The Iron Hand of Mars Read online

  “So let’s be clear what you are suggesting, tribune. I already know the Emperor has doubts about this character, and now you say he’s vanished. Has the First Adiutrix convinced itself that he has been bumped off—and by his own men?”

  “Olympus!” Justinus flushed. “That’s an alarming suggestion!”

  “Sounds like one you have grounds for.”

  “The First is in a tricky position, Falco. We have no remit to interfere. You know how it is—the governor is away reviewing deployments at Vindonissa, so if Gracilis is playing truant, ‘honour among commanders’ comes into play. Besides, my legate is reluctant to march in directly and demand to see his opposite, in case we’re wrong.”

  “He would certainly look foolish if Gracilis strolled out to greet him, wiping his breakfast porridge off his chin!” I agreed. Then, influenced by too long in a barber’s company, I suggested, “Gracilis may have had a haircut he’s ashamed of and is hiding until it grows out!”

  “Or he’s developed an extremely embarrassing rash…” He sounded like Helena and their father, his serious air covered a highly attractive humorous streak. “It’s no joke though.”

  “No.” I quashed the pang of misery his familiar laugh had roused. “Gracilis had better be exposed, whatever crab he’s caught.” I hoped it was nothing worse. Mutiny in the legions just when things were looking settled would be disastrous for Vespasian. And there were grim political implications if yet another Roman legate should disappear in Germany. “I can see good reasons for keeping this news stitched up. Vespasian will want to plan how it is to be presented publicly … Camillus Justinus, you don’t think the Fourteenth have reported the facts, and are waiting for special orders back from Rome?”

  “My legate would have been informed.”

  “Oh, that’s what he thinks! Bureaucracy thrives on secrecy.”

  “No, Falco. Despatch-riders are still bringing ‘Your eyes only’ messages for Gracilis. I know because my own man keeps getting asked to sign for them. Neither Vespasian nor the governor would send confidential flags unless they believed Gracilis was available.”

  My sour welcome from the primipilus and cornicularius was beginning to make sense. If they had simply lost their man, things looked bad for them; if he had been throttled in a hastily hushed-up mutiny, that was desperate. “Their senior trib brushed you off pretty shamelessly; my reception was much the same. Is that what always happens?”

  “Yes. All the officers seem to be covering up.” This couldn’t happen on the march, where Gracilis would have to be seen in the column, but here in the fort they could run things themselves. It reminded me of Balbillus’s story of the legionary commanders coolly running Britain after having driven out their governor. But the era of anarchy was supposed to be over.

  “Until the next festival occasion, there’s no need to produce anyone in a commander’s cloak,” I grinned. “But if there is a conspiracy, I’ve just upset the tray of drinks! I brought an Iron Hand, plus orders for its investiture with a full colour ceremony. They’ll need to parade their legate then.”

  “Ha! The governor will make a point of being back for that!” Camillus Justinus had a streak of tenacity I liked. He showed real pleasure that the XIV’s attempts to thwart him were about to be wrecked. “When must they hold the ceremony?”

  “The Emperor’s birthday.” He looked uncertain. Vespasian was too new in power to be thoroughly enshrined in the calendar. I knew (a scribe who thought informers were ignorant had noted it in my orders). “Fourteen days before December.” We were still in October. “Which gives you and me the rest of this month plus the first sixteen days of November to sort out the puzzle discreetly and make names for ourselves.”

  We grinned. Then we set off towards the main gate. Justinus had enough character to see the possibilities. It would do him good if he could untangle this conundrum before Rome had to be involved.

  I felt obligations looming. I was his sister’s lover—almost one of the family. It was my duty to assist him to good fortune. Even though Justinus probably hated the thought of what his sister and I had been up to. And even though I would be landing myself with most of the work.

  As we walked, falling into companionable silence, I was thinking hard. This had the smell of serious trouble. I had been chasing enough of that already. I had only been at Moguntiacum a bare hour and now there was a second senior officer missing—just one more complication to add to the official missing legate, the mutinous troops, the maniacal rebel chieftain and the loopy prophetess.

  XIX

  We picked up Xanthus and braced ourselves for the hike to the I’s sector of the fort. To cover the journey with neutral conversation, I asked Justinus about his unusual promotion.

  “I remembered your last command was at Argentoratum—in fact I went looking for you there. You weren’t a senior then?”

  “No, and I never expected to be. That was the lure that made me accept an extension to my tour. Obviously, in the long-term it’s good to be able to say I held a broad-stripe position…”

  “I hope your ambitions run to more than that on your tombstone! You must have impressed someone?”

  “Well…” He still seemed a boy in a man’s world. Big words like ambition startled him. “My father is a friend of Vespasian; perhaps that was it.”

  I thought the lad was doing himself down. People must have thought he had something to offer. Germany was not a province where they could carry dead wood. “What’s your new unit like? I don’t know the First.”

  “It’s a legion Nero formed—with men drawn from the Misenum fleet, actually. Both the First and Second Adiutrix were put together using marines. That explains some of the tension here.” Justinus smiled. “I’m afraid the illustrious Fourteenth Gemina Martia Victrix regard our outfit as a useless gang of wharfingers and matelots.”

  Regular troops have always regarded marines as web-footed hangers-on—a view I rather shared. Shoving an untried unit out on this volatile frontier seemed like madness, too. “So you’re here to stiffen them up with your experience?” He shrugged in his self-deprecating way. “Don’t be so shy,” I said. “It will all look good on your manifesto when you stand as a town councillor.”

  Ten or twelve years ago, Titus Caesar had led the replacements that filled the gaps in the British legions after the Boudiccan Revolt. And now every town in the misty bogs was erecting his statue and remarking how thoroughly well liked he had been in his days as a young tribune.

  It made me wonder uncomfortably if Justinus, like Titus, would one day find himself related to a reigning emperor—by marriage, for instance …

  I wanted to ask if he had any news of his sister. Luckily we had reached his house, so I could spare myself the embarrassment.

  XX

  The senior tribune’s house lacked its own bathhouse, but for one lad barely into his twenties who only needed space for his parade armour and the stuffed heads of any wild animals he speared in his spare time, it was an extravagant hutch. Tribunes are not famous for taking home bulky documents from the commissariat to work on, and their schedule of domestic entertainment tends to be thin. They are invariably bachelors, and not many invite their loving relatives to stay. Still, providing single officers with mansions that would house three generations is the kind of extravagance the army loves.

  Justinus had enlivened the place with a pet dog. It was a scruff, not much more than a pup, which he had rescued from some soldiers who had been having fun torturing it. The dog now lorded it here, rampaging through the long corridors and sleeping on as many couches as possible. Justinus had no control over the creature, but one yap from it could make him sit up and beg.

  “Your puppy’s found a lavish kennel! I can see why so many tribunes rush to get married the minute their service ends. After so much independence, who wants the restrained parental home again?”

  Marriage was another concept that made Justinus nervous. I could understand that.

  Helena’s brother d
efinitely needed a crony to liven up his life. Well, I was here now. (Though Helena herself would probably disapprove of me doing it.)

  * * *

  Justinus decided after all that he ought to advise his legate of the lack of progress against the XIV’s wall of silence. While he jogged off to report, someone was sent to the fortress gate for our luggage. One of the tribune’s private slaves stowed the barber somewhere appropriate, while I at last regained the luxury of a room to myself. Almost immediately I sauntered out of it, intent on a quiet look round. I noticed I had been given a good bedroom, though not the best. From that I could gauge my position: a friendly guest, but not a family friend.

  My mother would have been shocked by the dust on the side-tables; my standards were not so immaculate, and I felt I could settle here. Justinus came from a family of thinkers and talkers, but the Camilli liked to talk and think with fruit bowls at their elbows and cushions at their backs. Their treasure had been sent abroad well equipped to fend off homesickness. His house was comfortable. His attendants were only so slovenly because they were unsupervised. I wrote “Falco was here” with one finger in the bloom on a vase plinth, as a gentle hint.

  It could have been worse. There were too many mice droppings and no one bothered to replenish the lamp oil, but the servants were polite enough, even to me. They wanted to avoid forcing their young lord into any stressful show of discipline. That seemed wise. If he was anything like his sister, he could summon an exotic temper and a vivid way with words.

  If he was anything like Helena, Justinus also had a soft heart and might commiserate as I roamed about his quarters gloomily wondering wherever in the Empire his temperamental sister had hidden herself. Mind you, if he was as touchy as Aelianus on family matters, my connection with Helena was more likely to get me rolled up in a sack and flung from a heavy catapult halfway across the Rhine. So, even though I was frantic over her whereabouts and safety, I decided to keep that to myself.

  * * *

  I went out to the legionary baths, which were hot, efficient, cleanly run, and free.

  Justinus and I returned to his house at the same time. In my room someone had unpacked my togs, taking away my dirty clothes. My wardrobe was so frugal that to lose three garments for laundering had emptied my saddlebag, but I managed to find a tunic which would just pass at the dinner table here, given the dim lamps. Afterwards we stuck our noses out into the courtyard garden, but it was too cold, so we settled indoors. I felt conscious of the difference in our ranks, but Justinus seemed glad to play the good host and chat. “Eventful journey?”

  “Nothing too fraught. Gaul and Germany still seem pretty lawless.” I told him about the two bodies we had seen in the Gallic ditch.

  He looked alarmed. “Should I do something about it?”

  “Relax, tribune!” I brushed aside his insecurity. “It happened in another province and the civilian magistrate ought to deal with highway robbery … Mind you, the centurion I mentioned—Helvetius—must be one of yours. He told me he was assigned to the First, though I failed to make any connection as I thought you were still in your old post.”

  “The name’s unfamiliar. I’ve not been here long enough to know them all. I’ll look him out.” Expecting to recognise all sixty centurions in his legion was stretching it. I was amazed this lad had ever been promoted. He worked with all the dedication and thoroughness that are traditionally overlooked in personal character reports.

  I thought he might be amused by what I had heard at Argentoratum about his successor’s progress. “Would you give out a password like ‘Xenophobia?’”

  “Afraid mine are always more mundane. ‘Mars the Avenger,’ or ‘Pickled fish,’ or ‘The camp surgeon’s middle name.’”

  “Very wise.”

  We had a flagon. “The wine’s rather basic here…” Justinus was either too timid or too lazy to be rude to his wine merchant. It tasted like goat’s pee (from a goat with bladder stones), but a glass in the hand helped pass the time. “So Marcus Didius, why did you come through my old base?”

  He must have known I was looking for Helena. “Looking for you.”

  “Oh that was kind!” He managed to sound as if he meant it.

  “I thought you might like news of your family. They all seem well. Your father wants to buy a yacht but your mother won’t hear of it … Have you heard from your sister recently?”

  I posed the question before I could stop myself; too late to make my interest sound merely banal. Justinus whipped back, “No, she seems unusually quiet these days! Is there something I ought to know?”

  He must have heard about her choosing to eat the gritty bread at my table. Explaining our relationship was beyond me. I said briefly, “She’s taken herself off from Rome.”

  “When?”

  “Just before I came away.”

  Justinus, who was reclining on an army-issue reading-couch, stretched slightly to ease the pressure on his arm. “That seems rather sudden!” He was laughing, though I could see solemnity looming. “Did someone upset her?”

  “Probably me. Helena has high standards and I have low habits … I hoped she might have invited herself to stay with you.”

  “No.” The reason for my keen interest still hovered unhealthily, but remained unsaid. We both felt shy of turning that boulder. “Should people be worried?” Justinus asked.

  “She’s sensible.” Justinus thought a lot of his sister and was prepared to accept that. I cared about her too, and I was not. “Tribune, as far as I know your sister made no arrangements with her banker, and took no bodyguard. She never said goodbye to your father; she completely bamboozled your mother; she surprised mine, who is very fond of her; and she left no forwarding address. That,” I said, “worries me.”

  We were both silent.

  “What do you suggest, Falco?”

  “Nothing. There’s nothing we can do.” That worried me as well.

  * * *

  We changed the subject.

  “I still don’t know,” Justinus broached, “how you came to be here seeking a missing legate the minute we had a problem with Gracilis?”

  “Coincidence. The one I’m chasing is Munius Lupercus.”

  “Olympus! That’s a forlorn hope!”

  I grinned unhappily.

  Several of his relatives were close to the Emperor, and I felt satisfied that Justinus had inherited their discretion. I spoke freely about my mission, though I shied off mentioning the XIV Gemina. This courtesy to them was probably pointless, but I do have some standards. “One or two challenges!” he commented.

  “Yes. I’ve already discovered that the prophetess Veleda lives at the top of a tower, and can only be approached through her male friends. This must be to endow her with a sinister aura. Going across the Rhenus river unnerves me enough, without any theatricals!” Justinus laughed. He could. He didn’t have to go. “You seem the type who keeps up to date, Justinus. Can you tell me anything about the rebel chief?”

  “Civilis has disappeared—though there are plenty of stories about his horrible habits!”

  “Thrill me!” I growled.

  “Oh, the most lurid anecdote has him handing over Roman prisoners to his small son as targets for arrow practice.”

  “True?”

  “It could be.”

  Wonderful. Just the sort I enjoy taking out to a wine bar so I can have a quiet word in his ear. “Before I try to buy a drink for this civilised parent, is there anything less colourful that I ought to know?”

  I knew the general background. Before the revolt the Batavians had always had a special relationship with Rome: their lands were exempt from colonisation—and therefore from taxes—in return for them supplying us with auxiliary troops. It was not a bad bargain. They got excellent pay and conditions—a vast improvement on what they could achieve by the rough-and-ready Celtic tradition of raiding their neighbours when the grain pits ran low. We acquired their nautical skills (pilotage, rowing, and swimming). They were famous for
being able to cross rivers in full kit, paddling alongside their horses.

  Justinus plunged straight in, cogently, and without floundering: “You know Julius Civilis is a member of the Batavian royal family. He spent twenty years in Roman military camps, leading auxiliaries for us. When the recent upsets started, his brother Paulus was executed as a troublemaker by the then governor of Lower Germany, Fonteius Capito. Capito sent Civilis himself in chains to Nero.”

  “Were they troublemakers at that stage?”

  “The evidence suggests it was a trumped-up charge,” Justinus declared in his measured way. “Fonteius Capito was a highly dubious governor. You know he was court-martialled and killed by his own officers? He had a reputation for governing greedily, but I can’t tell you whether that was justified. Galba omitted to investigate his execution, so perhaps it was.” Or perhaps Galba was a geriatric incompetent. “Anyway, Galba acquitted Civilis of treachery, but only lasted eight months as emperor, so then Civilis became vulnerable again.”

  “How come?” I asked.

  “When Vitellius seized power his armies called for various officers to be put to death, ostensibly for loyalty to Galba.” I remembered that nasty episode now. Quite blatantly, it had been about settling old grudges. Unpopular centurions were the main target, but I knew the troops had also clamoured for the Batavian leader’s head. Vitellius ignored them and confirmed Galba’s “pardon,” but it must all have left Civilis with a great bitterness against his so-called Roman allies. “Also in that period,” Justinus went on, “the Batavians were being sorely treated.”

  “Example?”

  “Well, for instance, during conscription for Vitellius, imperial agents were calling up the infirm and the old in order to extract bribes for their release from the levy. And young lads and lasses were dragged behind the tents for unpleasant purposes.”

  Batavian children tend to be tall and good-looking. All Germanic tribes have a strong sense of family, so this treatment must have festered sordidly. That was why the next imperial claimant, Vespasian, had felt he could call on Civilis to help him oppose Vitellius. But far away in Judaea, Vespasian had misread the situation. Civilis co-operated at first, in alliance with a tribe called the Cannenefates. They made a joint attack on the Rhenus fleet, thereby capturing all the arms and ships they needed and cutting Roman supply lines. Vespasian was then proclaimed Emperor.