The Iron Hand of Mars

LVII

It was a hunting party, led by some high-class bastard in discreetly well-woven brown wool. He had a Spanish horse, several reverent companions, two bearers bringing extra spears, and a bad case of apoplectic rage. He stared round, spotted me, and it was in perfect Latin that he spat, 'Oh Castor and Pollux – what are people doing here?'

I stood up. 'Existing – like yourself!'

My own Latin stopped him dead.

He hurled himself from the horse, dropped its bridle, then strode nearer – but not too near. 'Thought you were Tencteri. We've heard them about.' That was all I needed. 'I've lost my quarry. Something big – '

The haircut he was tearing at was black and cleanly layered to show the handsome shape of his head; the teeth he gnashed were even, orderly, and white. His belt was nielloed with silver, his boots were supple jobs whose tassels were affixed with bronze studs; his signet-ring was an emerald. His rage was the kind you can see any day in the Forum of the Romans after some inattentive donkey-driver has barged aside a man of note coming out of the Basilica Julia.

I was very tired. My body ached. My heart had rarely been more dreary. 'Your quarry's here,' I said quietly. 'Not quite killed yet.'

I stepped aside so the man with the ear-splitting senatorial vowels would have a better view of our centurion, lying wounded at my feet.

'This is Appius Helvetius Rufus, centurion of the legio First Adiutrix. Don't worry about it,' I said courteously. 'Helvetius is a realist. He always knew he stood in less danger from the enemy than from the crass incompetence of senior staff…'

'I am a Roman officer,' the leader of the hunting group informed me haughtily, raising his well-groomed eyebrows under his neat black fringe.

'I know who you are.' Something in the caustic way I dared return his stare must have warned him. 'I know a lot about you. Your finances are based on a complicated debt structure; your domestic life is in turmoil. Your wife is restless, and your mistress deserves better. And both of them would hate to know you visit a certain party in CoIonia…'

He looked amazed. 'Are you threatening me?'

'Probably.'

'Who are you?'

'My name is Didius Falco.'

'Means nothing,' he barked.

'It should do. I would have introduced myself six weeks ago, if you had been available. Then you would also have avoided an office ful of unanswered despatches, including Vespasian's critical letter about your legion's future.' He was about to speak. I continued without raising my voice or hurrying: 'He's also questioning your future. Your name is Florius Gracilis. Your legion is the Fourteenth Gemina, and we'll just have to pray they have sufficient experience to survive a legate whose attitude to command is casual beyond belief.'

'Listen -'

'No, you listen, sir!' I used the title as an insult. 'I have just found you using army-issue spears for private purposes, on the wrong side of the Rhenus, in company which the Emperor will certainly call unethical – '

One of the legate's companions made a sudden obscene gesture. I recognised the rapidity of the movement as much as his cleft chin and vivid sneer.

I looked the man straight in the eye. 'You're a very long way from Lugdunum!' I said.