The Iron Hand of Mars

by Lindsey Davis

  She said it, and I issued the traditional rude reply.

  Helena tried not to let the child see she was annoyed. “You are the head of the Didius family, Marcus!”

  “Purely notional.”

  Being head of our family was so punishing that the real claimant to the title, my father, had abandoned his ancestors and completely changed his identity to avoid the ghastly task. Now the role fell to me. This explains why I was no longer on speaking terms with my papa the auctioneer. It may even explain why I myself had felt no qualms about entering a profession which most of Rome despises. I was used to being cursed and treated with contempt; my family had been doing that for years. And being a private informer had the great advantage of taking me undercover or right away from home.

  Perhaps all families are the same. Perhaps the idea that paternal power holds sway was put about by a few hopeful lawmakers who had no sisters or daughters of their own.

  * * *

  “You brought her; you can have the joy of beating her,” I said coolly to Helena. I knew she would never strike a child.

  I strode back inside my room. I felt depressed. Since we were not married there was no reason for Helena to take notice of my relatives; if she did, it boded the kind of serious pressure I had come to dread.

  Sure enough, after a few rapid words, followed by a surprisingly meek reply from Augustinilla, Helena came in and began to explain: “Your sister is in trouble—”

  “When was Victorina ever out of it?”

  “Hush, Marcus. Women’s trouble.”

  “That’s a change; her trouble is usually men.”

  I sighed and told her to spare me the details. Victorina had always been a moaner about her insides. Her wild life must have strained her system intolerably, most of all after her marriage to an inane plasterer who in his ability to father horrid children in rapid succession outshone every rodent in Rome. I would never wish surgery on anyone, however. Let alone those painful, rarely successful businesses with forceps and dilators that I vaguely knew were inflicted on women.

  “Marcus, the children were being parcelled out to give your sister a chance of recovery, and in the lottery you won Augustinilla…” Some lottery—a blatant fix. “No one knew where you were.” That had been deliberate.

  “So they asked you! Augustinilla is the worst of the bunch. Couldn’t Maia take her in?” Maia was my one half-likeable sister, which worked against her whenever problems were being handed out by the rest. Her amiable nature meant she was frequently leeched on even by me.

  “Maia had no more room. And why should Maia always have to be the obliging one?”

  “That sounds like Maia talking! I still don’t understand. Why ever did you have to bring the nipper here?”

  “What else could I do with her?” she snapped crossly. I had a few suggestions, but sense prevailed. Helena scowled. “As a matter of fact, I didn’t want to admit to other people that I was running around Europe after you.” She meant that she had refused to say she was storming off after we had had a fight.

  I grinned at her. “I love you when you’re embarrassed!”

  “Oh shut up. I’ll take care of Augustinilla,” she assured me. “You have enough to do. Justinus told me about your mission.”

  I sat on the bed, cursing morosely. With one of Victorina’s badly brought-up brats on hand, I would certainly not be staying around the house. Helena, of course, would be at home, like a decent Roman matron. Even my lady’s wild flights of freedom would have to be constricted inside a military fort.

  Helena squashed in beside me while she swapped my tunic for her own. As she pulled her gown over her head, I fondled her in a desultory way.

  “Talking to you is like interviewing a centipede for a job as a masseur…” Her head popped out. “How’s your mission?” she enquired, checking up on me.

  “I’ve made some progress.” It was my turn to start dressing and Helena’s to make overtures, but she failed to take up the opportunity, even though I was repossessing my tunic as languidly as possible. Evidently I had had my fun. The passion which Augustinilla had interrupted would not be resumed today.

  “How much progress, Marcus? Solved anything?”

  “No. Just acquired new tasks—tracing a missing commander no one even knew about…”

  “This ought to be an ideal location for tracking down suspects—a fort, I mean. You have a closed community.”

  I laughed bitterly. “Oh yes! Only an enclosed community of twelve thousand men! He’s offended his whole legion, not to mention having a hostile wife, an interfering mistress, numerous creditors, people in the local community—”

  “What people?” Helena demanded.

  “He’s been trying to trace the rebel I’m pursuing myself, for one thing.” She didn’t ask for details about Civilis; Justinus must have filled her in last night. “And he was apparently involved in wrangles over some military franchises.”

  “That sounds like something that could easily have gone wrong if he mishandled it. Which franchises?” she asked curiously.

  “Not sure. Well, pottery, for one thing.”

  “Pottery?”

  “Red tableware presumably.”

  “For the army? Is there a lot at stake?”

  “Think about it. In every legion six thousand rankers all needing cereal bowls and beakers, as well as cooking pots and serving platters for each ten-man tent. On top of that, full formal dinner services for the centurions and officers, plus the gods know what for the provincial governor’s regal establishment. The legions reckon to do themselves nicely. Nothing will suffice for the army but the best-quality gloss. Samianware is strong, but it does break with rough handling, so there will always be repeat orders.”

  “Does it have to be brought all the way from Italy or Gaul?”

  “No. I hear there is a local industry.”

  She seemed to change tack. “Did you find your mother’s comport?”

  “Was it a comport she wanted?” I asked, innocently.

  “You didn’t buy one!”

  “You guessed.”

  “I bet you never even looked!”

  “I looked all right. They were too expensive. Ma would never have wanted me to spend so much.”

  “Marcus, you’re dreadful! If there’s a local factory,” Helena decided, “you’d better take me to buy one for her. Then while I’m choosing your present, you can look around for clues.”

  * * *

  Helena Justina never wasted time. Left to my own devices I could have frittered away half a week helping her brother with his formal enquiry into the soldier’s death. Instead, Justinus was on his own. I did manage to speak to him briefly on another subject, though, asking him to have the pedlar found and put in a holding cell.

  “What has he done?”

  “Leave that blank in the warrant. I just need ready access. It’s for what he’s going to do.”

  By then Helena had enquired where the best ceramics in Moguntiacum were to be had, and almost before I had managed to snatch breakfast I found myself escorting her sedan chair out of the fort. I did not entirely object. I still had to mention to Justinus that my niece had destroyed his wine crater, and ways of explaining the disaster were slow to suggest themselves.

  * * *

  Helena and I left the fort in the late morning. Autumn was making its presence felt: a chill still freshened the air several hours after dawn, and moisture clung to the sere grasses along the roadside. Spiders’ webs were everywhere, making me blink whenever my horse passed under low branches. Helena looked out of her sedan chair laughing, only to brush away filaments that caught in her own eyelashes. Well, it was an excuse to stop, so I could help.

  The pottery quarter at Moguntiacum was a lesser affair than the vast compound Xanthus and I had visited at Lugdunum. There were clear signs that the German enterprise was struggling to compete against its rivals in Gaul, who had backup from the original factory at Arretinum to lend them extra clout. Here the craftsme
n were unsupported by the parent industry. Their goods on display were just as fine quality, yet the potters seemed surprised to see customers. The biggest workshop was actually boarded up.

  We found one nearby that was open. It was owned by a certain Julius Mordanticus. Many provincial Celts adopt aristocratic names like Julius or Claudius. After all, if you are trying to advance yourself, who chooses to sound like a cheap artisan? Hardly a second-generation Romanised tribesman anywhere in the whole Empire answers to Didius, apart from one or two youngsters with extremely pretty mothers who live in towns which my elder brother Festus once passed through.

  Helena had soon bought an impressive dish for Mother—at a price which made me wince only slightly, moreover. She then made friends with the potter, explained that she was visiting her brother the tribune, and soon led the conversation round to the legions in general. She was refined, gracious—and deeply interested in his livelihood. The potter thought she was wonderful. So did I, but I fought it back. Once I had paid for his dish, I leaned against a wall, feeling surplus.

  “I expect you do a lot of trade with the fort,” Helena said.

  “Not as much as we’d like these days!” The potter was short, with a wide, pale face. When he talked he hardly moved the muscles of his mouth, which gave him a wooden appearance, but his eyes were intelligent. His remark to Helena had been forced out by strong feelings—his normal nature seemed more cautious. He wanted to let the military subject drop.

  I hauled myself away from the wall as Helena chatted on. “I confess I didn’t know samian ceramics were made in Germany. Is your speciality confined to Moguntiacum, or does it go further afield, among the Treveri?”

  “The whole area from Augusta Treverorum to the river produces samianware.”

  “I should think you do well?” she suggested.

  “A bit of a slump lately.”

  “Yes, we were looking at your colleague’s stall—the one that’s boarded up, belonging to Julius Bruccius. Is that due to the depression, or is he off on an autumn holiday?”

  “Bruccius? A business trip.” A shadow crossed his face.

  I had a nasty premonition as I interposed: “Would that have been to Lugdunum by any chance?”

  Helena Justina immediately retired from the debate and seated herself quietly. The potter, too, had noticed my tone. “I came through Lugdunum on my way out to Germany,” I explained to him levelly. I breathed slowly, screwing my mouth. “Would Bruccius be a thickset man in his forties, travelling with a younger fellow who has red hair and a fine crop of warts?”

  “His nephew. Sounds as if you saw them somewhere along the way.”

  Julius Mordanticus already looked worried. His friends’ overdue return must have prepared him for bad tidings, but possibly not as bad as this. I kept it brief. When I told him about the quarrel I had witnessed at Lugdunum, then how I had later found the two bodies, he cried out in protest and covered his face.

  Helena brought him a wicker chair. We sat him in it and I stood with one hand on his shoulder while he struggled to accept my news.

  XXXII

  “Tiw!” He spat out the Celtic name for Mars. “Bruccius and his nephew murdered in Gaul…”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “It’s not much help, but there was a centurion at the fort who was going into Cavillonum to report the bodies to a local magistrate—he could tell you who is in charge and what transpired. The magistrate ought to have arranged funerals, for one thing. When Helena and I go back I’ll find the centurion and send him here to speak to you. His name is Helvetius.” Julius Mordanticus nodded dully. I had been talking in order to give him time to compose himself. Now that he seemed calmer I asked carefully, “Have you any idea who might be behind the deaths?”

  He answered at once. “Those self-seeking bastards at Lugdunum!”

  I was not surprised; I had seen that Lugdunum had a great deal at stake in this industry. I felt obliged to warn him: “Your accusation may be hard to prove.”

  “If they show their faces here, we won’t need proof!”

  “I didn’t hear that! Would you tell me what it’s all about?”

  Mordanticus had decided we were sympathetic; the whole story flooded out: “Things are not easy nowadays. Trade has been bad. We rely on the military to keep us in business, but with all the recent troubles…” He tailed off for a moment. Helena and I avoided prying into local sympathies, but he sensed us holding back politely. “Oh we were on the side of Rome, I can assure you. There is a close relationship between our town and the fort.” He spoke didactically, like a local leader who has to justify some peculiar festival by a neat reference to history. “Keeping the legions here on the Rhenus is entirely in our interest. The Roman general Petilius Cerialis put it correctly when he arrived: Rome occupied this region at our forefathers’ invitation when they were being harried by other tribes looking for new territory. If Rome leaves, the tribes from east of the Rhenus will sweep in and take everything.” All the more so, presumably, because these tribes on the west bank were now regarded as collaborators.

  “There is no love lost between you?” Helena prompted.

  “No. Civilis and his sort may have sounded off in the name of liberty, but they care no more for us than their ancestors cared for our fathers and grandfathers. Civilis wants to be king over the richest nations in Europe. His people would like to leave the Batavian marshland and move into lusher pastures here. The only German independence they believe in is their own freedom to push in wherever they fancy.”

  I thought this was one-sided. For one thing, my research in Rome among despatches about the rebellion had told me that Augusta Treverorum, the nearest tribal capital, had produced Julius Tutor and Julius Classicus, two of the most hotheaded rebel leaders after Civilis, so feelings ran higher here than our friend wanted to admit. But I didn’t blame Mordanticus for taking the convenient view.

  I changed the subject. “What I saw happening at Lugdunum smacked of commerce rather than politics. I gather there is a strong professional rivalry between you and the Gauls. Is it all to do with your military trade?”

  He nodded, albeit reluctantly. “A big question mark hangs over who will win the contract for the new legions at the fort. Lugdunum itself is under threat from a big consortium in southern Gaul. Bruccius and I had been trying to persuade the new legate to re-award the franchise locally.”

  “That legate was Florius Gracilis?”

  “The same. The other man takes a much less prominent role.”

  “Yes, his troops were recruited from the navy, and are rather diffident. So, your people held the franchise previously, when the Fourth and the Twenty-second were the legions based at the fort?”

  “With reason! Our produce matches the quality of Italy or Gaul, and obviously distribution is easier.”

  If there was suitable clay here, Rome would naturally have encouraged a local industry, setting it up with official finance, no doubt, during the old campaigns under Drusus and Germanicus. Having established local production and persuaded people to make working for the legions their livelihood, it would then be hard to turn elsewhere. But Rome had never had much love of sentiment.

  “How do your prices compete?” I asked.

  He looked reproving. “For a tender with the legions, our prices are set right! Anyway, we have no transportation costs. I refuse to believe Lugdunum can undercut our bid.”

  “Unless they cheat! Was Gracilis sympathetic?”

  “He never answered us directly. I felt our pleas were making no impression on the man.”

  I frowned. “Had he been got at?” Mordanticus shrugged. He was the kind of ultra-cautious businessman who never commits himself to speaking ill of those he may be forced to deal with at a later date. It looked to me as if he would have to take a more robust line. “Let’s face it, Mordanticus,” I insisted. “Florius Gracilis would have come out through Gaul this spring by the same route that I took. He has a young wife who probably wanted new dinner-party dishes
and would have dragged him to the factory site at Lugdunum. He could easily have been nobbled by your rivals before he even arrived here. You know it, don’t you? The big boys at Lugdunum had stitched the legate up.”

  Without directly answering, Mordanticus said, “The potters here decided to make a last effort to sort things out, and Bruccius was elected spokesman for all of us. We sent him over to Lugdunum to try and reach a compromise. There’s business for everyone. Those bullies in Lugdunum are just greedy. They already have a roaring trade in Gaul, all the legionary orders for Britain, plus Spain. They export from their southern ports all round the Ligurian Gulf and the Balearic Coast.” He spoke like a man who had eyed up the commercial possibilities carefully himself. “They were always bitter that we were right here on the spot. After the rebellion, they saw their chance to muscle in.”

  “So, it seems likely that Bruccius and his nephew did what they could there, but received no help. Things looked to me on the verge of violence, but your friends showed no physical damage when I saw them having supper the night they were killed. They must have given up on the Lugdunum mob, and were coming home with the bad news. Mind you,” I said thoughtfully, “it means the question of who gets the franchise cannot be settled yet.”

  “Why do you say that?” enquired Helena.

  “No point murdering two people if Lugdunum felt confident the future trade was theirs. It’s my belief the potters from Gaul felt Bruccius could be far too persuasive. With the Rhine legions right on his doorstep and the relevant legate within daily reach, he and his colleagues could pose a serious threat. That was why Lugdunum wiped him out. Somebody tracked him and the nephew far enough to deter any magistrates from making a connection, and then killed them in a spot where they might never be identified at all.”

  “But why?” asked the potter. “It still leaves plenty of us here.”