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a ferocity I hadn’t felt for months, and precise with details only too familiar: Comittus lying on the cobblestones with my spear in him, and my dagger’s edge running across his forehead, around the sides of his head, and lifting the curly brown scalp away from the reddened skull. How could any Roman, let alone this one, be in charge of my men—my dependants, my followers, my own people? And if the Romans expected to appoint some of their own people as prefects, what did they plan to do with Arshak, Gatalas, and myself? Second-in-command, joint command, what?
    Even a joint command would end in disaster. Here I was, determined to safeguard my followers by keeping the peace with our Roman masters—and I ached to scalp the first Roman colleague I met. What would my officers do? Or my fellow commanders? I thought of Arshak and his coat of Roman scalps. This Comittus was as cheerful and bouncy as a puppy. Members of the equestrian order often begin their careers by serving as military tribunes on the staff of a legion. They don’t need any previous military experience, and I doubted Comittus had supplied any. He would manage Arshak about as well as the red-faced man had managed the white horse, and the result could easily be death and grief all round. Someone in Britain had miscalculated badly. Perhaps, like the procurator Valerius Natalis, they thought we were conquered barbarians.
    I found that my hand was on the hilt of my dagger, and I made myself rub it slowly, trying to banish the images of blood. “I think perhaps we had better have dinner together,” I said quietly. “Perhaps I might speak with your commanding officer, as well. What you have said . . .” I shook my head. “Javolenus Comittus, if you had said that to Arshak, that ‘I will be in command,’ I think he would have taken your life.”
    Comittus looked bewildered. The woman, Aurelia Bodica, smiled. “Is this . . . Arsacus . . . your commanding officer?” she asked.
    “He is my fellow officer, Lady,” I said, “but senior to me in honor, being of royal blood.”
    “Is he here in Dubris too? We hadn’t heard that any of your troops had even arrived in Bononia yet.”
    “We arrived in Bononia yesterday afternoon, Lady. The others are still there. I came over on my own this morning. The others will follow when I have told them all is well.”
    “I see.” She smiled again, very prettily this time. “I’d thought perhaps we could all have dinner together this evening, Sarmatian and Roman officers together, and you could explain to us how we should manage your troops. Instead, I’m afraid it will have to be you and four Roman legionary officers . . . What did you say your name was?”
    “Ariantes.”
    “ Lord Ariantes? I’m afraid I can’t even invite you to dine out, because my husband and I are also staying at Natalis’ house. But I hope you will share a meal with us, and I will invite the tribunes as well—I’m inviting you now, Lucius Javolenus! You can tell us all about your people’s customs and how we can avoid offending them.”
    I thanked her and agreed. Comittus thanked her too. She smiled again and said she would have to rush back to arrange the dinner party, wished me good health, and set off back up the road. Comittus collected the horse and followed her.
    My leg was still too painful to allow me to walk any distance. I limped back to the fountain and sat down on the rim. The curious crowd at last tired of gaping at me and began to take down the market stalls and pack up for the day; even the apple seller excused herself. I supposed that it was not really surprising that Bodica had guessed I was Sarmatian, given that she knew we were expected and I had mentioned Bononia. Yet I had felt something strange in that stare, and in the smile when I referred to Arshak killing the tribune. It unsettled me. I wondered how much authority she held. It was odd that Comittus had called her by her own names: she should have been Aurelia