fobbing off on a daily basis, and if I took an interest in his work, he would probably tell me.
As for the name of the legate's mistress, that would be common coin anywhere in the barracks.
XXII
During my search for information, I at one point bumbled into the legate's private gymnasium. I saw what Justinus meant about Gracilis being a sporty type: his den was packed with weights, dumb-bells, beanbags for throwing-games, and all the other paraphernalia that normally suggest a man who is afraid of seeming puny- probably because it's true. At one end of the room his spears and hunting trophies were hung on hooks. A sad Egyptian who would have been better employed mummifying kings for their meeting with Osiris sat cross-legged, engaged in taxidermy on a rather small deer. I never waste time talking to Egyptians. He could stuff a roebuck, but hearing his views on life as a timeless river of sorrows would not help me find his master. I nodded and passed on.
I finally tracked down the accountant, who supplied me with a lengthy list of disappointed wine merchants, furriers, bookmakers, stationers and importers of fine-scented oils.
'Jupiter, this man certainly does not believe in paying bills!'
'He's a little unbusinesslike,' the scribe agreed mildly. The fellow had swollen eyes and a restrained manner. He looked tired.
'Is there no income from His Honour's estates in Italy?'
'They're flourishing, but mostly mortgaged up.'
'So he's in trouble?'
'Oh, I doubt that!'
He was right. Gracilis was a senator. In the first place, teetering on the brink of financial disaster was probably second nature, so unlikely to worry him. Marrying Maenia Priscilla must have given his collateral a fillip. In any case, he came equipped with massive clout. To the small tradesmen of a remote provincial town, his lordship must be untouchable. A few adroit business fiddles would soon get him out of any temporary squeeze.
'Can I take it you have no idea then why your master might have disappeared?'
'I was unaware of any mystery.'
'He left you no instructions?'
'He's not renowned for forethought. I thought he was off on business for a few days. His bedchamber slave is absent too.'
'How do you know that?'
'Heard the man's girlfriend bemoaning the fact.'
'She works in the house?'
'She's a barmaid at the Medusa, near the Principia Dexter Gate.'
I took away the names of both the creditors and the slave's girlfriend scratched on my pocket memo tablet. Its wax had hardened up through lack of use, a sure hint that it was time to do some work.
'Tell me something else: is your master a ladies' man?'
'I couldn't possibly comment.'
'Oh, stretch a point!'
'My sphere is purely financial.'
'That needn't be unrelated to what I asked! His funds could be tight as a result of expensive mistresses:'
I let him stare me out. We both knew I would find other sources eager to supply me with the sordid facts.
I left the residence with a light step. Having clues always gives my optimistic side a boost.
I then made the mistake of pushing my luck again with the highhanded XIV Gemina.
Prefect of the camp was never a post in the traditional republican legion. As with so much else, I reckon the old republicans got it right. Nowadays these prefects wield an undue influence. Each legion appoints one, and they have a wide range of responsibilities for organisation, training and kit. In the absence of the legate and senior tribune they take command, which is when things become dangerous. They are drawn from the pool of first spears who are resisting retirement, which makes them too old, too pedantic, and too slow. I don't like them on principle. The principle being that it was a camp prefect whose obtuse behaviour destroyed the Second Augusta's reputation in the British Revolt.
At Moguntiacum there was just one, responsible for the whole fort. Since the Fourteenth were the only experienced legion stationed there, he had been supplied by them.
The camp prefect occupied an office whose oversized proportions must have appealed to his underdeveloped personality. I found him in it. He was reading scrolls and writing busily. He had made his nook deliberately spare. He used a folding stool with a rusted iron frame and a campaign table that looked as if it had served at Actium. It was supposed to give the impression that he would have preferred to be on active duty in the field. In my view, if Rome was to sustain any military reputation, men like this had to be kept in camp-gagged, bound and bolted to the floor.
'Sextus Juvenalis? I'm Didius Falco. The envoy from Vespasian.'
'Oh I heard some worm had poked its head out of a hole on the Palatine!' He wrote with a quill. He would.
Setting down the quill, meticulously balanced on the ink-pot in a way that prevented drips, he bounced at me: 'What's your background?'
I assumed he didn't want to hear about my aunties in the Campagna. 'National service in the usual stinking province, then five years as a scout.'
'Still in uniform?' Army life was his only social yardstick. I could imagine him boring everyone rigid with his stubborn theories that traditional values, antique equipment and dreadful old commanders whose names no one had heard of were unsurpassed by their modern equivalents.
'Self-employed now.'
'I don't approve of men who leave the legions before time.'
'I never supposed you would.'
'National service lost its glint?'
'I copped a tricky spearhead wound.' Not as tricky as all that, but it got me out.
'Out of where?' he persisted. He should have been an informer.
'Out of Britain,' I admitted.
'Oh we know Britain!' He was eyeing me narrowly.
I braced myself. There was no escape. If I dodged any more he would guess anyway. 'You know the Second Augusta then.'
Sextus Juvenalis barely moved, but contempt seemed to flood his features like new colour in a chameleon. 'Well! You were unlucky!' he sneered.
'The whole Second were unlucky-in a certain camp prefect called Poenius Postumus!' Poenius Postumus was the imbecile who had ignored orders to join battle against the Iceni. Even we never really knew what his motives were. 'He betrayed the Second just as much as the rest of you.'
'I heard he paid for it.' Juvenalis lowered his voice a semitone, overcome by horrified curiosity. 'The word was, Postumus fell on his sword afterwards. Did he fall -or was he dropped?'
'What do you think?'
'Do you know?'
'I know.' I was present. We all were. But what happened on that angry night is the Second Augusta's secret.
Juvenalis stared at me as if I were a guardian at the gates of Hades with a downturned torch. He rallied soon enough, however. 'If you were with the Second, you'll need to tread carefully here. Especially,' he added heavily, 'if you are Vespasian's private agent!' I put up no attempt to quibble. 'Or is it your fancy companion?'
'So people have noticed Xanthus?' I smiled quietly. 'I honestly don't know his role. I prefer not to.'
