The Iron Hand of Mars (5 page)

A lucky fluke reminded me that the esteemed Petilius Cerialis was related to Vespasian. I swallowed a witty rejoinder and asked meekly, “Caesar, if you can spare Cerialis for higher duties, the frontier must be under control?”

“Some unfinished items—I'll come to those.” Whatever was said in public, the whole region must still be highly sensitive. Not the time for a quiet cruise downstream on a wineship. “Petilius Cerialis held a meeting with Civilis—”

“I heard about that!” Dramatic stuff: the two opposing commanders had confronted each other in the middle of a river, both bawling across the void from the ends of a severed bridge. It sounded like some incident from the mists of Rome's heroic history that schoolboys learn about.

“Civilis has fallen unnaturally quiet since then…” Speaking of the rebel chief, Vespasian paused, in a way that ought to have worried me. “We were hoping he would settle down peacefully in the Batavian homeland, but he's missing.” That did arouse my interest; I read in it a bad prophecy for me. “Rumour says he may have travelled south. On that subject, I'd like to say to you—”

Whatever he had intended to tell me—or warn me—about the rebel Civilis never happened, because just then a curtain swung open and the official who must be the one he had called Canidius arrived.

 

VIII

When he shambled in, the sharp lads in glittering white uniforms who waited on the Emperor all stepped back and glared at him bitterly.

He was a real papyrus beetle. Even before he opened his mouth, I guessed he must be one of those odd cases who hang around secretariats doing jobs no one else will. No well-kept palace would tolerate him unless his contribution was unique. He wore a dingy damson tunic, shoes with one lace tied up crookedly, and a belt so poorly tanned it looked as if the cow it came from was still alive. His hair was lank, and his skin had a grey pallor that might have washed off when he was younger, but was now ingrained. Even if he did not actually smell, he looked musty.

“Didius Falco, this is Canidius,” Vespasian himself introduced us in his brisk way. “Canidius keeps the legionary archive.”

I was right then. Canidius was a clerk with unpromising prospects who had found an offbeat job he could invent for himself. I grunted noncommittally.

Vespasian shot me a suspicious glance. “Your next assignment, Falco, is as my personal emissary to the Fourteenth Gemina in Germany.” This time I saved myself the hypocrisy of politeness and openly grimaced. The Emperor ignored it. “I hear the Fourteenth are in a truculent mood. Brief us, Canidius.”

The eccentric-looking clerk recited nervously, without notes. “The legio Fourteenth Gemina were an Augustan creation, originally raised at Moguntiacum on the River Rhenus.” He had a thin whine of a voice that tired a listener rapidly. “They were among the four legions chosen by the Divine Claudius for the invasion of Britain, acquitting themselves bravely at the Battle of the Medway, much assisted by their native auxiliaries, who were Batavians.” North Europeans from the Rhenus delta, Batavians are rowers, swimmers, and river pilots to a man. All Roman legions are supported by such units of foreigners, in particular native cavalry.

“Falco doesn't need your Claudian anecdotes,” muttered Vespasian. “And I was there!”

The clerk blushed; forgetting the Emperor's history was a bad mistake. Vespasian had commanded the II Augusta at the Battle of the Medway, and he and the II had played a celebrated part in the conquest of Britain.

“Caesar!” Canidius writhed in misery. “The Fourteenth's roll of honour includes defeating Queen Boudicca, for which—along with the Twentieth Valeria—they were awarded the honorific title of ‘Martia Victrix.'”

You may wonder why the II Augusta did not win that prestigious handle too. The answer is that due to the kind of mix-up which we like to pretend never happens, the wonderful II (my own legion as well as Vespasian's) failed to show up at the battlefield. The legions which did face the Iceni were lucky to survive. That was why any member of the II needed to avoid the XIV Gemina, honorific titles and all.

Canidius went on: “In the recent wars, the Fourteenth's Batavian auxiliaries featured crucially. They had been separated from their parent legion and summoned to Germany under Vitellius. The Fourteenth themselves were devoted first to Nero—since after the Boudiccan Revolt he had called them his best legion—and then supported Otho. Otho brought them to Italy. This placed the legion and its native cohorts on opposing sides, and at the first battle of Bedriacum…” Canidius tailed off unhappily.

He was intending to fudge the issue, so I barged in: “Whether the Fourteenth Gemina actually took part at Bedriacum is a moot point. Rather than admit they had been beaten in battle, they claimed they had not been there!”

Vespasian grumbled under his breath. He must think they were simply covering up.

Canidius rushed on again. “After Otho's suicide, the legion and its auxiliaries were reunited by Vitellius. There was some rivalry,” the archive clerk said, with quaint discretion. He had no real grasp of what the Emperor required.

“You're leaving out the picturesque details!” I interrupted. “Be frank! The Fourteenth's subsequent history involved squabbling and public scuffles with their Batavians, during which they burned down Augusta Taurinorum…” This episode at Turin placed the main question mark over their discipline.

Wary of handling a sensitive issue, Canidius raced to finish. “Vitellius ordered the Fourteenth itself back to Britain, attaching the eight Batavian cohorts to his personal train until he redeployed them in Germany.” More politics. Canidius was looking unhappy again.

“In Germany, the Batavian cohorts promptly attached themselves to Civilis. It gave the rebellion a tremendous boost.” I was still angry about it. “Since Civilis is their chief, the Batavians' defection should have been foreseen!”

“Enough, Falco,” rasped Vespasian, refusing to criticise another Emperor—even the one he had deposed.

He nodded encouragement to Canidius, who squeezed out: “The Fourteenth returned from Britain again to assist Petilius Cerialis. They now occupy Moguntiacum.” He finished his tale with relief.

“Only the Upper German forts survived,” Vespasian told me crisply, “so Moguntiacum is at present policing both parts of the territory.” Clearly while the fort where they were stationed had such a vital role, he needed to feel absolute confidence in the XIV. “My priority is to tighten up discipline and dissipate old sympathies.”

“What happens to the troops who swore allegiance to the Gallic federation?” I asked curiously. “Which were they, Canidius?”

“The First Germanica from Bonna, the Fifteenth Primigenia from Vetera, and the Sixteenth Gallica from Novaesium—plus the Fourth Macedonia from…” He had forgotten; it was his first sign of humanity.

“Moguntiacum,” said the Emperor. It emphasised why he wanted loyal legions there now.

“Thank you, Caesar. When Petilius Cerialis received the culprits,” the clerk informed me, “his words to the mutineers were…” Canidius for the first time referred to a note tablet in order to thrill us with the exact historical detail: “‘
Now the soldiers who revolted are once more soldiers of their country. From this day you are enlisted in the service and bound by your oath to the Senate and People of Rome. The Emperor has forgotten all that has happened, and your commander will remember nothing!
'”

I tried not to sound too shocked at this enlightenment. “We call the circumstances exceptional, and give out lenient treatment, Caesar?”

“We cannot lose four legions of crack troops,” Vespasian growled. “They will be disbanded, stiffened up, and reformed in different units.”

“These new legions will be shifted from the Rhenus?”

“No sensible alternative. The forces which Cerialis and Gallus commanded will guard the frontier.”

“It won't take all nine legions.” I could now see the options that were facing the Emperor. “So the Fourteenth Gemina could either be sent back to Britain or stationed at Moguntiacum permanently. I believe Canidius told us it was their original home base. What's your plan, sir?”

“I have not yet decided,” the Emperor demurred.

“Is that my mission?” I like to be frank.

He looked annoyed. “Don't pre-empt my instructions!”

“Caesar, it's obvious. They served you well under Cerialis, but were highly restless beforehand. Ever since they defeated the Iceni, the Fourteenth have become a byword for wilfulness—”

“Don't decry a good legion!” Vespasian was an old-fashioned general. He hated to believe any unit with a fine reputation could deteriorate. But if they did, he would be ruthless. “Moguntiacum is a two-legion fort, but they are doubled up with some inexperienced troops. I
need them
—if I can trust them.”

“The legion was raised there,” I mused. “There's nothing like their own interested grannies living locally to keep soldiers meek … Also, it's nearer than Britain, which makes supervision easier.”

“So, Falco, how do you feel about making a discreet inspection?”

“What do you think?” I scoffed. “I was serving in the Second Augusta during the Icenean thrash. The Fourteenth will well remember how we abandoned them.” I can handle myself in a street fight, but I shied away from taking on six thousand vengeful professionals who had good reason to thumb me out of existence like a woodlouse on a bathhouse wall. “Caesar, they are liable to bury me in quicklime and stand around grinning while I frizzle!”

“Avoiding that should test your talents,” the Emperor sneered.

“What exactly,” I queried, letting him see I felt nervous, “are you asking me to do, Caesar?”

“Not much! I want to send the Fourteenth a new standard, to mark their recent good conduct in Germany. You will be transporting it.”

“Sounds straightforward,” I muttered gratefully, waiting to discover the catch. “So while I'm handing over this token of your high esteem, I size up their mood and decide whether your esteem ought to last?” Vespasian assented. “With respect, Caesar, if you are planning to sponge the Fourteenth off the army list, why don't you ask their commanding legate to report in suitable terms?”

“Not convenient.”

I sighed. “That suggests there is a problem with the legate too, sir?”

“Certainly not,” replied Vespasian decisively. He would say that in public, unless he had firm grounds to cashier the fellow. I guessed I was supposed to produce grounds.

I moderated my tone. “Can you tell me something about him?”

“I don't know the man personally. Name's Florius Gracilis. He was suggested for a commander's post by the Senate, and I knew no reason to object.” There was a myth that all public posts were awarded by the Senate, although the Emperor's veto was absolute. In practice, Vespasian would normally suggest his own candidates, but he might sometimes flatter the Curia by allowing them to nominate some dumb cluck of their own. He seemed suspicious of this man—but did he fear blatant corruption, or everyday inefficiency?

I let it lie. I had my own resources for boning up on senators. Gracilis was probably the usual upper-class fool doing his stint with the legion because a military command when he was thirty formed a fixed step in the
cursus publicus
. He was bound to have been posted to one of the frontiers. Getting a legion in Germany was just his bad luck.

“I'm sure His Honour is well up to the demands of his post,” I commented, letting the Emperor know that while I was squinting at the legion he could rely on me to cast my usual sceptical eye over Florius Gracilis as well. “This sounds like my usual complex mission, sir!”

“Simplicity!” the Emperor declared. “While you are out there,” he added inconsequentially, “you can apply yourself to some loose ends that Petilius Cerialis was forced to leave behind.”

I took a deep breath. This was more like it. The XIV's loyalty could be assessed by any competent centurion on the spot. M. Didius Falco was being sent racing in circles after some other escaped goose.

“Oh?” I said.

Vespasian appeared not to notice my sour face. “Your written orders will cover what's required…”

Vespasian rarely skimped discussing business. I knew from the airy way he ducked out of giving details that these “loose ends” which I was inheriting from the fabled Petilius Cerialis had to be really filthy tasks. Vespasian must be hoping that by the time I read my instructions I would be safely en route and unable to quibble.

He made them sound unimportant. But these unspecified items tossed after me like party gifts were the real reason why he was sending me to Germany.

 

IX

It grieved me to be seen in public with a wraith like Canidius. He looked as if he had lost himself going to the bathhouse and three weeks later was still too shy to ask the way.

Still, I needed to pick his well-informed noddle. Stationing myself to windward, I led this sallow fellow to a wineshop. I chose one I rarely frequented, forgetting that the outrageous prices were why it had lost my patronage. I installed him on a bench among the desultory dice players, where he let himself be introduced to the warmth of an expensive Latian red.

“You've slung me the official spiel on the Fourteenth, Canidius; now let's hear the truth!”

The archive clerk looked uneasy. His orbit involved only the manicured version of public events. But with a beakerful inside him, he ought to give me all the grubby, hangnail stories that are never written down.

His eyes wandered slightly at the muffled sounds of commercial pleasure from the barmaids' overhead bedroom. He must have been forty, but he behaved like an adolescent who had never been let out before. “I don't involve myself in politics.”

“Oh neither do I!” I retorted dismally.