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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!”
    â€œThanks, 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.”
    â€œOh 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
    G ETTING THERE
    Gaul and Upper Germany, October, AD 71
    â€œâ€˜Lukewarm! We’ll be in hot water soon, though…’”
    Tacitus, The 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.
    â€œGods, 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.
    â€œMassilia 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.”
    â€œYou’ve been here before!”
    â€œI’ve been cheated 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.”
    The barber unhappily slunk off for a bite by himself.
    *   *   *
    I settled down with a very sick oil-lamp to study my maps. One benefit of this trip was that the Palace had equipped me with a first-rate set of military itineraries for all the major highways—the full legacy of seventy years of Roman activity in central Europe. These were not merely mileage lists between the towns and forts, but decent, detailed travel guides with notes and diagrams. Even so, I would have to rely on my wits in some places. There were huge, worrying