'Where did you acquire him?'
'An unsolicited gift from Titus Caesar.'
'Reward for past services?' the prefect sneered.
'I suppose it could be for future ones.' I was ready to tighten the ligature: 'You're the best man to make excuses for the Fourteenth. Let's talk about Gracilis.'
'What's to say?' Juvenalis queried in a light tone. He appeared to be taking the reasonable line. I was not fooled.
'I need to see him.'
'It can be arranged.'
'When?'
'Soon.'
'Now?'
'Not immediately.'
I shifted restlessly. 'October in Upper Germany is hardly the time or place for legates to be snatching unofficial holidays.'
'He doesn't ask advice from me.'
'Perhaps he should!' Blatant flattery was also a failure. Camp prefect is an immodest rank; he thought it was his due. 'Maybe taking advice is not your legate's strong point. I hear he's been making himself unpopular.'
'Gracilis has his methods.' He defended his commander loyally. Nevertheless, I saw the flicker behind the prefect's eyes-annoyance at the legate's abrasive attitude.
'So is he off with a woman, or moonlighting from the bailiffs?'
'Official business.'
'Tell me. I'm official too.'
'It's officially secret,' he jeered. He knew I had no comeback. Men like that can judge your status from the way you lace your boot-thongs. Mine must have been twisted the wrong way.
'I have my orders, Prefect. If I can't carry them out, I may have to send a query back to Rome.'
Juvenalis let a thin smile play on his lips. 'Your messenger won't leave the fort.' I was wondering how much I could remember of the smoke-and-bonfire semaphore code when he forestalled me contemptuously: 'You'll find the signal station out of bounds.'
'And I don't suppose Moguntiacum keeps carrier pigeons?' I gave way with an air of grace I didn't feel. But I preferred not to find myself in the tiny cells beside the main gate, rationed to one bowl of barley gruel a day. I changed tack. 'I was sent here to take political soundings. If I can't get a briefing from Gracilis, I'll have to pick your brains instead. What's the mood among the local tribes?'
'The Treveri were roundly beaten by Petilius Cerialis.' Juvenalis ground it out in a tone which implied he was too long in the tooth to be openly obstructive, though he could easily spoil my mission if he decided to.
'At Rigodulum? The Twenty-first Rapax did well for Cerialis there!' I replied, jibing at the Fourteenth's less notable contribution.
Juvenalis ignored it. 'The tribes have gone back to earning their living and keeping their nasty heads down.' This was unexpectedly helpful. No doubt he was hoping I would go out into the local community and offend someone there, to save him the trouble of smacking me senseless.
'What are the staple industries hereabouts?'
'Wool, shipping on the river-and ceramics,' Juvenalis informed me, striking a chord with that last one.
'Cloaks, boats and pots! Didn't the rebel leader Civilis have family contacts in this area?' I asked. 'I'm told his wife and sister stayed at Colonia Agrippinensium during the revolt.'
His face set. 'The Batavians come from the north coast.'
'Spare me the geography lesson, Prefect. I know their habitat. But Civilis has made himself scarce from The Island and that whole region. I have to find him-I wonder if he's been back south?'
'Funnily enough,' Juvenalis replied, with some sarcasm, 'we do hear of him being sighted from time to time.'
'Really?'
'It's just rumour. He had a certain mystique among his people. When men like that die or disappear, you'll always find fake versions.'
He was right, up to a point. In the early days of the Empire, impersonators of tyrants were a constant phenomenon: Caligula, for instance, was continually being reborn among crazy supporters in exotic eastern states.
'So you reckon these rumours of local sightings are all moonshine?'
'He's a fool if he comes anywhere near the Fourteenth!' The defection of their Batavian cohorts obviously rankled sorely.
'Do you send out patrols to investigate?'
'They find nothing.'
I thought that did not necessarily mean there was nothing to find. 'What are the chances rebellion will flare again among the tribes?' Juvenalis did not regard it as a function of his appointment to give political briefings, so I let myself speculate: 'It's the old joke still. If a Greek, a Roman and a Celt are shipwrecked on a desert island, the Greek will start a philosophy school, the Roman will nail up a rota-and the Celt will start a fight.' He glared at me suspiciously; even as a joke it was too metaphysical. 'Well, thanks-' I never finished, for the door opened.
I should have expected it.
Whether by coincidence, or, more likely, in response to a conspiratorial grapevine, several of the Fourteenth's men of influence were joining us. As I skewed round to inspect them, my heart sank. They all had a grim air of purpose. Among them I recognised Macrinus, the gilded senior tribune I had seen arguing yesterday with Justinus, my antagonist the primipilus, at least three other dour-faced centurions, and a sturdy, silent man whom I guessed was their specularius, a post I had held once myself, when I had first carried out undercover assignments and studied interrogation-along with all the unkind techniques that speed it along.
I knew what the presence of this sinister individual would have meant in my day. Still, perhaps things had changed.
XXIII
I was seated on a stool. They gathered round. The space became too cramped for me to rise. The small room grew warmer and darker. I heard a soft chink of bronzes on a groin-protector, too close for comfort behind my left ear. It was impossible for me to turn and see what movement had caused the noise. The tribune and the centurions stood with their hands resting on their sword pommels.
I could feel the power that formed within a long-established legion. Messages passed with no visible effort. Councils of war almost summoned themselves. Internal conspiracies would be unbreakable by an outsider, and the men came equipped with menace like bear cubs-murderous from birth.
Since it was his office we occupied, the prefect retained the initiative. None of the other centurions spoke.
It was the tribune who started, however. The gilded Macrinus ran his free hand through his hair in a habitual gesture that emphasised the natural glints. 'We have had a complaint from the legate's wife about an intruder.' His cultured tones expelled the syllables as distinctly as if he had been spitting out seeds. He was a handsome, lazy- eyed, conceited hunk. I could imagine Maenia Priscilla scuttling with her troubles to this one. He was her own generation, her own rank. If she wasn't already going to bed with him, I bet she wanted to.
'A most gracious lady,' I murmured. He was daring me to call their legate's wife a spoiled little cat. They all were. I could see the prefect's fingers twitching for his quill, longing to write out a charge for disrespect.
'Dogs like you call our tribune 'Sir'!' Juvenalis spat.
'Sorry, sir! I did apologise for intruding. I had thought the noble Florius Gracilis might be at home with a cold.'
'The residence is out of bounds.' Camp prefects adore drawing demarcation lines. 'Use the proper
