Helena muttered savagely, “I thought you were leaving anyway!”
“No, lass. My permit’s not signed yet.”
* * *
Mending the dolly took an hour and a half. I do not exaggerate.
Justinus had given up any hope of civilised conversation, let alone dinner. He left us early in suppressed bad language. The children sat wrapped in blankets, watching me. Helena and the Ubian woman ate a snack together and refrained from speaking, as if I was the type of workman who might at any moment explode irrationally. They had sausage. I had to decline, to avoid getting greasy hands.
As usual, the ball joint suddenly sank back into its socket perfectly easily. Everyone else exchanged glances as if they wondered why we had had to have so much swearing and wasting of time. Augustinilla shot me a hostile look, snatched the doll to her flushed cheek, and went to sleep without a word of thanks.
I was feeling tense. “Let’s go out,” I growled at Helena.
“I thought your womenfolk were gated after curfew.”
“I need to be away from other people.”
“So why am I coming?”
I touched her neck briefly. “You need to be with me.” I unhooked a lamp and swung out of the house, while Helena scrambled for the outer garments we had both been wearing earlier, then followed me.
“Thank you for doing that,” Helena ventured as I grabbed her hand while we walked. “You have enough on your mind…”
I grunted. “No point risking my neck unless it’s for a world where children can believe magicians will always mend their broken toys.” It sounded trite. I found that comforting. No point being a hero unless you get to spout banal rhetoric.
“Her tooth really is bad, Marcus. Would you object if I took her to a healing shrine?”
I said no, provided every attempt was made there to drown Augustinilla in a sacred spring.
I took us along the river front. I managed to find a garden. It was almost the middle of October, but we could smell roses, though we couldn’t see where they were. “They must have some repeat flowerers, like the centifolia roses of Paestum…” I threw back my head, breathing deeply until I settled down. “I’m thinking about another garden, Helena. A garden beside the Tiber where I once realised I was helplessly in love…”
“You’re full of snappy talk, Falco.” With only a thin stole, she was shivering. I brought her into my arms so I could wrap my cloak round both of us. She was in a grumpy, defensive mood. “What are we doing here?”
“You need to talk to me.”
“Oh I do,” she agreed. “I’ve been trying all evening, but are you listening?”
“Give me credit. I’ve come here to listen.”
Defeated by my utterly reasonable attitude, she sighed. “Thank you.” She forced an arm free and pointed across the water. The river was narrower here than at Moguntiacum, but still so wide that in the darkness we could barely make out the other side. If there were lights, we could not see them. “Look over there, Marcus. It’s almost a different continent. Over there is the antithesis of everything Roman. Nomadic peoples. Nameless gods in wilderness places. No roads. No forts. No towns. No Forum; no public baths; no courts. Nothing organised and no authority to appeal to.”
“And no you,” I said.
I was quite certain she would ask me not to leave. Perhaps she herself had even intended to. Instead, she somehow found a rose-tree and wrenched off a flower for us. With roses it takes some force. She was a girl who had her moments of violence.
We shared the intensity of the flower’s perfume. “I’m here, lady. I’m still listening.”
She was sucking the side of her finger where a thorn had gone in. “Claudia was right. You defend me. Ever since we met, you have been there—whether I wanted it or not. In those days you even seemed to dislike me, but you were already changing me. I had always been the first-born, the elder sister, the big cousin, the headstrong, bossy, sensible one. Everyone always said, ‘Helena Justina looks after herself…’”
I thought I could see where she was heading. “People love you, my darling. Your family, your friends, my family—they all worry about you the same as I do.”
“You are the only person I accept it from.”
“Is that what you wanted to say?”
“Sometimes I’m afraid to let you know how much I need you. It seems too much to ask when you have given me so much.”
“Ask whatever you want.” I was still waiting for the big request not to go. I should have known better.
“Just make sure you come back.” Helena spoke without drama. There was no need to reply. For two barleycorns I would have ordered the Emperor to wrap up his mission in vine leaves and run his triumphal chariot over it. But Helena would have hated that.
I told her she was beautiful. I told her I loved her. Being a fair girl and well tutored in etiquette, she made corresponding remarks about me. Then I closed the shutter on the lamp so Colonia Claudia Ara Agrippinensium (Ara Ubiorum) should not have to know that on its neatly dressed quayside a plebeian with all the status of a frowsty water-rat was taking extravagant liberties with the daughter of a senator.
XL
We left the next day. I managed to shed Xanthus, but Justinus, who ought to have known better, smuggled his dreadful dog aboard.
Once again my imperial pass had obtained transport in a vessel of the official fleet. I also discovered that Justinus equipped expeditions in style. He had brought along horses, three leather tents, arms, provisions, and a chest of cash. Only the quality of his manpower proved a disappointment, though since I was used to travelling solo on missions like this, I did not complain. One moment of uplift came when Justinus and I went to the dockside: the centurion supervising the loading of our ship was Helvetius.
“What’s this?” I grinned. “You commanding my escort? I thought you had too much sense for a crazy detail like that.”
Not for the first time I caught that fractional hesitation before he quipped back, “Unluckily for you. It means your escort is two tent parties of my knock-kneed recruits.” It was bad news, but some of them were within earshot so we had to be fairly polite. “I tried to pick out the best for you.” Helvetius had still brought me a basket of windfalls that were growing heavy mould.
“We’ve a hundred miles of sailing yet,” I told the centurion. “And plenty of room on deck. I can help with extra arms practice.” It would get me in shape, too. “We should have them drilled into decent material by the time we disembark at Vetera.”
The same hint of diffidence darkened his face. “So you’re starting from Vetera?”
I thought he suspected me of being just another sightseer. “There’s nothing ghoulish in it. I’m starting where Lupercus left.”
“Wise.”
His laconic reply convinced me I had been prodding at some personal tragedy.
* * *
We were sailing out into the great plain of the lower Rhenus. The right bank between here and the River Lupia formed the territory of the Tencteri, a powerful tribe, and one of the few in Europe apart from the Gauls who made considerable use of horses. They had been firm friends of Civilis during the rebellion, eager to cross and harry our supporters—especially Colonia. They had retreated back across the water now. Still, wherever the channel allowed it, our ship clung to our own left bank.
Beyond the Tencteri lived the Bructeri. All I knew about them was their legendary hatred of Rome.
Since we had brought the pedlar Dubnus with us, we sometimes asked him questions about the east bank. His evasive answers only churned up our fears. Dubnus was producing a poor response to the lure of adventure; he seemed to regard himself more as a hostage than our fortunate scout and interpreter. He complained a lot. We were disgruntled too, mainly about him, but I laid down that we were all to coddle him. He had to believe we were sympathetic if we were going to be able to trust him as a guide.
Our days were spent exercising. We passed it off as a leisure activity;
it was the easiest way to cope. But we all knew that we were hardening our bodies and preparing our minds for an adventure which could finish us.
Camillus Justinus had now confessed to me that he had his commander’s permission to come the whole distance. I made no comment. His legate probably thought the lad had been working too hard; they both probably saw this excursion as a reward for enterprise.
“I wondered how we had managed to acquire the fabulous supply train! So it’s down to your honoured presence … I take it you never told Helena?”
“No. Do you think she realised?”
“Whether she did or not, you’d better write to her from Vetera.”
“I will. She won’t forgive me otherwise.”
“More to the point, Justinus, she won’t forgive me.”
“Will she think you encouraged me?”
“Probably. And she won’t like having both of us at risk.”
“She seemed very concerned about you,” he remarked. “Visiting the witch in the woods, I mean. Was that based on past experience?”
“Your sister knows any suggestion of me succumbing to Veleda is a lie!” He looked startled by my anger. After a moment, I sighed. “Well, you know the traditional method of dealing with a fatal beauty among your enemies.”
“That’s part of the lecture on strategy I must have missed,” Justinus answered, rather coolly.
“Well, you take them to bed and give them a night of pleasure like nothing they have ever known. Next morning, thanks to your fabulous equipment and brilliant technique, they sob and tell you everything.”
“Your niece is right. You make things up, Falco.”
“It’s just a myth.”
“Ever done it? In your past life, of course,” he added, in deference to Helena.
“Ha! Most women I know would cry, ‘Push off, chancer, and take your puny equipment with you!,’” I hedged modestly.
“So why is my sister so worried?”
“The myth,” I said, “is very deep-seated. Think of Cleopatra, Sophonisba—”
“Sophonisba?”
“Daughter of Hasdrubal and wife of the king of Numidia. She was notoriously beautiful.” I sighed again. This time it was an old man’s sigh. “How much education did they waste on you? The Punic Wars, sonny. Ever heard of Scipio?”
“I certainly never heard of the mighty Scipio bedding Carthaginian princesses!”
“Quite right. Scipio was a wise general.” And probably a good Roman prude.
“So?”
“Scipio made sure he never met her. He sent his lieutenant, Masinissa, to the beauty’s tent instead.”
“Lucky old Masinissa!”
“Perhaps. Masinissa was so deeply smitten he married her.”
“What about her husband?”
“Mere detail. Masinissa was in love.”
Justinus laughed. “So was the princess won over to our side?”
“No. Scipio reckoned she lured Masinissa the other way, so he had a few quiet words with him. Masinissa burst into tears, retreated to his tent, and then sent his bride a cup of poison. His message said he would have liked to fulfil the duties of a husband, but since his friends had advised against it here at least was the wherewithal to escape being dragged as a captive through Rome.”
“I assume that luckily for history she quaffed the poison down, and Masinissa redeemed himself…”
It was a boy’s reply.
Helena had once read me Sophonisba’s cutting answer to her bridegroom of the previous day: I accept your wedding present. Nor is it unwelcome from a husband who can offer nothing better. However, I should have died with greater satisfaction had I not married so near to my death …
Too subtle, I thought, for a tribune. Even one who, according to my horrid niece, had sensitive eyes. He would learn.
Helena Justina highly approved of Sophonisba, needless to say.
* * *
We had passed the limit of my previous experience of Germany. That ended at Colonia Agrippinensium, where the great Claudian road ran off westwards through Gaul towards the crossing-point to Britain. The large fortresses of Novaesium and Vetera had until now been only names to me. I had probably read of the minor outposts of Gelduba and Asciburgium, but you can’t remember everything. Apart from Britain, these forts marked the ends of the Empire. Our hold in the north had never been tenacious, and Rome had only ever kept control by negotiating special relations with the marsh-dwelling Batavii. Re-establishing our outposts and winning back the Batavian alliance as a buffer against the savage eastern peoples would call for highly efficient diplomacy.
Now that we were past the Ides of October, the weather took a surreptitious shift, as we moved north. Nights were noticeably darker, earlier. Even during the day the golden light which had enhanced the scene at Moguntiacum was reduced to something gloomier. Once again, I felt horrified by the great distance we had to travel.
The scenery, too, was slowly changing. We lost the dramatic crags and dreamy islands. Sometimes there was attractively hilly country, where the XIV’s legate could have been taken on his hunting trip—if he was hunting. Far above us tremendous flocks of geese and other birds were migrating, adding to our anxious mood with their urgent flight and lonely cries. As the recruits became more excited, their centurion grew more silent. The pedlar scowled. Justinus was smitten by a sense of romantic melancholy. I simply felt depressed.
More and more we began to sense our approaching nearness to the other huge waterways that poured into the delta: the Mosa from Gaul, the Vaculus forming a second arm to the Rhenus, and all the tributaries, each one more powerful than the rivers we were used to in Italy. The sky assumed the lowering greyness I knew belonged to the remote Britannic Ocean—the wildest waters in the world. Sometimes we saw sea birds. The riverine vegetation of oaks, alders, and willow became interspersed with sedges and marsh flowers. In those days there was no real military highway along this northern stretch. Habitation along our bank of the river dwindled to infrequent Celtic settlements, many bearing scars from the civil war, and most with sombre Roman watch-towers guarding them. On the other side, nothing was ever visible.
We stopped a night at Novaesium, where the newly rebuilt fort was full of activity. Then we sailed on past the mouth of the Lupia to our right, and finally made landfall on the left bank at Vetera.
Frankly, I did not relish disembarking there myself. And our centurion Helvetius flatly refused to leave the boat.
XLI
The ship’s master had struggled to make Vetera before nightfall, not wanting to be caught out at a temporary mooring where the surrounding country must be regarded as unsafe. It was already dark when we landed, however—the worst time to arrive even at an established fort. We could all have stayed on board, but space was cramped and the lads were eager to be within walls, especially in such a famous place.
To organise billets we would have to shift ourselves. Justinus started protesting to the centurion, ready to order him down the gangplank.
“Leave it!” I said curtly.
“In Jupiter’s name—”
“Just leave him, Camillus.”
Helvetius was standing to attention on the far side of the boat, staring out across the river with a set face. “But why does he—”
“I’m sure Helvetius has his reasons.” I had realised what they were.
We marched the recruits off, made ourselves known in a dark reception building, and were allocated quarters. We knew the fort itself lay some distance away from the river, so were startled to find ourselves staying near where the ship had tied up. Our billet was just a wooden hutment, virtually on the quay. The recruits, who had expected the luxuries of a major base, were muttering about the strange setup, and even Justinus looked mutinous. When we had stowed our kit, I made everyone gather round. The dim light of a taper gave our faces lurid shadowings, and we all spoke in low voices, as if even in this Roman enclave enemy forces might be listening.
“Well, this is
a bad start … Lads, I know you’re wondering why we haven’t been allowed to march up and park in the fort. The Batavian rebels must have caused such destruction that they’ve had to abandon it. The troops here are living in tents and temporary barracks while they select a new site.”
“But why can’t we shelter inside the old battlements?”
“You’ll see in the morning what the situation is. Just use your imaginations until then. People stay outside the fort because Romans suffered and died there in great numbers. Take your cue from the troops who are stationed here: treat the place with respect.”
“Sir, I thought the legions at Vetera traded with the enemy?” They had no sense of reverence. Tomorrow would cure that.
“No, soldier.” This time Justinus answered. Quick to grasp what I was saying, his voice now was patient and informative. “The legions at Vetera held out in desperate circumstances. Some of Vocula’s relief force did sell their services to the Gallic Empire at one point, but we all have to remember that from here it looked as if the whole world had been torn apart and the Rome to which they had given their oath no longer existed.”
The recruits reacted at first with some scorn. Most of them knew nothing of recent history beyond local episodes like Vitellian soldiers killing a cow in a village three miles down the road. But as Justinus talked to them, they settled down, like listeners absorbed in a Saturnalia ghost story. He was a thorough lecturer: “Up here, the Fifth and the Fifteenth had the worst of everything. It’s true they executed a legate.” He was referring to Vocula. “But they only surrendered when Civilis had starved them to the point of exhaustion. Then they were massacred. Some were killed as they marched out unarmed. Some fled back to the fort and died there when Civilis burned it in fury. Whatever those men did, they paid for. The Emperor has chosen to sponge the slate clean, so who are we to disagree with him? Listen to Didius Falco. None of us can judge the legions who were here, unless we can be certain what we ourselves would have done.”
The recruits were a rag-tailed lot, but they liked being spoken to sensibly. They were quelled, though still fascinated. “Sir, why wouldn’t Helvetius come ashore?”
The Iron Hand of Mars Page 21