The Iron Hand of Mars (19 page)

“No, better not.” His voice sounded matter-of-fact, but I could see he was in shock.

“I always thought you'd been sent to assassinate me. Turns out I'm in more danger from my own past history…”

“I think I want to go home, Falco.”

“You're all right.”

“No, I wish I was in Rome.”

Justinus was taking charge. He had examined the scratched identity marks on the dead man's sword scabbard. “One of the Fourteenth's hooligans…” He told one of his guards to fetch their senior tribune. “Be discreet. Try to bring Aulus Macrinus by himself. I don't want their whole bloody legion turning up in high dudgeon.” He came to help me deal with the barber. “Don't worry, Xanthus. You'll have to be interviewed by my commander, but that should be the end of it.”

“You sound confident!” I muttered in an undertone. “Are you happy about explaining to your notoriously sensitive colleagues how one of their number came to be wiped out like this on the First's side of the fort?”

“I'll find something to tell them.” He responded well in a crisis. His eyes were bright with intense excitement, but he was planning coolly. His self-control calmed others in the vicinity too. “Marcus, be prepared.
Some
things are worse than you think!” After teasing me with this mystery, kindness filled his voice. “Let's move this poor fellow away from here…”

Xanthus had started trembling slightly. He stood transfixed by the corpse; nudging him indoors would need tact. In fact we all found it hard to avoid staring at the scene.

While we were still in the street, the guard returned with Macrinus. Even his aristocratic sneer paled slightly when we stepped back and let him see why he had been summoned.

“Is that one of ours? Dear gods, Camillus!”

“Aulus, hear the explanation—”

“It had better be good!”

“Don't threaten us!” snapped Justinus, with surprising force. “There's no argument. I have a reputable witness. Three of your rankers set on Falco—”

“A drunken prank.”

“No! It was unprovoked
and
planned. They had been dawdling outside my house for half an hour—my witness noticed them. And much more than a prank, Aulus! The night could have ended nastily—”

“I'd say it did!”

“The alternative was for my guest to be fatally stabbed.”

In the face of this, the XIV's man pulled himself up. “If what you say is true, the culprits will be found and disciplined. But I'm protesting about the secretive way this has all been handled. I don't care for the way you had me brought across here alone. I want my own observers present, I want one of my centurions to take notes at the scene of the crime—”

As he soared off into complaint, I broke in: “There will be no cover-up. But no one wants another riot like your legion's public rumpus at Augusta Taurinorum!”

Macrinus ignored me. “Who did it?”

“The barber.”

That set him back. We could see him remembering how Xanthus had been called the Emperor's hit man. We all stared at Xanthus. As a hit man he looked pretty meek.

“Some of us are going to feel uneasy the next time we need a shave,” I said. A fine spray of the dead soldier's blood disfigured the crisp white linen of the barber's tunic. As usual, he was turned out so smartly that away from the court his brilliant presence became embarrassing. The stains were doubly disconcerting, as if he had been careless during a routine shave.

“In my job,” he answered quietly, “a man can become a target for abuse quite easily. I've had to learn how to defend myself.”

“That's no excuse for murdering a soldier!” Macrinus barked. He had no finesse.

“The soldier,” I pointed out rationally, “had no excuse for trying to murder me!”

At this stylish rebuke he condescended to subside. It was apparent that Justinus intended to take control of any necessary enquiry, which, since the crime had occurred within the I's jurisdiction, was his entitlement. Macrinus grumpily fell back on one last jibe: “You mentioned a witness. I hope it's one we can rely on!”

“Perfectly,” Justinus answered, with a faint impression of gritting his teeth.

“I think I must insist on knowing who.” Macrinus had sensed a joke, but was too crass to withdraw.

“My sister,” Justinus told him placidly.

I winced. He had been right earlier when he had teased me. Things certainly were worse than I had realised: Helena Justina was here.

*   *   *

We glanced up at the window above us. She was still standing there, as she must have been during some of my fight. Her face lay in darkness. Her unmistakable figure, the outline of her smoothly upswept hair and even the elegant pendant drops of her earrings sent down a perfect, elongated shadow that reached the corpse, hiding its ghastly wound in decent shade.

The tribune Macrinus straightened up, smoothed back his crisp, curly locks, and produced a salute suitably emphatic for a tribune who thought a lot of himself greeting the only unmarried senator's daughter this side of the Alps.

I was wearing the wrong boots for heel-clicking. I waved at her, grinned at her brother, and strode indoors.

 

XXIX

“Fighting again, Falco?” Mild medicine from her.

She was in long-sleeved wool, with rather sombre jet earrings. Her dark, silky hair had been caught up in combs either side of her head, perhaps with more care than usual, and I could detect her perfume from two strides away. But after travelling, or possibly after seeing me attacked, she looked washed out and tense.

I was not in the mood for pleasantries. “I gather it tickled you to watch me suffering?”

“I sent people to help.”

“You sent me a barber!”

“He seems capable.”

“You weren't to know that—I don't think he knew himself.”

“Don't quibble. He was the first person I found … You kept us waiting for dinner!” she grumbled, as if that settled it.

I threw back my head and commented to the gods, “Well, things seem to be normal again!”

We always sparked like this after spending time apart. Especially when we met again with strangers watching us. For me, it held off the moment when I had to admit to missing her. For Helena, who knows? At least now she had spoken to me there was a spark in her eyes that I didn't object to seeing there.

*   *   *

Her brother had brought Xanthus indoors and was shepherding us all into a reception room. He had refrained from suggesting that his tribunal colleague come and be introduced to the noble newcomer, so watching Macrinus showing off was one horror we were spared. Xanthus was kept with us to be applauded and cosseted after his ordeal.

We found ourselves in the dining-room. A meal lay ready, which had obviously been set for some time. At this point I felt prepared for formalities. I would have marched over and kissed Helena's cheek, but she plonked herself decisively on her brother's dining-couch. Unless I offended Justinus by invading the host's eating space, she was out of reach. It annoyed me. Failing to greet her made it look as if I didn't care.

I excused myself to clean up—some blood, but mostly dirt. When I returned I had missed the hors-d'oeuvres (my favourite course) and Helena was regaling the company with outrageous stories of her journey. I ate in silence, trying not to listen. When she reached the part about the wheel coming off her carriage and the chief of the mountain bandits kidnapping her for ransom, I yawned and went to my room.

An hour or so later, I re-emerged. The house had fallen quiet. I searched its bowels until I found Xanthus, lying on his bed and writing up his diary. I knew from travelling out with him that he was keeping a richly boring travelogue.

“At least ‘the day I killed the soldier' should keep your grandchildren enthralled! And here's another excitement: this is going to be the night when you give me a proper shave.”

“You going out?”

“No. Staying in.”

He had rolled to his feet and was unpacking his gear, though mildly unimpressed by the bonanza I was offering. Wine at dinner had calmed him down to the point of utter silliness. “Has a brush with death made you vow to dedicate your stubble to the gods in an alabaster pyx, Falco? I'm not sure they make vases big enough!” I let him sit me down and envelop me in a fine cambric wrap, but I ignored the joshing. “What does sir prefer—depilatory liniment? I use a nice white vine paste. I never recommend my gentlemen to try the weird stuff like bat's blood—” He was enjoying himself more than I reckoned to tolerate.

“A razor will do.” Superstition made me hope he would change to a different blade from the one that he had used earlier.

“Sure? I can do you ground pumice or individual tweezing just as easily. My word, you've been neglecting yourself. It's probably best to try and burn this off with bitumen!” I
think
the last one was a joke.

“Whatever will have the smoothest result. And I want a haircut as well—but leave some curl. Just trim off the worst shagginess…” Xanthus put an engraved copper mirror into my hand, like somebody keeping a baby quiet with a rattle. I carried on describing what I wanted, even though I knew barbers never listen. A private informer needs to possess some stubbornness.

“Jupiter, Falco! Who are you trying to impress?”

“Mind your own business.”

“Oh!” Xanthus spat on his whetstone. “
Oh, I see!
” Even he caught on eventually. His normal eagerness to please turned into the ribaldry I met everywhere on this subject: “You'll have your work cut out there!” Quite often that was Helena Justina's line too, I remembered pessimistically. “This calls for my Norican steel…”

I wanted the best, so was unable to quibble. But I felt pretty sure that the Norican steel was what he had used to cut my attacker's throat.

*   *   *

To his credit, he made the best of the unpromising material I had placed at his disposal. I had never been shaved so closely, nor with so little discomfort, and even the haircut just about fitted the style of subdued dishevelment with which I felt most at home. After years of delicately gauging the wishes of emperors, Xanthus could judge his client as nicely as you'd expect in a barber who would be sent to the public strangler if he snipped a wrong curl.

As it turned out, he might have spared himself the trouble. Still, I dare say it was not the first time he had spent hours preparing someone for an assignation that flopped.

With a stinging chin and in a fug of disconcerting unguents, I quietly admitted myself to what I knew was the best guest-bedroom. I kept telling myself that everything would be all right once I had cornered Helena on her own and treated her to my adoring attentions. I could hardly wait to see her. I had a fairly pressing need to re-establish normal relationships.

No such luck. There was a taper, but the large room lay half in darkness. I stood for a moment, adjusting to the dim light and trying to think up a suave line of conversation if my beloved was reclining on swansdown and reading a light ode or two while she waited impatiently for me … No point: there was no Helena. The high bed with its tortoiseshell frame, fringed coverlet, and engagingly carved footstool stood empty. Instead, a small hunched figure lay snoring on a lower couch—presumably a slavegirl she had brought to look after her.

So much for me! No chance of a passionate reunion with a servant looking on! I could remember when she
never
let a slave stay in her room at night if I was in the vicinity.

I stepped back. Closing the door, my pent-up emotion gripped me. She must have known I would come. She must be keeping out of the way deliberately. Chatting with Justinus. Frightening that simple soul with her tales of broken wheels and brigands. Chewing over family business. Putting his career to rights. Anything that would avoid having to face me, angry at the way she had disappeared from Rome, yet badly wanting to go to bed with her.

I decided to take my outrageously barbered person out on the town and get as drunk as possible.

Indignation carried me as far as the front door. Then I remembered that Moguntiacum had small-town, small-minded habits. There was nowhere open for entertainment, except for the usual places too sordid to contemplate. Besides, the prospect of trying to work tomorrow with a head like a sack of oatmeal after a night gossiping inanely with some drab in a tavern when I had hoped to spend it with Helena, became too hard to bear. I sat in the tribune's garden for a while, feeling miserable, but Justinus was no devotee of landscape and it was a poor spot to sulk in. His dog found me and climbed alongside on the seat to chew at my tunic hem, but even the bench had damp moss on it and he soon jumped down and snuffled off into the darkness. I too slunk away to my room.

I had my back to the door. I had just pulled off my tunic (a clean one; too good for sleeping in) when someone came in.

“As nice a view of a nude wood sprite's back as I ever had the privilege to glimpse!”

Helena.

*   *   *

Having been attacked once that day, I spun round jumpily. Helena's warm appraising eyes were smiling as I lowered my handful of tunic in an attempt at decency. Her smile always had an irresistible effect on me.

“This is a private room, lady.”

“Good!” she said. I could feel my face colouring, but applied a scornful expression; it only encouraged her. “Hello, Marcus.” I said nothing. “I thought you wanted to see me?”

“What gave you that idea?”

“A strong scent of lotions in my room.” She sniffed. I cursed Xanthus. He had doused me in pomade until a bloodhound could have tracked me all the way from the Gallic Strait to Cappadocia.

Helena tipped her head to one side, watching me. She was leaning on the door behind her, as if to stop me escaping. My jaw set. “How's Titus?”