The Iron Hand of Mars

'I promised!'

'Yes, you warned me.'

Cursing, I grabbed a handle and attempted to drag the basket nearer. It stuck. I braced myself against a bench and heaved. The dead weight scraped a floorboard with an earsplitting screech of cane. I unbuckled some heavy-duty straps and we peered in at the Fourteenth's new standard.

Xanthus was startled. 'Whatever is that?'

I prefer to travel light (if I have to go at all). The Emperor had selected just the kind of trinket anyone on a long journey hates to have tossing about in his backpack. I was being sent to Germany in charge of a two-foot-high, strongly sculpted human hand. It was gilded – but under the pretentious ornamentation the object which I had to carry across Europe was made of solid iron.

I groaned at the barber. 'Depending whether the expert you ask is an optimist or a realist, this represents an open- palmed gesture of international friendship – or a symbol of ruthless military power.'

'What do you think?'

'I think lugging it across Europe will ruin my back.'

I slumped on the bench. I wondered who had helped this frail blossom carry his basket upstairs. 'Well, you've brought it. What are you waiting for?'

The dubious Palace messenger looked coy. 'Something I wanted to ask you.'

'Cough up.'

'Can I come with you to Germany?'

This fitted my conviction that Titus had him lined up to do me some mischief. I wasn't even surprised. 'I don't think I heard that correctly.'

He was absolutely brazen. 'I have my savings – I've already applied to buy my freedom. I'd love to travel before I settle down – '

'Jupiter!' I growled into the neck of my tunic. 'It's bad enough having your chin snicked while some inane fellow demands whether sir intends visiting his Campanian villa this summer, without having one of the bastards wanting to join you on holiday!'

Xanthus said nothing.

'Xanthus, I'm an imperial agent visiting the barbarians. So what, my friend, is supposed to be the point of a bather sharing my misery?'

Xanthus replied morosely, 'Somebody in Germany might need a decent shave!'

'Don't look at me!' I rubbed my palm across my chin; the stubble was fierce.

'No,' he agreed, insultingly. Nothing stopped him once he got an idea beneath that well-trimmed thatch. 'No one will miss me here. Titus wants to be rid of me.' I could believe that. Titus wanted his private knife-man firmly attached to me. All the better if I took Xanthus somewhere remote before he pulled his blade.

'Titus can spread your travel pass with fish pickle and eat it under water – I journey alone. If Titus wants to retire you from official duties, let him give you a bounty so you can set up in a booth at some bathhouse -'

'I won't be a nuisance!'

'The qualification for a career in scissors must be being born with your ears missing!'

I closed my eyes to close him out, though I knew he was still there.

I was reaching a decision. I was now convinced that Titus had decided this piece of scented buffoonery could usefully strop his razor on my throat. If I went along with it – or appeared to – at least I knew whose dagger hand to watch. Turn down this chance, and I would be forced to make myself suspicious of everyone.

I looked up. The barber must have been stretching his mental capacity too, because he suddenly asked, 'People hire you, I gather?'

'Foolish ones do.'

'How much does it cost?'

'Depends how much I dislike what they commission me to. do.'

'Give me a clue, Falco!' I obliged, with a show of distaste. 'I can find that sort of money,' he snivelled. I was not surprised. Any imperial slave is well placed to garner heavy tips. Besides, I reckoned Xanthus had a banker standing him his European tour. 'I'll hire you to escort me on the same trip as you.'

'The lure of adventure!' I scoffed. 'So do I get a bonus every time I can arrange for you to be cudgelled and robbed? Double rates if you catch a nasty rash from a cheap continental prostitute? Triple if you drown at sea?'

He said stiffly, 'You will be there to advise me how to avoid the perils of the road.'

'Well my first advice is, don't take this road at all.'

My world-weariness appeared to strike him as a romantic pose. Nothing was going to put him off; he must have been ordered to come with me by persons whose orders are obeyed. 'Falco, I like your attitude. I reckon we could rub along together successfully.'

'All right.' I pretended I was too tired to argue. 'I was always a soft option for clients who enjoy being insulted twenty times an hour. 'I'll be taking two more days to finish my background enquiries and put my own affairs in order. Meet me at the Golden Milestone – on a journey this long, I always start from Zero. Be there at dawn with all your savings, wear more sensible footgear than those ghastly pink things, and bring your valid diploma of freedom from slavery, because I do not want to be arrested for stealing imperial property!'

'Thanks, Falco!'

I looked annoyed at his gratitude. 'What's another encumbrance? The Emperor's present to the army weighs a bit. You can help me transport the iron hand.'

'Oh no!' exclaimed the barber. 'I can't do that, Falco; I'll be carrying all my shaving kit!'

I told him he had a lot to learn. Though in agreeing to be lumbered with this Xanthus, I must have been suffering from brain failure myself.

PART TWO GETTING THERE

GAUL AND UPPER GERMANY OCTOBER, AD 71

"'Lukewarm! We'll be in hot water soon, though…" '

Tacitus, Histories

XI

We made a pretty picture travelling, the barber, his trunk of emollients, the Hand in its basket, and I.

There were two ways to tackle getting there: over the Alps via Augusta Praetoria, or by sea to southern Gaul. In October both were best avoided. Between September and March, anybody sensible stays safe in Rome.

I hate ocean travel even more than I hate mountaineering, but I chose to go via Gaul. It's the route the army uses most – someone must once have worked out that it was the least dangerous logistically. Also, I had been that way with Helena once (though in the opposite direction), and I convinced myself that if she was going to Germany instead of Spain, she might want to revisit places which held fond memories…

Apparently not. I spent the whole trip scanning round for a tall, dark-haired woman throwing insults at customs officers, but there was no sign. I tried not to think of her being buried alive in an avalanche, or attacked by the hostile tribes who lurk in the high passes above Helvetica.

We landed at Forum Julii, which was comparatively pleasant. Things deteriorated when we reached Massilia, where we had to pass a night. So much for a well-planned trip. Massilia is, in my opinion, a rotten gumboil on the Empire's most sensitive tooth.

'Gods, Falco! This is a bit rough…' complained Xanthus, as we struggled against the tide of Spanish oil-sellers, Jewish entrepreneurs and wine merchants from all countries who were competing for a bed in one of the least disreputable inns.

'Massilia has been a Greek colony for six hundred years, Xanthus. It still thinks itself the best thing west of Athens, but six hundred years of civilisation have a depressing effect. They possess olives and vines, a brilliant harbour surrounded by sea on three sides, and a fascinating heritage – but you can't move for stallholders trying to interest you in trashy metal pots and statuettes of plump deities with funny round eyes.'

'You've been here before!'

'I've been chewed here! If you want dinner, you'll have to entertain yourself. There's a long road ahead of us, and I'm not going to sap my strength getting gut-rot from a bowl of Massilia shrimps. Don't start talking to any locals – or any tourists, come to that.'