The priestess stepped forward half a pace and crouched suddenly at the water’s edge. Leaning out, she trailed her slender fingers in the lake. Waves trickled against them as she moved her hand one way and then the other. She looked back at me over her shoulder with angry eyes in a pale face. ‘And cut offhis head? And placed it in the stagnant water?’ I noticed she spoke as if those had been two distinct actions and that she despised the collected rainwater in the atrium pool. She was clearly aware that blame for the atrocity had been assigned to her. Her voice sounded defiant. ‘No, Falco!’
She stood again. Now she was too close to the edge of the lake, her sandalled feet actually in the water. Waves wetted her gown hem. At her flurry of movement, waves even tugged the hem of her long cloak away from her a few inches.
I wanted to ask whether she knew who did commit the murder. But I stopped. I saw from her expression that Veleda had noticed something. I glanced behind. Walking down the shore towards us, unhurried but with purpose, came Helena Justina: Helena my wife, the extremely protective sister ofVeleda’s one-time Roman lover.
XLIX
As always, as soon as Helena came near enough, our eyes met and I smiled a private greeting. Jacinthus was shadowing her, looking pleased with himself as a bodyguard, but there was no sign of our two other companions, Albia and Claudia. ‘Finished?’
‘Unsatisfactory. ‘ ‘Claudia?’
‘Waiting at the carriage. A little upset.’ I saw no reason for that, unless Claudia Rufina was irritated that the priests at the shrine refused to hand over Veleda to be tom to pieces by Justinus’ raging bride. Still, it was highly convenient to avoid a confrontation with Veleda at this sensitive stage. ‘Albia stayed with her. Who is your friend, Marcus?’
‘Introductions—Veleda, this is my wife, Helena Justina.’
Helena went right up to her and grasped her hand formally. ‘I was hoping to meet you. Can you understand me?’
‘I speak your language!’ declaimed Veleda, in the crushing tones she liked to use when proclaiming her knowledge of Latin. It had impressed me the first time. Now she and Ganna were overplaying the act. ‘I believe I knew your brother,’ stated the priestess then, in belligerent mode.
At that, Helena leaned forward unexpectedly, embraced the other woman and kissed her cheek as if they were sisters. Veleda looked startled. ‘Then thank you for what I know you did five years ago to return my two men back to me.’
Released from the embrace, Veleda could only shrug. The motion had disturbed her cloak. Now I saw that below it she wore Roman clothing. Her ears had piercing-holes, but no earrings. If she had had to sell her treasures, that was good. I wanted her to be without resources. No jewellery glinted at her slender throat—though I did see she wore a soapstone amulet, carved with a magic eye.
I knew that. It had been given to me by a friendly quartermaster at Vetera, who pitied me for my suicidal mission into Free Germany. Later, I had tucked the thing around Justinus’ neck, when he went alone to see the priestess in her tower. He had come out alive, though the amulet had not protected him from misery. Our young hero had carried loss with him wherever he went after that night. I always thought he must have given away the mystical token as a love-gift. Now I was sure. Veleda, presumably, had worn it ever since for the same reason.
Helena was watching me; she had seen me scrutinise Veleda’s ornament. In the swift way she had, she turned to the priestess and asked the direct question: ‘Will you return to Rome with us?’
‘Do I have any choice?’ snapped Veleda.
Helena remained patient, her tone courteous and tinged with dry wit. ‘Well, you will have to give up your flight, you know. Your choice is either to come willingly and have us help you if we can—or to be very efficiently carried back by my husband. You may know that although he is charming and can be a sensitive companion, he is brutally practical. Marcus Didius will be undeterred by priests’ protests or a woman s screams.
‘I imagine that would add to his sense of importance,’ Veleda scoffed, joining in the humour. I could not tell if these women were forming a friendship, though I knew they had assessed one another as high quality opponents. ‘How could you help me?’ For a woman of mystery, Veleda could be quite direct.
‘I really don’t know,’ admitted Helena, ever frank herself ‘But I can promise to try.’
‘Is she good?’ Veleda then asked me, with a hint of true amusement in her eyes.
‘Superb. You can trust her to get the best bargain in the marketplace—if any bargain is available for you. But I suppose you know how bleak it looks.’
‘Oh yes!’ replied Veleda in a drab tone. ‘I know what happens. When the magnificent Vercingetorix was captured and brought to Rome by Julius Caesar, he was kept in a deep pit for five years—then paraded, derided and executed.’
‘Crude,’ I said. ‘But didn’t you admit to me that a Roman legate who had been captured by your people was first earmarked as a gift to you and in fact died horrendously—tortured, garrotted and drowned in a bog?’
Stalemate. Veleda made no comment.
‘Generals still have their Triumphs,’ I told her. ‘Your prospects are grim. Simon, the scapegoat for the war in Judaea, died on the Capitol only a few years ago to enhance Vespasian’s glory.’
‘Cleopatra and Boudicca cheated your crowds their own way,’ the priestess reminded me.
‘Don’t expect me to bring you asps in a basket of figs.’
‘Do you know Rutilius Gallicus?’ she asked. ‘He wants fame and high position. He invaded Germania Libera and captured me so my sordid death can give him an honoured life.’
‘I do know him. Clearly he has upped his expectations of personal reward. He was a mediocrity when I met him.’
‘I did no wrong,’ Veleda said, not interested in Rutilius or my assessment of him. ‘I fought for my people. I hate Rome for stealing our land and our heritage.’
It was Helena who agreed and sympathised. ‘Your society is as fine as ours. Before Rome imposed itself on mainland Europe, the Celtic empire flourished just as strongly as our own does now. You had magnificent art, skilled metalworking, networks of roads, gold coinage—’ It was the gold we went for, naturally. They could keep their naturalistic art; we preferred to steal design ideas from Greece. Our great men wanted their fat faces glittering on golden money. ‘you enjoyed trade throughout the known world,’ Helena continued. This was our way in interviews; she was tolerant and fair, I was the rude bastard. ‘You were moral, civilised people with a rich spiritual culture where women were respected, children, the old and the sick or disadvantaged well cared for—’ While the men were drunken braggarts, as famous for starting fights as for collapsing or dispersing in disorder before a war finished. ‘You may well ask,’ said Helena, ‘why should our nation take precedence? And I have no explanation.’
‘I do.’ I spoke levelly. ‘Face it, Veleda. It is our time now.’ ‘You said that before, Falco.’
‘And you did not believe me. But since then, as I have heard, the Bructeri, your tribe, have turned against you. Now here you are, a captive in a foreign land, ill, penniless, without supporters, on the run—and in dire need of assistance. Your one good fortune is that here are two people, who both owe you a great deal, offering you help.’
Veleda stepped away from the lake waters, which had continued to swirl around her skirt hem. She shook her garments, holding the wet cloth away from her ankles. Her chin was up. ‘I have been granted sanctuary. ‘
I laughed. ‘How are the dear priests treating you?—I bet they hate you. They may have felt bound to take you in, just because once, according to a legend, Diana gave houseroom in Tauris to a bunch of homeless Amazons. But believe me, your claim is already faltering.
When the Emperor asks the priests to give you up, they will. Don’t tell me it would break the rules of sanctuary. The only rule that matters will be this: the Emperor will promise to build a new temple or theatre here, then the priests will find they have a
bsolutely no conscience about you.’
Of course this did mean that if I could lure Veleda back to Rome of her own accord, it would save Vespasian the price of endowing a new temple. That was the kind of benefit the gruff old codger loved. He might even express minor financial gratitude to me.
‘Why is your man doing this?’ Veleda stormed to Helena. ‘Will it bring him renown if he hands me back?’
‘No,’ replied Helena smoothly. ‘This is his job.’ She did not directly mention payment. ‘But his ethics include moral courage and compassion. If Marcus returns you to the Emperor, he will do it in his own time, and decidedly his own way. So, Veleda—bearing in mind that you will be sent back to Rome anyway—it would be better to come with us now. Marcus has a deadline of the end of Saturn alia; he will find it pleasing to complete his mission on the last possible day. So for a short time we can look after you. We will bring Zosime to attend to your health problems. I promise that I will personally speak to the Emperor concerning your predicament. Please do this. Please come and spend Saturnalia with our family at our house.’
The priestess thought Helena Justina was mad. I was none too confident myself But that was how we persuaded Veleda to return to Rome.
There were logistical niggles.
Since Veleda was coming voluntarily, it would be impolite to put ropes or chains on her, even though I had in fact brought a coil of rope on my saddle-bow. Nor was I letting her loose on one of our horses; the last thing I wanted was to see her gallop off to freedom with a carefree Celtic wave. I ordered her to travel in the carriage—after a tense moment when she first encountered an icy Claudia Rufina.
We did not need to introduce them. Their face-off was brief The dark Baetican Claudia glared down her nose at the golden Veleda, who stared back. I recalled that Claudia had once lost her temper and lashed out at Justinus; it seemed quite likely that if we let her she would attack the priestess. Her eyes flashed; I wondered if she had practised, while her maids held a hand mirror. For a mad moment I was expecting a cat-fight here on the lake shore. There was no chance of reconciliation between these women; not even Helena attempted her usual role of peacemaker. Each loathed the other fundamentally. Veleda saw Claudia as a pathetic Roman collaborator from a subjected people, Claudia saw the priestess as feral. Curiously, my fostered daughter Albia, who could be British, or Roman, or some half-blood mixture, gazed at them with her most quizzical expression, as if she thought they were both barbarians.
Claudia wrapped herself tightly in her stole and hissed loudly that she refused to be anywhere near this woman. Veleda, looking scornful, shook out her cloak and cooed that she would ride outside the carriage with the driver. Claudia at once responded, ‘Oh Marcus Didius, this prisoner of yours is supposedly unwell. I am Baetican. We are tough; I shall ride outside, enjoying the fresh air and the countryside. ‘
It was a moot point whether Veleda saw herself as my prisoner. But Claudia clambered up beside the driver, showing more leg than she may have intended, and prepared to freeze for twenty miles. I saw Helena and Albia exchange glances for some reason, then they climbed inside the carriage and placed blankets on the sickly priestess.
I told Jacinthus it was his big moment. He and I would escort the carriage and it would be his duty to guard the priestess when I was otherwise engaged. He looked puzzled; he knew how to play the simpleton. I explained that on a journey this length I would sometimes have to take my eyes off Veleda while I organised food or accommodation, drove away country peasants trying to sell us Saturnalia nuts, or hid behind a tree to relieve myself and enjoy some private peace from him.
‘Can I have a sword?’ It was a sick reminder of Lentullus.
‘No, you can’t. Slaves don’t carry weapons.’
‘What about the King of the Grove? I’d like to have a crack at him, Falco!’
I seriously thought of letting him. Helena put a stop to that crisply. ‘You cannot allow it, Marcus. This is the situation when you own slaves. Jacinthus is now part of our family—and our family is civilised. You will show him kindness and a good example, please, not pennit him to go off into a grove of oaks, looking for a bout of fisticuffs.’
‘You heard her, Jacinthus. End of story. Don’t ask me again.’
Our over-eager slave looked downcast. Veleda put her head out of the carriage window; she asked me who he was. While Helena and Albia smiled at my discomfiture, I then had to tell my famous, high-class prisoner what quality of escort she would have on her re-entry into Rome. She sneered at my hopeful explanation that this was a ploy to deter suspicion. Veleda was showing signs of regret that she had capitulated. She knew what she thought of being taken to her fate in Rome by me and my kitchen staff.
I hadn’t even told her that Jacinthus couldn’t cook.
L
We spent the rest of that day travelling.
By the time we reached the Capena Gate, we were all wrecked. Soon I was even more anxious. The mood in the streets seemed ugly, if not as angry as the mood between Claudia and Veleda. When we finally parked outside the Camillus house at the Capena Gate, I could hardly wait to escort my young sister-in-law into the house. Though stiff and bruised after a long ride on the carriage box, she still managed to mention her baby loudly, an obvious put-down for the priestess. Baeticans were certainly tough.
The senator managed quickly to pass word to me that Justinus had been home, though after cleaning up he had returned to the patrol house to stay with Lentullus. Lentullus had recovered consciousness a little, but his survival was still touch and go.
With the odd formality he had, Camillus Verus came out to the carriage with me and introduced himself briefly to Veleda. He did not say he was her lover’s father. For him, that was irrelevant. He represented the governing body of Rome and she was a national figurehead from outside the Empire. He saw it as a senatorial duty to mark her arrival in our city (even though she was a captive, and being brought here for the second time). So this sturdy old pillar of noble values stomped out to the street and gave her a polite greeting. He even put his toga on to do it.
Don’t ask me what Veleda made of this, but Helena Justina jumped out of the carriage and hugged her papa proudly. She had tears in her eyes. Seeing that, a lump came to my own throat.
We carried on home. Fortunately it was after curfew, the streets were clear because of the festival, and now we had shed Claudia we could all travel in the carriage. Helena kept the window curtains well fastened. Nobody had to know that we were bringing home one of Rome’s most terrible enemies.
SATURNALIA, DAY FOUR
Thirteen days before the Kalends of January (20 December)
LI
I had sent one of the soldiers to tell Petro I was home, and ask him about the situation in the city. He whizzed straight around to our house. I should have remembered he rarely worked in the day so would be free to socialise. Anyone would think the bounder knew he would walk in on me just as I sat down for a private interrogation of the priestess.
Petronius had a black eye. ‘What happened to you?’
‘Forgot to duck. Pelted with a festive nut.’
‘Some street urchin?’
‘No, Maia.’
Petronius Longus took one look at Veleda and announced that she was too gorgeous for me, so he had better stay to lunch. Since it was only mid-morning, that put an end to any hopes I had of a session alone with her. Alone apart from Nux, that is; for the dog was lying asleep at my feet, re-establishing her rights after my two days away from home; she treated the forest femme fatale as if she wasn’t there. Helena had had to go shopping, urgently needing to replenish the store cupboard, which the soldiers had emptied while we were away. Albia was helping Galene keep the children quiet. The legionaries had been posted on protective guard around the house and on the roof terrace.
Hoarse with curiosity, Petro assured me I would be safer having a witness if I was prying into state secrets. The priestess gazed at my brazen old tentmate as if he was the kind of t
ree-trunk snail her tribe ate mashed up on crusts at feasts. He had not changed since we were lads; female disdain only encouraged him. ‘Falco’s all right,’ Petronius confided with his friendliest manner. ‘But a famous lady deserves respect; you need an interview with a professional.’
‘Lucius Petronius Longus lives with my sister,’ I warned Veleda. ‘The suspicious, hot-headed one.’
‘Are you related to everyone in Rome, Falco?’
‘It’s the only way to be in this city.’
Petronius sprawled in Helena’s armchair, and happily beamed at both of us.
I tried to put him off by abandoning my interview and grilling him on why the mood on the streets had seemed so angry last night. Petro told me that Anacrites had caused the dismay. In a wayward ploy that was typical, the Spy had openly let it be known that Rome’s loathed and feared enemy was a fugitive at large—making sure he included the detail that she had taken flight after horrifically murdering one of her aristocratic Roman hosts. He was now leaving it to the mob to turn up her hiding place and hand her over.
‘Or tear her to pieces, of course,’ Petro suggested. ‘Oh sorry, sweetheart!’ Veleda produced a wan smile. She had passed beyond insults.
Anacrites had seen fit to offer a reward, though given the constraints of his budget, it was a ludicrously small one. However, it had made partying in the streets assume a violent trend. To enhance the air of menace, the Praetorian Guard were openly conducting a stop-and-search of any unaccompanied women; ugly stories had circulated about how they did it. Anybody German, or with German connections, had left town if they knew what was good for them. Foreigners of all flavours were hiding indoors; naturally there were some who had not been told about the problem, had not understood the implications, or just did not speak the right language to grasp the danger to them. Many had discovered the situation when they had been beaten up by ‘patriotic Romans’—most of whom were foreigners by birth, of course. The people who were keenest to look patriotic were the ones who originated in Upper and Lower Germany.
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