“Well, I don’t know anything definite…” Mordanticus looked embarrassed. It was pleasant to witness how respectfully the provinces regarded Rome: he was almost ashamed to confess that one of our high-ranking officials had let down the Roman moral code. “I hate to destroy the man’s character—”
“No need for you to end up in court on a slander charge,” I prompted. “Just tell me what you’ve found out, and I’ll draw the defamatory conclusions for myself.”
“Well, one of my colleagues was once asked how Florius Gracilis could contact a woman called Claudia Sacrata.”
“Is that significant? Should I have heard of her?”
Again he looked decidedly awkward. “She is a Ubian, from Colonia Agrippinensium.” He studied a beaker as if he had just noticed that its handle was affixed crookedly. “Your general Petilius Cerialis was supposed to have had an intrigue with her.”
“Ah!”
I had an impression of Cerialis; so far women did not come into it. In Britain he had commanded the IX Hispana legion. When the Boudiccan Revolt flared, he had made a desperate dash to help but was ambushed by the tribes in a forest—meaning he must have been rushing along without proper scouts ahead of him. Petilius lost a large contingent of his men and only just escaped with a few dregs of cavalry. The remnants of the IX took part in the final battle against the Queen, though unlike the XIV and the XX they were not honoured by Nero afterwards. By all accounts, the general’s more recent campaign to recapture Germany from Civilis had featured similar ill-considered incidents, from which the general himself had somehow escaped—always in time to take part in the winning engagements, and always keeping his good reputation intact.
I said with a deadpan expression, “A Ubian temptress was not widely featured in the official accounts of his victories.” Perhaps because Petilius Cerialis wrote the accounts himself.
Mordanticus realised I was teasing, but did not quite know how to react. “There was probably nothing in it…”
“I’m disappointed! But why should our own Florius Gracilis be visiting this beauty? Consoling her loneliness, now that Cerialis has popped off to Britain? I suppose he couldn’t have taken her. Installing his Ubian bundle in the provincial governor’s palace in Londinium would soon get back to Rome and cause a stir.” Having won his province, Petilius Cerialis would now be looking forward to a consulship. He was related to the Emperor—through marriage—and the Emperor was widely known to hold strictly old-fashioned views. Vespasian himself kept a long-term mistress now that he was a widower, but people seeking appointments from him dared not risk such a luxury. “Do the Ubians have close links with the Batavians?”
Julius Mordanticus was writhing with unhappiness. “That’s difficult to answer. Some allies of Civilis punished the Ubians very heavily for their pro-Roman sympathies, but by the end some of them were battling against the Romans with him…”
“A right tangle! Did Claudia Sacrata know Civilis?”
“Possibly. He has relations who were living in Colonia Agrippinensium.”
“Which could explain why Gracilis has gone to see her. He knows this woman has had connections with high political circles on both sides, so she might know where Civilis can be found?”
“Perhaps.”
“Alternatively,” I suggested more facetiously, “not content with the official mistress he brought from Rome, our trusty legate Florius Gracilis is looking for an unofficial one—and Claudia Sacrata fits. Perhaps a liaison with Claudia Sacrata is the traditional perk for men in purple cloaks on tours of duty in Germany? Perhaps her address is handed on with their initial briefing reports. Which only leaves one question. Mordanticus: since I’m just a low weevil, who will give Claudia Sacrata’s address to me?”
The potter was not prepared to comment on her status; but he told me where to find the woman.
That only left one other question: how could I explain to Helena Justina that I was disappearing to visit a general’s courtesan?
PART FOUR
A TRIP DOWN THE RHENUS
From Upper Germany to Vetera, October–November, AD 71
“Their commander … was saved by a mistake on the part of the enemy, who made haste to tow away the flagship, thinking that the commander was aboard. Cerialis in fact spent the night elsewhere (according to general belief at the time, because of an intrigue with a Ubian woman called Claudia Sacrata).”
Tacitus, Histories
XXXV
It caused less strain than I feared. That was because Helena decreed Colonia Agrippinensium to be a place she was dying to see. I went along with it, for reasons of my own.
My hope of some peace with Helena was thwarted. First her brother insisted that we take Augustinilla. Apparently he was reluctant to be left on his own at the fort with a lovesick little maid.
Then Xanthus eagerly joined the excursion. He was still suffering a serious reaction from having killed the soldier. He said it had made him think seriously about life. He liked Germany, and wanted to settle there—he could see plenty of scope for his hairdressing skills. Moguntiacum was too military, however, so he wanted to look for another town which might offer a more refined welcome to an ambitious former imperial slave. I told him flatly he could not come with me beyond Colonia, but he said that suited him.
We had the tribune’s dog, too. It had bitten an armourer, so had to be removed from the fort fast.
So much for a gentle river cruise alone with my girl.
* * *
Despite the entourage, shipping north on an official fleet vessel was a joy: past jutting crags and green pastures, small quays and local moorings, outcrops of rocks and rapids, and slanting upland terraces where the new wine industry was establishing its vineyards for light, pleasant wines, some of which we tasted as we went. We dreamed on deck, watching the ducks floating downstream among occasional spars of driftwood, then heaving themselves out of the water to fly back and start again. Low barges, laden with every conceivable item, sailed down in twos or threes, then were rowed or dragged back the other way. It seemed a satisfying life. What was more, the merchants who plied their trade along this waterway were visibly affluent. With Helena beside me, I could have stayed for ever, becoming a happy river bum and never going home.
“What’s in your mighty baggage pack?” Helena demanded.
“Scrolls to read.”
“Poetry?”
“History.”
“As in Thucydides?”
“As in Great Cock-ups of Modern Times.”
Helena glanced round to see if Augustinilla was in earshot of this irreverence, but saw my niece was too busy trying to find ways of falling off the boat. She laughed. “Why the interest?”
“Research for my various projects here. An archivist in Rome copied out some despatches about the rebellion for me.”
Now that Helena knew what I was carrying downriver, there was no point in hiding it. I excavated the basket, and was soon absorbed in Rome’s sorry exploits while trying to dislodge Civilis. The more I read about the campaign, the more I cringed.
All too soon we had surged past the conjunction with the River Mosella at Castrum ad Confluentes, experienced Bingium and Bonna (both still heavily scarred and burnt, but with new ridge-poles rising), and reached our goal.
Colonia Claudia Ara Agrippinensium tried hard to live up to its overpowering titles. Founded by Agrippa (as Ara Ubiorum), it was renamed after herself by his daughter, the forceful wife of Germanicus whose domineering reputation still had the power to make brave men feel queasy. It was the officially sanctioned shrine of the Ubii and the provincial capital of Lower Germany. It also boasted the main Roman tollpost on the river and the headquarters of Rome’s Rhenus fleet, guarded by a small fort.
A well-laid out, opulent provincial city served by a military-built aqueduct and home to a large colony of retired veteran soldiers, Colonia’s close links with Rome had ensured there were difficult decisions during the rebellion. At first the citizens had stayed lo
yal to the Empire, refusing to join Civilis and placing his son under arrest—though in “honourable” custody, in case matters swung. Only when the situation became desperate were these cautious worthies forced to heed the call from their fellow-tribesmen to acknowledge their German heritage, and even then their alliance with the freedom fighters had its equivocal aspects. They managed to negotiate their own terms with Civilis and Veleda, since by then they were holding more of the Batavian’s relations under house arrest, and they were wealthy enough to send the forest priestess the kind of gifts that pacify. Careful juggling helped the town to survive without being sacked by either side. Then, as soon as Petilius Cerialis began to make headway, the good folk hereabouts appealed to him for rescue and allied themselves with Rome again.
They knew how to run their municipal affairs with grace. I felt that it was a safe place to bring Helena.
We arrived fairly early in the day. I dumped my party in a lodging-house near the prefecture, telling Xanthus he was the man in charge. Helena would soon disabuse him.
Refreshed by the river trip, I went out to make enquiries about Claudia Sacrata. I had promised Helena not to dally, but the door I chose to knock on turned out to belong to the general’s ladyfriend. For her servant, a male Roman face was enough of a credential, so although I merely asked for an appointment, he whisked me in to see her straight away.
This was a modest town house. Its provincial decorator had tried hard, but had been stuck with painting frescos of what he knew. Jason discovered the Golden Fleece beneath a holly-bush in a thunderstorm. Battle scenes rolled darkly below a frieze that only came to life when crossed by a skein of Rhineland wild geese. Venus, in the local Ubian costume of high-necked dress and wimple, was wooed by Mars in a Celtic felt coat. She looked like a market-trader, and he seemed a shy, rather paunchy chap.
The servant took me to a reception room. I was met by bright colours and gigantic couches with hugely padded cushions where a tired man could flop and forget his troubles. The reds were too earthy, the stripes too broad, the tassels far too fat. The total effect was reassuringly vulgar. The men who came here relied on strong-minded wives for taste, and they probably never noticed interior-design effects. They required somewhere clean and comfortable pervaded by scents of beeswax polish and gently stewing broth, somewhere which held basic recollections of their childhoods, in Italy. It was the kind of house where the bread would be served in roughly chopped hunks that tasted like ambrosia infused with hazelnuts. The music would be dreadful, but people would be laughing and talking so loudly they would not care …
I found Claudia Sacrata seated in a long chair, as if she was expecting visitors. She was no ravishing seductress, but a dumpy, middle-aged woman whose bosom was trussed so firmly it might have acted as a serving tray. Her grooming was careful. She wore a Roman dress in oatmeal and ochre, with fastidiously folded pleats on her shoulders where her stole was pinned with a large Indian ruby brooch that blazed Present from a Man! In appearance she reminded me of a slightly old-fashioned, good-hearted aunt tricked out to make a show in front of the neighbours at a Floralia parade.
“Come in, dear. What can I do for you?” The question could have been simple politeness … or a commercial bid.
I played everything straight. “My name is Marcus Didius Falco; I am a government agent. I should be grateful if you would answer a few questions.”
“Certainly.” Of course, it didn’t guarantee she would answer them truthfully.
“Thank you. I hope you don’t mind if I start with you? You are Claudia Sacrata, and you keep a welcoming house. Do you live with your mother?” We both understood this euphemistic phrase.
“My sister,” she corrected. It was the same flimsy veil of respectability, though I noticed no chaperone ever appeared at our interview.
I plunged straight in: “I believe you once shared the confidence of His Excellency Cerialis?”
“That’s right, dear.” She was the type who liked to catch people out by admitting the unthinkable. Her shrewd eyes watched me while she tried to deduce what I wanted.
“I need to acquire some sensitive information, and it’s difficult finding people I can trust.”
“Did my general send you?”
“No. This is nothing to do with him.”
The atmosphere changed. She knew I was investigating someone; if it had been His Excellency, she had intended to slap me down. Now she saw her most notable client was in the clear; her tone became proprietary. “I don’t mind talking about Cerialis.” She gestured me to a couch. “Make yourself more at home…” Home was never like this.
She rang a bell for a servant, a nippy lad who seemed to have answered quite a few bells in his time. After surveying me coyly, she gushed, “A hot-spiced-wine man, I should say!” Outside my own home I hate the stuff. To encourage good relations, I agreed to be a man who drank hot spiced wine.
It was a rich liquor, served in magnificent cups, with the spices rather overdone. A consoling warmth flooded my stomach, then seeped into my nervous system making me feel happy and safe, even when Claudia Sacrata cooed “Tell me all about it!,” which was supposed to be my line.
“No, you tell me,” I smiled, implying that women who knew what they were doing had tried to undermine me before. “We were discussing Petilius Cerialis.”
“A very pleasant gentleman.”
“Bit of a reputation as a hothead?”
“In what way?” she simpered.
“The military way, for instance.”
“Why do you think that?”
This was a silly dance. However, I deduced that if I wanted information, talking about her precious Cerialis was the price I had to pay. “I’ve been reading about his battle at Augusta Treverorum, for one thing.” I was sipping my hefty winecup as demurely as I could. If Cerialis wore his epaulettes in the usual style, he had bored everybody silly with the story of his big fight.
Claudia Sacrata posed and considered. “People did say at the time that he made mistakes.”
“Well, you can look at it two ways,” I conceded, playing the friendly type. There was, in fact, only one way I could look at it. Petilius Cerialis had stupidly allowed his opponents to concentrate in large numbers while he had been awaiting reinforcements. That had been dangerous enough. His famous engagement was a shambles, too. Cerialis had built his camp on the opposite bank of the river from the town. The enemy arrived very early in the morning, crept up from several directions, and burst into the camp, throwing all into confusion.
“I understood,” Claudia defended him with solid loyalty, “that it was only the general’s brave action that saved the situation.” So that was his story.
“Undoubtedly.” My work demands a shameless ability to lie. “Cerialis rushed from his bed without body armour, to discover that his camp was in turmoil, his cavalry were fleeing, and the bridgehead had been taken. He grabbed the fugitives, turned them round, retook the bridge with great personal courage, then forced his way into the Roman camp and rallied his men. He salvaged everything and finished the day by destroying the enemy’s headquarters instead of losing his own.”
Claudia Sacrata wagged her finger. “So why are you sceptical?”
Because the other assessment was that our troops had been led pathetically; the enemy should never have been able to get so close undetected, the camp had been inadequately guarded, the sentries were asleep, and their commander had absented himself. Only the fact that the tribesmen had been intent on grabbing plunder had averted complete disaster from our dashing general.
I restrained my bitterness. “Why was the general not sleeping in the camp that night?”
The lady responded calmly. “That I can’t say.”
“Did you know him at that point?”
“I met him later.” So even before their intrigue started, he had preferred the comforts of a private house.
“May I ask how your friendship came about?”
“Oh, he visited Colonia Agrippinen
sium.”
“Romantic story?” I grinned.
“Real life, dear.” I guessed she regarded selling sexual activity as no different from selling eggs.
“Tell me?”
“Why not? The general came to thank me for my part in undermining the enemy.”
“What had you done?” I imagined some brothel intrigue.
“Our city was looking for a way to re-establish its ties with Rome. The town councillors offered to hand over the wife and sister of Civilis, plus the daughter of one of the other chiefs, who had been kept here as securities. Then we tried something more useful. Civilis, still confident, was placing his hopes in his best forces, warriors from among the Chauci and Frisii, encamped not far from here. The men of our town invited them to a feast and plied them with lavish food and drink. Once they were all completely stupefied, they locked the doors and set fire to the hall.”
I tried not to display too much shock. “A friendly Germanic custom?”
“It’s not unknown.” The most chilling part was her matter-of-fact tone.
“So when Civilis learned that his crack troops had been burned alive, he fled north, and Petilius Cerialis rode gratefully into Colonia … But what was your part, Claudia?”
“I provided the food and drink for the feast.”
I put down my winecup.
“Claudia Sacrata, far be it from me to pry, but can you tell me something—” This oddly comfortable yet insensitive woman was upsetting me. I studiously changed the subject. “What’s the true story about losing the general’s flagship?”
She smiled and said nothing.
It had been another stupid incident. I told her what I already knew from my research. After an unsuccessful period of campaigning in northern Europe, where Civilis and the Batavians had engaged him in guerilla warfare around the marshes of their homeland and had seemed set to fend off Rome indefinitely, Petilius Cerialis had taken a breather (his favourite kind of action) and gone to inspect some new winter quarters at Novaesium and Bonna, intending to return north with a much-needed naval flotilla. Yet again discipline was poor; yet again his pickets were careless. One dark night, the Germans crept in, slashed the guy ropes, and wreaked havoc while our men were fumbling under their collapsed tents and running about the camp half dressed and terrified. They had no one to rally them, because, of course, yet again Cerialis had slipped off elsewhere.
The Iron Hand of Mars Page 18