The Iron Hand of Mars (7 page)

“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. “There 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

G
ETTING 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.

I hate ocean travel even more than I hate mountaineering, but I chose to go via Gaul. It's the route the army uses most—someone must once have worked out that it was the least dangerous logistically. Also, I had been that way with Helena once (though in the opposite direction), and I convinced myself that if she
was
going to Germany instead of Spain, she might want to revisit places which held fond memories …

Apparently not. I spent the whole trip scanning round for a tall, dark-haired woman throwing insults at customs officers, but there was no sign. I tried not to think of her being buried alive in an avalanche, or attacked by the hostile tribes who lurk in the high passes above Helvetica.

We landed at Forum Julii, which was comparatively pleasant. Things deteriorated when we reached Massilia, where we had to pass a night. So much for a well-planned trip. Massilia is, in my opinion, a rotten gumboil on the Empire's most sensitive tooth.

“Gods, Falco! This is a bit rough…” complained Xanthus, as we struggled against the tide of Spanish oil-sellers, Jewish entrepreneurs, and wine merchants from all countries who were competing for a bed in one of the least disreputable inns.

“Massilia has been a Greek colony for six hundred years, Xanthus. It still thinks itself the best thing west of Athens, but six hundred years of civilisation have a depressing effect. They possess olives and vines, a brilliant harbour surrounded by sea on three sides, and a fascinating heritage—but you can't move for stallholders trying to interest you in trashy metal pots and statuettes of plump deities with funny round eyes.”

“You've been here before!”

“I've been
cheated
here! If you want dinner, you'll have to entertain yourself. There's a long road ahead of us, and I'm not going to sap my strength getting gut-rot from a bowl of Massilia shrimps. Don't start talking to any locals—or any tourists, come to that.”

The barber unhappily slunk off for a bite by himself.

*   *   *

I settled down with a very sick oil-lamp to study my maps. One benefit of this trip was that the Palace had equipped me with a first-rate set of military itineraries for all the major highways—the full legacy of seventy years of Roman activity in central Europe. These were not merely mileage lists between the towns and forts, but decent, detailed travel guides with notes and diagrams. Even so, I would have to rely on my wits in some places. There were huge, worrying blank spaces east of the River Rhenus:
Germania Libera
 … Endless tracts of territory where “free” meant not only free from Roman commercial influence, but with a complete absence of Roman law and order too. That was where the priestess Veleda lurked, and where Civilis might be hiding up.