“Mordanticus, for the oldest motive in the world! Killing two of your number—or better still, having them totally disappear—will intimidate the rest.”
“No chance!” Mordanticus declared with a set face. “We shall never give up, or let them get away with it!”
“You’re a strong-willed man, but I warn you, some people will soon quaver at bullying. Don’t forget there are potters with wives who don’t want to be widows. Potters worried about the fate of large families if their breadwinner vanishes. Potters who just feel life has more to offer than a long-drawn-out feud which they may never win.”
“It’s criminal!” raged Helena. “Rome shouldn’t even appear to sanction business methods of this type. The legate ought to show his disapproval by barring Lugdunum completely, then awarding to Moguntiacum every franchise that’s available!”
I smiled at her for becoming so passionate. “From what I’ve heard about Florius Gracilis, we can’t rely on him for a high moral tone. I know he’s desperately short of cash.”
“You mean he’s taking bribes?” Helena’s parents’ attempts to give her a sheltered life had been partially successful. But since meeting me she had learned enough not to be surprised at any suggestion. “Is Gracilis corrupt, Falco?”
“That would be a grave charge. I’m not making it.” Not at this stage, anyway. I turned to the potter. “Julius Mordanticus, I work for the Emperor. Your problems ought not to be my business, but they may overlap with what I came to do.”
“Which is what?” he asked curiously.
I saw no reason to hide the truth. “Principally, to liaise with Civilis. His current whereabouts are unknown, but I believe the legate may be searching for him. On the other hand, Gracilis could have gone after Veleda, the Bructian prophetess.”
“If he has crossed the river, he’s a fool!” Mordanticus looked at me as if I was mad merely for suggesting it.
“Don’t say that. I may soon have to cross the river myself.”
“You’re in for a wild time, then. And I should say it’s death for Gracilis.”
“He may be travelling incognito.”
“A Roman official is pleading to be spotted. Is this something to do with the franchises?” Mordanticus demanded, single-mindedly.
“No, it’s all about political glory for Florius Gracilis. But it means you and I have a shared interest. I don’t like to make promises, but if I ever run across him I may well find an opportunity to discuss your franchise problem, and I may just make him believe that I am speaking for Vespasian.” For some reason, the Emperor’s name carried weight. In a town that could compliment Nero on a civic column I should have expected it. Mordanticus looked as grateful as if I was signing his precious pots contract myself. “Can you help me to arrange a meeting, Mordanticus? Do you know anything about the legate’s recent movements, or even where I might find Julius Civilis himself?”
The potter shook his head, but promised to make enquiries. He still looked dazed. We left him to break the news of what had happened to his two colleagues. I did not envy him. He had told me there were young families involved.
XXXIII
I took Helena Justina to see the Jupiter Column so that I could talk to her in privacy. At least, that was my excuse.
We walked solemnly round, pretending to admire the four-sided obelisk which had been set up by two ingratiating financiers on behalf of the local community. It was a decent enough monument, if you like salutations to Nero. It pictured the usual plaques of Olympian deities: Romulus and Remus showing that having a peculiar mother need not hold a man back; Hercules doing his demigodly stuff with his usual hairy panache; and Castor and Pollux watering their horses, one each side of the column as if they were not on speaking terms. Up aloft stood a huge bronze of Jupiter Best and Greatest, all beard and big sandals, and wielding an extremely snappy thunderbolt that would be a hit at any fashionable soirée. The location of this edifice was too public for me to grab Helena in a clinch, though she knew that had been in my mind. I thought she looked disappointed. Since it was at least three hours since I had last touched her, I was too.
“I’ll have to row you down the river with a picnic,” I murmured.
“Juno! Is that safe?”
“All right, I admit Germany isn’t the place to come to at the moment if you fancy a quiet autumn cruise.”
“But you are going downriver, aren’t you?” She asked it in an intensely level voice, which I recognised as anxiety.
“Looks as if I shall have to, my love.” She was upset. I hated that.
I had put Helena in a quandary. She never tried to dissuade me from work. For one thing, she was keen for me to earn enough money to buy myself into the middle rank so that we could be married without a scandal. To achieve that I needed four hundred thousand sesterces—an outrageous sum for a dusty lad from the Aventine. The kind of cash I could earn only by doing something illegal (which, of course, I could never contemplate) or something dangerous.
“Anyway,” she said brightly, “you came out here on political business, but you seem to have stumbled into a straightforward ceramics war.”
“It looks like that.”
Helena laughed. “When you agree so meekly I usually discover you mean the opposite.”
“True. I think the ceramics troubles are an incidental problem.” However, if I could help out the potters while achieving my own ends, I would. “These potters have found themselves facing the usual administrative mess. The tendering process has been bungled by an idiot who is paid enough by the state to know better. It goes on everywhere. To have Florius Gracilis involved in that, and also poking his nose into what Vespasian sent me out here to negotiate with Civilis, is just my hard luck.”
But the last thing I wanted if I was going into a danger area was some senatorial buffoon who had shown himself unfit to handle even a routine kitchenware contract travelling the same route. Especially if, as now seemed likely, he reached the trouble spot ahead of me and started blundering about, making tribal sensitivities far worse.
“Do you ever have good luck, Marcus?”
“Only the day I met you.”
She ignored that. “You were talking about Civilis. How do you intend to find him?”
“Something will turn up.”
“And what about the priestess?”
“Veleda?” I grinned. “Justinus told you that one too, eh?”
“Sounds like another widow in Veii story,” Helena grumbled sarcastically.
“That’s all right, then; I can handle her.”
Helena Justina called me a philandering gigolo; I told her she was a cynical witch with no concept of trust or loyalty; she thwacked me with the heavy end of her beaded stole; I trapped her against the column’s plinth and kissed her until I had her more or less subdued and myself highly excited.
“I will not ask,” she said when I sadly released her before our sophisticated Roman behaviour caused a public outcry, “what your plans are for discovering the fate of the legate from Vetera. I know he disappeared somewhere on the far side of the river.”
“He was being forwarded to Veleda as a goodwill gift.”
Helena shuddered. “So that definitely means you have to journey into Germania Libera?”
“I won’t go if you don’t want me to.”
Her serious expression became even more intense. “Don’t say that—don’t ever say it—unless you really mean it, Marcus.”
I always had to be straight with Helena. “All right, I’ll promise I won’t go if I can solve the puzzle in any other way.”
“Oh you’ll go,” she answered. “You’ll go, and you’ll solve it and that ought to provide some comfort for the poor man’s family at least. It’s impossible, therefore, for me even to try to veto your trip.”
I could not have cared less for the feelings of the family of Munius Lupercus, who had been a rich senator in a career posting and who was probably as objectionable as the rest of that type. But when Helena spoke
with such certainty I could never dispute the issue, so I kissed her again and took her home instead.
At the fort we found my niece Augustinilla terrorising the sentries at the Praetorian Gate. Luckily, they were so relieved to be rescued that they let me carry her off under one arm while she screamed abuse at all of us.
XXXIV
The rest of the day passed quietly. Justinus had found out about his broken urn, and his reaction was to disappear from the house. He was deeply annoyed, but too polite to say so.
“That brother of yours is going to spend his life being put upon.”
“I thought he was making his feelings clearly felt!” Helena was the same type, another vanisher when upset.
Before dinner I made Augustinilla go up to the tribune and apologise. Since no one had ever made her apologise for anything before, she went through it with a fresh pathos that worked on him in the same way as the distressed puppy he had rescued. While she gazed at him with adoring eyes, his protective urge rose. It was Augustinilla’s first experience of a rich young man in an impressive uniform; I could already see her mother coming out in her.
Schoolgirl passions apart, I reckoned Camillus Justinus, with his quiet looks and reserved manner, could wreak more havoc than he knew. Women like someone deep. Someone sensitive. (Someone who looks as if he will pay large bills without arguing.) Justinus gave the impression he needed a nice girl with a generous attitude to bring him out of himself. Back in Rome, if we were to put those thoughtful brown eyes around a few dinner parties, he might find nice girls—and equally helpful older women—bringing him out of himself three times every week.
At Moguntiacum he only had to avoid an eight-year-old who had convinced herself he looked like a young Apollo. So far, Augustinilla was too much in awe of his status to start writing his name on walls. By the time she plucked up courage to leave lovelorn notes beside his breakfast bowl, the European winter would have frozen all the ink and spared him that. The next day began with two messages: the legate’s mistress said her servants thought Gracilis had been frequenting the company of potters. And the potter was telling me there was a mistress in the case.
“This is all pleasingly circular!” I murmured to myself.
I assumed the mistress was telling me about the potters at Moguntiacum. The potter, however, meant a different mistress—his message stated that. I sent Julia Fortunata a politely grateful letter to say I would follow up her information when I could. Mordanticus seemed the best bet for a visit.
Before I went I looked out the centurion Helvetius, whom I had last seen near Cavillonum. He was easy to locate, bawling orders wearily as he tried to drill the ham-fisted, bandy-legged, splay-footed, pigeon-brained band of ugly-mushed recruits whom I had seen him marching through Gaul. (His own descriptions.) It was his task to teach these ideal specimens how to run, ride, swim, vault, wrestle, fence, throw javelins, cut turves, build walls, plant palisades, aim catapults, form a testudo, love Rome, hate dishonour, and recognise the enemy: “Blue skin, red hair, checked trousers, lots of noise, and they’re the ones hurling missiles at your heads!” He had to weed out the lads who had cheated on the eye test and relocate them as hospital orderlies. He had to discover who couldn’t count, or write, or understand Latin, then either teach them or send them home. He had to nurse them all through crying for their girlfriends, or their mothers, or their ship (the I Adiutrix was still taking navy cast-offs) or their favourite goat (second sons from farms had always formed the backbone of the legions). He had to keep them sober and keep them from deserting; he had to teach them table manners and help them write their wills. So far he had just managed to harry them into forming straight lines in three ranks.
Helvetius gladly abandoned this depressing schedule and took time to talk to me.
“Didius Falco.”
“I remember you.”
“Thanks! I like to believe I have an impressive personality.” It could only have been our first meeting at the side of the ditch that he recalled so piquantly. We spent a few moments recollecting it. “That’s why I want to see you.”
“I guessed as much!”
He was one of the impassive breed. Long years of service had taught him to expect the worst, and that nothing was ever worth getting excited about. He had very dark brown eyes, as if his origin was southern, and a face like an ostler’s old rubbing-down cloth: deeply creased, stiff with use, and worn to a shine. His air of disillusionment was as weathered as his features. He looked a sound, utterly reliable officer.
I told him that the tribune Camillus had agreed he could be excused normal duties for a spot of goodwill effort in the local community. Helvetius was happy to visit the potter, so I took him out to the factory area with me.
* * *
It was another chilly morning, though a pallid sun was trying to burn away the mist. The changing season added to my sense of urgency. I explained to Helvetius that I would probably need to go across the river soon, and that I wanted to get the journey over before winter set in. The last thing I needed to face was being stuck in barbarian territory when the European snows came down.
“Bad enough at any time,” he said grimly.
“Have you done it?”
He didn’t answer immediately. “Only when some daft tribune fancied a boar-hunt in a more exciting locality.” Not Camillus Justinus, presumably. No one would call him daft.
“Naturally a young gent in senatorial stripes doesn’t want to risk the real excitement of leaving his escort behind … Did you meet any trouble over there?”
“No, but you have the distinct feeling that you’re lucky to reach home again without running into some liveliness.”
“Some of us have a suspicion the Fourteenth’s legate may have gone across.”
“Gracilis? Whatever for?”
“Searching for Civilis—or Veleda, possibly.”
Again there was a slight silence. “Didn’t think he was the type.”
“What type would you call him, then?” I asked.
Helvetius, who was a true centurion, only chuckled into his beard, which was a richly curling military one. “He’s a legate, Falco. The same horrible type as them all.”
* * *
Just before we reached the potteries our conversation returned warily to the two dead men. Helvetius asked my particular interest. I described how I had been drawn in by seeing the quarrel at Lugdunum. He smiled slightly.
I wondered why he was curious. His face set, with a stillness that implied his mind was somewhere else—somewhere else by a long way. After yet another pause, however, just when I thought he had no comment, he suddenly spoke: “I said nothing when we came across the bodies, because I didn’t know you, Falco. But I had seen the men before, alive, myself.”
“Where was that?”
“Same as you: Lugdunum.”
“Were you there on official business?”
“Should have been. The army can be efficient! Our commander had a brainstorm and made my one journey serve two—well, three—purposes: home leave, recruiting manpower, and then a site visit to check out the ceramics tenderers. That was the plan, anyway.”
“So what happened?” I could guess.
“I turned up, but taking notes about suppliers was a waste of time. His Excellency Gracilis had been there before me and had swept up the whole business himself on behalf of all the legions in Upper and Lower Germany.”
“Fancy!” I marvelled. “Some responsibility!”
“Some haul, if he was on the take!” Helvetius must have drawn his own conclusions.
“Careful, centurion! And the two local potters?”
“Like you, I saw them there having a right barney.”
“In a crowd?”
“No, just with a sneering beanpole and a couple of hangers-on. I spotted Lanky later as well.”
“Oh?”
“On the road. The day before we found the stiffs in the ditch.”
Now that was a detail I found most interesting. I
remembered the sneering Gaul, but I must have missed him while travelling. Things looked black for Florius Gracilis. I told Helvetius we would keep this to ourselves for the time being. He looked at me askance. “Were you sent out here to compile a dossier on graft?”
It was beginning to look that way.
* * *
At the pottery I made the introductions, then left Helvetius to discuss how he had reported the deaths at Cavillonum. There hadn’t been much interest from the magistrate, needless to say. Helvetius was sufficiently discreet to disguise that while speaking to the dead men’s friend, but I could tell what must have happened—and not happened—from his tone.
I left them together, still talking over Bruccius and his nephew, while I roamed around yearningly looking at samianware. When Mordanticus came out he asked whether anything particular had caught my eye.
“All of it! You create a stylish platter.” This was not mere ingratiation: his pottery was fired with a satisfying colour; it had tasteful patterns, a pleasing gloss, and a good balance in the hand. “I’d set myself up with a decent dinner service, but the problem is a distinct lack of collateral.”
“How’s that? I assumed you had a rich girlfriend!” The way he spoke made the joke acceptable even to a touchy swine like me.
For once I went along with it. “Ah, it’s her father who owns the lush estates on the Alban hills. If you were him, would you let the fruits of your vintage pass into the grip of a lout like me?” Besides, I had my pride.
It was not simply the hope of possessing Helena that drove me into these mad missions for the Emperor. I had a dream of one day living without squalor. Living in my own quiet house—a house surrounded by vine-covered walkways, luxurious in space, and full of light to read by. A house where I could age an amphora of decent wine at the right temperature, then drink it philosophising with my friend Petronius Longus beside a maplewood table laid with Spanish linen—and, maybe, samian winecups, if we were tired of my chased bronzes with the hunting scenes and my gold-flecked Phoenician glass …
I dragged the conversation to more useful gossip. “Thanks for your message. What’s this about a woman? Julia Fortunata is going to be put out if Gracilis has been two-timing her—not to mention the rumpus he can expect from the tight-buttocked little wife!”
The Iron Hand of Mars Page 17