Germanicus

12

It wasn't late when we got back: Priscus goes to bed early, which from the glow my mother always has doesn't seem to worry her any. Quite the reverse, in fact. I was glad to see Bathyllus had a jug waiting. The little guy knows that the wine doesn't exactly flow like water over at Mother's place, although what there is is top of the range, and when I get home after one of her dinner parties my tongue's trailing the marble. I sank a quick cupful, poured myself another and settled down for a cosy evening of domestic criminology.

Perilla had nipped upstairs to change out of her raisin-sauced mantle ('I don't mind being bored, Marcus, but why must your mother's husband always throw his dinner at me?'). She came back down in a fetching white tunic with gold edgings. I told Bathyllus to piss off minus the jug and patted the empty half of my couch.

'You want to sit over here?' I said.

She kissed me on the forehead and lay down. When you want to talk crime you may as well be comfortable.

'So,' I said. 'The Wart.'

Perilla sighed. 'Really, dear, do we have to? I mean, after an evening of bronzeware, Oscan verbs and etymology I'd like to relax my brain a little, if you don't mind.'

She wasn't getting off that easy. Anyway it was her own fault.

'You owe me one, remember?' I said. 'Oscan verbs I can take, but if I'm going to be shovelling the peas with Dad I like to know in advance. That's your job and you flunked it. So we talk about the Wart.'

She kissed my cheek and snuggled in a bit further. 'I'm sorry, Marcus. It wasn't my idea, and your mother didn't mention it until this morning. And then you were out, and I forgot I hadn't told you.'

'Hey, I'm not complaining!' I grinned. 'Not too hard, anyway, and not about the way things went. Dad was okay after Mother slapped him down over Sejanus and the corn commission. And what he had to say about Germanicus made my evening. Even with the Oscan verbs.'

She looked at me. 'You mean about him being a political liability.'

'Yeah. I was already getting there by myself after talking to Agron, but it's nice to have confirmation from a good source. And it gives us the missing angle on why the guy was murdered.'

'You still think Tiberius was responsible?'

'If he wasn't, lady, then I'm a blue-posteriored baboon with freckles.'

'Really. How interesting. Fruit for breakfast then, I assume?'

'Oh, ha. Okay, let's take it from the start. Stop me if I go off beam.' I shifted on the couch so that one arm was round her shoulders and the other could reach the jug and wine cup on the table. 'Thanks to Augustus the Wart's saddled with an extra son who outranks his own. Unlike Drusus — and unlike the Wart himself — the new guy's popular; he's the blue eyed boy who can do no wrong, the universal darling. Trouble is, once you get down to dickering he's all flash and no corn meal, not the stuff good generals are made of. Let alone good emperors.'

Perilla nodded absently. She was winding a strand of her hair round her first finger, as she often did when she was tired. 'So Tiberius has serious doubts about his fitness to succeed,' she said. 'Especially after the German campaign.'

'Right. Only the Wart's hands are tied. He may be emperor but in the popularity stakes Germanicus is streets ahead. The army think he's the best general since Julius, to the Senate he's a modest, regular guy without a boil to his name and the ordinary people want him to kiss their babies. In contrast the Wart's a morose antisocial bugger who hates the world and blue eyed boys in particular. And who's got Rome's best interests at heart, too much at heart to stick her with Germanicus once he's gone.'

'So.' Perilla took my wine cup from me, sipped at it and gave it back. 'Germanicus makes a mess of Germany. Tiberius, seriously worried about the soundness of his stepson's judgement and his fitness to control events, recalls him and sends him straight out again with plenary powers on a sensitive diplomatic mission to the east.'

I blinked.

'Uh…run that one past me again,' I said. 'I think I missed something.'

'Certainly. Having recalled Germanicus from Germany in disgrace and awarded him a triumph, Tiberius decides to use him as his representative in, among other delicate tasks, arranging the Armenian succession and resultant modus vivendi with Parthia. For which he gives him full powers as imperial plenipotentiary.'

'Ah.'

'Ah is right. Now don't you think that's just a little illogical?'

'Uh, yeah.' Bugger. 'Yeah, it could be construed as a problem, I suppose.'

'Don't understate. If the man's judgment was flawed in dealing with a situation at least within his theoretical range of competence as an experienced soldier then for Tiberius to send him on a purely diplomatic mission involving Armenia and the Parthians was sheer madness. So if he was as dissatisfied with Germanicus as you claim then why did he do it?'

The lady had a point, even if she did use long words to make it. Armenia's a perennial pain in Rome's ass — and Parthia's, for that matter — because lying where it does it's vital to the security of both empires. Hence the tap-dancing involved in choosing a new Armenian king: a Parthian sympathiser with his backside on the throne makes Rome nervous and vice versa. The problem is that dickering with the Parthians is like mud wrestling with a greased eel. Try to get the better of those bastards and you're more than likely to come out missing your own back molars and wondering at what precise moment you were suckered. Sheer madness was right. The Wart had done the political equivalent of pulling Germanicus out of a kids' game of kiss-in-the-ring only to throw him into a high stakes Corinthian dice match played with loaded bones. Stranger still, given my theory, the guy had done okay. Since Germanicus's settlement we had a better relationship with Parthia than we'd had for fifty years. Longer.

'Maybe he was just going through the motions,' I said. 'Maybe Artabanus of Parthia and the Wart had made their deal already.'

'In that case why not send Drusus? He could have done with the extra kudos, and from all accounts he has the necessary deviousness to push things through if the Parthians did try a double cross. Also Drusus is the emperor's son as much as Germanicus, even if he is junior. So there would be no question of outraged protocol.'

'Drusus wasn't free. He had his own fish to fry in Pannonia.' I was clutching at straws. She was right; Drusus would've been a natural choice, given the circumstances. And the poor guy could certainly use a round of applause back at Rome.

Perilla was twisting her hair again. 'There's one thing that does support your theory,' she said slowly.

'Yeah?' I tried to keep the surprise out of my voice. No point having her smug as well as smart. 'What's that?'

'Agrippina is a Julian. If the succession is an issue then it's relevant that one of their children would be next in line.'

'Explain.'

'Germanicus had three sons. Drusus only had a daughter. If Germanicus were to be the next emperor then his eldest son would be a fortiori the new crown prince.'

Uh-huh. That made sense. Germanicus's eldest son Nero was fifteen already, with the second boy a year younger and Gaius — Agron’s Caligula, the Little Boot — rising ten.

'Right,' I said. 'Which would leave Drusus to do a Tiberian tap dance in the wings.' Three sons. The succession. Tiberius's tap dance. My neck was itching…

Ah, leave it.

'Marcus?'

'Hmm?'

'Your eyes have gone glazed.'

'Yeah? Oh, it's nothing. Just an idea, but it won't come.' I reached over for the wine cup: my brain needed lubrication. 'So what do you think? About the theory?'

'That Tiberius had Germanicus removed for incompetence? I'm sorry to say that it has its attractions. Apart from the Armenian problem, of course, which is crucial.'

The wine went down the wrong way. When I'd finished coughing my guts out, I said: 'Really? You like it? No kidding?'

She smiled. 'I wouldn't go quite that far. I still can't believe that Tiberius would commit murder, especially the murder of his own son, adopted or not. However I'm willing to accept that he might do it in one circumstance and one only. Where the future of Rome was at stake.'

The future of Rome. Perilla had hit it smack on the button. The Wart, as I've said before, might be six different kinds of bastard but he was straight. If the reasons behind the murder were purely dynastic, or purely personal, then I'd've believed Livia was responsible, but never the Wart. He was a soldier, he didn't think that way. To Tiberius what mattered was the empire and his duty to it, and screw popular opinion.

I had that itch again. There was something…

Three sons. Tiberius's tap dance. The succession…

Sons…

'Oh, Jupiter!' I said softly.

'Marcus? What's wrong?'

I waved her down. I had to get this straight. Another cup of wine would help…

'Maybe it wasn't the Wart,' I said. 'Oh, sure, it could be, despite the problems. In fact, Germanicus's success with Parthia makes it even more likely he didn't do it. But if not there's someone with an even bigger reason for getting rid of the guy than the emperor.'

'And who might that be?'

'Drusus. Tiberius's real son.'

Perilla was quiet for a long time. Then she said:

'Yes. Yes, you're right. I hadn't considered Drusus.'

'He's got a motive. He's got one hell of a motive. The Wart, whether he likes it or not, has edged him to the sidelines, exactly like Augustus did to him twenty years back. Germanicus had three sons old enough to be groomed for the purple, while Drusus was stuck with a daughter. Only about a year ago the situation changed, didn't it?' Our eyes met. 'Because Drusus's wife Livilla got pregnant.'

Perilla nodded. 'And had twin boys. Yes. Drusus wasn't to know that at the time, of course. She gave birth after Germanicus's death.'

'The chances were fifty-fifty, lady. Good odds. And Imperials are good breeders.' Sweet gods, it made sense! 'Suddenly the ante's gone up. Drusus has responsibilities, or he soon will have. He's a family man in the only way that matters in the succession stakes. Only as things are he hasn't a hope in hell of getting his bum off the bench. Worse, after Armenia Germanicus is riding even higher than ever.'

'So Drusus takes matters into his own hands and has his stepbrother murdered.' Perilla looked thoughtful. 'Would he do that?'

I shook my head. 'I don't know. I don't know enough about the guy. Not many people do, because he's spent most of his life out of Rome. Sure, he and Germanicus were supposed to be close but like my father said he's a pretty cerebral character. Maybe he's always secretly hated Germanicus's guts. Jupiter knows he's had reason. Or maybe the temptation was just too much, especially with Livilla pushing. From all accounts that lady's a tough cookie.'

'She's Germanicus's own sister!'

'So what? You think that would stop her?'

'I don't know.'

'Nor do I, but I wouldn't take bets. The Imperials aren't exactly a togetherness family.' I lifted the jug, but it was empty. An omen. I'd had enough for one night. 'Anyway, it's too good to miss. That's our next project. We check out Drusus.'

Perilla looked at me. 'Bed first?'

I grinned and kissed her. 'Bed.'

We were on our way up when Bathyllus oiled through from the kitchen. Obviously he'd been lying in wait.

'Yeah, Bathyllus?' I said in the most discouraging voice I could manage. 'What is it?'

'I'm sorry to disturb you, sir,' he said. 'I would have told you earlier, but I'm afraid it slipped my mind.'

'These things happen, little guy. Just make it quick, will you?'

'Yes, sir. It concerns Livineius Regulus. You recall you asked me recently where the gentleman lived?'

'Yeah. Yeah, I recall that.' Jupiter! Didn't Bathyllus have any sense of occasion? 'What about him?'

'I heard earlier this evening that he's dead, sir. Murdered. I thought you might be interested.

Jupiter Best and Greatest! 'You have the details?'

'His body was found at the foot of the Gemonian Stairs, sir, with a hook in his throat. He had been stabbed in the back.'

Perilla gasped. I felt pretty shocked myself.

'They have any idea who did it?'

'No, sir. Robbers, presumably.' A sniff. 'The Aventine is quite an uncultivated district. Goodnight, sir.'

'Night, Bathyllus.'

We carried on upstairs in a more sober frame of mind than we'd left the hallway. I'd wanted another word with Regulus and now it seemed I wouldn't get the chance. Someone, somewhere, evidently considered that he'd flapped his mouth once too often already and shut it for him. Permanently.

There was one other thing; maybe it was coincidence but I doubted it. Whoever had knifed Regulus had a pretty sick sense of humour. The Gemonian Stairs run down from Aventine to Tiber. After their execution unpopular criminals, particularly traitors, are dragged down them with hooks and tossed in the river for the rats to gnaw. I'd been sent a message. No more pussyfooting around. Now we were playing for real.