Saturnalia

'Next time you want me, let's meet on a park bench!'

'Didius Falco! How pleasant to see you. Still frothing at the mouth, I see.'

Arguing was about as useful as demanding a recount of your change in a busy lunchtime food bar. I forced myself to simmer down. Laeta saw he had nearly pushed me too far. He caved in. 'So sorry to keep you waiting, Falco. Nothing changes here. Too much to do and too little time to do it-and a panic on, naturally.'

'I wonder what that can be!' I implied I had private information about it. I didn't.

'I'll come to that-'

'Keep it brisk then.'

'Titus Caesar suggested I talk to you-'

'And how is the princely Titus?'

'Oh-wonderful, wonderful.'

'Still screwing beautiful Queen Berenice? Or have you dreamed up some stratagem to whisk her back to her desert and avert embarrassment?'

Nursemaids must give a potion in babies' little pottery feeding bottles, one that makes aristocratic Roman males hanker after exotic women. Cleopatra had worked her way through enough Roman top brass. Now Titus Caesar, like me a handsome lad in his thirties, was an amiable prince who ought to be marrying a fifteen-year-old pretty patrician with good hips so he could father the next generation of

Flavian emperors; instead, he preferred to dally on purple cushions with the voluptuous Queen of Judaea. It was true love, they said. Well, it must certainly be love on his part; Berenice was hot stuff, but older than him, and had a terrible reputation for incest (which Rome could cope with) and political interference (which was bad news). Conservative Rome would never accept this hopeful dame as an imperial consort. Astute in all other matters, Titus stuck with his no brain love affair like some bloody-minded teenager who had been instructed to stop smooching the kitchen maid.

Bored with waiting for an answer, I had lost myself in these gloomy thoughts. Without any obvious signal, Laeta's minions had all melted away. He and I were now alone and he had the air of a sword swallower at the high point of a trick: 'Look at me; this is terribly dangerous! I am about to disembowel myself…'

'And there's Veleda,' said Claudius Laeta in his polite bureaucratic accent.

I stopped daydreaming.

III

'Veleda…' I pretended I was trying to remember who she was. Laeta saw through it.

I took a free couch. Relaxing at the Palace always made me feel like an unpleasant grub that had crawled in from the gardens. We informers are not meant to spread ourselves on cushions stuffed with goose-down, embroidered in luminous silks with imperial motifs. I had probably brought in donkey dung on my boots. I didn't bother to check the floor marble.

'When Titus suggested you, I looked at your record, Falco,' Laeta pointed out. 'Five years ago, you were sent on a mission to Germany to help batten down any persisting rebels. The scroll box has been mysteriously weeded-one wonders why-but it's clear you met Civilis, the Batavian chief, and I can work out the rest. I presume you crossed over the River Rhenus to negotiate with the priestess?'

Back in the Year of the Four Emperors, when the Empire had collapsed in bloody lawlessness, Civilis and Veleda had been two German activists who tried to free their area from Roman occupation. Civilis was one of our own, an ex-auxiliary, trained in the legions, but Veleda opposed us from alien territory. Once Vespasian assumed the throne and ended the civil war, they had both remained troublemakers-for a while.

'Wrong direction,' I smiled. 'I went across from Batavia, and then worked south to find her.'

'Details,' sniffed Laeta.

'I was trying to stay alive. Formal negotiations were difficult when the rampaging Bructeri were after our blood. No point ending up decapitated, with our heads hurled in the river as sacrifices.'

'Not if you can make friends with a beauteous blonde at the top of a signal tower, and then borrow her boat to sail home.' Laeta knew all the details. He must have seen my 'confidential' report. I hoped he did not know the facts I had omitted.

'Which I did, very fast. Free Germany is no place for a Roman to linger.'

'Well, things have moved on-'

'For the better?' I doubted it. 'I left both Civilis and Veleda grudgingly reconciled to Rome. At least neither was intending any more armed revolts, and Civilis was pinned down in his home area. So what's the problem with the buxom Bructeran now?'

Claudius Laeta balanced his chin on his hands thoughtfully. After a while he asked me, 'I believe you know Quintus Julius Cordinus Gaius Rutilius Gallicus?'

I choked. 'I've met parts of him! He wasn't using that whole scroll of names.' He must have been adopted. That was one way to improve your status. Some wealthy patron, with a desperate need for an heir and not much judgement, had given him a step up in society and a double signature. He would probably drop the extra names as soon as he decently could.

Laeta pressed out a pitying smile. 'The estimable Gallicus is now Governor of Germania Inferior. He's gone formal.' Then he was an idiot. The six-name wonder would still be the same anodyne senator I first met in Libya when he was an envoy surveying land boundaries to stop tribal feuds. I had since shared a poetry recital with him. We all make mistakes. Mine tend to be embarrassing.

'As I recall, he's not special.'

'Are any of them?' Now Laeta was being chummy. 'Still, the man is doing an excellent job as governor. I don't suppose you've kept up with developments-the Bructeri are active again; Gallicus crossed over to Germania Libera to put a clamp on that. While he was there, he captured Veleda-' Using my map of where she was holed up, no doubt.

I was annoyed. 'So it made no difference at all that-acting on Vespasian's orders-I promised the woman there would be no reprisals once she stopped her anti-Roman agitation?'

'You're right. It made no difference.' Still pretending we were friends, Laeta showed his cynicism. 'The official explanation is that since the Bructeri were threatening the stability of the region again, it was presumed she had not stopped stirring.'

'Alternatively,' I suggested, 'she and her tribe have had a falling out. When the Bructeri put on war gear nowadays, it is nothing to do with her.'

There was a pause. What I said was correct. (I do keep up with developments.) Veleda had found herself increasingly at odds with her countrymen. Her local influence was waning, and even if he thought he needed to put down her fellow-tribesmen, Rutilius Gallicus could have-should have-left her alone.

He needed her for his own purposes. Veleda was a symbol. So she stood no chance.

'Let's not haggle, Falco. Gallicus made a brave foray into Gennania Libera and legitimately removed a vicious enemy of Rome-'

I finished the story. 'Now he's hoping for a Triumph?'

'Only emperors have Triumphs. As a general, Gallicus will be entitled to an Ovation.' Same deal as a Triumph, but a shorter procession: done on the cheap. Even so, an Ovation was rare. It marked extraordinary civic thanks to a general who had courageously made war in unconquered territory.

'Mere terminology! Is Vespasian promoting this? Or just Rutilius' friend at court-Domitian?'

'Is Gallicus on good tenns with Domitian Caesar?' Laeta was playing disingenuous.

'They share a deep admiration for horrible epic poetry… So is Gennania Libera and all its nasty, violent, Rome-hating, wolf-skinned inhabitants, now part of the Empire, thanks to heroic Rutilius?'

'Not quite.' Laeta meant, not at all. After Augustus lost the three Varus legions in the Teutoburger Forest seventy years before, it was obvious that Rome would never be able to advance safely beyond the River Rhenus. Nobody knew how far the dark trees extended east, or how many ferocious tribes inhabited the vast uncharted zones. I had been there briefly; there was nothing for us. I could see a theoretical risk that the hostile tribes would one day come out of the woods, cross the river and attack us, but that is all it was: theoretical. There would be no advantage to them. So long as they stayed on their side, we would stay on ours.