taste. But I liked some of the other things he read us. Did you grow up speaking Latin?”
He flushed slightly. “Yes, of course! That thing Gaius said, that ‘Brittunculus’ gibe-that was just a joke. I’m as much a Roman as he is. My family’s had the citizenship since my grandfather’s day.”
“I meant no offense. I was wondering if I should learn some British.”
He relaxed again. “Ah. The fact is, British is my first language-though I learned Latin before I could read.” He added it so hastily that I suspected he had learned Latin in order to read.
“Is Javolenus a British name?” I asked.
He looked astonished. “No, of course not. No, he was a procurator when my grandfather got the citizenship-the first Javolenus, I mean. Why did you think it was?”
“You said you had a British name, and Comittus sounded Latin to me,” I answered. “Comitia, comites, comitatus…”
“That’s only got one t sound in it. Completely different word.” He gave me one of his sudden confidential grins. “At home they call me Comittus all the time; I’m only Lucius in the army. If you like, since you’re not a Roman either, you can call me Comittus as well.”
I nodded, and wondered if he realized how much he had just given away with that little word “either.”
On the third day after leaving Dubris we arrived outside Londinium. Priscus wanted a day to conduct some business with the governor in the capital, but he did not want to take us into the city. He commandeered a house for himself and his lady, in a field with a clean stream in it about a mile south of the city, and next morning left us camped in the field while he rode in. He took a dozen of his dispatch riders but left the rest, and the century, under the command of Flavius Facilis and with instructions to keep an eye on us.
Eukairios asked permission to go into the city as well. “I could buy some tablets and some ink and writing leaves,” he said. “And I’d like to look up some friends-with your permission, Lord Ariantes.”
“You have friends in Londinium?” I asked. “Are there Christians there as well?”
He jumped, then gave an apologetic smile. “I forgot that you know. I wouldn’t say the name, my lord, not so loudly! I was told a few names, and… and a password. I hoped…”
“See them if you wish. And buy the things. Buy yourself some better clothing, too. How much money do you need?”
He glanced down at his tunic with a surprised expression, as though the threadbare gray-brown patched thing were perfectly respectable. “How much better do you want it to be?” he asked.
I shrugged. “You know what a nobleman’s slave should look like better than I. Buy what is fitting to my position.”
He took a silver denarius for his writing supplies and twenty-five for new clothes.
“Is there anything else you wish to buy?” I asked him.
He stared at me a moment, then gave a sudden dry chuckle, stopped quickly in embarrassment. “You really don’t know anything about slaves, do you, my lord?” he said. “I took a few sestertii more than I’m likely to need-and I’m honest.”
I handed him three more sestertii. “Honesty is rewarded,” I said. “Do you need to borrow a horse?”
He took the coins with pleasure and pushed them quickly into his purse. “Thank you very much, my lord! But you’ve forgotten that I can’t ride.”
It was still hard for me to remember that anyone could not ride. “Well then, walk-and enjoy Londinium. Stay in the city tonight, if you wish, but be back tomorrow morning.”
When he was gone I went to the center of the camp, and I was there, discussing business with Arshak and Gatalas, when Aurelia Bodica came driving up in her little chariot. She had no attendants with her, not even her driver; she guided the white stallion herself, turning it neatly around the wagon shafts and past the tethered knots of horses, and drawing it to a smart halt in front of us. Her blue cloak had fallen back from her shoulders, her cheeks were flushed with the wind, and her eyes were dancing. “Princes of the Sarmatians!” she called, smiling at all of us. “I have come to ask you a favor.”
Arshak instantly leapt forward and offered her his hand to help her down from the chariot; Gatalas, just a second behind him, had to content himself with catching the stallion’s reins. “Lady Aurelia,” Arshak said, smiling at her, “you need ask no favors, since we are yours to command.”