The Iron Hand of Mars (41 page)

He was older than me. Taller and much more solid. Probably even more depressed than I was. He wore leather trousers to just below the knee and a cloak trimmed with strands of raddled fur. He was heavily scarred and moved stiffly, like a man who had fallen from a horse once too often. His missing eye looked as if it had been taken out by something like an artillery bolt, leaving a deep twisted seam. His good eye was sharply intelligent. He had a beard down to his cloak-brooch and long strands of wavy hair; both were red. Not the bold red I had been promising myself, but a sadder, more faded colour that seemed to mirror what was left of the rebel's life. That too was showing grey at the roots.

He let me introduce myself. “So this is what it feels like meeting a footnote to history!”

“Less of the footnotes!” he growled. I found myself liking him. “What do you want?”

“Just passing through. I thought I'd look you up. Don't be surprised. A child could find you here. In fact a child did—a mere eight-year-old, and not very bright, though she had help from a much cleverer Ubian. Worried?” I asked gently. “You know what it means. If a child can find you, so can any smouldering legionary whose mate you killed at Vetera. Or any disgruntled Batavian, come to that.”

Julius Civilis told me what he would like me to do with myself; it was wittily devised and succinctly phrased. “You say that in much the same terms as the famous Fourteenth Gemina, who also think I stink. Must be the Roman influence. Do you miss all that?”

“No,” he said, but jealously. “The Fourteenth? Those braggarts!” He himself had commanded an auxiliary detachment in Germany before he had tried for glory; he would have heard about their parent legion from his kinsmen in the eight famous Batavian cohorts who deserted. “I suppose we have to talk. Do you want the story of my life?”

He had the right background; this interview would be businesslike. I could have been dealing with one of our own. Well, I was really. “Sorry.” I hoped he could hear that my regret was genuine. I would have given a lot to hear the full story from the rebel's own lips. “I'm due in Moguntiacum for the Emperor's birthday parade. I've no time to listen to the drivel about twenty years in the Roman camps, then your only reward being Imperial suspicion and the threat of execution … Let's get down to it, Civilis. You took the money. You enjoyed the life. You were grateful to be exempt from taxation and gain the benefits of a regular income and a structured career. If things had been different, you would have taken your discharge diploma and retired as a Roman citizen. Right up to the moment when Vespasian became Emperor you could have basked in his friendship and been a great force locally. You threw it away for a dream that became pointless. Now you're stateless and hopeless too.”

“That's pretty bilge! Have you finished?” His single eye regarded me with more good judgement than I liked.

“No, but you have. Events have passed you by, Civilis. I see here an exhausted man. You're saddled with a large family; so am I. Now that your stand against fate is in tatters I can guess how you must be being nagged. You're suffering earache as well as backache and heartache. You're sick of trouble and tired of the campaign—”

“I'd do it again.”

“Oh I don't doubt that. In your shoes, so would I. You saw a chance, and made the most of it. But the chance is over. Even Veleda accepts that.”

“Veleda?” He looked suspicious.

I said smoothly, “Imperial agents have just interviewed the lady in her signal-tower. Incidentally, my own view is we ought to charge her rent for that … She concedes the peace, Civilis.”

We both knew the Batavian's independence movement was nothing without support from Free Germany and Gaul. Gaul had long been a lost cause for rebellion: too comfort-loving by half. Now Germany was opting out, too.

“So much for freedom!” murmured the red-haired man.

“Freedom to run wild, you mean? Sorry. I sound like every father there ever was berating a child who wants to stay out late in unsuitable company.”

“You can't help that. Rome,” he replied drily, “is a paternalist society.” It felt strange to be addressed in refined, lightly satirical Latin by a man who looked as if he had spent a month huddled up against a gorse-bush on an open moor.

“Not always,” I confessed. “My father ran away from home and left the women to get on with it.”

“You should have been a Celt.”

“Then I'd be fighting with you.”

“Thanks,” he said. “Thanks for that, Falco. So it's parole again?” He was referring to the times other emperors had pardoned him. I hoped he realised this emperor was here to stay. “What am I required to do?”

“You and your family will live in Augusta Treverorum at a fixed address. Protection will be arranged at first, though I reckon you should soon be assimilated into the local community.” I grinned. “I don't feel Vespasian will want to offer you a new legionary command!” He was too old to care. “Apart from that, here comes somebody whom I asked to meet us specially…”

A familiar figure had approached, incongruous among the run-down hovels where Civilis had lain up. He had a haircut that shrieked quality, and unacceptable shrimp-pink shoes. Undeterred by his own dramatic turnout, he scrutinised Civilis with visible pity.

“Falco! Your friend has a florid crop of foliage disfiguring his pediment!”

I sighed. “This character has developed a putrid line of rhetoric since he met me … Julius Civilis, prince of Batavia, may I introduce to you Xanthus, one-time barber to emperors—and the best barber on the Palatine at that. He has shaved Nero, Galba, Otho, Vitellius, and probably Titus Caesar, though he never reveals the names of current clients. He has something in common with Celts, I think; he collects celebrity heads. Xanthus,” I announced gently to the rebel chief with the ghastly locks, “has come to Augusta Treverorum all the way from Rome in order to give you a snappy trim and shave.”

 

LXIV

I managed to speak to Helena Justina during the parade. I hoped that in a public place politeness would oblige her to restrain her reaction to what I had in mind. Well, it was worth a try. I expected trouble anywhere I broached the tender issue. She would never like what I now had to say, even though I told myself she would have to accept that I was right.

The XIV had made it pretty plain that this, like everything else at Moguntiacum, would be their show. It was the usual tiresome business. Lack of cash and too much cynicism meant there were hardly ever decent spectacles, even in Rome. Here we were in Europe, and seventeen days into November was no time to be holding outdoor festivities. It ought to be a rule that no one can qualify for emperor unless they can claim a midsummer birthday. The only exemption might be for people born on the Aventine thirty years ago in March …

As I expected, both the crowd and the glitter were spread far too thinly; the weather was freezing; and the catering was terrible—where you could find any. The formalities took place on the parade-ground, which unlike a decent amphitheatre had no easy exit gates. The few women of Roman extraction who attended were of course subject to strict public conventions. Three of them, along with a couple of guests, had to sit on a dais wrapped in jewelled silks while twelve thousand hairy males stared at them pointedly. Nice work, if they liked it. I knew one lass who was hating it.

The event was due to last all day. I only felt obliged to stay for the presentation of the Hand. Once we had dealt with that, I intended to say my piece to Helena—assuming I could get near her—then slip away. Both legions were actually taking part, which slowed things to a leaden pace. Patterned marching, even by men in dress uniforms with helmet plumes, has never been my idea of stimulating theatre. The action drags, and the dialogue is terrible. The promoter here had even failed to provide an orchestra; all we had was military silver and brass. Seeing everything twice over so that both sets of troops could affirm their loyalty to the Emperor increased the tedium to torture. I had been miserable enough in the first place.

It started to rain.

This was what I had been waiting for. The ladies on the dais were shrieking with alarm in case their dresses shrank or their face-paint ran. The group of slaves who were supposed to raise a canopy above them were making a splendid mess of it. I could see Helena losing her temper, as she did when other people became disorganised and it was not her place to interfere. Knowing she would excuse me if I saved the situation, I leapt up on to the dais, grabbed one of the supporting poles, and helped the slaves to lift the canopy.

The women we were protecting were the legate's wife of the XIV, Maenia Priscilla, an older more sensible body who must be the mother hen of the I Adiutrix, Helena Justina, another visitor who was a schoolfriend of the mother hen, and Julia Fortunata. Presumably she had been invited because her status was too high to ignore and her position in the life of the late Gracilis too low to acknowledge. In any event, Maenia Priscilla, clad fetchingly in mourning white, was making the most of her role, while Julia took every opportunity to pet and comfort her. No public statement was to be made about the ex-legate's non-exemplary behaviour, but his women had both been told. As a result neither felt obliged to mourn him too sincerely. I was pleased to see that widowhood, or its equivalent, was bringing out the best in them. Their bravery was wonderful to watch.

It stopped raining. The ladies relaxed. We furled the temporary roof, then I crouched down at Helena's side, ready to spring to attention on awning duty if disaster struck again.

I thought her ladyship shot me a curious look.

Out in the field they were reaching a climax in the elaborate ceremonial. Cohorts of auxiliary cavalry came out to stage a mock battle. The I Adiutrix now came into their own, for the XIV had not yet had their lost Batavians replaced, which at last gave the I an opportunity to sneer as they fielded theirs. These were Spaniards I think. Their small sturdy horses were well matched, and tricked out in full parade regalia with winking discs on their leatherware, gilded eye pieces, and huge roundels on their chests. The riders wore indigo uniforms that contrasted with the brilliant scarlet saddle-cloths. They swept round in ceaseless whorls and circles, shaking feathered spears and brandishing round shields with pointed bosses centred on exotic patterns alien to Rome. The air of mystery was compounded by their formal parade helmets, which covered their faces like calmly expressionless theatrical masks. For half an hour this noble equestrian chorus rode the windy parade-ground like haughty gods, then they suddenly swooped out through the great gates to the Via Principia, leaving all the spectators bereft and dismayed.

Warm drinks were supplied on the dais.

Not before time.

*   *   *

I wondered rather pitifully whether I should speak to Helena now. She was enjoying her refreshments, so I chose to let the moment pass.

“There's Julius Mordanticus!” Helena called to me, waving at the local crowd. One of the huddled group of pointed hoods raised an arm back to her. He and his friends were happy. I had been interviewed by the provincial governor about the ceramics franchise fraud, and afterwards I had been able to bring the local potters good news. “I meant to say,” Helena told me guiltily, “while you were in Augusta Treverorum he gave us a present of a superb set of dinner bowls. What a pity,” quipped my insensitive sweetheart, “we have no dining-room to use them in!”

We never would have now. I looked away.

The pause in formalities was lingering as people clutched hot refreshments tightly, trying to warm their hands. Helena continued chattering. “Is it true when Xanthus shaved the rebel, you brought the trimmings away in a little bag to impress the Emperor?”

“It's true.”

“How did you persuade Xanthus to take part?” Xanthus would do anything for me nowadays; I had given him a
genuine
aurochs' horn. If he had it made into a drinking-cup, he would drown himself, it was so big. I had told him to take great care, because apart from the one I owned myself, there would be no repeats. “He seems an odd choice to supervise a rebel,” hinted Helena.

“Xanthus is looking to settle down and make his pile in a town where Nero's name will give him massive prestige, but he can rise above his past existence as a slave. Augusta Treverorum fits: refined, but not too snobbish. He'll be shaving the cream of Belgican society on his portico, while poor women queue up at his back door to have their golden tresses sheared to make expensive wigs for society dames in Rome.”

“I don't think I approve of that.”

“They could sell worse things, love. Anyway, I bet our lad with the puce shoelaces will end up a substantial citizen, donating temples and civic columns with the best.”

“And Civilis?”

“Xanthus gave him an ebony rinse to stop him being recognised. He'll be safe from assassins, and secure for us. The barber will be visiting his house to shave him every day. If Civilis absconds, his disappearance will be noted immediately.”

It was the perfect bail. And the unfortunate chief would never get a chance to rabble-rouse, now that he would be battened under hot napkins listening to gossip most of the day.

Helena smiled. I loved her smile. “Marcus, you're wonderful.” The mockery was fairly delicate.

Out on the parade-ground the provincial governor, his head covered, was preparing to take yet another set of auguries. He was assisted on behalf of the XIV by their senior tribune, Macrinus, who was standing in for the dead legate. I could see Maenia Priscilla getting excited. She stood no chance now. Ambition had superseded all else. Given this chance to show off as a substitute, Macrinus was rapt in pursuit of his public career.

I did not need to peer at a sheep's sickly liver to know the omens were bad for me. “What's the matter?” asked Helena quietly.