The Iron Hand of Mars (28 page)

“Your sister knows any suggestion of me succumbing to Veleda is a lie!” He looked startled by my anger. After a moment, I sighed. “Well, you know the traditional method of dealing with a fatal beauty among your enemies.”

“That's part of the lecture on strategy I must have missed,” Justinus answered, rather coolly.

“Well, you take them to bed and give them a night of pleasure like nothing they have ever known. Next morning, thanks to your fabulous equipment and brilliant technique, they sob and tell you everything.”

“Your niece is right. You make things up, Falco.”

“It's just a myth.”

“Ever done it? In your past life, of course,” he added, in deference to Helena.

“Ha! Most women I know would cry, ‘Push off, chancer, and take your puny equipment with you!,'” I hedged modestly.

“So why is my sister so worried?”

“The myth,” I said, “is very deep-seated. Think of Cleopatra, Sophonisba—”

“Sophonisba?”

“Daughter of Hasdrubal and wife of the king of Numidia. She was notoriously beautiful.” I sighed again. This time it was an old man's sigh. “How much education did they waste on you? The Punic Wars, sonny. Ever heard of Scipio?”

“I certainly never heard of the mighty Scipio bedding Carthaginian princesses!”

“Quite right. Scipio was a wise general.” And probably a good Roman prude.

“So?”

“Scipio made sure he never met her. He sent his lieutenant, Masinissa, to the beauty's tent instead.”

“Lucky old Masinissa!”

“Perhaps. Masinissa was so deeply smitten he married her.”

“What about her husband?”

“Mere detail. Masinissa was in love.”

Justinus laughed. “So was the princess won over to our side?”

“No. Scipio reckoned she lured Masinissa the other way, so he had a few quiet words with him. Masinissa burst into tears, retreated to his tent, and then sent his bride a cup of poison. His message said he would have liked to fulfil the duties of a husband, but since his friends had advised against it here at least was the wherewithal to escape being dragged as a captive through Rome.”

“I assume that luckily for history she quaffed the poison down, and Masinissa redeemed himself…”

It was a boy's reply.

Helena had once read me Sophonisba's cutting answer to her bridegroom of the previous day:
I accept your wedding present. Nor is it unwelcome from a husband who can offer nothing better. However, I should have died with greater satisfaction had I not married so near to my death …

Too subtle, I thought, for a tribune. Even one who, according to my horrid niece, had sensitive eyes. He would learn.

Helena Justina highly approved of Sophonisba, needless to say.

*   *   *

We had passed the limit of my previous experience of Germany. That ended at Colonia Agrippinensium, where the great Claudian road ran off westwards through Gaul towards the crossing-point to Britain. The large fortresses of Novaesium and Vetera had until now been only names to me. I had probably read of the minor outposts of Gelduba and Asciburgium, but you can't remember everything. Apart from Britain, these forts marked the ends of the Empire. Our hold in the north had never been tenacious, and Rome had only ever kept control by negotiating special relations with the marsh-dwelling Batavii. Re-establishing our outposts and winning back the Batavian alliance as a buffer against the savage eastern peoples would call for highly efficient diplomacy.

Now that we were past the Ides of October, the weather took a surreptitious shift, as we moved north. Nights were noticeably darker, earlier. Even during the day the golden light which had enhanced the scene at Moguntiacum was reduced to something gloomier. Once again, I felt horrified by the great distance we had to travel.

The scenery, too, was slowly changing. We lost the dramatic crags and dreamy islands. Sometimes there was attractively hilly country, where the XIV's legate could have been taken on his hunting trip—if he
was
hunting. Far above us tremendous flocks of geese and other birds were migrating, adding to our anxious mood with their urgent flight and lonely cries. As the recruits became more excited, their centurion grew more silent. The pedlar scowled. Justinus was smitten by a sense of romantic melancholy. I simply felt depressed.

More and more we began to sense our approaching nearness to the other huge waterways that poured into the delta: the Mosa from Gaul, the Vaculus forming a second arm to the Rhenus, and all the tributaries, each one more powerful than the rivers we were used to in Italy. The sky assumed the lowering greyness I knew belonged to the remote Britannic Ocean—the wildest waters in the world. Sometimes we saw sea birds. The riverine vegetation of oaks, alders, and willow became interspersed with sedges and marsh flowers. In those days there was no real military highway along this northern stretch. Habitation along our bank of the river dwindled to infrequent Celtic settlements, many bearing scars from the civil war, and most with sombre Roman watch-towers guarding them. On the other side, nothing was ever visible.

We stopped a night at Novaesium, where the newly rebuilt fort was full of activity. Then we sailed on past the mouth of the Lupia to our right, and finally made landfall on the left bank at Vetera.

Frankly, I did not relish disembarking there myself. And our centurion Helvetius flatly refused to leave the boat.

 

XLI

The ship's master had struggled to make Vetera before nightfall, not wanting to be caught out at a temporary mooring where the surrounding country must be regarded as unsafe. It was already dark when we landed, however—the worst time to arrive even at an established fort. We could all have stayed on board, but space was cramped and the lads were eager to be within walls, especially in such a famous place.

To organise billets we would have to shift ourselves. Justinus started protesting to the centurion, ready to order him down the gangplank.

“Leave it!” I said curtly.

“In Jupiter's name—”

“Just leave him, Camillus.”

Helvetius was standing to attention on the far side of the boat, staring out across the river with a set face. “But why does he—”

“I'm sure Helvetius has his reasons.” I had realised what they were.

We marched the recruits off, made ourselves known in a dark reception building, and were allocated quarters. We knew the fort itself lay some distance away from the river, so were startled to find ourselves staying near where the ship had tied up. Our billet was just a wooden hutment, virtually on the quay. The recruits, who had expected the luxuries of a major base, were muttering about the strange setup, and even Justinus looked mutinous. When we had stowed our kit, I made everyone gather round. The dim light of a taper gave our faces lurid shadowings, and we all spoke in low voices, as if even in this Roman enclave enemy forces might be listening.

“Well, this is a bad start … Lads, I know you're wondering why we haven't been allowed to march up and park in the fort. The Batavian rebels must have caused such destruction that they've had to abandon it. The troops here are living in tents and temporary barracks while they select a new site.”

“But why can't we shelter inside the old battlements?”

“You'll see in the morning what the situation is. Just use your imaginations until then. People stay outside the fort because Romans suffered and died there in great numbers. Take your cue from the troops who are stationed here: treat the place with respect.”

“Sir, I thought the legions at Vetera traded with the enemy?” They had no sense of reverence. Tomorrow would cure that.

“No, soldier.” This time Justinus answered. Quick to grasp what I was saying, his voice now was patient and informative. “The legions at Vetera held out in desperate circumstances. Some of Vocula's relief force did sell their services to the Gallic Empire at one point, but we all have to remember that from here it looked as if the whole world had been torn apart and the Rome to which they had given their oath no longer existed.”

The recruits reacted at first with some scorn. Most of them knew nothing of recent history beyond local episodes like Vitellian soldiers killing a cow in a village three miles down the road. But as Justinus talked to them, they settled down, like listeners absorbed in a Saturnalia ghost story. He was a thorough lecturer: “Up here, the Fifth and the Fifteenth had the worst of everything. It's true they executed a legate.” He was referring to Vocula. “But they only surrendered when Civilis had starved them to the point of exhaustion. Then they were massacred. Some were killed as they marched out unarmed. Some fled back to the fort and died there when Civilis burned it in fury. Whatever those men did, they paid for. The Emperor has chosen to sponge the slate clean, so who are we to disagree with him? Listen to Didius Falco. None of us can judge the legions who were here, unless we can be certain what we ourselves would have done.”

The recruits were a rag-tailed lot, but they liked being spoken to sensibly. They were quelled, though still fascinated. “Sir, why wouldn't Helvetius come ashore?”

Justinus looked to me for help. I breathed slowly. “You'll have to ask him.”

My guess was that the centurion had been at Vetera before. I had deduced that Helvetius probably belonged to one of the four disgraced German legions that Vespasian had reassigned elsewhere. If I was right, he must be one of the few survivors of the V or the XV.

In that case; his motives in joining my expedition were ones I would have questioned had I known about them before leaving. I knew now that we were carrying a man whose mental scars could prove dangerous. It was the last thing I needed. But with an escort of only twenty untrained and untested boys, plus Camillus Justinus to look after, it was too late to act. If I shed any of our party, they would not be replaced. And we might need every man.

So I kept the centurion. In the end I was glad of him. He had volunteered to come. And even had he known what was to happen, I believe he would still have chosen to go.

 

XLII

Next day we unloaded our horses and rode out for the obligatory look at Vetera. The huge double fort lay empty but for the relics that confirmed all the bad reports. Siege engines which Civilis had made his prisoners build. Toppled platforms which the defenders had smashed by hurling down stones. The great Artimedorian grab which someone had managed to dream up for hooking the enemy off the ramparts. Internal faces of the turf walls gouged out from the search for roots or grubs to eat. Intense fire damage. Embedded missiles. Collapsed towers.

The fabric had been assaulted over a long period, then finished with firebrands. Reinvested by Civilis, Petilius Cerialis had battered it down again. The area had been cleared of bodies for a year now, but the dank smell of tragedy still hung everywhere.

We built a small altar. Justinus raised his hands and prayed aloud for the souls who had perished. I presume most of us added a few words for our party, too.

*   *   *

Coming back, chastened, we found Helvetius ashore, although I noticed that he kept his eyes averted from the road inland. He was talking to one of the regularly stationed troops. A dilemma had been offered us: despite the rumours further south, everyone here believed that Civilis was in his own territory, somewhere on The Island.

We talked it over, Justinus, Helvetius, and I.

“This could be the old ‘He's on our patch' syndrome,” I said. “You know, convincing themselves that a villain is hiding up locally because they want the credit for catching him. I've a friend who is a watch captain in Rome. He reckons that the minute he hears ‘Your man has been sighted just down the road,' he starts searching at the opposite end of town.” Petronius Longus had been on my mind. I was missing the old rascal. Rome, too.

“The problem is,” Justinus argued cautiously, “if we set off east among the Bructeri without following this up, we won't relish going north again afterwards. You know what will happen if we do manage a meeting with Veleda? We'll come back down the River Lupia so relieved to be alive we'll only want to go home again.”

I wanted to go home already. “What do you think, Helvetius?”

“I hate The Island, but I agree with the tribune—it's now or never. Now, we can somehow wind it into our itinerary. The detour will be too long later.”

“How did you acquire your local knowledge?” I queried in a bland voice.

“The way you think,” Helvetius said.

The tribune and I avoided one another's gaze. I took the plunge: “The Fifth?”

“The Fifteenth.” His face stayed expressionless. The Fifth had just about saved their reputations, but the Fifteenth had broken their oaths pretty desperately.

Justinus followed up my question in his quiet, courteous way. “So what was your story?”

“I'd been wounded. They shipped me out during the hiatus that followed Vocula's relief. I was in the hospital at Novaesium until Novaesium came under attack, too. I ended up groaning on a stretcher in a nursing post they had managed to set up on board a barge at Gelduba. I was there throughout the last assault by Civilis on Vetera—and through its aftermath.” The result was obvious, and understandable. The survivor felt guilty that most of his comrades were dead. He even felt half guilty that he had never sworn faith to the Gallic Empire and lost his honour with the rest. “Am I banned?”

“No,” Camillus Justinus stated. “You're in the First Adiutrix now.”

“We need you,” I added. “Especially if you're an expert on the territory.”

“I'm more than that.”

“How come?”

“I've been over in the east.”

That startled me. “Tell us, centurion.”

“I was stationed in this hole for four years, Falco. Everyone needed a hobby; it was always a desolate post. I never cared for gambling or joining cliques of fancy boys. I did become very interested in the old Varus mystery, though. I read up the story. I used to save my leave and slip across—illegally of course, but everything was quieter then. I was curious about the battle site, fascinated by the idea of finding it.”