"And Galba?"
"The quieter he was about his resentment, the plainer his frustration. He was the one man who knew how the fort worked, and everyone looked to him for instruction and direction. Even Marcus. Yet the Roman made a point of countermanding the Thracian to establish his own authority. We were a cavalry with two heads."
I frown, recognizing the situation from problems I have investigated before. There is nothing more fatal than disunity of command. "The duke did nothing?"
"He was stationed at Eburacum, and it took time for the situation to reach his ears. Then he was distracted by events on the Continent."
He means the succession, which I will get to in my own good time. I want to get to the heart of matters before it. "Did these difficulties affect the Petriana as a whole?"
Falco ponders. I am asking him not about individuals but about the performance of his unit, of the eagle standard to which all good soldiers give their ultimate loyalty.
"The strain made us too eager," he suggests. "None of us were happy with the situation, and all thirsted for change. There's opportunity in conflict. Some men fall in battle, but others rise. Careers demand a certain amount of chaos."
Chaos. I've spent my own career trying to prevent what ambitious men long for. Men seed their own disasters. "All this was in the background when you discussed the murder of Odo?"
"Yes. For Galba the murder was an opportunity."
"To use against Clodius?"
He smiles thinly. "Brassidias thought further ahead than that. He'd recovered the cattle of Braxus and, as a reward, took information from a Celtic spy-a man named Caratacus."
"Caratacus!" That is the name of a Briton rebel from the earliest days of the Roman occupation. He was betrayed by his own people, taken to Rome in chains, and glibly talked his way out of his own execution.
"Your reaction was Marcus's own. The name has undoubted power, which is probably why the rogue chose it. It was an alias for a rather mysterious figure with experience in the empire. A deserter, a disowned aristocrat, an escaped felon-we weren't sure which. He'd set himself up as a chief in the north and sat in the highest councils of the Picts and Attacotti. It was he who told us the druids were rising again."
"The druids?"
"Wise men and magicians of the Celts. They've always urged resistance to Roman occupation. We annihilated them in the initial conquest, but never entirely suppressed them in the north. We feared their reappearance."
"Reappearance where?"
"The oak is their sacred tree. There was a grove well north of the Wall where they were supposed to be secretly gathering."
"So Galba urged the attack on the grove that started all this trouble?"
"Galba was too clever to urge anything. He set the bait for Marcus and Clodius."
"How?"
"This Caratacus said the druids were behind the attempted abduction of Valeria. When Marcus asked why, Galba explained that the priests might be bringing back human sacrifice. In olden days they'd put victims into gigantic figures made of wicker and set fire to the effigies, forecasting the fortune of battle by the writhing of the victims."
I grimace. "By the gods!"
"Galba told this, waited, and let young Clodius propose the attack."
"But how could he know Clodius would do that?"
"It all went back to the murder of Odo. Galba had already argued that if we couldn't solve this mystery, we'd simply eliminate it by ridding ourselves of Clodius. He proposed we place the young tribune with another legion. While pretending this was an act of charity, he knew it would cripple the boy's career. No one cares about a dead slave, of course, but they do care about a Roman who can't hold his emotions in check. Who can't hold his wine, or keep from spilling beer. Clodius would have left the Petriana not so much with the stain of failure, from which any good Roman can recover, but with the stain of losing self control, from which recovery is impossible. Marcus wouldn't agree."
"He was fond of the young tribune?"
"Hardly. The boy was a boob, in Britannia for a year's seasoning. The rumor was that his new wife interceded on Clodius's behalf."
"You believe that?"
"Who knows? Certainly the whelp hung around her like a puppy."
"A puppy, or a tomcat?"
Falco laughs at my joke, which is not meant as a joke.
"So Galba proposed Clodius be transferred. What did Clodius say?"
"He was furious, of course. He disliked the Petriana cavalry until faced with the possibility of leaving it. Yet Galba wasn't so much making an enemy as setting Clodius up to make the suggestion."
"Of attacking the grove. Of avenging Valeria's ambush."
"You have to understand that Clodius represented everything that Galba resented: birth rank, preferment, arrogance, snobbery, incompetence, and even a measure of charm. The young tribune was actually somewhat likable in his eagerness, and when he wasn't drunk, he had manners. Even wit. Galba was forever serious because he couldn't forget his own humble beginnings, and he hated himself for it."
"He wanted to pick a fight?"
"They both knew that Galba would win such a fight so easily that it was almost meaningless. Galba didn't want Clodius's life, he wanted his pride. He wanted to push Clodius, and through him Marcus, into failure. Make Galba the rescuer of success."
"By getting Clodius to propose the attack. An attack that was dangerous."
"Risky. Action that might stamp out rebellion can also ignite it. We were trusting the word of one rogue, Caratacus. Galba said he was willing to lead the attack, but he wanted the order in writing. This irritated Marcus, who felt the senior tribune was failing to support him. So he decided to lead the strike himself, with Clodius."
"Which Galba intended all along."
"He'd gotten the result he wanted."
"To force a battle?"
Falco smiles thinly. "To be alone with the bride of Marcus Flavius."
XVIII
It was near dawn, time to strike. The grove of the druids was in a fog-shrouded hollow, the tops of the great oaks emergent islands in a gray sea. What secrets were hidden there? There was no sign of human movement. The guide who'd brought them here, a sour Celt of evasive manner, had taken their gold and slipped away in the night. Now a single wisp of smoke rose above the wood.
Marcus would look like a fool if there were no priests in the trees.
There'd been liberating joy when he began this expedition. He'd lain with Valeria the evening before his departure, anxious to test her fertility by seeding a child. He'd enjoyed their intimacy but didn't linger, as brisk and forthright in conjugal duty as in reviewing unit lists or a tally of provisions. Valeria had wanted more, like any woman, so he'd held her for as long as he could spare and then left to sleep alone so he could rise without disturbing her. It was so strange to be married! He wasn't used to lying all night with another person or having them constantly about, wanting to chat about everything and nothing. The girl asked a thousand questions, offered opinions he'd never asked for, and was even learning the barbarian tongue from the household slaves, which he considered undignified. Sometimes she'd even ask what he was thinking!
So it was a relief to don bright armor and gallop with his men. He'd ordered in Rome a lorica of the Eastern kind, each scale shaped and veined like a leaf and faced in gold, giving an effect far bolder and more resplendent than the gray and oily chain mail worn by men like Galba. Yes, it was ostentatious, calling attention to his wealth, but Marcus couldn't resist its splendor. It marked him as the commander! He'd dressed without his slaves, his armor over padded tunic, his belt and baldric holding sword and dagger, and his greaves strapped onto the banded leggings so necessary in this cold place. His high-crested helmet forced him to duck through the doorway as he emerged beneath the last stars to joke roughly with his centurions. When the assembly was ready, he'd led the way out the northern gate to a pink flush of dawn, riding hard through a long day and longer night to take the druids by surprise-and feeling better for it, despite the ache in his muscles. How freeing a campaign was! All the tedium and minutia of lists and logistics, petty rivalries and inadequate budgets, nagging repairs and missing equipment, could be momentarily left behind. In the field he was the spearhead of a military establishment that reached all the way to Rome. He was the bearer of tradition dating back a thousand years. A million Romans had marched and died before him, and so when he was tight in the saddle, sword slapping his thigh, reins gripped in gloved hands, Homer's muscles twitching beneath his own, the air fresh and the horizon beckoning… then he was brother to them all!