by George Green
Serpicus took another breath and looked up at the paling sky. ‘I don’t know. I’ll never catch another animal for the games again, that’s for certain.’ He looked enquiringly at them. ‘The business is yours, if you want it.’
Decius smiled. ‘Thanks, but I’ve seen enough animals. I think I’ll be having a word with your friend with the chariot.’
Serpicus looked surprised. ‘You want to race?’
Decius nodded. ‘I’d like to try again.’
Serpicus thought about it for a little while. ‘You’re good with horses. And you’ve seen what can happen, so you’re going in with your eyes open. I won’t try and persuade you out of it.’ He raised an eyebrow at Snake. The Cretan shook his head.
‘I’ll be going home too. I’ve been in Rome too long. I want to see if the girls look as good as I remember.’
Serpicus reached out and they clasped hands firmly for a long moment. ‘Good luck,’ he said.
They stood in silence for a while. Then Decius spoke without looking at Serpicus.
‘Where is Marcus?’
Serpicus’ lips tightened. ‘In Germany. Part of the permanent garrison.’
‘Odd that he didn’t go down with Sejanus and his cronies.’
Serpicus shrugged. ‘He’s a good soldier, the sort they can use. Nothing was proved against him. And garrison duty in Germany in peacetime isn’t a promotion. More like exile, for an ambitious man.’
Decius hesitated. ‘Do you think he knows about what happened to Consilius? People can be unreasonable about things like the death of a brother. He might want to talk to you about that one day.’
Serpicus shrugged. ‘Then on that day no doubt we’ll talk.’
‘And if the conversation doesn’t please him?’
Serpicus stared at the wisps of smoke that still seeped from the three piles of ashes in front of them. ‘Then I’ll have to pray that the gods give me the strength to bear the weight of his unhappiness somehow.’
* * *
In Rome everything was changing. Sejanus was dead, summarily executed and his body torn to pieces. Blaesus joined his nephew soon afterward, although he at least got a trial. Relatives of the dozens of men whose estates he had stolen came forward and denounced him. Their evidence didn’t get them their inheritances back – the property of anyone condemned for treason is forfeit to the Emperor, and nobody wanted to be the one to tell Tiberius that he was holding their lands illegally – but they turned out in their thousands to see Blaesus spread on a wheel in the Forum and then strangled. It was rumoured that the executioner had been well paid not to hurry the job. If not recompense for their losses, his cries were at least some consolation.
When Blaesus’ accounts were audited after his death it was found that he had been buying up huge areas of land in northern Italy cheaply, aided by the unwillingness of Romans to live and work there if the area was under threat from invasion by German tribes. The revolt drove prices down even further. There were also payments to men who earned their living as assassins. It was never proved, but the sudden and violent deaths of three tribal chiefs, all of whom had been against the revolt, were assumed to be connected. Blaesus had taken out huge short-term loans, secured against his existing purchases and those to come. He couldn’t afford to have anything but a full-scale rebellion, couldn’t let the German tribes seem peaceful, not until he had bought all the land he wanted at rock-bottom prices. There were letters in his files that showed that the leaders of the Treveri tribe were a matter of particular concern.
Also in Blaesus’ accounts were letters and bills from Cato, confirming his knowledge of the plan and participation in it. A percentage of the profits, which, had the plan succeeded, would have been enormous, were earmarked for him. It was clear that his position as head of intelligence-gathering made him indispensable for the plan’s success. The full extent to which he misused his position never fully emerged.
As soon as Blaesus fell from power the German revolt collapsed. The Roman coin that funded it dried up and the tribes went home. Twenty years earlier Tiberius would have exacted a fearful price for their rebellion, but he was old and wanted only to be left alone. He sent another legion to the Rhine, took more hostages and accepted the oaths of loyalty from the tribes.
Even though his Regent was dead, the Emperor remained in Capri and the Senate governed Rome in his absence. Tiberius appointed no one man or group of men to represent him, but privately allowed each one to think they had his favour and then let them compete for his attention. This ensured that even the mildest accretion of power to any man or party meant that accusing letters went by fast ship to Capri. Tiberius didn’t need Cato’s secret agents any more to tell him who was growing powerful in Rome; the factions there were only too happy to do it for him.
* * *
The seasons were changing. Serpicus could feel winter still in the clear dew that pearled the grass and the cold earth underneath it, but there was a promise of spring in the way the sun fell on the river-meadow and in the flowers emerging along the banks.
Serpicus reached up and lifted the children off the tired horse. They didn’t speak, but looked down at the valley as if gathering all their breath for a great shout of joy. Then his daughter turned, tilting her face up and squinting at him.
‘Is this where we will live now?’ she said doubtfully, as if it might still be snatched away.
He looked down at her. ‘Yes.’
The child’s face seemed to glow at him in the sharp light and she looked back at it again. Several young men appeared from a wicker shelter near the river and dived into the slow-moving water.
‘Can we go down?’
He smiled, and the two children whooped and ran headlong down the hill towards the village. He tugged gently on the rein and the horse grudgingly left off grazing and followed him in the children’s wake.
The children reached the bottom of the hill and slowed down. There was no wall around the small group of houses, but even so the village looked bigger close up. They trotted uncertainly towards it, and then ran sideways towards the river.
As Serpicus approached the nearest house he saw a dog, a thin, sorrowful-looking creature, come out towards them from behind it. It stopped when it saw him and stood, one foot raised, sniffing the air. Then a familiar red-haired figure, not exactly fat but nowhere near thin either, appeared carrying fish from the river. He saw the children and called cheerfully to them. Serpicus couldn’t hear what he said, but the children waved back to him. Then Hansi looked towards Serpicus. He stood a long time without moving, then raised his hand in salute.
Serpicus took a deep breath, pulling his shoulders back. There was a sweet smell in the air. A tangle of undergrowth now covered the soil scorched by the Roman fire, a green canopy spotted thickly with wild roses. The river idled calmly by and cattle browsed the dark grass at its edge.
As he breathed out slowly he heard the harsh chukk-ah of a hawk in the air high above him.
He raised his arm in reply to Hansi and walked towards the village.
Author’s Note
Writers of historical novels are both helped and hindered by their subject. Any work of fiction that uses historical figures, events and locations faces the challenge of finessing fictional characters and stories into the immovable historical facts. Sometimes history lends the story a hand, and the writer seizes on these coincidences with a glad cry. More often, the writer must somehow write around the fact that the requirements of their story mean, for example, that two of their characters need to be in the same place at the same time, when history records that they could never actually have met, or that two places are five hundred miles apart and their wounded hero needs to travel between them in a day on foot. Much of the time, this sort of problem can be got around with a bit of judicious nudging of time and taking advantage of holes in the historical narrative. Sometimes this nudging and manoeuvring doesn’t work. The writer can, I believe, take any liberties they choose in writing a story, but if t
he story does violence to history – particularly in a way that might lead a reader to have a false impression, or make it likely that they will accept something as a fact when it is not – then this should be acknowledged. Call me old-fashioned.
So, my confession runs as follows. Sejanus’ fall and execution were actually in AD 31, not some ten years earlier as I suggest here. I have characterized the Treveri as unequivocally German, when in fact they were probably at least as much of Gaulish extraction. I suggest that their lands were about a week’s winter march from the Alps, when they were in reality a good deal further away. I imply that the Teutoburg Forest was near the lands of the Treveri. The exact historical location of the forest is uncertain, but it was definitely several hundred miles north of where I place it in the story. Everything else is as accurate as I have been able to make it, and any mistakes or misapprehensions are mine alone.
Novels aren’t history lessons, but with luck they might inspire one. If anyone wants to have a look at the marvellous books written by people much more learned and careful than me that went into my researching the background to Hawk, drop me an email ([email protected]) and I’ll send you a list.
Acknowledgements
When I first started writing novels they told me that I’d be spending a lot of time in an attic on my own. They were right about that. But what they didn’t tell me about was the astonishing number of people it takes to get a book written. I must thank Lizzy Kremer for her energy and encouragement, Simon Taylor for his careful editing and understanding, and both of them for an insight into what I was trying to do that often exceeded my own. Amongst others who helped, lent books, made useful comments and smiled encouragingly were: Saleel Nurbhai and Kathy Flann who gave tireless and generous criticism of the early chapters; Steve Miller and Anthony Jones who gave ideas, talked comics and kept me honest; the nice person who emailed me from Belgium about writing chariot races; Linda Anderson for her support from way back; Harry Whitehead for reminding me why writing is important; Rory, Tyrone and Charles for taking an interest; and finally Graham Mort, Paul Farley, Jayne Steel and any number of blameless students for not complaining too much when my thoughts were in the first century AD instead of where they probably should have been.
First published in Great Britain in 2005 by Bantam Press, a division of Transworld Publishers
This edition published in the United Kingdom in 2020 by Canelo
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Copyright © George Green, 2005
The moral right of George Green to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9781800321151
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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