The Iron Hand of Mars by Lindsey Davis Page A

Germanicus and his nervous troops spent too much time offering themselves as another target? They did their best. They brought the lost standards back to Rome. After that we could all sleep with clear consciences. It was best not to think that somewhere deep in the dark woods of unconquered Germany broken weapons and other booty might still lie among unburied Roman bones.
    The troops of today would buy this mouldy paraphernalia. Army lads love souvenirs that smack of manly deeds in dangerous venues. The grislier the better. If Dubnus really had discovered the old battle site, he must be coining it.
    I avoided the issue by probing for my own purposes. “So you go across the river, do you? In the north?” He shrugged. Commerce breeds daring. In any case, free Germany had never been a no-go area for the purposes of trade. “How far do your travels take you? Ever come across the famous prophetess?”
    â€œWhich prophetess would that be?”
    He was teasing. I tried not to look particularly interested, in case word of my mission ran ahead of me. “Is there more than one sinister spinster wielding influence over the tribes? I mean the bloodthirsty priestess of the Bructeri.”
    â€œOh, Veleda!” sneered Dubnus.
    â€œEver met her?”
    â€œNo one meets her.”
    â€œWhy’s that?”
    â€œShe lives at the top of a high tower in a lonely place in the forest. She never sees anyone.”
    â€œSince when have prophets been so shy?” Just my luck. A really weird one. “I never imagined she kept a marble office, with an appointments secretary serving peppermint tea for visitors, but how does she communicate?”
    â€œHer male relations carry messages.” Judging by the effect Veleda had had on international events, her uncles and brothers must have busily trampled a wide swathe through the woods. It rather took the shine off her elusiveness.
    The barber was wearing his excitable look. “Is Veleda part of your mission?” he hissed. His wide-eyed simplicity was beginning to afflict me like a stitch in the side when you’re running away from a mad bull.
    â€œWomen I can handle. But I don’t do Druids!” It was a line. Two of us knew it, yet poor old Xanthus looked impressed.
    I had to act fast. Our barge was approaching the great bridge at Moguntiacum; we would soon berth at the quay. I gave the pedlar a thoughtful glance. “If somebody wanted to contact Veleda, would it be possible to get a message to this tower of hers?”
    â€œCould be.”
    Dubnus looked disturbed by the suggestion. I made it plain I was speaking with some authority, and told him not to leave town.
    The pedlar assumed the air of a man who would leave town exactly when he wanted to, and without telling me first.

 
    PART THREE
    L EGIO XIV G EMINA M ARTIA V ICTRIX
    Moguntiacum, Upper Germany, October, AD 71
    â€œâ€¦ above all the Fourteenth, whose men had covered themselves in glory by quelling the rebellion in Britain.”
    Tacitus, The Histories

 
    XVI
    Moguntiacum.
    A bridge. A tollbooth. A column. A huddle of civilian huts, with a few handsome homes owned by the local wool and wine merchants. All dominated by one of the Empire’s biggest forts.
    The settlement stood just below the confluence of the Rhenus and the Moenus waterways. The bridge, which joined the Roman side of the Rhenus to huts and wharfs on the opposite bank, had triangular piers thrust out to break the current, and a wooden rail. The tollbooth was a temporary affair, about to be superseded by a massive new customs-post at Colonia Agrippinensium. (Vespasian was a tax-collector’s son; as Emperor it coloured his approach.) The column, erected in the time of Nero, was a grand effort celebrating Jupiter. The huge fort declared that Rome meant business here, though whether we were trying to bluff the tribes or convince ourselves was open to debate.
    My first disappointment was immediately