The Iron Hand of Mars Page 13

  “Maybe.” She was the type who avoided answering questions on principle.

  “You know who I mean?”

  “He works in the fort.”

  “For one of the legates. Don’t worry—there’s no trouble!” I reassured her quickly. “I heard you were good friends with Rusticus.”

  “I may have been.” I thought I saw her confident blue eyes darken sullenly. Maybe she was frightened. Or perhaps it was something more furtive.

  “Do you know where he is?”

  “No.”

  “Has he gone away somewhere?”

  “What’s it to you?” she demanded.

  “I’d very much like to find him.”

  “Why?” I was about to explain my search for the legate when she fetched out angrily, “I haven’t seen him for ages. I don’t know where he is!” She jumped to her feet. Justinus, taken aback, pushed his stool away from the table with a screeching skid. “What do you want?” Regina shouted. “Why have you started pestering me?”

  Other customers—mostly soldiers—glanced over in our direction, though without much interest. “Steady on, Falco,” Justinus interrupted. The girl rushed indoors wildly. “Yes, barmaids do seem to be your speciality!” Justinus scoffed. He glared at me reprovingly, then followed her inside the tavern.

  “That’s Regina!” one of the soldiers grinned.

  “Scratchy?”

  “Gets het up over everything.”

  * * *

  I left payment on the table, sauntering nearby until the tribune reappeared. “I’m glad to see you in one piece! I gather her temper is legendary. She loves screaming and bursting into tears at innocent customers. For an encore she’ll throw an amphora at your head. If you’re unlucky it’s a full one … Have you been drying her tears, or just trying to dodge?”

  “You’re too harsh, Falco!”

  “She expected it.”

  “Oh really?” Justinus muttered through his teeth. “Well, I found out what we wanted without bullying the girl. It’s quite simple. She and the slave Rusticus had a lovers’ tiff. She doesn’t see him any more.”

  “What about the legate nipping off?”

  “All she knows is she heard some mention that her boyfriend’s master might be planning a few days away. She wasn’t told why or where.”

  “That’s fine, if it’s true.”

  “Why should it not be?”

  “She’s a girl in a bar, you’re a stranger, and I know when I’ve just seen a lying little strumpet who has something to hide!”

  “Well I believed her.”

  “Good for you,” I said.

  We strode back towards the gate of the fort. Justinus still pretended to be angry, but his good nature was overcoming it. I shook my head and laughed softly.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Oh … there’s a traditional method of extracting information where first you send a cruel brute who upsets the suspect, then his mild and friendly partner goes in and comforts them until they open their hearts.”

  “It appears to be effective,” Justinus commented, rather stiffly.

  “Oh yes!”

  “I still don’t see the joke.”

  “It’s nothing.” I grinned at him. “Only the ‘soft’ partner is supposed to be a fake!”

  XXV

  Back at the house news awaited us. “A woman came asking for you, Marcus Didius.”

  I laughed. “That kind of message needs a careful approach!” Justinus looked prim. If I wanted to look a reliable friend to Helena, flippancy was a bad response. We were having too much banter of barmaids and not enough of the dull bombast that prevails among senators. Still, I couldn’t help it if he wasn’t used to me. His sister was, and she had made her choice. “Who is this matron?”

  “Julia Fortunata, Marcus Didius.”

  I saw Justinus start at that. I raised an eyebrow. “Let me guess—is she connected with Gracilis?”

  “So you’ve heard something?” murmured the tribune. In front of his servants he was being discreet.

  They were not my servants. “Maenia Priscilla mentioned to me this morning that Gracilis flaunts a mistress somewhere. Is this her? Coming to the fort in such a public way seems strange—I wonder what she wants so urgently? Do you know where she lives?”

  “I believe so,” Justinus replied, still cautiously. “They say Gracilis has established her in a villa not far away…”

  I told him that if he had a free afternoon he could come with me for the entertainment. He hesitated. Then he shouted for a slave to fetch both our cloaks.

  * * *

  We had to ride out through the Decumana Gate and go south. Once we had turned down the incline outside the gate, peace descended. Apart from the broad curve of the waterway, the square fort behind us remained the most prominent feature of the landscape, which, unusually in this section of the river, lacked the dramatic crags and rocky narrows that occur downstream. Here it was mainly low ground, sometimes broken by natural or man-made mooring creeks, though it was obviously not marshy. There were large trees, which frequently hid the Rhenus and Moenus from view.

  Justinus took me by the road that enabled me to admire the Drusus Monument—a pleasure I did not let detain us long. Memorials to long-dead establishment heroes fail to excite me. I hardly glanced at it.

  A mile or so further on stood a fortlet guarding a small village which Justinus told me regarded itself as the official Moguntiacum canabae. Julia Fortunata was renting a place just this side of the settlement. For a woman of standing it was only just safe. The Rhenus lay within sniffing distance. However, heading upstream to Argentoratum and Vindonissa, there was a military road parallel with our bank of the river, and the guard post afforded first-instance protection if trouble ever flared.

  It was a villa farm with a basically Roman look, despite the usual provincial differences of layout, and a much-reduced scope from the vast estates of Italy. We entered by a small grassy path that ran between the barn and a duck pond, passed some apple trees, took a detour by an empty byre, avoided a loose pig, then came to a colonnaded house.

  Indoors there was a square, Germanic hall with a central hearth where the milder Mediterranean climate would have allowed an open atrium with a pool. Julia Fortunata had imposed deliberate Roman style: drapery in sophisticated colouring, scroll-ended couches, well-placed statuettes of Greek runners and wrestlers, a side-table with a small library of scrolls in silver canisters. There were touches of drama too: sudden swags of purple cloth and multiple bronze acanthus-leaf lamps.

  When she appeared, even though we knew she had been anxious to see me, she gave me her hand calmly and formally. This one would have made a proper wife for a highly placed official, had fortune not made her background good, but not quite good enough. While the young bride Maenia Priscilla possessed money and arrogance, Julia had to settle for culture and breeding. She lacked the social benefits that in Rome were conferred by a family of famous ancestors and decades of accumulated cash. She could have married a customs officer and been queen of some small town for life, but what strong-willed woman wants to be dragged down to dull respectability?

  If Gracilis was the age I thought—late thirties—then Julia Fortunata must be older by at least enough to show. Justinus had told me their arrangement was known to be of long standing: it had survived the legate’s first marriage, and looked ready to outlast the present one. Julia Fortunata travelled with Gracilis on all his postings. Wherever he arrived in Italy or Europe, it was understood that the lady would turn up, settle herself within visiting range, and provide whatever she customarily provided. The set-up had long ago ceased to be scandalous. It seemed a poor life for her, particularly if, as I had deduced, Florius Gracilis was a pathetic man. But sophisticated women pay that price for a senatorial link.

  She was fairly tall, and dressed in subdued greyish-mauve material. No real beauty. An angular face, a neck that showed its maturity, and the ankles she crossed as she seated herself to talk t
o us were hideously bony. She had style, though. Graceful hands arranged her stole. An elegant carriage. Composure when meeting men. She was that rare goose, an independent matron—determined, self-possessed, and chic.

  “Madam, I’m Didius Falco and this is Camillus Justinus, senior tribune of the First Adiutrix.” As he moved in her social circle, I was willing the tribune to take the lead, but he held back and stood beside me as an observer. Julia Fortunata glanced between us: Justinus in the crisply pleated white tunic and broad purple stripe, quieter and more serious than most of his rank; me ten years older in fact and a hundred in experience. She elected to deal with me.

  “Thank you for returning my visit so promptly.” Her voice was refined and assured. It matched perfectly the strong taste of her muted robes and her jewellery, which was sparse but striking—a bold bracelet of Middle Eastern origin, and two huge beaten-gold discs of earrings. Even her sandals had an interesting design. She was a woman who chose things for herself, and liked a touch of the unusual. “You are conducting some sort of enquiry?”

  I made a gesture of assent but gave no details. “You called at the fort today? I admit I was surprised.”

  “It was urgent. I presume that if you are investigating something that affects my old friend Florius Gracilis, you will welcome any help.”

  I attempted to unsettle her. “Maenia Priscilla thinks he may be with you.”

  “Can Maenia Priscilla think?” It flashed out like a bright flood of spilt wine, making us jump. “I’m afraid he’s not here.”

  I smiled. I could see what might attract him. You knew exactly where you were in this establishment. “Have you known him long?”

  “Ten years.” A slight dryness in her tone acknowledged that we could regard it as more than a nodding association.

  I did try to be specific. “And what are relations between you?”

  “Cordial,” she said, in a firm tone.

  I let it go. No point being crude. We all knew the tally. “Julia Fortunata, I am an envoy from Vespasian. I was sent to Upper Germany on another matter, but any odd circumstances that occur while I am here may be related, so they need investigation. You are correct: I should welcome any information about the whereabouts of Gracilis. You may speak completely frankly.”

  For a moment she was silent, candidly considering me. I rode out the scrutiny. She reached a verdict and gestured us to a seat.

  She had planned what to say. It came out with little prompting and in a concise form. Gracilis had definitely vanished. His friend Julia was extremely concerned. She had asked to see me because she felt that “other elements” were either taking the matter too lightly, or knew something and were involved in a cover-up. It was inconceivable that he should go off somewhere without mentioning it to Julia in advance.

  “Does he even discuss military matters?”

  “Within the proper bounds of course.”

  “Of course,” I said. At my side the upright Justinus made an effort to control his disapproval. “Tell me, did he have any worries?”

  “Gracilis is extremely conscientious. He frets over everything.” A fidget, eh? A man who harried his men and aggravated his wife no doubt, though probably his mistress of ten years had learned to ignore the agitation. Perhaps, I thought, Julia Fortunata’s role in his life had always been to calm him down and boost his morale.

  “What most recently? Can you give me examples?”

  “Since we came to Germany? In general terms, the political situation. He feared that Petilius Cerialis may have been posted away to Britain prematurely; that subduing the rebels may still be only half complete. He sensed further trouble brewing.” She discussed politics like a man. I wondered if Gracilis was really so fluent himself, or whether he relied on his mistress to frame his thoughts. Yet now, as she described him evaluating the situation as a local commander should, I had for the first time some sense of this man acting with authority. She certainly did well by him.

  “What were his relations at the fort?”

  “He was very conscious that the Fourteenth legion possessed most of the experience and were to a great extent carrying their colleagues.” She made a slight gesture of apology to Justinus for disparaging the I; her sensitivity was something we had come to expect. Justinus grinned back ruefully.

  “Anything else? Money worries?”

  “Nothing abnormal.”

  “Problems with his wife?”

  “Oh, I think Gracilis can handle that one!” Once again she had permitted herself a faintly bitter and contemptuous note, though it was well controlled. Julia Fortunata knew her position was one of strength.

  “Other women?” I suggested lightly. She said nothing, reprovingly. “So what has he been most preoccupied with? Anything to do with the rebels, for instance?”

  “He did discuss with me a theory that the chieftain Civilis would refuse to accept defeat and might try to rally support again.”

  “Any evidence?”

  “Nothing firm.”

  I smiled. “Had he decided to do something about it?”

  “He would like to finish the task Petilius Cerialis left behind. Gracilis is ambitious, naturally. Dealing with Civilis would enhance his status in Rome and win the Emperor’s gratitude. As far as I know he had nothing to go on, however.”

  To an envoy who also needed enhanced status and imperial thanks, that was reassuring news! “Does the legate’s interest extend to Veleda?”

  “He never mentioned her.” It sounded like loyalty. The legate was probably as fascinated by the famous prophetess as any other man.

  “So he had taken no action, and as far as you know he had no immediate plans?”

  “The legate was on guard for trouble. It’s all I can say. Other than that,” she said emphatically, as if she felt she had given us sufficient information for professionals to act upon, “Florius Gracilis takes a close interest in everything that affects the fort, from the quality of the grain supply to the franchise for the bowls which his soldiers eat it from!”

  I grew thoughtful. “There must be a large number of supply contracts being renegotiated after all the commotion of the civil war?”

  “Yes. As I said, Gracilis likes to involve himself closely in the details.” I bet he did!

  “And how do the contractors regard him?”

  “I would have thought that was obvious!” Julia Fortunata replied acerbically. “The successful ones applaud his judgement; those who lose the work tend to grumble.”

  I felt a prickle of excitement. I wondered if any contract winners ever gave the legate more material thanks than praise—or if any of the losers accused him of being less than fair … I had to phrase it discreetly: “Are you aware of any recent problems with commercial deals that might have a bearing on the legate’s disappearance?”

  “No.” I think she knew what I meant. “He left no clues at all.”

  I felt Julia’s concern for him went much deeper than her measured tones suggested, but she was too proud, both in her own right and on behalf of Gracilis, to display anything other than this cool self-control.

  I allowed her to close the interview. She promised to be in touch if she thought of anything else that would help us. She was the type who would continue to ponder what had happened to her lover until she knew the answer.

  I hoped it would not be the one she dreaded. I would probably despise him, but I liked her.

  * * *

  As we rode back to Moguntiacum, Justinus asked, “What’s your verdict?”

  “A woman of strong character tied up with a man who lacks it. The usual, as your caustic sister would say!”

  He passed over my reference to Helena. “Did that get us anywhere at all?”

  “It may do. My bet is something to do with Civilis.”

  “Really!”

  “Well, either it’s that, or His Honour has embroiled himself in a cavalry-fodder fiddle or unwise scheming with the ceramic contractors. As a matter of national pride, I’d rather he’s b
eing held hostage by a dangerous rebel than just learn eventually that the fool has got himself bopped on the head with a redware porridge pot!”

  Camillus Justinus grinned in his slow, appreciative way. “I think I’ll go for the pot,” he replied.

  XXVI

  Justinus was duty officer for the night watch, so we spurred back towards the fort as dusk drew in. Nearer to, I asked him to take my horse on while I peeled off to familiarise myself with the locale. In sight of the gate he left me to mooch about on foot.

  I tramped around, exploring. The fort was set back a lengthy step from the busy wharves on the waterside, so I left those. Most civilian life sheltered behind the fort, where a competent-looking aqueduct brought water in. On the far side, some way from the military base, lay a customs post and the Jupiter Column, which paid civic lip service to the Palatine. I made up my own version of the usual painful stuff: Long life to Nero, companion of the Olympian Gods, say the citizens of our town (ardently hoping Nero will invest us with a theatre). They must have mistimed it, because there was no theatre that I could find.

  From its vantage point on slightly higher ground, the fort commanded a wide view downstream as the river curved away and widened after its junction with the Moenus. I took the road to the bridge, then tramped across. Only then did I really appreciate how wide the Rhenus is. It made the Tiber seem like a minnow stream meandering through watercress beds. A guard post had been thrown up on the far side, large enough to have its own name: Castellum Mattiacorum. Now I was standing in Germania Libera.

  At first it felt just the same as the Roman side. The atmosphere was less alarming than the lawless immigrants’ quarter of the Transtiberina in Rome. But this was not the Transtiberina, and nor—for me—was it really safe. A Roman watchtower this side of the river was an extreme rarity. Standing as it did at the head of the great trade route that followed the course of the Moenus into the interior, this one existed only as a gesture. I had taken my first tentative step beyond the frontiers of the Empire. Behind me the lights of Moguntiacum twinkled faintly in neat rows. Ahead lay hundreds or thousands of uncertain miles, inhabited first by tribes who openly despised Rome, then by other tribes we Romans had never yet encountered in lands whose existence and features no one in my world even knew. On this rather drear evening, with night falling early, the sense of vast-scale European geography suddenly made me feel mournful and far from home.