The Iron Hand of Mars (15 page)

“Didius Falco, madam.”

“Oh really?” Sustaining a conversation was just too wearisome. My mother would have put this limp little creature on a red meat diet and had her digging turnips for a week.

“I am an imperial representative.” Interviewing an imperial envoy ought to have brightened her morning. Indeed, life in the most dangerous part of the Empire would have fascinated some girls, but I could tell Maenia Priscilla's interests rarely stretched to current affairs. A bird who had managed to avoid learning. She despised the arts. I could not envisage her busy with charitable works. Altogether, as the partner of one of the Empire's most prominently placed diplomats, she failed to impress.

“How nice for you!” No wonder the Empire had been creaking at its seams lately. I refused to react, but it was ill-judged and inexcusable. The girl possessed a mixture of schoolgirl arrogance and ignorance that was likely to cause trouble. If Gracilis didn't watch her, I gave him six months before there was a scandal with a centurion or an incident in a barrack block that had people being sent home hurriedly.

“Excuse me for invading your privacy. I need to see your husband, but he was not at the Principia—”

“He's not here either!” This time she spoke out quickly, with the triumphant edge some people use instead of wit. Her brown eyes gave me the once-over, which was fair enough since I had done the same to her. Yet she was seeing nothing, trying only to insult me.

I twitched up an eyebrow. “You must be very concerned. Does Gracilis make a habit of vanishing?”

“The legate's habits are his own affair.”

“Not quite, madam.”

Annoyance yanked her mouth into an uglier twist. Men in shapeless sorrel-coloured tunics with woolly linings in their battered boots did not usually answer her back. (I would have liked to be kitted out more excitingly, but my banker had counselled against overstretching my budget that year. Bankers are so predictable. My budget, too.)

“Your ladyship, there seems to be a problem here! A man of your husband's standing ought not to become invisible. It worries the lower orders. In fact, the Emperor might consider it politically inept … If Gracilis is dodging his creditors—” I had been joking, but she let out a bitter laugh. A wild guess had struck lucky. “Oh, is that it?”

“Possibly.”

“Can you give me a list of his debts?”

She shrugged. Gracilis had probably brought her to Germany to avoid the risk that back in Rome she might suborn his numerous stewards into letting her spend cash. Men like that keep their wives securely cut off from the household abacus. I prodded, but she seemed genuinely uninformed. I was not surprised.

“So you cannot tell me where to start looking? You have no idea where your husband may be?”

“Oh I know that!” she exclaimed archly. I bit back my irritation.

“Madam, this is important. I have a message from Vespasian for Florius Gracilis. When the Emperor sends despatches, he expects me to deliver them. Will you say where your husband is?”

“With his mistress, presumably.” She was so vapid, she did not even watch me to see the effect it had.

“Look,” I said, still trying to keep my temper, “your domestic life is private, but however modern your views on marriage, I assume you and Gracilis follow
some
rules. The conventions are clear enough.” I stated them anyway: “He fritters away your dowry; you eat into his inheritance. He can beat you; you can slander him. He supplies you with moral guidance and an extravagant dress allowance; you, madam, at all times protect his reputation in public life. Now try to grasp this: if I don't find him quickly, there is going to be a scandal. Whatever else, he will want you to avoid that!”

She jumped up in a jangle of atonal jewellery. “How dare you!”

“How dares a public man have the front to disappear right under the nose of the provincial governor?”

“I couldn't care less!” cried Maenia Priscilla with her first real sign of liveliness. “Get out of here, and don't come back again!”

She swept from the room. A gust of unlikeable balsamic perfume swirled round after her. She bounced off so angrily that an ivory hairpin shot itself from the torsion of a castellated braid in her elaborate hair, and landed at my feet.

I picked it up, then silently handed the missile to one of the waiting-women. The maids looked resigned, then gathered their trappings and followed her out.

I was not alarmed. Somewhere in the residence there would be a wizened accountant who would take a more realistic attitude to my enquiry than the petulant wife had. He was bound to know exactly which creditors he was fobbing off on a daily basis, and if I took an interest in his work, he would probably tell me.

As for the name of the legate's mistress, that would be common coin anywhere in the barracks.

 

XXII

During my search for information, I at one point bumbled into the legate's private gymnasium. I saw what Justinus meant about Gracilis being a sporty type: his den was packed with weights, dumbbells, beanbags for throwing-games, and all the other paraphernalia that normally suggest a man who is afraid of seeming puny—probably because it's true. At one end of the room his spears and hunting trophies were hung on hooks. A sad Egyptian who would have been better employed mummifying kings for their meeting with Osiris sat cross-legged, engaged in taxidermy on a rather small deer. I never waste time talking to Egyptians. He could stuff a roebuck, but hearing his views on life as a timeless river of sorrows would not help me find his master. I nodded and passed on.

I finally tracked down the accountant, who supplied me with a lengthy list of disappointed wine merchants, furriers, bookmakers, stationers, and importers of fine-scented oils.

“Jupiter, this man certainly does not believe in paying bills!”

“He's a little unbusinesslike,” the scribe agreed mildly. The fellow had swollen eyes and a restrained manner. He looked tired.

“Is there no income from His Honour's estates in Italy?”

“They're flourishing, but mostly mortgaged up.”

“So he's in trouble?”

“Oh, I doubt that!”

He was right. Gracilis was a senator. In the first place, teetering on the brink of financial disaster was probably second nature, so unlikely to worry him. Marrying Maenia Priscilla must have given his collateral a fillip. In any case, he came equipped with massive clout. To the small tradesmen of a remote provincial town, his lordship must be untouchable. A few adroit business fiddles would soon get him out of any temporary squeeze.

“Can I take it you have no idea then why your master might have disappeared?”

“I was unaware of any mystery.”

“He left you no instructions?”

“He's not renowned for forethought. I thought he was off on business for a few days. His bedchamber slave is absent too.”

“How do you know that?”

“Heard the man's girlfriend bemoaning the fact.”

“She works in the house?”

“She's a barmaid at the Medusa, near the Principia Dexter Gate.”

I took away the names of both the creditors and the slave's girlfriend scratched on my pocket memo tablet. Its wax had hardened up through lack of use, a sure hint that it was time to do some work.

“Tell me something else: is your master a ladies' man?”

“I couldn't possibly comment.”

“Oh, stretch a point!”

“My sphere is purely financial.”

“That needn't be unrelated to what I asked! His funds could be tight as a result of expensive mistresses…”

I let him stare me out. We both knew I would find other sources eager to supply me with the sordid facts.

I left the residence with a light step. Having clues always gives my optimistic side a boost.

I then made the mistake of pushing my luck again with the high-handed XIV Gemina.

*   *   *

Prefect of the camp was never a post in the traditional republican legion. As with so much else, I reckon the old republicans got it right. Nowadays these prefects wield an undue influence. Each legion appoints one, and they have a wide range of responsibilities for organisation, training, and kit. In the absence of the legate and senior tribune they take command, which is when things become dangerous. They are drawn from the pool of first spears who are resisting retirement, which makes them too old, too pedantic, and too slow. I don't like them on principle. The principle being that it was a camp prefect whose obtuse behaviour destroyed the II Augusta's reputation in the British Revolt.

At Moguntiacum there was just one, responsible for the whole fort. Since the XIV were the only experienced legion stationed there, he had been supplied by them.

The camp prefect occupied an office whose oversized proportions must have appealed to his underdeveloped personality. I found him in it. He was reading scrolls and writing busily. He had made his nook deliberately spare. He used a folding stool with a rusted iron frame and a campaign table that looked as if it had served at Actium. It was supposed to give the impression that he would have preferred to be on active duty in the field. In my view, if Rome was to sustain any military reputation, men like this had to be kept in camp—gagged, bound and bolted to the floor.

“Sextus Juvenalis? I'm Didius Falco. The envoy from Vespasian.”

“Oh I heard some worm had poked its head out of a hole on the Palatine!” He wrote with a quill. He would.

Setting down the quill, meticulously balanced on the inkpot in a way that prevented drips, he bounced at me: “What's your background?”

I assumed he didn't want to hear about my aunties in the Campagna. “National service in the usual stinking province, then five years as a scout.”

“Still in uniform?” Army life was his only social yardstick. I could imagine him boring everyone rigid with his stubborn theories that traditional values, antique equipment, and dreadful old commanders whose names no one had heard of were unsurpassed by their modern equivalents.

“Self-employed now.”

“I don't approve of men who leave the legions before time.”

“I never supposed you would.”

“National service lost its glint?”

“I copped a tricky spearhead wound.” Not as tricky as all that, but it got me out.

“Out of
where
?” he persisted. He should have been an informer.

“Out of Britain,” I admitted.

“Oh we know Britain!” He was eyeing me narrowly.

I braced myself. There was no escape. If I dodged any more he would guess anyway. “You know the Second Augusta then.”

Sextus Juvenalis barely moved, but contempt seemed to flood his features like new colour in a chameleon. “Well! You were unlucky!” he sneered.

“The whole Second were unlucky—in a certain camp prefect called Poenius Postumus!” Poenius Postumus was the imbecile who had ignored orders to join battle against the Iceni. Even we never really knew what his motives were. “He betrayed the Second just as much as the rest of you.”

“I heard he paid for it.” Juvenalis lowered his voice a semitone, overcome by horrified curiosity. “The word was, Postumus fell on his sword afterwards. Did he
fall
—or was he dropped?”

“What do you think?”

“Do you know?”

“I know.” I was present. We all were. But what happened on that angry night is the II Augusta's secret.

Juvenalis stared at me as if I were a guardian at the gates of Hades with a downturned torch. He rallied soon enough, however. “If you were with the Second, you'll need to tread carefully here. Especially,” he added heavily, “if you are Vespasian's private agent!” I put up no attempt to quibble. “Or is it your fancy companion?”

“So people have noticed Xanthus?” I smiled quietly. “I honestly don't know his role. I prefer not to.”

“Where did you acquire him?”

“An unsolicited gift from Titus Caesar.”

“Reward for past services?” the prefect sneered.

“I suppose it could be for future ones.” I was ready to tighten the ligature: “You're the best man to make excuses for the Fourteenth. Let's talk about Gracilis.”

“What's to say?” Juvenalis queried in a light tone. He appeared to be taking the reasonable line. I was not fooled.

“I need to see him.”

“It can be arranged.”

“When?”

“Soon.”

“Now?”

“Not immediately.”

I shifted restlessly. “October in Upper Germany is hardly the time or place for legates to be snatching unofficial holidays.”

“He doesn't ask advice from me.”

“Perhaps he should!” Blatant flattery was also a failure. Camp prefect is an immodest rank; he thought it was his due. “Maybe taking advice is not your legate's strong point. I hear he's been making himself unpopular.”

“Gracilis has his methods.” He defended his commander loyally. Nevertheless, I saw the flicker behind the prefect's eyes—annoyance at the legate's abrasive attitude.

“So is he off with a woman, or moonlighting from the bailiffs?”

“Official business.”

“Tell me. I'm official too.”

“It's officially secret,” he jeered. He knew I had no comeback. Men like that can judge your status from the way you lace your boot-thongs. Mine must have been twisted the wrong way.

“I have my orders, Prefect. If I can't carry them out, I may have to send a query back to Rome.”

Juvenalis let a thin smile play on his lips. “Your messenger won't leave the fort.” I was wondering how much I could remember of the smoke-and-bonfire semaphore code when he forestalled me contemptuously: “You'll find the signal station out of bounds.”

“And I don't suppose Moguntiacum keeps carrier pigeons?” I gave way with an air of grace I didn't feel. But I preferred not to find myself in the tiny cells beside the main gate, rationed to one bowl of barley gruel a day. I changed tack. “I was sent here to take political soundings. If I can't get a briefing from Gracilis, I'll have to pick your brains instead. What's the mood among the local tribes?”