The Iron Hand of Mars by Lindsey Davis

commissions, this final task was unbelievable.
    Ascertain the whereabouts of Julius Civilis, chieftain of the Batavians, and ensure his future co-operation within a pacified Gaul and Germany.
    Vespasian had already sent two commanders-in-chief in full purple panoply plus nine trusted legions to undertake the reclamation of Civilis. Whatever the Daily Gazette trustingly reported from its pillar in the Forum, they must have failed. Now Vespasian was sending me.
    â€œBad news?” quavered Xanthus nervously.
    â€œA disaster!”
    â€œYou’re going to Germany, aren’t you?” So I had intended, until I read this catalogue of impossible treats. Now the obvious thing was to head the other way. “I really envy you,” the barber enthused, with the true tactlessness of his trade. “I’ve always wanted to see something of the Empire outside Rome.”
    â€œThere are cheaper ways to be uncomfortable here. Try a hot afternoon in the Circus Maximus. Try a bad play at Pompey’s Theatre. Try buying a drink near the Forum. Try shellfish. Try women. Go for a swim in the Tiber in August if you want to catch some exotic complaint … Xanthus, I badly need to think. Shut up. Get out. And try not to walk your horrible scarlet footwear in my direction again.”
    â€œOh I have to,” he assured me smugly. “I’m coming back tomorrow to bring the package that you have to take to Germany.”
    I thanked him for the warning, so I could make sure I was out.

 
    X
    I ought to have refused this mission. I wanted to.
    I desperately needed the money. It would be good—if I survived to apply for it. I was also keen to remove myself from Rome before the glances which Titus Caesar was casting in my direction led to something worse. Most of all, now that I had grown used to her lively presence in my billet, I could not bear it here without Helena.
    I could have coped with poverty. I might even have faced up to Titus. Missing Helena was different. Helena was why I went on sitting sadly, in the squalor of my room at Fountain Court, unable to bestir myself even to rush to the Palatine and complain. Helena provided one pressing reason why I did want to go to Germany. I wanted to be there even if it meant enduring a European winter in a province stripped of all pretence of luxury by a barely quelled rebellion, where my own tasks ranged from the risky to the ludicrously impossible.
    I had told Titus that Helena Justina was visiting her brother. I had said it because I believed it was the truth.
    But I might have misled Titus slightly. Helena had one brother called Aelianus, who was studying diplomacy in Baetica. She had another called Justinus. I had met Camillus Justinus. It had been at the fort where he was serving as a military tribune, at a place called Argentoratum. Argentoratum is in Upper Germany.
    *   *   *
    Next day I made preparations. A secretary whom I cultivated at the Palace promised me copies of despatches relating to the Civilis revolt. I made my request for a travel pass and a set of official maps. Then I strolled out to the Forum, positioned myself against a pillar on the Temple of Saturn, and waited. I was looking for someone: a one-legged man. I wasn’t particular which single-limbed person hopped into my orbit, so long as he met a condition: he had to have been on active service in the civil war, preferably with Vitellius.
    I tried four. One was home from the East, which was no use, and three were fakes who ran off on normal sets of legs when asked questions. Then I found one who fitted. I took him to a cookshop, let him order a full bowl, paid for it—then held up the order while I made him talk to me.
    He was an ex-legionary, pensioned off after his amputation, which was recent, for the red-raw stump had barely healed. I use the term “pensioned off” somewhat lightly, since Rome has never provided well for troops who become unavailable