The Iron Hand of Mars Page 5

  The complaints did not deflect me. “Sorry, I’m not convinced. Did Titus send you here?” The barber shook his head impatiently, but by now I knew better. “Stop jiggling like a whore on a busy night after the races.”

  “Why the heavy suspicion? I’m just a runt they have no other use for.”

  They had a use for him all right.

  * * *

  I broke open the scroll Xanthus had delivered, only to reveal more bad news.

  My orders from Vespasian had been written by a secretary whose pretty Greek lettering would make a good vase decoration, though it was torture to read. While I struggled to decipher the rambling-rose script, the barber clung against one wall of the apartment. He seemed frightened of something. Possibly me.

  When I had finished, I sat in silence. I was feeling bilious from the wine I had drunk with Canidius and from eating my sausage too fast. I would have been squeamish anyway. What I had to do in Germany was:

  Deliver the Emperor’s gift to the XIV Gemina—and make a report to the Emperor.

  Any fool could do that. I might even manage it myself.

  Ascertain the fate of the most noble Munius Lupercus.

  Who was he? I’ll tell you: only the commanding legate of the legion at Vetera, the fort which had held out against the rebels to the verge of starvation before its surrendering troops were all butchered. All except Lupercus. The freedom fighters had sent him over the Rhine as a present to their thoroughly nasty priestess.

  Attempt to curtail the activities of Veleda.

  You guessed: Veleda was the priestess.

  Ascertain the whereabouts of Julius Civilis—

  “Oh gods!” Even with my long history of resistible commissions, this final task was unbelievable.

  Ascertain the whereabouts of Julius Civilis, chieftain of the Batavians, and ensure his future co-operation within a pacified Gaul and Germany.

  Vespasian had already sent two commanders-in-chief in full purple panoply plus nine trusted legions to undertake the reclamation of Civilis. Whatever the Daily Gazette trustingly reported from its pillar in the Forum, they must have failed. Now Vespasian was sending me.

  “Bad news?” quavered Xanthus nervously.

  “A disaster!”

  “You’re going to Germany, aren’t you?” So I had intended, until I read this catalogue of impossible treats. Now the obvious thing was to head the other way. “I really envy you,” the barber enthused, with the true tactlessness of his trade. “I’ve always wanted to see something of the Empire outside Rome.”

  “There are cheaper ways to be uncomfortable here. Try a hot afternoon in the Circus Maximus. Try a bad play at Pompey’s Theatre. Try buying a drink near the Forum. Try shellfish. Try women. Go for a swim in the Tiber in August if you want to catch some exotic complaint … Xanthus, I badly need to think. Shut up. Get out. And try not to walk your horrible scarlet footwear in my direction again.”

  “Oh I have to,” he assured me smugly. “I’m coming back tomorrow to bring the package that you have to take to Germany.”

  I thanked him for the warning, so I could make sure I was out.

  X

  I ought to have refused this mission. I wanted to.

  I desperately needed the money. It would be good—if I survived to apply for it. I was also keen to remove myself from Rome before the glances which Titus Caesar was casting in my direction led to something worse. Most of all, now that I had grown used to her lively presence in my billet, I could not bear it here without Helena.

  I could have coped with poverty. I might even have faced up to Titus. Missing Helena was different. Helena was why I went on sitting sadly, in the squalor of my room at Fountain Court, unable to bestir myself even to rush to the Palatine and complain. Helena provided one pressing reason why I did want to go to Germany. I wanted to be there even if it meant enduring a European winter in a province stripped of all pretence of luxury by a barely quelled rebellion, where my own tasks ranged from the risky to the ludicrously impossible.

  I had told Titus that Helena Justina was visiting her brother. I had said it because I believed it was the truth.

  But I might have misled Titus slightly. Helena had one brother called Aelianus, who was studying diplomacy in Baetica. She had another called Justinus. I had met Camillus Justinus. It had been at the fort where he was serving as a military tribune, at a place called Argentoratum. Argentoratum is in Upper Germany.

  * * *

  Next day I made preparations. A secretary whom I cultivated at the Palace promised me copies of despatches relating to the Civilis revolt. I made my request for a travel pass and a set of official maps. Then I strolled out to the Forum, positioned myself against a pillar on the Temple of Saturn, and waited. I was looking for someone: a one-legged man. I wasn’t particular which single-limbed person hopped into my orbit, so long as he met a condition: he had to have been on active service in the civil war, preferably with Vitellius.

  I tried four. One was home from the East, which was no use, and three were fakes who ran off on normal sets of legs when asked questions. Then I found one who fitted. I took him to a cookshop, let him order a full bowl, paid for it—then held up the order while I made him talk to me.

  He was an ex-legionary, pensioned off after his amputation, which was recent, for the red-raw stump had barely healed. I use the term “pensioned off” somewhat lightly, since Rome has never provided well for troops who become unavailable for further action without having the consideration to be actually dead. This poor fellow failed to qualify for either a tombstone or his veteran’s retirement land-grant; he had limped back to Rome, where only the corn dole and his fellow-citizens’ consciences stood between him and starvation. Mine seemed to be the only active conscience this week, and it seemed a normal week.

  “Tell me your name and legion?”

  “Balbillus. I was in the Thirteenth.”

  “Did that include the battles at Cremona?”

  “Bedriacum? Only the first.”

  Vitellius had fought both his important battles—against Otho, whom he defeated, and Vespasian, who defeated him—in the same place: a village called Bedriacum, near Cremona. Don’t find this confusing. Once he had selected a decent spot with a river view and interesting features, why should he change?

  “Bedriacum will do. I want to hear about the conduct of the Fourteenth.”

  Balbillus laughed. The XIV Gemina tended to produce a derisive reaction. “My lot drank with them sometimes…” I took the hint and procured him liquid encouragement. “So what do you want?” He was out of the army, on the worst possible terms; he had nothing to lose from democratic free speech.

  “I need background. Only recent stuff. You can omit the Fourteenth’s glorious feat against Queen Boudicca.”

  We both laughed that time.

  “They always were a stroppy lot,” Balbillus commented.

  “Oh yes. If you care to study history, the reason the Divine Claudius chose them to conquer Britain was that he needed to keep them occupied. Even thirty years ago they were disruptive. Something about serving in Germany apparently leads to mutiny!” Everything about it, if I was any judge. “So, Balbillus, tell me the florid details. First, how did they react to Vespasian?”

  This was a risky question, but he half answered me: “There were plenty of mixed feelings around.”

  “Oh I know. In the Year of the Four Emperors, people had to readjust their positions every time a new man took the stage.” I could not recall adjusting mine. That was because I had, as usual, despised the entire list of candidates. “I’m assuming all the British legions viewed Vespasian as one of their own?”

  Balbillus disagreed. “A lot of officers and men in the British legions had been promoted by Vitellius.”

  No wonder Vespasian was now so keen to send Britain a new governor he could trust. Petilius Cerialis must be sailing across the Gallic Strait with a brief to weed out dissent.

  Balbillus tore at a piece of bread. “Ther
e were some very strange scenes in Britain.”

  I shoved an olive bowl his way. “What happened? The scandalous version, if possible!”

  “The Fourteenth told us the British governor had upset his troops even more than governors normally do.” This burst of cynical wit endeared the ex-soldier to me even more than his pathetic wound. “He had a running feud with the legate of the Twentieth Valeria.” I had run across them in my service days. Dull, though competent. “The war inflamed the row, the troops sided with the legate, and the governor actually had to flee the province.”

  “Jupiter! Whatever happened to Britain?”

  “The legionary commanders formed a committee to run things. The Fourteenth seemed rather sorry to be missing it.”

  I whistled. “Nothing of this jolly scandal got out!”

  “I expect in a wild bog like Britain,” Balbillus confided sarcastically, “unusual arrangements seem perfectly natural!”

  I was thinking about my own problem. “Anyway, this means when the Fourteenth crossed to Europe, they already had a habit of inventing their own orders? Not to mention infighting.”

  “You mean the Batavians?”

  “Yes, especially their escapade at Augusta Taurinorum. They were fighting under Vitellius and met up with their legion at Bedriacum, am I right?”

  He savaged the bread again. “You can imagine how before the battle we were all on tenterhooks because the renowned Fourteenth Gemina were supposed to be approaching.”

  “It was a crucial engagement, and the Fourteenth could swing it?”

  “Well, they thought so!” Balbillus grinned. “They never showed. The Batavian cohorts did fight on the winning side—they took on a group of gladiators in a clever skirmish on an island in the River Po. Afterwards, of course, they made the most of it. They paraded before the rest of us, jeering that they had put the famous Fourteenth in its place, and that Vitellius owed his entire victory to them.”

  “So the Fourteenth felt obliged to squabble with them as publicly as possible?”

  “You picture the scene, Falco. They were one set of hooligans paired with another, but at Augusta Taurinorum Vitellius quartered them together—even though relations had broken down.”

  “That led to the rumpus? Did you see it?”

  “Couldn’t miss it! A Batavian accused a workman of cheating, then a legionary who had been billeted on the workman threw a punch at the Batavian. Running street battles broke out. The whole legion joined the scrap. When we forced them apart and mopped up the blood—”

  “Corpses?”

  “Just a few! The Fourteenth were ordered back to Britain. As they marched out of the city they left fires alight everywhere—quite deliberate—so Augusta Taurinorum burned to the ground.”

  Inexcusable—in ordinary circumstances. However, even though the XIV behaved like delinquents, they had never mutinied, whereas the Batavian cohorts they hated had defected to Civilis. The XIV themselves served whoever happened to be Emperor that month. Vespasian could well decide that all these buoyant heroes needed now was a commander who could rein them in.

  “He’ll need a fierce grip!” snorted Balbillus, when I suggested it. “On their way home to Britain, after Vitellius got rid of them, they had specific orders to avoid Vienna because of local sensitivities. Half of the idiots wanted to march straight there. Did you know that? They would have done it too, but for others who were thinking about their careers…”

  I noted, in the XIV’s favour, that wiser council had prevailed. But it all confirmed that they were not in a mood to have me turning up to say they should reconcile themselves to a future of sitting in barracks fiddling their ration allowances, instead of boasting and burning towns …

  I gave Balbillus the price of a shave and another wine flask, then left the one-legged soldier tucking into his hot food while I went home like a respectable citizen.

  I should have stayed out drinking. I had forgotten about the Palace barber. He was waiting in my room with a chirpy smile, foul cherry-coloured shoes, and a large wicker basket.

  “I promised!”

  “Yes, you warned me.”

  Cursing, I grabbed a handle and attempted to drag the basket nearer. It stuck. I braced myself against a bench and heaved. The dead weight scraped a floorboard with an earsplitting screech of cane. I unbuckled some heavy-duty straps and we peered in at the XIV’s new standard.

  Xanthus was startled. “Whatever is that?”

  I prefer to travel light (if I have to go at all). The Emperor had selected just the kind of trinket anyone on a long journey hates to have tossing about in his backpack. I was being sent to Germany in charge of a two-foot-high, strongly sculpted human hand. It was gilded—but under the pretentious ornamentation the object which I had to carry across Europe was made of solid iron.

  I groaned at the barber. “Depending whether the expert you ask is an optimist or a realist, this represents an open-palmed gesture of international friendship—or a symbol of ruthless military power.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think lugging it across Europe will ruin my back.”

  * * *

  I slumped on the bench. I wondered who had helped this frail blossom carry his basket upstairs. “Well, you’ve brought it. What are you waiting for?”

  The dubious Palace messenger looked coy. “Something I wanted to ask you.”

  “Cough up.”

  “Can I come with you to Germany?”

  This fitted my conviction that Titus had him lined up to do me some mischief. I wasn’t even surprised. “I don’t think I heard that correctly.”

  He was absolutely brazen. “I have my savings—I’ve already applied to buy my freedom. I’d love to travel before I settle down—”

  “Jupiter!” I growled into the neck of my tunic. “It’s bad enough having your chin snicked while some inane fellow demands whether sir intends visiting his Campanian villa this summer, without having one of the bastards wanting to join you on holiday!”

  Xanthus said nothing.

  “Xanthus, I’m an imperial agent visiting the barbarians. So what, my friend, is supposed to be the point of a barber sharing my misery?”

  Xanthus replied morosely, “Somebody in Germany might need a decent shave!”

  “Don’t look at me!” I rubbed my palm across my chin; the stubble was fierce.

  “No,” he agreed, insultingly. Nothing stopped him once he got an idea beneath that well-trimmed thatch. “No one will miss me here. Titus wants to be rid of me.” I could believe that. Titus wanted his private knife-man firmly attached to me. All the better if I took Xanthus somewhere remote before he pulled his blade.

  “Titus can spread your travel pass with fish pickle and eat it under water—I journey alone. If Titus wants to retire you from official duties, let him give you a bounty so you can set up in a booth at some bathhouse—”

  “I won’t be a nuisance!”

  “The qualification for a career in scissors must be being born with your ears missing!”

  I closed my eyes to close him out, though I knew he was still there.

  I was reaching a decision. I was now convinced that Titus had decided this piece of scented buffoonery could usefully strop his razor on my throat. If I went along with it—or appeared to—at least I knew whose dagger hand to watch. Turn down this chance, and I would be forced to make myself suspicious of everyone.

  I looked up. The barber must have been stretching his mental capacity too, because he suddenly asked, “People hire you, I gather?”

  “Foolish ones do.”

  “How much does it cost?”

  “Depends how much I dislike what they commission me to do.”

  “Give me a clue, Falco!” I obliged, with a show of distaste. “I can find that sort of money,” he snivelled. I was not surprised. Any imperial slave is well placed to garner heavy tips. Besides, I reckoned Xanthus had a banker standing him his European tour. “I’ll hire you to escort me on the same trip as
you.”

  “The lure of adventure!” I scoffed. “So do I get a bonus every time I can arrange for you to be cudgelled and robbed? Double rates if you catch a nasty rash from a cheap continental prostitute? Triple if you drown at sea?”

  He said stiffly, “You will be there to advise me how to avoid the perils of the road.”

  “Well my first advice is, don’t take this road at all.”

  My world-weariness appeared to strike him as a romantic pose. Nothing was going to put him off; he must have been ordered to come with me by persons whose orders are obeyed. “Falco, I like your attitude. I reckon we could rub along together successfully.”

  “All right.” I pretended I was too tired to argue. “I was always a soft option for clients who enjoy being insulted twenty times an hour. I’ll be taking two more days to finish my background enquiries and put my own affairs in order. Meet me at the Golden Milestone—on a journey this long, I always start from Zero. Be there at dawn with all your savings, wear more sensible footgear than those ghastly pink things, and bring your valid diploma of freedom from slavery, because I do not want to be arrested for stealing imperial property!”

  “Thanks, Falco!”

  I looked annoyed at his gratitude. “What’s another encumbrance? The Emperor’s present to the army weighs a bit. You can help me transport the iron hand.”

  “Oh no!” exclaimed the barber. “I can’t do that, Falco; I’ll be carrying all my shaving kit!”

  I told him he had a lot to learn. Though in agreeing to be lumbered with this Xanthus, I must have been suffering from brain failure myself.

  PART TWO

  GETTING THERE

  Gaul and Upper Germany, October, AD 71

  “‘Lukewarm! We’ll be in hot water soon, though…’”

  Tacitus, The Histories

  XI

  We made a pretty picture travelling, the barber, his trunk of emollients, the Hand in its basket, and I.

  There were two ways to tackle getting there: over the Alps via Augusta Praetoria, or by sea to southern Gaul. In October both were best avoided. Between September and March, anybody sensible stays safe in Rome.