Saturnalia

Except when a self-aggrandising general like Rutilius Gallicus felt obliged to embark on a crazy adventure, to add lustre to his piss-poor status at home…

Disapproval was flavouring my saliva. Not only was Rutilius an idiot, Claudius Laeta was a fool for the glint of respect he was showing the man. Put policy in the hands of such dimwits, and you could hear the gods guffawing.

'We still have in place our old decision not to advance territorially beyond the river.' Laeta was so complacent I wanted to pour ink from his silver stationery set all over his pristine white tunic. 'Nonetheless, there is a tricky area opposite Moguntiacum-' That was a large base we had, halfway down the Rhenus. 'The Emperor was content for Gallicus to consolidate the area for safety. When he goes back-'

'Goes back?' I shot in.

Laeta looked shifty. 'We never publicise movements of governors when they are outside their provinces-'

'Oh, he's stolen a mid-term break.' They all did it. They had to check up on their wives at home.

Laeta carried on doggedly: 'That's the problem, you see, Falco. The problem with Veleda.'

I sat up. 'He brought her back to Rome?' Laeta merely closed his eyes longer than usual and did not answer me. I for one had known for weeks that Veleda was here; I had sailed back from Greece early, just to head off any trouble with Justinus. 'Oh, I see! Rutilius brought her back to Rome-but you are not admitting it?'

'Security is not a game, Falco.'

'I hope you'd play better, if it was.'

'The governor, very sensibly, preferred not to leave such a high ranking, sensitive captive behind. The risks were too great. A woman prisoner in an army camp is always a focus for unrest, even pranks that could get out of hand. Without Gallicus to impose an iron grip, her tribe could have tried to mount a rescue. Rival tribes might have tried to assassinate her; they are always at each other's throats. Veleda might even have escaped independently.'

The list of possible crises sounded like an excuse in retrospect. Then the subtle way Laeta failed to meet my eye alerted me. Dear gods. I could hardly believe what must have happened: 'So, Claudius Laeta, let me be quite clear: Rutilius Gallicus brought the priestess back to Rome with him-for "safety"-then he let her escape here?'

Veleda was a stupendously influential barbarian, a famous enemy who once rabble-roused a whole continent into revolt against Rome. She hated us. She hated everything we represented. She had united northern Europe while we were preoccupied with our leadership tussles, and at the height of her activity she nearly lost us Batavia, Gaul and Germany. And now, Laeta was telling me, she was on the loose, right inside our city.

IV

Claudius Laeta pursed his lips. He had the sorrowful expression of a top official who is absolutely determined his department will not be blamed for this.

'Is it your problem?' I murmured mischievously.

'Chief Spy's remit,' he announced firmly.

'Then it's everybody's problem!'

'You are very frank about your differences with Anacrites, Falco.' 'Someone has to be open. That fool will do a lot of damage if he isn't stopped.'

'We believe him to be competent.'

'Then you're nuts.'

We were both silent. I was thinking about the implications of Veleda's escape. It was not that she could launch a military attack here. But her presence right in Rome was a disaster. That she had been imported by an ex-consul, a high-ranking provincial administrator, one of the Emperor's favourites, would damage public confidence. Rutilius Gallicus had been stupid. There would be outrage and dismay. Belief in the Emperor would shrink. The army would look pitiful. Rutilius-well, few people had heard much of Rutilius, except in Germany. But if word got back there, the effect on the province of

Germany could be dangerous. Veleda was still a big name on both sides of the River Rhenus. As a so-called prophetess, the woman had always caused a frisson of terror that was out of proportion to her real influence; still, she had summoned up armies of rebels, and those rebels had wreaked havoc.

'Now she's free in Rome-and you've sent for me.' 'You have met her, Falco. You will recognise her.' 'As simple as that?'

He knew nothing. Veleda was of striking appearance: the first thing she would do was dye her hair. Most Roman women wanted to go blonde, but one visit to a cosmetic pharmacy would have Veleda well disguised.

'You may charge a premium.' Laeta made me sound mercenary. He ignored the fact that he himself received a big annual salary-plus bribes-plus pension-plus legacy, if the Emperor died-whereas I was stuck with whatever I could claw together on a freelance basis. 'This is a national emergency. Titus reckons you have the skills, Falco.'

He mentioned the fee, and I managed not to whistle. The Palace saw this as an emergency all right.

I took the job. Laeta then told me the background. It was worse than I thought. Missions from the Palace always were. Not many were as bad as this, but as soon as I had heard Veleda's name I had known this particular fiasco would be special.

Rutilius Gallicus had arrived back in Italy several weeks ago, was debriefed at the Palace, caught up with the news in the Forum and from his noble acquaintances, then swanned off north to Augusta Taurinorum, where his family lived. That's right up close to the Alps. I mused that his background should have given him sympathies with the barbarians in Germany; he had been born and bred right next door to them. He was practically German himself

I had met his rather provincial wife, Minicia Paetina. She did not take to me. It was mutual. She had attended the poetry recital Rutilius and I once gave together, where she made it clear she thought me a plebeian upstart, unfit to wipe her fellow's nose. The fact that our audience openly preferred my snappy satires to his endless extracts from a second-rate epic did not improve Minicia's attitude.

The audience were no help, in fact. Rutilius Gallicus had invited Domitian Caesar as his guest of honour, whereas I was supported by cat-calling members of my Aventine family. From memory, Anacrites had been there, too. I could not remember whether this was in the ghasdy period when he tried moving in on my sister Maia or the even worse episode when everyone thought the Spy had made himself my mother's gigolo.

Helena Justina had been polite to Minicia Paetina, and vice versa, but we were generally glad when the Rutilii went home. I could imagine the kind of stiff Saturnalia they were now about to enjoy at Augusta Taurinorum. 'As a special treat, we can all wear informal tunics at dinner, instead of togas…'

'There's no chance Rutilius will cut short his leave and pop back here to sort out his mess?'

'No chance at all, Falco.'

As for Veleda, Laeta said Rutilius had brought her to Rome, where she was ensconced in a safe house. She had to be put somewhere. Burying her in a prison cell for the next couple of years, until Rutilius reached the end of his tour as governor, was not an option. Veleda would never have survived the dirt and disease. No point having a famous rebel die of jail fever. She must be kept fit and looking ferocious for the triumphal procession. A bonus would be to claim she was a virgin; by tradition she would be formally raped by her jailer just before her execution. Rome loves that kind of smut. So no one would want any dewy-eyed junior jailers falling in love with her and comforting her in the cell, let alone prankster sons of consuls bribing their way in for a quick thrill on the straw.