The Iron Hand of Mars Read Online Free PDF

Caesarly skull.
    â€œEnjoy Germany!”
    Titus subdued his air of triumph. But that was when I forced myself to accept the plight Helena and I were in. If this situation had become awkward for her, it was positively dangerous for me. And whatever scabby mission I was to be despatched on this time, it would suit Titus Caesar most of all if I failed to finish it.
    He was the Emperor’s son. There were plenty of things he could do to make sure that once he sent me out of Rome, I would not be coming back.

 
    VII
    I was passed through the perfumed offices of three chamberlains, lost in my own moody thoughts.
    I am not completely deficient. After ten years of what I called a successful love life, a new girlfriend’s birthday was something I reckoned to find out fast. I asked Helena; she laughed off the question. I tackled her father, but without his secretary’s list of family feasts, he dodged the issue shiftily. Her mother could have told me, but Julia Justa had better ways of upsetting herself than by discussing her daughter with me. I even spent hours in the Censor’s office searching for Helena’s birth certificate. No luck. Either the Senator had panicked on the arrival of his first-born (understandably) and had failed to register her properly, or else he had found her under a laurel bush and could not call her a Roman citizen.
    One thing was certain. I had committed domestic sacrilege. Helena Justina might overlook many insults, but my bumming off to Veii on her birthday was not one of them. The fact I didn’t know it was her birthday was irrelevant. I should have done.
    â€œDidius Falco, Caesar…” Before I was ready to concentrate on political matters, a major-domo who reeked of long-standing vanity and recently braised onions announced my name to the Emperor.
    â€œThat’s a long face. What’s up, Falco?”
    â€œWoman trouble,” I admitted.
    Vespasian enjoyed a laugh. He threw back his great head and guffawed. “Want my advice?”
    â€œThanks, Caesar.” I grinned. “At least this heartthrob didn’t run off with my armpurse or elope with my best friend…”
    We hit a small moment of stillness, as if the Emperor had remembered with disapproval who my latest heartthrob was.
    Vespasian Augustus was a beefy bourgeois with a down-to-earth manner who had risen to power on the tail of a vicious civil war and then set out to prove that men who lacked flash ancestors could still own a talent to rule. He and his elder son Titus were succeeding—which guaranteed that the snobs in the Senate would never accept them. Still, Vespasian had been struggling for sixty years—too long to expect easy recognition, even when he wore a purple robe.
    â€œYou’re in no hurry to know about your mission, Falco.”
    â€œI know I don’t want it.”
    â€œThat’s normal.” Vespasian humphed mildly, then told a slave, “Let’s see Canidius now.” I didn’t bother wondering who Canidius was. If he worked here, I didn’t like him enough to care. The Emperor beckoned me closer. “What do you know about Germany?”
    I opened my mouth to say, “ Chaos! ,” then closed it again, since the chaos had been stirred up by Vespasian’s own supporters.
    Geographically, what Rome calls Germany is the eastern flank of Gaul. Sixty years ago, Augustus had decided not to advance across the natural boundary of the great River Rhenus—a decision dragged out of him by the Quinctilius Varus disaster, when three Roman legions were ambushed and wiped out by the German tribes. Augustus never recovered. It was probably this throne room which he used to pace, groaning, “ Varus, Varus, give me back my legions …” Even so long after the massacre I myself felt extreme reluctance to spend time where it had occurred.
    â€œWell, Falco?”
    I managed to sound impartial. “Sir, I know Gaul and our Rhine