Bored with waiting for an answer, I had lost myself in these gloomy thoughts. Without any obvious signal, Laeta’s minions had all melted away. He and I were now alone and he had the air of a sword swallower at the high point of a trick: ‘Look at me; this is terribly dangerous! I am about to disembowel myself…’
‘And there’s Veleda,’ said Claudius Laeta in his polite bureaucratic accent.
I stopped daydreaming.
III
‘Veleda…’ I pretended I was trying to remember who she was. Laeta saw through it.
I took a free couch. Relaxing at the Palace always made me feel like an unpleasant grub that had crawled in from the gardens. We informers are not meant to spread ourselves on cushions stuffed with goose-down, embroidered in luminous silks with imperial motifs. I had probably brought in donkey dung on my boots. I didn’t bother to check the floor marble.
‘When Titus suggested you, I looked at your record, Falco,’ Laeta pointed out. ‘Five years ago, you were sent on a mission to Germany to help batten down any persisting rebels. The scroll box has been mysteriously weeded—one wonders why—but it’s clear you met Civilis, the Batavian chief, and I can work out the rest. I presume you crossed over the River Rhenus to negotiate with the priestess?’
Back in the Year of the Four Emperors, when the Empire had collapsed in bloody lawlessness, Civilis and Veleda had been two German activists who tried to free their area from Roman occupation. Civilis was one of our own, an ex-auxiliary, trained in the legions, but Veleda opposed us from alien territory. Once Vespasian assumed the throne and ended the civil war, they had both remained troublemakers—for a while.
‘Wrong direction,’ I smiled. ‘I went across from Batavia, and then worked south to find her.’
‘Details,’ sniffed Laeta.
‘I was trying to stay alive. Formal negotiations were difficult when the rampaging Bructeri were after our blood. No point ending up decapitated, with our heads hurled in the river as sacrifices.’
‘Not if you can make friends with a beauteous blonde at the top of a signal tower, and then borrow her boat to sail home.’ Laeta knew all the details. He must have seen my ‘confidential’ report. I hoped he did not know the facts I had omitted.
‘Which I did, very fast. Free Germany is no place for a Roman to linger.’
‘Well, things have moved on—’
‘For the better?’ I doubted it. ‘I left both Civilis and Veleda grudgingly reconciled to Rome. At least neither was intending any more armed revolts, and Civilis was pinned down in his home area. So what’s the problem with the buxom Bructeran now?’
Claudius Laeta balanced his chin on his hands thoughtfully. After a while he asked me, ‘I believe you know Quintus Julius Cordinus Gaius Rutilius Gallicus?’
I choked. ‘I’ve met parts of him! He wasn’t using that whole scroll of names.’ He must have been adopted. That was one way to improve your status. Some wealthy patron, with a desperate need for an heir and not much judgement, had given him a step up in society and a double signature. He would probably drop the extra names as soon as he decently could.
Laeta pressed out a pitying smile. ‘The estimable Gallicus is now Governor of Germania Inferior. He’s gone formal.’ Then he was an idiot. The six-name wonder would still be the same anodyne senator I first met in Libya when he was an envoy surveying land boundaries to stop tribal feuds. I had since shared a poetry recital with him. We all make mistakes. Mine tend to be embarrassing.
‘As I recall, he’s not special.’
‘Are any of them?’ Now Laeta was being chummy. ‘Still, the man is doing an excellent job as governor. I don’t suppose you’ve kept up with developments—the Bructeri are active again; Gallicus crossed over to Germania Libera to put a clamp on that. While he was there, he captured Veleda—’ Using my map of where she was holed up, no doubt.
I was annoyed. ‘So it made no difference at all that—acting on Vespasian’s orders—I promised the woman there would be no reprisals once she stopped her anti-Roman agitation?’
‘You’re right. It made no difference.’ Still pretending we were friends, Laeta showed his cynicism. ‘The official explanation is that since the Bructeri were threatening the stability of the region again, it was presumed she had not stopped stirring.’
‘Alternatively,’ I suggested, ‘she and her tribe have had a falling out. When the Bructeri put on war gear nowadays, it is nothing to do with her.’
There was a pause. What I said was correct. (I do keep up with developments.) Veleda had found herself increasingly at odds with her countrymen. Her local influence was waning, and even if he thought he needed to put down her fellow-tribesmen, Rutilius Gallicus could have—should have—left her alone.
He needed her for his own purposes. Veleda was a symbol. So she stood no chance.
‘Let’s not haggle, Falco. Gallicus made a brave foray into Gennania Libera and legitimately removed a vicious enemy of Rome—’
I finished the story. ‘Now he’s hoping for a Triumph?’
‘Only emperors have Triumphs. As a general, Gallicus will be entitled to an Ovation.’ Same deal as a Triumph, but a shorter procession: done on the cheap. Even so, an Ovation was rare. It marked extraordinary civic thanks to a general who had courageously made war in unconquered territory.
‘Mere terminology! Is Vespasian promoting this? Or just Rutilius’ friend at court—Domitian?’
‘Is Gallicus on good tenns with Domitian Caesar?’ Laeta was playing disingenuous.
‘They share a deep admiration for horrible epic poetry… So is Gennania Libera and all its nasty, violent, Rome-hating, wolf-skinned inhabitants, now part of the Empire, thanks to heroic Rutilius?’
‘Not quite.’ Laeta meant, not at all. After Augustus lost the three Varus legions in the Teutoburger Forest seventy years before, it was obvious that Rome would never be able to advance safely beyond the River Rhenus. Nobody knew how far the dark trees extended east, or how many ferocious tribes inhabited the vast uncharted zones. I had been there briefly; there was nothing for us. I could see a theoretical risk that the hostile tribes would one day come out of the woods, cross the river and attack us, but that is all it was: theoretical. There would be no advantage to them. So long as they stayed on their side, we would stay on ours.
Except when a self-aggrandising general like Rutilius Gallicus felt obliged to embark on a crazy adventure, to add lustre to his piss-poor status at home…
Disapproval was flavouring my saliva. Not only was Rutilius an idiot, Claudius Laeta was a fool for the glint of respect he was showing the man. Put policy in the hands of such dimwits, and you could hear the gods guffawing.
‘We still have in place our old decision not to advance territorially beyond the river.’ Laeta was so complacent I wanted to pour ink from his silver stationery set all over his pristine white tunic. ‘Nonetheless, there is a tricky area opposite Moguntiacum—’ That was a large base we had, halfway down the Rhenus. ‘The Emperor was content for Gallicus to consolidate the area for safety. When he goes back—’
‘Goes back?’ I shot in.
Laeta looked shifty. ‘We never publicise movements of governors when they are outside their provinces—’
‘Oh, he’s stolen a mid-term break.’ They all did it. They had to check up on their wives at home.
Laeta carried on doggedly: ‘That’s the problem, you see, Falco. The problem with Veleda.’
I sat up. ‘He brought her back to Rome?’ Laeta merely closed his eyes longer than usual and did not answer me. I for one had known for weeks that Veleda was here; I had sailed back from Greece early, just to head off any trouble with Justinus. ‘Oh, I see! Rutilius brought her back to Rome—but you are not admitting it?’
‘Security is not a game, Falco.’
‘I hope you’d play better, if it was.’
‘The governor, very sensibly, preferred not to leave such a high ranking, sensitive captive behind. The risks were too great. A woman pri
soner in an army camp is always a focus for unrest, even pranks that could get out of hand. Without Gallicus to impose an iron grip, her tribe could have tried to mount a rescue. Rival tribes might have tried to assassinate her; they are always at each other’s throats. Veleda might even have escaped independently.’
The list of possible crises sounded like an excuse in retrospect. Then the subtle way Laeta failed to meet my eye alerted me. Dear gods. I could hardly believe what must have happened: ‘So, Claudius Laeta, let me be quite clear: Rutilius Gallicus brought the priestess back to Rome with him—for “safety”—then he let her escape here?’
Veleda was a stupendously influential barbarian, a famous enemy who once rabble-roused a whole continent into revolt against Rome. She hated us. She hated everything we represented. She had united northern Europe while we were preoccupied with our leadership tussles, and at the height of her activity she nearly lost us Batavia, Gaul and Germany. And now, Laeta was telling me, she was on the loose, right inside our city.
IV
Claudius Laeta pursed his lips. He had the sorrowful expression of a top official who is absolutely determined his department will not be blamed for this.
‘Is it your problem?’ I murmured mischievously.
‘Chief Spy’s remit,’ he announced firmly.
‘Then it’s everybody’s problem!’
‘You are very frank about your differences with Anacrites, Falco.’ ‘Someone has to be open. That fool will do a lot of damage if he isn’t stopped.’
‘We believe him to be competent.’
‘Then you’re nuts.’
We were both silent. I was thinking about the implications of Veleda’s escape. It was not that she could launch a military attack here. But her presence right in Rome was a disaster. That she had been imported by an ex-consul, a high-ranking provincial administrator, one of the Emperor’s favourites, would damage public confidence. Rutilius Gallicus had been stupid. There would be outrage and dismay. Belief in the Emperor would shrink. The army would look pitiful. Rutilius—well, few people had heard much of Rutilius, except in Germany. But if word got back there, the effect on the province of
Germany could be dangerous. Veleda was still a big name on both sides of the River Rhenus. As a so-called prophetess, the woman had always caused a frisson of terror that was out of proportion to her real influence; still, she had summoned up armies of rebels, and those rebels had wreaked havoc.
‘Now she’s free in Rome—and you’ve sent for me.’ ‘You have met her, Falco. You will recognise her.’ ‘As simple as that?’
He knew nothing. Veleda was of striking appearance: the first thing she would do was dye her hair. Most Roman women wanted to go blonde, but one visit to a cosmetic pharmacy would have Veleda well disguised.
‘You may charge a premium.’ Laeta made me sound mercenary. He ignored the fact that he himself received a big annual salary—plus bribes—plus pension—plus legacy, if the Emperor died—whereas I was stuck with whatever I could claw together on a freelance basis. ‘This is a national emergency. Titus reckons you have the skills, Falco.’
He mentioned the fee, and I managed not to whistle. The Palace saw this as an emergency all right.
I took the job. Laeta then told me the background. It was worse than I thought. Missions from the Palace always were. Not many were as bad as this, but as soon as I had heard Veleda’s name I had known this particular fiasco would be special.
Rutilius Gallicus had arrived back in Italy several weeks ago, was debriefed at the Palace, caught up with the news in the Forum and from his noble acquaintances, then swanned off north to Augusta Taurinorum, where his family lived. That’s right up close to the Alps. I mused that his background should have given him sympathies with the barbarians in Germany; he had been born and bred right next door to them. He was practically German himself
I had met his rather provincial wife, Minicia Paetina. She did not take to me. It was mutual. She had attended the poetry recital Rutilius and I once gave together, where she made it clear she thought me a plebeian upstart, unfit to wipe her fellow’s nose. The fact that our audience openly preferred my snappy satires to his endless extracts from a second-rate epic did not improve Minicia’s attitude.
The audience were no help, in fact. Rutilius Gallicus had invited Domitian Caesar as his guest of honour, whereas I was supported by cat-calling members of my Aventine family. From memory, Anacrites had been there, too. I could not remember whether this was in the ghasdy period when he tried moving in on my sister Maia or the even worse episode when everyone thought the Spy had made himself my mother’s gigolo.
Helena Justina had been polite to Minicia Paetina, and vice versa, but we were generally glad when the Rutilii went home. I could imagine the kind of stiff Saturnalia they were now about to enjoy at Augusta Taurinorum. ‘As a special treat, we can all wear informal tunics at dinner, instead of togas…’
‘There’s no chance Rutilius will cut short his leave and pop back here to sort out his mess?’
‘No chance at all, Falco.’
As for Veleda, Laeta said Rutilius had brought her to Rome, where she was ensconced in a safe house. She had to be put somewhere. Burying her in a prison cell for the next couple of years, until Rutilius reached the end of his tour as governor, was not an option. Veleda would never have survived the dirt and disease. No point having a famous rebel die of jail fever. She must be kept fit and looking ferocious for the triumphal procession. A bonus would be to claim she was a virgin; by tradition she would be formally raped by her jailer just before her execution. Rome loves that kind of smut. So no one would want any dewy-eyed junior jailers falling in love with her and comforting her in the cell, let alone prankster sons of consuls bribing their way in for a quick thrill on the straw.
Priestesses always call themselves virgins. They have to clothe themselves in mystery. But Veleda had had at least one fling in the past. I knew who she had had it with too. Why do you think she gave us the boat?
‘Tell me about your so-called safe house, Laeta.’
‘Not mine!’ I wondered whose. Would Anacrites have fixed it up? ‘All necessary checks were carried out, Falco. There were rigorous measures in place. Her host is absolutely reliable. She gave us her parole as well. It was perfectly secure.’ Officialdom’s usual excuses. I knew how much they meant.
‘So it’s incredible, is it, that she somehow got out? Who was the lucky host?’
‘Quadrumatus Labeo.’ Never heard of him.
‘Who was in charge of security?’
‘Ab!’ Laeta’s immediate enthusiasm for the subject told me he was in the clear. ‘That’s an interesting point, Falco.’
‘In Palatine argot, an “interesting point” is generally a complete rat’s arse…’ I squeezed Laeta until he admitted the mess: Rutilius Gallicus had brought Veleda home with an escort of troops from Germany. Then confusion set in. The legionaries assumed that they had handed over responsibility to the Praetorian Guard; the soldiers all expected to bugger off to brothels and winebars for three months until they had to take Rutilius back to Germany. Nobody told the Praetorians they had acquired the magic maiden.
‘So, Laeta. Who should have told the Praetorians? Rutilius himself?’
‘Oh he has no remit in Rome. And he is a stickler for propriety.’
‘Of course he is! So the stickler jumped into a carriage and rushed north, with his Saturnalia presents stuffed in the luggage box… Did Titus Caesar know Veleda was here?’
‘Don’t blame him. Titus may be nominally commander of the Praetorians, yet he does not issue orders of the day. His role is ceremonial—’
‘He’ll certainly give a ceremonial bollocking to the Guards who watched her flit!’
‘Don’t forget, Falco, it is supposed to be a secret that she ever arrived. ‘
‘So if it’s a secret, did anyone notify Anacrites?’
‘Anacrites bloody well knows now!’ muttered Laeta tetchily. ‘He has been assigned
responsibility for finding her.’
This was worse than I had thought. ‘Then I repeat: did he know before?’
‘I have no idea.’
‘Get away!’
‘I am not privy to security policy.’
‘But you’re privy to the balls-up! Next awkward question then: if Anacrites has oversight of the recovery operation, why are you commissioning me? Does he know I’m to be involved?’
‘He was opposed to it.’ I could have guessed that. ‘Titus wants you,’ said Laeta. His voice dropped uncharacteristically. ‘There are some odd circumstances surrounding the woman’s escape… exactly your sort of thing, Falco.’ Mterwards I knew I should have pursued that straight away, but the hint of flattery diverted me, then Laeta cunningly added, ‘Anacrites believes his own resources will suffice.’
‘“Resources”? Is he still using Momus, and that dwarf with the enormous feet? And I may know what Veleda looks like, but he hasn’t a clue. He won’t spot the woman if she steps on his toe and steals his arm-purse… Presumably, the troops Rutilius brought across from Germany to guard her on the journey all saw her? They should be able to recognise her. Has anyone thought of recalling them?’
‘Titus. Titus cancelled their leave.’ Titus Caesar could think in a crisis. ‘They are yours.’ Laeta quickly pushed a scroll of names at me. ‘Anacrites wants to use the Praetorian Guard. Actually, we couldn’t find the whole escort for you—some must have gone to see their mothers at the back of beyond—but these ten men and their officer have been told to report to your house tomorrow, in civilian clothes. ‘
These must be the ones who were so unlovable their mothers refused to have them home. ‘I must tell my wife,’ I sneered, ‘that she has to entertain ten disgruntled legionaries, who have been robbed of their home leave, in our house for Saturnalia.’
‘You’ll have to pretend they are your relatives,’ said Laeta, nastily. He thought he was insulting my family. He had not met my real relatives; nobody could be as bad. ‘The noble Helena Justina will undoubtedly cope. She can charge us for their keep.’ That wasn’t the point. ‘I imagine your young woman’s domestic accounting is immaculate. The men have specific orders to behave politely…’ Even Laeta tailed off, foreseeing the kind of domestic strife that now awaited me.
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