The Iron Hand of Mars Page 2

  He was the same age as me, a curly-haired optimistic type who would never be soured by life. In my unmajestic billet here, the crusted gold palm leaves embroidering his tunic made an incongruous show, yet Titus managed not to seem out of place. He had an attractive personality and was at home wherever he went. He was pleasant, and for a top-ranker, cultured to his sandalstraps. He was an all-round political achiever: a senator, a general, Commander of the Praetorians, a benefactor of civic buildings, a patron of the arts. On top of that, he was good-looking. I had the girl (though we did not declare it in public); Titus Caesar had everything else.

  When I first saw him talking to Helena, his face had a pleased, boyish expression which made my teeth set. He was leaning on the door with his arms folded, unaware that the hinges were quite likely to give way. I hoped they would. I wished they would dump Titus in his splendid purple tunic flat on his back on my ramshackle floor. In fact the moment I saw him there, in deep conversation with my girlfriend, I sank into a mood where almost any sort of treason seemed a bright idea.

  “Hello, Marcus,” said Helena—paying far too much attention to putting on a neutral face.

  III

  “Afternoon,” I forced out.

  “Marcus Didius!” The young Caesar was effortlessly agreeable. Refusing to let it fluster me, I stayed glum. “I came to commiserate about the loss of your apartment!” Titus was referring to one I had been renting just recently which had had every advantage—except that where this repulsive den somehow stayed upright in defiance of all engineering principles, the other had collapsed in a cloud of dust.

  “Nice shack. Built to last,” I said. “That is, to last about a week!”

  Helena giggled. Which gave Titus an excuse to say, “I found Camillus Verus’s daughter waiting here; I’ve been keeping her occupied…” He must have known I was trying to lay claim to Helena Justina, but it suited him to pretend she was a model of modest propriety just waiting for an idle prince to pass the time of day with.

  “Oh thanks!” I retorted bitterly.

  Titus glanced at Helena Justina in an appreciative way that left me feeling out of things. He had always admired her, and I had always hated it. I was relieved to see that despite what she had told me, she had not painted her eyes as if she was expecting a visitor. She did look delicious, in a red dress I liked, with agates on slim gold hoops swinging from her ears and her dark hair simply twisted up in combs. She had a strong, quick-witted face, rather too self-controlled in public, though in private she would melt like honey in the warm sun. I loved it, so long as I was the only one she melted for.

  “I tend to forget you two know one another!” Titus commented.

  Helena stayed silent, waiting for me to tell His Caesarship just how well. I held back stubbornly. Titus was my patron; if he gave me a commission, I would do it for him properly—but no Palace playboy would ever own my private life.

  “What can I do for you, sir?” With anyone else my tone would have been dangerous, but no one who enjoys existence makes threats to the Emperor’s son.

  “My father would like a talk, Falco.”

  “Are the Palace clowns on strike then? If Vespasian is short of laughs, I’ll see what I can do.” Two yards away, Helena’s brown eyes had assumed an unforgiving steadiness.

  “Thanks,” Titus acknowledged easily. His suave manner always made me feel he had spotted yesterday’s fish sauce spilt down my tunic. It was a feeling I deeply resented in my own house. “We have a proposition to put to you…”

  “Oh good!” I answered darkly, with a moody scowl to let him know I had been warned the proposition was dire.

  He eased himself off the folding door, which lurched sickeningly but stayed upright. He made Helena a slight gesture, implying that he thought she was here to discuss business so he would not intrude. She rose politely as he strode to the door, but she left me to see him out as if I were the sole proprietor.

  * * *

  I came in and started fiddling with the rickety door. “Someone should tell His Honour not to lean his august person against plebeians’ furniture…” Helena remained silent. “You have on your pompous look, my darling. Was I rude?”

  “I expect Titus is used to it,” Helena replied levelly. I had omitted to kiss her; I knew she had noticed. I wanted to, but it was too late now. “The fact Titus is so approachable must make people forget they are talking to the Emperor’s partner, a future Emperor himself.”

  “Titus Vespasianus never forgets exactly who he is!”

  “Don’t be unfair, Marcus.”

  I ground my teeth. “What did he want?”

  She looked surprised. “To ask you to see the Emperor—to talk about Germany, presumably.”

  “He could have sent a messenger to ask me that.” Helena was starting to look annoyed with me, so naturally I became even more stubborn: “Alternatively, he could quite well have talked about Germany himself while he was here. And in greater privacy, if the mission is sensitive.”

  Helena folded her hands at her waist and closed her eyes, refusing to quarrel. Since normally she fought me at the slightest opportunity, that was bad news in itself.

  I left her out on the balcony and slouched indoors. There was a letter on the table, “Is this scroll for me?”

  “Mine,” she called out. “It’s from Aelianus in Spain.” She meant the elder of her two brothers. I had received the impression Camillus Aelianus was a prick-eared young bastard I wouldn’t be seen drinking with; but since I had yet to encounter him in person, I kept quiet. “You can read it,” she offered.

  “It’s your letter!” I rejected her unbendingly.

  I went into the inner room and sat on my bed. I knew exactly why Titus had visited us. It had nothing to do with any mission he was offering me. It had nothing to do with me at all.

  * * *

  Sooner than I expected, Helena came in and sat beside me quietly. “Don’t fight!” She looked equally gloomy as she dragged my fingers apart, forcing me to hold her hand. “Oh Marcus! Why can’t life be simple?”

  I was not in the mood for philosophy, but I changed my grip to something slightly more affectionate. “So what did your regal admirer have to say for himself?”

  “We were just talking about my family.”

  “Oh were you!” In my head I ran over Helena’s ancestral pedigree, as Titus must have done: senators for generations (which was more than he could say himself, with his middle-class, tax-farming Sabine origins); her father a stalwart supporter of Vespasian; her mother a woman of unblemished reputation. Her two young brothers both abroad doing their civic duty, with at least one of them bound for the Senate eventually. I had been assured by everyone that great things were expected of the noble Aelianus. And Justinus, whom I had met, seemed a decent lad.

  “Titus seemed to be enjoying the discussion. Did he talk about you?” Helena Justina: liberal education; lively character; attractive in a fierce, unfashionable way; no scandals (except me). She had been married once, but divorced by consent and anyway the man was dead now. Titus himself had been married twice—once widowed, once divorced. I had never been married, though I was less innocent than both of them.

  “He’s a man—he talked about himself,” she scoffed. I growled. She was a girl people talked to. I liked to talk to her myself. She was the one person I could talk to about pretty well anything, which I felt made it my prerogative.

  “You know he’s in love with Queen Berenice of Judaea?”

  Helena gave a little smile. “Then he has my sympathy!” The smile was not particularly sweet, and hardly aimed at me. After a moment she added more gently, “What are you worried about?”

  “Nothing,” I said.

  Titus Caesar would never marry Berenice. The Jewish queen came with a vividly exotic history. Rome would never accept an alien empress—or tolerate an emperor who tried to suggest importing one.

  Titus was romantic, but realistic. His attachment to Berenice was supposed to be genuine, yet a
man in his position might well marry someone else. He was the heir to the Roman Empire. His brother Domitian possessed some of the family talents, but not all. Titus himself had fathered a young daughter, but no son. Since the Flavian claim to the purple had been principally based on offering the Empire stability, people would probably say he ought to look actively for a decent Roman wife. Plenty of women, both decent and otherwise, must be hoping that he would.

  So what was I supposed to think if I found this prestigious character talking to my girl? Helena Justina made a thoughtful, graceful, sweet-natured companion (when she wanted to); she always had sense, tact, and a high concept of duty. If she had not fallen for me, Helena was exactly the sort that Titus should be looking for.

  “Marcus Didius, I chose to live with you.”

  “Why suddenly come out with that?”

  “You look as if you might have forgotten it,” Helena said.

  Even if she left me tomorrow, I would never forget. But that did not mean I could view our future together with any confidence.

  IV

  The next week was a strange one. I felt oppressed by the thought of the ghastly trip to Germany that was being held over me. It was work—something I could not afford to refuse—but touring the wild tribal frontiers of Europe was high on my list of entertainments to avoid.

  Then I found myself checking the apartment for signs that Titus had been hanging around. There were none; but Helena noticed me looking, so that caused more strain.

  My advertisement in the Forum first produced a slave who would obviously never be able to pay me. Besides, he was searching for his long-lost twin brother, which a second-rate playwright might view as good research but it looked dreary work to me. Next I was approached by two clerks, fortune-hunting; a mad woman who had convinced herself that Nero was her father (the fact that she wanted me to prove it was what warned me she was barmy); and a rat-catcher. The rat-catcher was the most interesting character, but he needed a diploma of citizenship. It would be an easy day’s work at the Censor’s office, but even for intriguing personalities I don’t involve myself in forgery.

  Petronius Longus sent me a woman who wanted to know if her husband, who had been married before, had any children he was keeping quiet about. I was able to tell her there were none registered. While I was at it I turned up an extra wife, never formally divorced. This woman was now happily married to a poultry chef (I use “happily” in the conventional sense; I expect she was as angry with life as everyone else). I decided not to advise my client. A good informer answers what he has been asked—then retreats from the scene.

  Petro’s case brought in enough silver to have red mullet for dinner. I spent the change on roses for Helena, hoping to look like a man with prospects. It would have been a happy evening, only that was when she informed me she seemed to have prospects of her own: Titus had invited her to the Palace with her parents, but without me.

  “Let me guess—a discreet dinner that will not appear on the public fixtures list? When is it?”

  I noticed her hesitate. “Thursday.”

  “Are you planning to go?”

  “I really don’t want to.”

  Her face was strained. If her respectable upper-crust family ever got wind of a possible liaison with the star of the imperial court, the pressure on Helena would become unbearable. It was one thing for her to leave home while her parents had no other plans. Given one unhappy marriage, her papa had told me frankly he felt diffident about ushering her into another. Camillus Verus was unusual: a conscientious father. Still, there must have been trouble after she ran off. Helena had shielded me from most of the barrage, but I can count the knots in a plank of wood. They wanted her back, before all Rome heard she was playing around with a hangdog informer, and satirical poets started putting the scandal into salacious odes.

  “Marcus, oh Marcus, I particularly want to spend that evening with you—” Helena seemed upset. She was thinking I ought to intervene, but there was nothing I could do about this ominous venture; rebuffing Titus could only come from her.

  “Don’t look at me, sweetheart. I never go where I am not invited.”

  “That’s news!” I hate ironic women. “Marcus, I’m going to tell Papa I have a prior engagement which I cannot break, with you—”

  She was avoiding the issue, it seemed to me. “Sorry,” I said tersely. “I have a trip to Veii on Thursday. I need to check out a widow for one of my fortune-hunting clients.”

  “Can’t you travel another day?”

  “We need the fee. You take your chance!” I sneered. “Go to the Palace and enjoy yourself. Titus Caesar is a soft piece of lard from a dull country family; you can handle him, my darling—assuming, of course, that you’re wanting to!”

  Helena went even whiter. “Marcus, I am asking you to stay here with me!” Something in her tone disturbed me. But by then I was feeling so sorry for myself I refused to alter my arrangements. “This means a lot to me,” Helena warned in a dangerous tone. “I’ll never forgive you…”

  That settled it. Threats from women bring out the worst in me. I went to Veii.

  * * *

  Veii was a dead end. Somehow I expected it.

  I found the widow easily enough; everyone in Veii had heard of her. She may or may not have possessed a fortune, but she was a pert brunette with sparkling eyes who freely admitted to me that she was stringing along four or five abject suitors—gents who had called themselves friends of her late husband and now thought they could be even better friends to her. One of them was a wine exporter, selling multiple consignments of foul Etruscan rot-gut to the Gauls—an obvious front runner if the wench remarried anyone. I doubted if she would bother; she was enjoying herself too much.

  I myself received certain hints from the widow that I might have profited from a stay in Veii, but on the journey there I had been plagued by the memory of Helena’s pleading expression. So, cursing, and by now fairly penitent, I rushed back to Rome.

  * * *

  Helena was not at the apartment. She must have already left for the Palace. I went out and got drunk with Petronius. He was a family man, so had strains of his own, and was always glad to make himself available for a night out cheering me up.

  I came home late, deliberately. It failed to annoy Helena because she never came home at all.

  I assumed she had stayed the night with her parents. That was bad enough. When she failed to show up at Fountain Court the next morning, I was horrified.

  V

  Now I was a real sprat drowning in fish pickle.

  I ruled out any thought that Titus had abducted her. He was too straight. Besides, Helena was a strong-minded girl; she would never stand for it.

  There was no way I could bring myself to turn up at the Senator’s house, begging to be informed what was going on. For one thing, whatever it was, her high and mighty family would blame me.

  Finding missing women was my trade. Finding my own should be as easy as picking peas. At least I knew that if she had been murdered and nailed under the floorboards, the floorboards were not mine. It was not particularly comforting.

  I started where you always start: searching the apartment to see what she had left behind. Once I had tidied away my own detritus, the answer was not much. She hadn’t brought many clothes or pieces of jewellery; most had now disappeared. I came across one of her tunics, mixed up with a rag-bag of mine; a jet hairpin under the pillow on my side of the bed; a soapstone pot of her favourite face-cream which had tumbled behind the storage chest … Nothing else. Reluctantly I came to the conclusion that Helena Justina had stripped my apartment of her own possessions and left in a huff.

  It seemed drastic—until I noticed a clue. The letter from her brother Aelianus still lay on the table where it had been when she said I could see it. I read it now. At first I wished I hadn’t. Then I was glad I knew.

  Aelianus was the casual, idle one who usually never bothered to correspond with his family, though Helena regularly wrote to
him. She was the eldest of the three Camillus children, and treated her younger brothers to the kind of old-fashioned affection that in other families had gone out of the window at the end of the Republic. I had already gathered that Justinus was her favourite; her letters to Spain were more of a duty. It seemed typical that when Camillus Aelianus heard that she had attached herself to a plebeian in a grubby profession, he did write—and a letter filled with such vitriolic ranting that I dropped it in disgust. Aelianus was livid at the damage Helena had done to their noble family name. He said so with all the crass insensitivity of a youth in his twenties.

  Helena, being such a family girl, would have been deeply hurt. She must have been brooding over this without me noticing. And then Titus had loomed, with his threat of disaster … It was like her to say nothing much. And like me, when she did finally appeal for help, to turn my back on her.

  The moment I read that letter I wanted to wrap her in my arms. Too late, Falco. Too late to comfort her. Too late to shelter her. Too late for everything, apparently.

  I was not surprised when a short, bitter message came for me, saying that Helena could not tolerate Rome any longer and had gone abroad.

  VI

  So that was how I let myself be sent to Germany.

  Without Helena, there was nothing for me in Rome. It was pointless to try catching up with her; she had timed her message so that the trail was cold. I soon grew tired of members of my family making it plain they had always expected her to dump me. I could produce no defence; I had always expected it myself. Helena’s father often used the same baths as me, so avoiding him became tricky too. Eventually, he spotted me trying to hide behind a pillar; he shook off the slave who was scraping his back with a strigil, and rushed over in a cloud of scented oil.